Tristan enlightened her, advising on a place sightseers didn’t linger called Privé Extreme, a members-only champagne club. Privé Extreme required an application process, a $100,000 membership fee for the winter season and had a five-year waiting list.
Vive had already pulled her own VIP media pass out. “Get a clue, buddy, who the hell we are. I own America’s number-one-selling magazine, Debauchery.”
“Pardon?” Tristan glanced over at Taddy.
“Ignore her.”
“You should be rolling out the red carpet for us.” Vive crossed her arms. “We’re doing you a favor by being here.”
Oh brother. Taddy pinched Vive’s elbow. “Farnworth, stop it. We promised their manager no New York diva shit, remember?” She pushed her friend to the side and stepped closer to the bellman. “Tristan, chéri, in the United States we call your little runaround—bullshit.” With a squint to her eyes, Taddy leaned her cleavage over the counter and dug her nails deep into his desktop.
The bellman stepped back. “Je suis désolé.”
“Your bubble club recommendation is priced higher than Manhattan’s most elite establishments.”
Tristan eyed Taddy for more of her American dollars. He fixed his stare on her handbag.
She grabbed her purse tighter. Taddy wasn’t familiar with having to pay for drinks let alone to get into a club. It was Chinese to Vive as well.
“Mademoiselle Red, those are the rules.” Tristan’s hand motioned at her with an open palm saying, “Tip me again, you stupid American.”
“Il m’agace vraiment. You’ve gotta be able to pull some strings—something.” She slipped Tristan two additional Benjamins.
He took something out from his back pocket. It was a VIP card in an ivory velvet box embossed with the words “Privé Extreme”. Tristan handed them a map with directions to the club and pointed them in a direction south of the hotel.
“Merci beaucoup.” Upon receipt, she turned the white card over to read on the back as Vive eyed over her shoulder, “A Truman Enterprises Property”. Smart man you are, Mr. Truman.
Chapter Six
Per-fucking-fection
Taddy held on to Vive’s waist as they walked out into the dark.
“I imagine this Mr. Truman as an old, fat, hairy ass hooked up to an oxygen tank, sitting in some reclining automatic bed, eating green Jell-O,” Vive said.
“I love your imagination, Vive.” Taddy put the card in her purse. She’d never thought about the man behind the resort empire before. Having never met Mr. Truman, she’d heard he lived as a notorious recluse who hated having his photo taken. In fact, no one knew who he was or what he looked like. Taddy’s natural assumption? The man ought to be hideous. Most billionaires who owned hotels and hid from the public were.
“It’s true. I bet he’s watching The 700 Club on his jumbo in-home theater system, laughing his way to the bank.”
Taddy and Vive’s cell phones chimed at the exact same time. They were close to the address Tristan had given them for the club.
Vive shook her head as Taddy already knew who the text was from and what it would probably say, more or less. She reached for her phone to read, “I’m spent, going to sleep. Have fun. xo Lex”.
“Typical. Damn her. I wish she’d come out and party with us.” The last time Lex cut loose was over a year ago, just hours before her father killed himself.
“She’s in a funk. All she does is work on those Easton Essential garments.” Vive pulled her in a little tighter, resting her head against Taddy’s. “We’ll keep on loving her and pray she snaps out of it. We can’t push her otherwise.” Maybe Vive was tipsy twenty-four-seven, but every once in a while, she could come up with something pretty damn profound.
Taddy and Lex had met Vive on their first day at boarding school. Vive was the first girl in their class to talk openly about losing her virginity. Everyone else gave frigid a new meaning. Not Vive. Vive lifted their long faces with jokes and designer shoes when they became homesick. Taddy knew that year they’d be friends—for life.
After walking down the winding sandy road, it took a minute for Taddy’s eyes to adjust to read the sign. She showed the bouncer at the door her membership card that permitted a plus one.
“Entrez.” He scrutinized her and then Vive once over. The security video camera flashed, “Now Recording”. With a blink, the doorman’s eyes did a double-take over Vive’s skunk handbag.
“Baby, my purse won’t bite ya unless you want it to.” Vive put her arms around the bouncer’s jacked biceps. “Would you care to get better acquainted with my other accessories?”
“Come on.” Taddy grabbed at her before the guy could change his mind and refuse their admission.
Electro house music pumped from the other side of the room. The synthesizers thumped to the tune “Juice Box” by her favorite artist, Waris Sugar. It was a song she’d played on the elliptical while fantasizing about Brayden Brooks.
The Privé Extreme platinum double doors opened.
Waris Sugar’s words jived through her.
Fruit on my lips
I got blackberry, blueberry and grape for yous too
Take a sip from my juice box, boo
Privé Extreme’s interior didn’t match its exterior. It radiated luxury, lust and sex. Imported French and Italian eighteenth-century materials created a platinum, blush and bronze backdrop enhanced by flickering candles. From tall candelabras to votives, long to short, the flames burned as if to say, “Tonight’s your night, Red, go for it.”
“I get why they don’t allow any common folk. This place is gorgeous.” Taddy appreciated any hot spot that prohibited the hanger-on types.
Vive’s head spun. “Move over Russian aristocracy, this champagne club is what VIP should embody.”
“Don’t you dare ruin it with a magazine article.”
“So says the publicist.” Vive huffed. “You can be such a hypocrite sometimes.”
“Shut your mouth.”
“My stories don’t detract.” She wouldn’t drop it. Vive glanced around for management. “I wonder who I need to speak with to land a photo shoot here for Debauchery.”
The main room featured a bar in the center with two side areas of smaller service stations. Couples chatted in French and English, laughed, kissed and danced.
Wait a sec… “Do you see what I see?” Taddy’s vision refocused from the space’s far corners. She could’ve sworn she’d observed shadowed bodies screwing. Sex oozed in Privé Extreme’satmosphere.
“I smell Ssss…” Vive waited for Taddy to spell it out.
“E.”
“X!” Vive finished and then kissed her on the cheek. “I see some hunks. I’m hittin’ the dance floor. Check ya later, girlie.”
“Text me if you leave to hook up.”
“Ditto.” Vive strutted off toward two men who were waving her over. As a Swedish blonde, Vive always secured first looks, even in the dark.
Alone, Taddy felt tonight stood to get ten times hotter. Maybe better than what she’d planned for Algarve, Portugal. Please sweet Jesus gumdrop—anytime you wanna bring me a man, I’m ready.
* * * * *
Moonlit ocean views glowed behind the wine bottles as she walked over to the main bar. Taddy studied the champagne menu. It listed over fifty varying bubbles from France’s champagne houses along with brands she’d tasted from media parties in years past such as Bollinger, Moët & Chandon and Piper Heidsieck. However, this place had even stocked the unique and unfamiliar from Italy and California.
“Pouvez-vous m’aider?” Impressed with the menu, she secured the champagne sommelier’s attention. “I’m hoping for a suggestion from your overwhelming menu.”
“Talk to him, mademoiselle,” the tuxedo-wearing server shouted over the loud music, pointing to a far corner.
Her eyes followed his direction. Men dressed in their best linen suits and women in lavish cocktail attire. The patrons seemed relaxed yet elegant, possibly homeowners
living on the island for the season. She could tell by how at ease people mingled with one another. As if they’d been friends for years. One tall stud stood out from the rest.
Huh?
Taddy was shocked to see what appeared to be a Midwesterner from the Buckeye State. How did he beat the in-the-know system? Oh my god. It’s my NFL quarterback Brayden Brooks. Pussy creaming while standing, she held on to the bar as if an Ohio tornado swept her right off her Casadei alligator-embossed platform pumps. She studied his backside. He had to e bat least six-foot-five. Yummers.
His legs appeared thick, like great oak trees. She imagined herself as Red Riding Hood ready to walk through his forest under those trees. And his back, Holy Mary mother of…
Certain heaven had gifted her with an NFL player as a royal payment for the Birdie hell Lex and she had endured, Taddy reminded herself of the $175,253.84 she’d paid. She waved the server off with a graceful smile. Taddy stepped closer for a better view.
Dear baby Jesus,
Hold your gumdrops. You just had your holiday. Now let me have mine. I’ve waited a long time to kiss those full lips…to feel his NFL-playing fifty-something-inch chest meshin’ against my nipples…to have his long, thick cock slamming into me. I know I must sound shallow. But let me have just a few hours of fun.
Tonight is going to be the best. Better than wearing Chanel. Better than living in NYC.
Thank you, God, for answering my prayers. After the week in Vancouver, I hoped, I prayed you’d pay me back. I didn’t expect anything as magnificent as this.
Holy shiiit.
Sorry. I mean, Thank you, sweet baby Jesus.
Amen.
Hot men who stood at Brayden’s size gave off a wholesome scent in the air that her Manhattanite edge could easily sink her teeth into. Do you remember the first time I noticed you, Brayden? Five years ago, New Yorker Stadium in East Rutherford, New Jersey. The weather was in the high nineties. Blake had attempted to secure a new athletic footwear account for the lifestyle division….
* * * * *
“You have to go to this New Yorker football game with me.” Blake batted his puppy dog eyes, which came out when he wanted something.
“I don’t understand anything about football, Blake.” She didn’t know much about sports in general.
“Ummm and I do, boo?” Blake air-jacked a cock to his mouth signifying “Dah!”
“I’ve never hung out in Joisey.” She glanced out her Times Square window from the forty-eighth floor overlooking the Hudson River at The Garden State. “We have to go over there.”
“We must win the Vuma sneaker account,” he tried again.
“No.” She rested her weight on one stiletto and focused her attention on her cuticles. Taddy didn’t do the boroughs let alone New Jersey.
“We’re up against four other agencies. It’s vital to the Brill girls. I can’t do this without you.”
“It’s crucial to your commission check, darling.” She’d pay his inflated salary, but she didn’t want to go to some ball game.
“The editor-in-chief at Athletica magazine gave us two media passes.” Blake fanned the ticket stubs in his hands. He tested her easiness for anything exclusive. “These are VIP packages with all the fixings.”
“How much is the Vuma account?” she asked, weighing her options. Her schedule was booked this season. “Ballpark figure please.”
Blake jotted the digits on a Post-it and held it up, “$1,000,000.00.” With his palm, he then rubbed the note over the polo emblem on his Ralph Lauren shirt and enthusiastically cheered, “Cha-ching!” For a final Mr. Morgan dramatic effect, he twisted his right nipple in mockery followed by a slow trace of his tongue over his lips.
One million dollars? Her jaw dropped and then her breasts hardened. Money always turned her on. Not other people’s cash, just hers, and it was all Brill, Inc.’s. On that seven-figure note, she jumped into the NFL world to win the footwear industry, but not wearing Vuma. Taddy sported Christian Louboutin jeweled stilettos.
Do you remember what you wore, Brayden Brooks? She’d gone to the wrong team’s side, not the New Yorkers but the Devil Browns and walked right in and there he stood…in his jockstrap. You are the most attractive hunkadoris I’ve ever seen. Who else could bench press two hundred twenty-four pounds in twenty-four reps and squat five hundred pounds? Total hunkadoris.
I’ve wanted you, Big Daddy, since the second I set eyes on you. She’d followed him to the Denver team and the Kansas City lineup when traded. Wherever he played, Taddy jetted in to keep an eye on him.
* * * * *
Tonight, Brayden stood before her near an ivory banquette set in a private corner. His wide broad shoulders and backside faced her.
A server talked to him.
She couldn’t see his face. But it had to be Brayden.
Taddy pushed her shoulders back and her confidence out. She stepped closer, three feet opposite the velvet rope separating him. “Brayden—I’ve attended every game.”
Entrenched as he was in conversation, Brayden’s sculpted shoulders didn’t turn around.
Damn this loud music. She had no doubt he was Brayden. Hands large enough to throw a football one hundred twenty yards, he could pick her body up, slam her against the wall—in a good way—and fuck her until she screamed—in a very good way.
As any fierce New Yorker would, she slipped behind the restricted area without being noticed. Taddy stepped in behind him. For a millisecond, she closed her eyes and took in his smell—baby powder. As he talked to the server, Brayden’s baritone voice sent a vibration through her entire body. She wanted to jump on top of him and say, “He’s mine—all mine.” After six years and over ninety-eight games, her time was now.
“Excuse me, Brayden.” Fearing her toes would get squashed, she didn’t dare poke him.
Still nothing.
Waris Sugar, you’re preventing me from getting laid. Turn down this flippin’ music. “EXCUSE ME,” her Manhattanite-taxi-cab-calling, last-sale-at-Barney’s, no-you-didn’t-cut-me-off-in-line-at-Duane-Reade voice erupted toward his tall ears.
The server talking to Brayden acknowledged her existence and pointed over his shoulder, causing him to turn.
She started to repeat, “I’ve attended every—”
He wasn’t Brayden Brooks. This hot man’s face was…
“You are excused.” He smiled with his warm hazel eyes, studying her, possibly enjoying the view.
Your face is per-fucking-fection. Her NFL game recovered a turnover, scoring a touchdown. Taddy Brill—six points. Big Daddy, you’d better advance. “Sorry I uh—I thought you might be someone—else.”
“And who would that be?” He bowed, as if giving her his full attention, revealing his V-shaped torso covered by a sheer white shirt.
Her eyes counted his abs up—two (umm), four (ooh), six (holy shit), eight (he’s mine). “Brayden…Brooks.” Mortified beyond belief, she realized Birdie’s insanity had become contagious.
The server laughed from behind him. “The football player?”
“Happens a lot.” He smiled off the staff, accepting the conversation. “Sorry to disappoint you.” He returned those inviting chestnut eyes back to her.
“You guys could be twins.” She studied him in closer detail. “In particular from behind—and I’m not disappointed in the least.” Her face-body-voice assessment of this man confirmed he embodied a hunk ratio ten times hotter than the Brayden whatchamacallit she’d OCD’d over for longer than she cared to admit even to herself.
“Do you stare at men’s behinds often?” He overshadowed her. Leaning in closer, this stud conveyed importance.
Her thighs clenched as she stood and defended herself, “No—unless they’re Brayden Brooks’, or now yours.” Gripping her Judith Leiber clutch, she tried to stop her hands from fidgeting. She’d always been tall. No man had ever made her feel petite—until tonight. Keep it together, Red. “I’m Red,” she introduced herself over the strident tune. “It??
?s nice to meet you.” Unsure if the conversation would climb uphill or down, she didn’t reveal her identity. Taddy Brill holidayed unknown as Lex requested. Since this club was part of the hotel where their reservation had been made, she’d stick with it.
“Red—huh?” Suspicion quirked his eyebrow and he complimented, “Neat name. I’m—” Waris Sugar boomed as he took her hand in both of his and she couldn’t really hear the rest.
“Nice to meet you, Garner.” Is that what he’d said? It had sounded like it. But he didn’t exude a Garnie. He resembled a Big Daddy.
“Care for a drink—Red?”
“Champagne, please. Thank you.”
“Which do you prefer?” His hands took her arm with gentle authority to the seated area next to them by a round table.
She blinked in haste. He sat my ass down. “Something—anything with bubbles is fine.”
“There are many champagne flavors and types.” His arms spread wide. “You could have Ultra Brut, with no sugar, it may taste bitter.”
“I’m not bitter.” She shook her head, tapping his thigh. Oh my Lordie. His body felt like rock.
“Brut regular. It’s dry with one and a half percent sugar.” His eyebrows drew together, revealing the ever-so-adorable furrow from his forehead.
“There’s nothing regular about me either.” Not wanting to remove her hand, she let her fingers glide higher up his leg. She’d inch higher until he pushed her off.
He glanced down at her hand and invited her to continue.
Red’s comin’ for ya. So she did. A magnetic pull drew her into him. She’d waited years to sit, talk, stroke and play with a man such as this. Am I shallow? Abso-fucking-lutely! Who cares?
“You could do extra dry. It’s sweeter with two percent sugar.”
“Do you have any more suggestions?” Taddy was accustomed to making snap decisions under any circumstance. But nothing lingered as circumstantial with this man. Intent on taking her time, she’d do something never done before. She’d let a man—order for her.
“Yes…dry champagne.” He swallowed hard and added, “Four percent sugar.” The corners of his mouth twitched upward. He observed her hand inching closer.