by Avery Aster
“Where do you intend to get them?”
“My wardrobe closet.” She grinned. Taddy owned the largest closet on the East Coast. It was a separate apartment she’d knocked the wall down to create. Rumor had it she’d terrified her neighbors into moving out from their two-bedroom condo with various horror movie props from film and TV sets. Supposedly, they came from her media friends at Universal Pictures. The cooperative board accused her of hiring actors to play evil spirits, zombies, and demons. A board member even had Taddy investigated, but with no evidence, the neighbors dismissed their charges.
“Of course.” Kiki eyed her as though witnessing an accident.
Taddy had created a security folder on her penthouse including floor plans, alarm codes, and a detailed sheet listing her butlers, maids, chefs, massage therapists, Shih Tzu’s names, etcetera. She handed the papers over to Kiki. “In the file, you’ll find keys to my penthouse on Park Avenue and 71st Street. I want you to lay out my belts, bags, what have you. Take photos from YSL to Balenciaga and Oscar—everything, got it?”
“Miss Brill, umm…could we go over to your penthouse together?”
Shaking her head, perplexed, she said, “I don’t follow.”
“You’ll pull your accessories. I’ll snap photos.” Kiki withdrew her mobile tablet from her folder and showed Taddy a website where she sold her used clothing and other misfortunes. “My roommates and I resell on eBought.”
To Taddy, eBought looked like a virtual lost and found for damaged and returned garments and accessories no one wanted. Careful not to hurt her feelings, Taddy smiled at her assistant. The painkillers Kiki popped post-breast surgery made her more sensitive than usual. “I’m going to assume I have a few more frills than you do.”
“How many are we talking about?”
She traced back her assistants over the years. Kiki turned out to be her thirtieth, or was it her fortieth? “You’ve worked here since December, correct?”
Kiki nodded. “Yes.”
“Have you ever seen me carry or wear the same thing twice?” She didn’t understand how the girl managed.
“No, ma’am.” Kiki’s jaw tensed with apparent nervousness.
“This lil’ project is going to take you a week—easy breezy.” She dusted her hands, ready to move on with her day.
“I’m nervous to be alone in your penthouse.” Biting her lip, Kiki glanced down at her notepad.
Again, Taddy smiled to reassure her assistant. Office chitchat circulated over the years with the goings-on at Taddy’s penthouse, and her staff had seen the photos in Page Six. They talked about everything, from random photos taken of celebrities riding horses naked in her ballroom during her Arabian Nights Party to women being hospitalized for a diamond-encrusted, butter cream-frosted cake fight at her Candy Land Ball.
The brawl had started at the dessert table when LaRosa Badminton, who was visiting from Dubai, noticed Birdie had been accompanied by her new friend, Charmaine Whitedove. Dressed in Eskandar, Charmaine was one of the top mediums in the world. Charmaine shook LaRosa’s hand and immediately had a premonition. Her spirits told her that LaRosa had an affair with Birdie’s husband, Eddie, when he was on tour in the Middle East. This usually wasn’t a biggie for Birdie, but when Charmaine insisted LaRosa had a child with Eddie, Birdie lost it.
No questions asked, Birdie punched LaRosa in the face. When LaRosa fell back on the nine-tiered cake created by Sylvia Weinstock, she took Birdie and Charmaine down with her. The fight was caught on video and had become a viral sensation.
Taddy’s A-list affairs ranged anywhere from a bestie handful to well over four hundred Manhattanites. She staffed a separate team to create and execute each soirée. Admission tickets ranged from one thousand dollars to stand and drink to ten grand for a table to sit and play. The money raised went to her favorite charities, but she always kept a tight lip over them. Being public about her good deeds felt tacky.
Her penthouse remained an infamous mystery. Although it was tempting to boost socialite credibility, Brill girls avoided her entire city block at all costs, stating they valued their life more than climbing any social ladder.
“My butler works around the clock if you need anything.”
“Ooh.”
“Plus, your coworkers joked with you when blabbing about the torture chamber behind my shoe closet.” In fact, the hidden space existed as a sex dungeon, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to scare her poor virgin away by telling her about the hardcore BDSM contraptions that furnished the room. Kiki was the best assistant she’d hired since opening her agency. She did, however, want to entice Kiki just a little to talk about sex, in hopes she’d loosen up a bit.
“Joking, really?” Kiki’s eyes widened with hope.
“Yes, darling. It’s not a torture chamber. It’s my pleasure room.” Yes, that’s a good way to phrase it to her. Fighting a migraine, she reached into her desk drawer and pulled out her four p.m. green happiness bottle, Excedrin.
“Women get into such…things?” Kiki asked without a judgmental bone in her petite body.
“Ladies may not admit this, but they do.” She cracked open the Coke Zero on her desk, popped two white tablets in her mouth, and swigged. Ahhh. Kiki is driving me loopy. Please, God, give me strength. Give me one flippin’ day off. Just one. That’s all I ask for. Didn’t you rest on Sunday?
“Such as?” Kiki sat back in her chair, making herself more comfortable.
“My love for porn, as an example,” Taddy blurted out without realizing her audience. It had been ages since she’d turned on her TV, but goodness, how she enjoyed a raunchy DILF video now and again.
Eyes wide, Kiki requested, “May I get personal with you for a minute?”
Taddy nodded. This better be good.
“I’ve never seen an X-rated video.”
“Get the Hail Mary outta here.”
“Pornography is prohibited by our church.”
“So…if you watch a dirty film, will a Mormon van pick your virgin butt up and haul you away to an LDS mission?
“No! Miss Brill, you’re funny.” Kiki laughed then lowered her voice. “What male porn stars do you watch?”
Without giving it a second thought, she answered, “Manuel Coq de la Grande. He’s beefy, and goes at it. You will, too, when you see him.”
Kiki gripped her pen, jotting the porn star suggestion down.
Hmmmm.
“How does Mr. Coq de la Grande do it for you?”
“Keep in mind, I’ve never even met Manuel let alone slept with him, but I have watched every movie he’s ever done.” Again, she reached for her Coke Zero. “Manuel has girth.” She took another sip and continued, “I assume Manuel is like this tin can here. I can’t get my hands all the way around, let alone have such width rammed in my mouth, shoved up my rear, or screwing my privates.”
Kiki uncrossed her legs with a muffled gasp.
Taddy returned the bottle to the table. “Manuel’s sweet, yet rough in bed, and he always stares deep into the women’s eyes while she comes.”
Her assistant fanned herself with her notebook. “I…see.”
“Manuel speaks French.” She laughed then added, “It’s good for women to fantasize—keeps the juices flowing.” For a nanosecond, she shut her eyes, envisioning Manuel grabbing her by her red hair—in a respectable way—and slapping her porcelain skin firmly on the cheeks before giving her a slight neck-grabbing choke. Some women considered striking the face open-palmed and choking abusive and humiliating. On the contrary, Taddy knew better. A smack suited Manuel’s unique way to ensure his Red paid attention. Most women, she imagined, when sleeping with Manuel would get lost in their own euphoric Candy Land with floating honey clouds passing them by.
Ignoring Kiki’s Chicken Little squabble, she tugged at her bra straps. She reached under her desk without notice and rubbed her hands over her tweed Chanel skirt. Massaging herself, she thought about Manuel twisting her nipples, pounding her ass, banging her clit
. Go, Red, go. God, screw one day off, I need a weekend. Please, Lord, give me a whole weekend.
Scared perhaps her boss would orgasm, Kiki eyed the far wall and coughed. “Speaking about fantasies, you didn’t place an order for NFL tickets this year to any Brayden Brooks games.”
A siren went off in her head. “I’m too busy for games.” She held up the paper printout detailing her schedule Kiki had issued over espresso. The hour-by-hour rundown helped keep Taddy on top of her appointments. “Every man-fantasy must come to an end, darling, including my lust for Brayden.” She smiled. “When you’re at my home digging for Neve’s inspiration, help yourself to whatever videos you fancy. Maybe they’ll arouse you as they do me.”
“Wow. Thank you.” An unfamiliar peachy glow surfaced over Kiki’s cheeks.
“Take any handbag and accessories, too. My earrings are off-limits though.”
“You are the best, Miss Brill. Thank you.” Kiki stood to leave, smoothing her pastel-colored cashmere sweater over her new mounds.
“Do me a favor. Track which loot you swipe. I don’t care to lose my mind searching for it. Lord knows I have in the past.”
“Sure thing.” Walking tall, Kiki closed the door behind her as she left.
Thoughts about Kiki and DJ Dejon fresh on her mind, she reached for the phone. “Put me through to airline reservations. I need to book a trip to Cannes.” She couldn’t get back to work on the Neve project until her assistant’s needs were met.
Taddy’s migraine subsided. Earlier attempts to book the airline ticket had failed. Everything was sold out, which meant she’d be forced to pull media strings. Over the phone, she reached out to a former client, Air Euro Airways’ president, Monsieur Jérôme du Tautou. After small talk for twenty minutes on how his very catholic wife and kids spent their Whit Monday holiday, she asked Monsieur Jérôme if he’d gift her executive assistant Kiki a first-class ticket on his jet to Cannes to meet DJ Dejon. In addition, she asked Monsieur Jérôme if he could assist her in finding a hotel room for Kiki. She hoped DJ Dejon would spin more than vinyl to make Kiki dance.
“Due to the Cannes Film Festival’s activities, Air Euro flights are oversold,” Jérôme snapped in a pompous tone.
“Are you certain, Jérôme? You can’t find me, Taddy Brill—your favorite media maven—one seat on your planes?” Didn’t he realize the dish she had on him?
“No. There also are no beds within thirty miles.” He laughed in a thick French accent at her. Taddy could’ve sworn he mumbled ‘stupid bitch’ under his breath when he exhaled. The second she heard it, she stood from her chair and twisted her Nina Ricci four-and-a-half inch Python Pump heel into the office carpeting.
“No flights or hotel rooms? Are you sure…?” Honeybees are ready to be unleashed on your bare ass, Monsieur Grey Poupon.
“Taddy, s’il vous plaît, do not waste my précieux time with frivolousness.” He sat as the CEO to France’s leading airline, a publicly held company, with indirect shareholdings reaching over fifty percent.
What Monsieur Jérôme may not have remembered prior to pissing her off was something that happened the previous December. She’d taken Lex and Birdie to Vancouver, allowing Monsieur Jérôme to stay at her penthouse. Without her permission, he’d utilized her pleasure room. Monsieur Jérôme made a shitty mess with her expansive—and expensive—dildo collection. He’d stretched out her favorite corset and had broken two imported leather BDSM whips gifted to her by her beloved cosmetic surgeon, Dr. Hugo Fassenbender. Her French guest also left behind videos and photos in action. Oh, yes! Busted.
At first glance, Taddy had assumed the woman on the tape carried on as Manon Pésange, the teen mistress he’d screwed for years. No biggie, his wife knew about Manon. Until Taddy observed this lady, with stunning bosoms and crazy gorgeous hair—ramming his pecker into Monsieur Jérôme’s hairy ass. So busted.
When Kiki turned the volume up on the video, Taddy heard, “Take my cock, Jérôme.” The low voice ordered him in a New York accent.
“Dear Heavenly Father!” Kiki screamed. “I don’t understand.”
“Fuck me harder, Dupree. Ooh, Dupree, that’s it,” Jérôme squealed.
“Holy shit.” Taddy had dropped her espresso. “Kiki, darling, find out who this Dupree gentleman is for me please,” Taddy called over her assistant’s shoulder as she wiped up the spill on the floor.
Fanning herself with a notebook, she stuttered, “Give me an hour, Miss Brill.”
After asking Kiki to research him/her online, Taddy discovered Monsieur Jérôme’s ‘friend’ went by the stage name Dominatrix Queen-Dick Dupree, a notorious East Village transsexual. He owned The Dupree Club and charged nine hundred dollars an hour for sexual services. At Taddy’s insistence, Kiki contacted Dominatrix Queen-Dick Dupree and offered him five thousand dollars to confirm whether or not Jérôme du Tautou was a client. They learned not only was he a regular who kept a long-standing appointment when in town, but he always paid using his company’s credit card. In gratitude for sharing this information with her assistant, Taddy booked Lex, Vive, and herself for female dominatrix classes on Thursday nights at his club. Kiki declined an invitation, saying she had a schedule conflict. On those nights, she attended her study group at The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Jersey City.
“Jérôme, shall I call Mrs. du Tautou and see if she has any tickets for moi?”
“Pardon? I don’t follow.”
“You’ll follow me all right.” It was no surprise that when Taddy brought this Dupree oversight to Monsieur Jérôme’s attention, he’d secured Kiki’s first-class round-trip airfare. In addition to an all-accommodations stay at the Hôtel de France, a Warner Truman Property, he gifted Kiki and DJ Dejon with two VIP tickets to attend Vanity Fair’s Cannes Party on the French Riviera.
Au revoir, Jérôme du Tautou…avec amour, Kiki et Dejon!
Determined to get her virgin assistant laid, Taddy reflected after the call on her own Candy Land and what was holding her back from having a little more fun in the love department. She hadn’t felt like playing Princess Lolly since St. Barth’s. Damn that bet I made with the girls.
Rubies Return
May 15th
St. Barth’s, French West Indies
St. Barth’s elite moved on to the Mediterranean and the South of France when the Caribbean winter and spring seasons came to an end. Warner returned to the Secrète de St. Barth, supervising the closeout with his executive team. Kip Von Scott had succeeded with a record-breaking year in room occupancy, so Warner promoted him to the Hôtel de France, a higher-profile property on the French Riviera. Secrète de St. Barth slowed down in the summer, staffing a skeletal crew for maintenance. Then the property ramped back up for the winter to repeat the cycle yet again.
He’d taken the remainder of the day off to relax and enjoy his free time.
Out by the pool, he walked into the spa. “Bonjour, Brigitte. Comment allez-vous?” He greeted the spa manager as he closed the glass door behind him.
“Je suis bien. Et vous?” Brigitte replied from the reception desk.
“I’m having back spasms.” Warner strength-trained, dropping the weight from high to low after each set. His goal wasn’t to get any bigger. He just wanted to maintain his build. At times, his workout caused his back and shoulders to contract.
“A deep tissue massage, monsieur?” She held out her hands at the empty spa. “We have many openings today.”
“Would you mind?” Rubbing his neck, it felt tight. “I just worked out.”
“Take treatment room numéro deux. I’ll be there in a moment.”
Going into the eight-by-ten, dimly lit treatment room, he closed the door. Inhaling a sedative aroma, the lavender helped him relax. His muscle tension started to subside. New Age music drifted from the walls’ speakers, angelic tunes narrating Celtic legends. He felt as if a mythical fairy might fly out at any minute. All that New Age mumbo jumbo was one reason why he didn’t get massages very o
ften.
He turned off the waterfall noisemaker plugged into the far wall. The machines made him want to piss. After undressing, he grabbed a terry cloth robe from behind the door and slipped it on. It was too short at the arms and legs. Warner walked over to the massage table, wondering why they made them so short. Spa tables never came long enough for tall people. He owned the joint, yet his legs still hung off the edge. He sat and lifted his foot to remove his gym socks.
“What the hell?” Half a dozen miniature ruby gemstones were stuck to his sock and shimmered at him.
Warner rubbed the crystals between his fingers and placed them on his palm. Closing his hand into a fist, he realized he’d seen the gems before. They came from Red.
Beauty. Warmth. Lust.
The words they’d exchanged to one another danced in his mind. He’d reflected on Privé Extreme, wondering if he’d hallucinated and Red hadn’t occurred at all. If not for the surveillance tapes, he might’ve believed he’d gone into a trance due to the holiday stress.
“I’m Red…I’d like to have whatever juice you’re serving…I do love intensity…You may…Dom Perignon Rosé…Back to your place.”
He’d checked with each hotel on the island, but no resort confirmed the redhead. He never thought to check his own. Wasn’t that always the case?
In January, Privé Extreme ran the entrance surveillance tapes showing Red arriving with a skinny blonde and leaving with him. The video confirmed he hadn’t lost his mind. The membership card Red had used to obtain club access was reported stolen, perhaps resold without her knowing.
Looking on the spa’s floor, he saw a gem trail that led to the side cabinet. When he opened it, a colorful tray stared back at him in various blue, purple, green, and yellow shades. But it was the red that spoke to him and echoed, ‘Hello, Big Daddy.’
Brigitte knocked on the door. “Monsieur Warner, you ready?”
“Entrez.”
“Êtes-vous prêt?” Brigitte’s face twisted in confusion. He wasn’t disrobed facedown under the sheet as expected.
