And so he did.
“I love you,” Jacqueline whispered.
Against his family’s wishes, at eighteen, he’d married Jacqueline, and for ten years they’d shared a life together. With his two hands, Warner remodeled and upgraded her bed-and-breakfast into a boutique hotel. At night, he put himself through college, earning his undergraduate degree at Brown University and eventually an MBA from Harvard. They sold the property and invested in a larger resort, and their empire branched out. He worked hard for his money and harder to keep her accustomed to the lifestyle she deserved.
Together, they expanded their empire with hotels from Boston to Miami then ventured into the spa industry. Soon, they became sought-after fixtures on the resort social circuit and traveled to Aspen, Coffs Harbour, and the Canary Islands together.
Warner grew up quick from a middle-class boy in Newport, Rhode Island, into a hotel mogul. At twenty-eight, he thought the world had become what he’d once dreamed until the doctors at Miriam Hospital diagnosed Jacqueline with bone cancer. She died within the year. When he laid Jacqueline to rest at Island Cemetery, his heart was buried with hers. With his twenties behind him, he dove into his work and made Truman Enterprises the leading hotel and resort company in the world.
Out of the shower, he dried himself off with a soft towel and groomed in his usual quick, five-minute, and no-bullshit ritual. After a citrus aftershave dab to his neck, he dressed in a dark navy Armani suit custom-made for what his personal shopper coined “Mr. Linebacker Strong Side” due to his football player-type body. A crimson silk tie, festive for the holiday season, was knotted around his neck. He ran a comb through his sandy hair and stepped back into the bedroom.
Kayden had gone.
He walked down the long hallway, which connected his master suite to the living room and then the kitchen.
His brother, Sheldon, drank espresso with a smug look on his face. “Mornin’, bro.” Legs spread wide, Sheldon sat on a barstool in boxers and admired his latest daredevil tattoo. The black ink decorated his forearm. It was his twentieth or twenty-first piece of body art. Warner doubted it would be his last.
“Don’t bro me.” Warner shook his head and glanced out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the Tribeca downtown view. With no snow in sight, the winter’s sky rose clear and sunny. “What have I told you about having your girls roaming loose around my penthouse?”
“They’re kittens which I should cage,” Sheldon joked. “Relax. They’re asleep in my bedroom. I wore ‘em out.”
“Sheldon.”
“Sorry, dude. I thought your dick could use a little Kayden attention. You haven’t fucked since Rielle.” Sheldon pushed a coffee cup to the counter’s granite edge and stepped forward.
“My dick and I would appreciate it if you didn’t bring her name up. My New Year’s resolution is no more drama.” Rielle Bruni, his ex-fiancée, conned him to be married until about six months before when he realized her true identity. She was a professional con artist.
Yes, Rielle courted, seduced, and then faked her pregnancy, in essence forcing Warner to propose. He’d fallen for the scam until Warner found Sheldon between her legs. Rage consumed him when he learned Rielle had thrown herself at Sheldon. She’d pulled his pants to the floor and tried to ride his cock when Warner walked in and caught them. Sheldon stood limp, clearly not interested. Rielle’s baby bump hit the floor the second she chased after him.
“I assumed you were over your engagement.”
“Yes, I’m over that.” Warner had grown to realize he’d never really loved Rielle. Rather, he loved the idea of her. He’d been baited, and then tricked, to stay in the relationship with Rielle from the start. It was never real because she wasn’t who she said she was.
“Good.”
“And I’m over you, too.”
“Funny.”
When the building they lived in went up, Warner had appointed Sheldon as project manager to oversee every detail. Once the project was completed, he should’ve moved out and gone on to other cities, assignments, and people months after construction ended. On the contrary, Sheldon refused, claiming Manhattan pumped in his blood. He couldn’t leave. Sheldon lingering around became a sore spot at the Truman Enterprises office, but Warner’s brother wouldn’t budge.
The solution could be found in his family. His folks were scheduled to come for Sheldon at Christmas and drag him back to Newport. He didn’t have a clue, but Rhode Island redemption was the Truman strategy. Hence, Warner humored Sheldon, as his espresso-sipping, silk-boxer-lounging, downtown four-way girl-screwing days were numbered.
“If I ever fall for a woman again, she’ll have her own money.” Warner swiped a mug, poured himself some java—black, no sugar or cream—and sipped. His attention returned to the view outside. The lot was a great choice for Truman Tribeca. Proud to have developed a modern-day landmark, he enjoyed living in the hotel and condo luxury facility. Built on Greenwich Street and Duane, the thirty-five stories provided exceptional views over the Hudson River.
“New Year’s…what are your party plans?”
“No celebrations. I’m working at my Secrète de St. Barth property.” He’d stopped taking time off years before.
“Seriously, bro?”
“St. Barth’s busy season picks up soon. I’ll stay at my beach house alone, clear my head, and manage the resort.”
“You work too much.”
“And you fuck around too much.” Warner took another swig and asked, “And what circuit party is on your calendar for the thirty-first?”
“The babes and I are jettin’ to Algarve, Portugal. Invite’s open if you change your mind.”
A reluctant male model, pre-body ink era, Sheldon’s glamour funds hadn’t run out yet, but were getting close. Similar to Warner, Sheldon was tall, handsome, and striking even at a young age. He’d caught a Vogue Hommes International fashion photographer’s attention in Milan and his jet-set life soared. A few years later, he had returned to the United States and had mooched here and there ever since. Warner tried to get Sheldon to come work with him at Truman Enterprises, but Truman Tribeca, which wasn’t meant to be a test but was, failed him. Warner figured his brother would screw around until his ever-in-demand fuck-stick fell off. He hoped it would be in Algarve, Portugal.
“Thanks, but I should get going. Don’t forget to buy Mom and Dad a Christmas gift. You forgot last year.” They spoke their good-byes, and Warner went for the elevator.
In the lobby, the doorman approached. “Mr. Truman, I have a package for you.”
“Morning, Sam.” He spotted the flowers at the concierge desk. “Again?”
“The florist dropped this arrangement off about thirty minutes ago.” Sam knew Rielle wasn’t permitted anywhere near the building. Her restraining order prohibited her from all contact, which included sending flowers, but of course she didn’t listen. This was the third arrangement this week. A silver-mirrored vase enclosed snowy white hydrangea, blood red roses, and lilies. He reached for the card in Sam’s hand. The note read, “Warner, baby, I miss you. Let’s spend the holidays together. All my love, Rielle.” A few months before, he might have felt nauseous reading the card, but that morning, he felt nothing. “Re-gift these to your family.” He pushed the flowers back upon his doorman and tore the card up.
“Mr. Truman, rejecting gifts is bad luck on your part. You should accept—”
“Throw the flowers away then, Sam.” He didn’t regret his orders. Although, Sam’s facial reaction made him question himself.
“Okay, okay, I’ll give them to the missus.” Sam backed down. “My wife sends her best, and thank you again for the generous holiday bonus. You’ve helped put my oldest through City College.”
“My pleasure. Enjoy your day.” Warner stepped out in the minus-ten degrees and then into his waiting limo.
Thank You, Brigham Young University, for Kiki
Times Square, New York, NY
“Sweet Jesus balls of justice. Look at t
hose nuts. Dang!” Taddy Brill sat in her Herman Miller chair with Viveca Farnworth to her right and Blake Morgan III to her left. Careful not to smudge her eye makeup, she gripped the binoculars. Squinting out of Brill, Inc.’s forty-fourth-floor windows across the street at the new high-rise, Taddy saw into someone’s hotel room window. A man in full view was shaving his balls. One leg up on the sink, spread out, and from what she could tell, the dude concentrated on his pecker. “Why isn’t he shaving his body in the shower like everyone else?”
“Ingrown hairs, perhaps,” her executive vice president, Blake, replied. They’d met at the Avon Porter Academy and had gone to the same college together. He’d helped her form the agency and run it.
“I love having a hotel next to our office,” Taddy confessed. Despite the high-rise’s holiday lights mounted on the windows, she could still see inside the rooms.
Truman Times Square took New York City union laborers two years to erect and stood at sixty stories. It was the tallest hotel in Manhattan. Room rates started in the thousands and had a one-year wait list. The property premiered as the world’s tenth most expensive hotel, according to Luxury TV. This year it had secured a spot on the Condé Nast Traveler Gold List and the AAA Five Diamond Award list. The best thing about the property proved to be the voyeuristic views, which her executives liberally took in.
Taddy continued to watch the guy in the bathroom with a razor to his scrotum. “That dude is a Big Daddy. Must be six-foot-three. God, I love ‘em tall and beefy.” Her red acrylics used the zoom feature on the binoculars for a closer view.
“I can’t believe you two bitches do this at eight every morning,” Viveca Farnworth, aka Vive, exclaimed between Bloody Mary gulps. She rented office space from Taddy one flight up and owned Debauchery magazine. A few minutes before, Vive had come downstairs for her breakfast—vodka. Since the seventh grade, Vive had existed in their social circle. Known by many, Vive was a bestie to Taddy, Blake and their other friend, Lex. It was the four of them forever, no matter what.
“Watching others is the closest thing we have to a sex life.” Blake didn’t make any apologies for his frigid gay husband. “Taddy, at your nine o’clock on the fifty-ish floor, do you see what I see?”
She glanced over to catch a lank hung lad jacking off, alone. “Poor business traveler. He’s by himself with no one to release ’im. I should walk over there and bring him some freshly squeezed orange juice.” Taddy laughed. She preferred sex at sunrise, when she found a man’s stamina stronger. “With extra pulp,” she added.
Vive let out a loud sigh. “Blake, can I borrow your peepers when you’re done?”
He ignored Vive’s requests. “Taddy, look at the sweet couple on the thirty-ish floor.”
She scanned down to where Blake pointed and stood in her Chanel pumps. “Ooh, yeah, I’d so love to be her.” A dude gave his girl the ultimate female fantasy. “Why can’t I have a man who will wake up with me in bed and do that? I’m so jelly.”
“For fuck’s sake, let me see,” Vive griped.
Blake explained, “He’s massaging her toes while she drinks her coffee and reads the newspaper in bed.”
“Speaking of coffee, where the hell is the newbie with my espresso?” Taddy craved another caffeine shot. Her busy week was packed with wrinkle cream press launches and branding overpriced handbags. She needed to keep her energy on high-octane.
Vive used to rely on diet pills to keep her going. However, with much hope and a lot of time spent in rehab, she’d quit her methamphetamine addiction. Blake preferred cock as his stimulant. Hard, hung, uncut, cut, imported, or domestic—it didn’t matter. Like Vive’s speed balls, Blake wasn’t getting any dick, either.
“Okay, kiddies, I best get upstairs. I have gossip to spread, editorials to write, celebs to expose.” Vive extended her good-byes. Read by four million people weekly and covering all things salacious, Debauchery magazine came out in print and digital editions. A publication she’d founded and thrived on, it ruined people’s lives but made hers. “Next time, I’ll bring my own binoculars. I have a gold pair the Metropolitan Opera gave me with their media kit.”
Blake nodded. “I’m off to kick some client butt.” In an attempt to not make the tented erection in his pants obvious, he placed a folder over his lap.
Taddy laughed.
He headed to the marketing division on the other side of the office. On his way out, Taddy’s new hire, Kelly, came in. She plopped some red fabric on Taddy’s desk followed by her next espresso shot.
“What’s this?” Taddy watched Kelly place a folder with the garment.
“A pashmina for your New Year’s Eve trip with Miss Easton.” Kelly beamed with brown-nosed reassurance. She’d secured her position at Brill, Inc., hence a place in New York City society.
“Cute, thank you,” Taddy complimented, accustomed to her employees’ generous gifts. Nevertheless, it in no way became old, in particular a red pashmina from Burberry.
New hires recruited from Taddy’s alma mater at Columbia gave her Hermes and found themselves promoted at once. Those from New York University favored presents from Bloomie’s—and often lost their way in middle management. Nevertheless, the NYC Fashion Technology graduates were the worst. They made the mistake of buying Taddy Pinkberry yogurt, and generally lasted less than a year.
Kelly had graduated from a university Taddy had never heard of before. She seemed different.
Taddy had caught the twinkle in Kelly’s Kewpie-doll eyes the second she walked through her 42nd Street doors. At one p.m., she noticed Kelly didn’t “lunch” status quo. Brill girls ate vegan, juiced, or downed prescription pills like they were Good & Plenty’s. Not Kelly, though. She actually took her hour lunch to eat at Burger Heaven. Kelly didn’t “ritty” methylphenidate, despite Brill girls regaling the newbie with tales that it would make her work faster and be more focused.
At press launch parties, when Brill girls snorted coke, asserting it helped them breathe better from their botched nose jobs, Kelly declined party favors. When the Brill girls poured Grey Goose Vodka down their throats, alleging it enabled for better blowjobs without gagging, Kelly stuck to seltzer with lime.
Taddy offered Kelly a Coke Zero or Lipton Iced Tea.
Notably, Kelly didn’t consume caffeine, either.
Brill girls showed off their waxed legs and air-brushed with self-tanner cleavage in Dior, Herve Leger, and Pucci outfits to the office.
Kelly dressed modestly in Michael Kors, Calvin Klein, and Donna Karan—American and wholesome.
No one at her media company could reckon Kelly’s agenda other than odd. The fashion division trash-talked Kelly, saying she hailed from another planet—Los Angeles, perhaps. The beauty division ignored her, deeming Kelly invisible. And the lifestyle division thought she existed as a 1950s reincarnate. They possessed a love-hate relationship with Kelly from afar.
Taddy knew all along what made Kelly unique.
On the contrary, Taddy didn’t mind a little diversity. She employed Jewish girls, Catholics, Muslims, and a few self-claimed Buddhists, who barely understood yoga let alone much about eastern religion. Adding a Mormon girl to the mix intrigued her. So did the circumspect Kelly, who never carried clients’ garment samples out from the office—and therefore, she never stole a thing. And she could write press releases with no revisions. That was another anomaly.
Kelly’s morals made her endearing and different than the horny ruthless pit bulls Taddy normally encountered. And Kelly reported to work at dawn, probably because she wasn’t wasted from the night before, able to press Taddy’s early-morning, midmorning, and late-morning espresso shots.
But Taddy realized Kelly would have her shortcomings on some things, her social calendar being one of them. Painting the town red over the holiday didn’t appeal to Taddy, or any Manhattanite for that matter. Not one as temperature-dropping and crowd-drawing like New Year’s Eve. Staycations are so last year. My heart is set on St. Tropez. There, she could decompress
poolside, topless, and always unknown.
Taddy held on to Kelly’s St. Tropez offering. “I plan on being topless throughout my entire holiday.” She wrapped the pashmina around her shoulders to show her gratitude. “This shall keep me snug on the plane ride. It’s always nippy in first class.”
“Naked?”
“Always.”
Kelly drew her clipboard to her tiny breasts. “Miss Brill, December’s temperature is cool in St. Tropez. Your file includes a weather report.”
She flipped the folder open. Cool wasn’t in the forecast—downright cold to freezing was what Mother flipping Nature ordered. Crap.
“Sit down, Kelly.” She pushed the Lalique-framed snapshot of her NFL football crush, Brayden Brooks, playing at last year’s Super Bowl to her right. Her Lanvin-cuffed wrists swept her client’s lipstick project to her left.
Challenged to come up with anything more unique than Rose Petal, Sugar Plum, and Earth Red for lip color names, she’d been rebranding SKUs for Baden Cosmetics. Taddy replaced their stickers with new labels, which included Double Penetration, Licked All Over, and her personal favorite, Cunty Red. Clients hired her for one thing and one thing only: to get them press. Lip gloss called Sugar Plum wouldn’t secure an editor’s attention at HerSay magazine. But Cunty Red? Most definitely.
“What is it, Miss Brill?” Kelly pushed her unbleached chignon up and sat on the seat’s edge with a sharp inhale.
“We have a problem…a whopper, to be exact.” Taddy heaved her breasts out. She loved scaring the flat-chested new hires with her knockers.
“Do we?” Kelly asked in terror. Taddy assumed it was not from her boss’s breasts, for those she knew Kelly admired because she always stared at them fondly. Her dismay was for the word “problem” which came from Taddy’s mouth.