Taste for a demon

His name was Seth Todd Black. And he was a hellion.

Okay, okay, he wasn't really a hellion. But people tended to refer to him as such; he merely acknowledged it being said.

Miscreant, Asshole, Devil Boy were just a few of the disparaging names he'd been dubbed. For the life of him, though, he couldn't understand why. He wasn't a bad person. Not to himself, at least.

He was an extremely wealthy man who provided jobs and opportunities for a decent living for thousands of people around the globe. He governed incalculable charities, fed the poor, clothed the unclothed, and helped the underprivileged.

For heaven's sake, he rebuilt an entire parish after that bitch of a hurricane twirled her destructive little skirt tail across several states and uprooted a vast amount of lives and homes.

Talk about 'home-wrecker'. So, you see? He wasn't too bad.

Actually, he considered himself as normal as any other human being. There were just two small defects of his-or unredeemable habits, one could say, that made truly normal people deem him rotten: One, he fucking swore a lot. Two, he was a proud enabler of adultery and consciously steered clear of any female sector whose ages were below his on the calendar.

Did it make him a hellion because he enjoyed spraying F-bombs on everyone like a swear-word confetti gun? Or because he enjoyed dating screwing around with women who were five to ten years his senior, married, engaged, or otherwise entangled?

No? He didn't think so either.

It's not like he was strapping goddamn bombs to his chest, robbing banks, blowing up airplanes, hitting on pregnant women, peeping through little boys' windows with his dick in his hand, or sending naked pictures of himself to underage vaginas...Guess the world saw him in a different light than he did.

To himself, he was just Seth Todd Black: a good guy. A really good guy. You'll see. Then, perhaps, you'll agree.

At present, he was trapped within the confinements of his office with his gayer of the gayest male assistant, Will, browsing through potential design plans for one of his new tower loft constructions. And he was scowling with sheer displeasure.

The designs were drafted by one of his best designers; yet, they came across as trite and uninspiring.

With a sharp shake of his head, Seth leaned back in his comfortable leather chair, "I'm done."

Will glanced at him from across his large oak desk, brows raised. "You're cutting her? Monica Regens is your supposedly 'best' designer. You've been using her on all the top projects for years."

"Exactly. And now she's grown comfortable, which has rendered her predictable. She keeps recreating the same thing every time. I need newness. Innovation. Daring designs. Monica's just not delivering anymore."

Will nodded in agreement. An exceptional assistant for the last five years, he was about five feet four inches short, with a wiry frame and a gay attitude. He kept his hair trimmed in a spiky blonde Mohawk, had a wide gauge piercing on one ear and a cage piercing on the other.

Seth didn't force him to wear a three-piece suit-he himself detested suits-he permitted Will to wear whatever he wanted, so Will was always dressed in his customary steel-toed boots, tight jeans with studded belts, and stretchy rocker T-shirts.