by Avery Aster
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.
“First, thank you for the gift. It’s in red, my favorite color.” She loved this pashmina. She owned five at home identical to it.
“I read in the company handbook you are to be branded in red at all times.”
“Red is the color for intensity, and I am a deep person, Kelly.”
“I see, Miss Brill.”
“Red enables people to make quick decisions, a motto I live by.” She tapped her acrylics on the Horchow mirrored desktop. “It also embodies strength and power. Two traits I strive for. Understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Kelly made a noise then swallowed hard, twice.
“I’m going to make you my new executive personal assistant. You’ll get a ten-percent raise and a company credit card with a wardrobe allowance.”
“Yeah!”
“Calm down.” Taddy had planned to promote her anyway.
“Thank you, Miss Brill. I’m so excited. I can’t wait to tell my parents. Oh boy.” She collapsed into the high-backed chair, eyes beaming.
“We must do something about your name.”
“My name?” She paused. “It’s Kelly—Kelly Ivy Kailyn Izatt.”
Taddy made an extra effort not to roll her eyes. She hated to make anyone think their birth name was not unique or that they weren’t special, or above all, that they were just another Kelly. “We have three Kelly’s on salary: Kelly Barnes, Kel Michaels, and Kelbie something-or-another.” Taddy had reached the conclusion that Kelbie pissed while standing, although he dressed from the waist down in a skirt. He strutted better in high heels than Brill girls, and hailed from Atlanta. The paycheck Taddy signed each week was addressed to a “Kelly Brian Green.”
“What about using my middle name?”
“Ivy makes me itch.” She scowled.
“What do you suggest we do then, Miss Brill?”
“Your initials are K.I.K.I. Use those.” She was keen on having an assistant named Kiki.
“Kiki’s different.” Her executive assistant’s face lit up. Taddy Brill’s new Executive Assistant, Kiki, was created.
“So, is that all, Miss Brill?” Shoulders raised, she went to stand.
“No—”
Kiki stayed seated. “Oh…”
“I can’t go to St. Tropez with Lex.”
“Was it my weather report?” She reached for the folder on Taddy’s desk.
“I love the heat.” I love my tits. She loved showing off her tits in the heat.
“Lex and you want to go somewhere warmer, I take it?”
“Hotter. Much hotter.” Without notice, she glided her hands over her décolletage and tugged at her Carine Gilson bra straps. The lingerie purchase was a suggestion from Lex. While shopping in Paris, her friend urged her that if she wore the best foundation garments, she’d be less intent on taking them off all the time. Nothing was better for her breasts than Carine Gilson. Regardless, the desire to go topless burned inside her.
Her assistant coughed. “May I be personal with you for a minute, Miss Brill?” Kiki faced away in possible fear she’d be flashed at her boss’s self-groping.
“Of course.” Taddy hoped this would be good. She loved when Brill girls dished on themselves. Lonely at the top, Taddy was no longer included in chatter at the water-cooler.
“My friend, DJ Dejon, spins at several parties in Europe this time of year—”
“Don’t take this the wrong way.” Fighting the urge to laugh, she bit down on her lower lip and sat back in her chair. She always tried to demonstrate a high opinion of her girls. “But how does a native from Provo, Utah have a DJ friend named Dejon who spins in Europe?”
“We’re friends online through a chat room, ma’am.”
“Aah, makes sense.” God bless cyber introductions.
“Anyways.” Kiki pulled out a flyer from her paper stack, which listed DJ Dejon’s tour dates.
To Taddy’s surprise, he trotted the globe. “Wow.”
“New Year’s Eve, Dejon is spinning in Algarve, Portugal.”
She leaned closer. “And?” A tube of Cunty Red sat open on her desk, giving her ideas for other color cosmetic names. Taddy jotted down in her notebook, MelonLicious and Utah Virgin.
“Dejon posted Algarve in his online chat room as the hottest place this winter—both temperature and scene-wise.” She flashed her small white teeth, scoring huge with this season’s tip.
“Love it. Book it. Thank you, Kiki, darling.” She reached for her cell and texted Lex the change in plans. Kiki chatt
ed on about DJ Dejon’s music while Taddy received an immediate reply from Lex. It read, “Make the reservation under our code names.”
Using an alias proved vital when Taddy traveled with Lex. Lex Easton was a famed rock-n-roll star’s daughter turned fashion designer. Taddy had experienced her all-too-public lifestyle as teenagers. Since she was also in the spotlight, she found herself booked at the St. Regis and Exhale Bliss Spa under the codename Red.
In Monte Carlo, she booked under Marie Red; in London, Lady Red; in Las Vegas, Lucky Red; and so on. OK! magazine and In Touch Weekly sure as hell didn’t need to know about her anal-bleaching business. She preferred to remain behind the scenes and let the reporters focus on her clients, not her. However, for some reason, Taddy always found herself front and center of attention.
“Kiki, you’ll see, in my personal folder, my travel policy on making reservations under the name Red.” She smiled. “Tell me about Algarve. The tidbit I’ve heard is Portuguese footballer João Moutinho lives there.”
“So…”
“João plays for the F.C. Porto team.”
“Sooo…” Kiki was clueless.
“A drop-dead delicious European version to my va-jay-jay idol Brayden Brooks.” She turned the frame to face Kiki. “If I can’t have Brayden this holiday, I might be able to have João.” Taddy wondered if Kiki’s DJ cyber buddy knew João.
“I better get to my desk and get started on these reservations, Miss Brill.” She excused herself.
Au revoir, South of France. Olá, Portugal.
Taddy was delighted to learn that Kiki’s on-again, off-again cyber relationship with DJ Dejon had progressed from chat rooms to web videos. Dejon had facilitated securing Taddy and Lex the presidential suite at the city’s five-star hotel.
They were booked under Red.
Elated, Taddy gifted Kiki with a bonus—an appointment with Dr. Hugo Fassenbender to get her breasts augmented. New cleavage proved the least she could do. Although Taddy’s came from Mother Nature, she identified with a girl’s desire to have a power set, especially since she’d learned Kiki had wanted a pair. She often referred Dr. Fassenbender at her leisure.
Aside from being the best breast doctor in town, Dr. Fassenbender hailed from Berlin. His patients raved about the precision of his surgical incisions, which rarely scarred. According to the sales girls at Bergdorf Goodman, who sold him his leather accessories, he was also a Dom in the BDSM community. She hoped Hugo would help put Kiki in touch with her sexuality. Maybe tying the Utah virgin up and giving her a good whipping would be asking for the kitchen sink, but new breasts? Those her black American Express card made doable.
With Taddy’s and Lex’s schedules booked, seat assignments ticketed, and hotel reservations made, everything was confirmed jet-set-fabulous for New Year’s Eve in Algarve. Until Lex’s mother Birdie Easton did her usual.
Banging Birdie
December 21st
Upper East Side, New York, NY
Getting laid ranked high on Taddy’s New Year’s resolutions. She also wished for a tighter ass, but that was farther down on her agenda. The solution for both was found in another hot man—not her cosmetic surgeon, Dr. Fassenbender, but Gilad Oseary, owner of Gilad’s Pilates Studio. Burnt out on lip-gloss marketing for the day, she treated Lex and Vive to an early-evening workout. Blake had declined, saying gays didn’t do Pilates. Taddy, however, was determined not to gain an ounce over the holidays.
Gilad, you are flippin’ sexy. His arms flexed thicker than his legs, which stood more solid than his sculpted chest. And that chest sported a T-shirt two sizes too tight for his body, revealing his muscular pecs. In his mid-twenties, Gilad had emigrated from somewhere in the Middle East. Fluent in French, he claimed to be Persian, perhaps from Iran. Wherever he came from, his militant style to push client’s bodies from flab to fab was orgasmic. Or at least Taddy thought so.
“Ladies, let’s pull into our lower body and focus.” With no shame, Gilad directed his view between Taddy’s legs.
I need sex. Please, Gilad. You’re making love to me with your demands and those eyes staring right through my body…
“Good girl, Taddy.” He grinned as if reading her mind. She arched her heel and slipped it into the strap.
“Like this?”
“Ahuh.” He nodded.
“And this?” She split her legs wide.
His jaw dropped.
“It burns. My muscles are tight—so tense,” Taddy flirted in her sultry voice. She pressed her back into the Pilates board, the rubber bands snapped in the air, her legs stretched out.
“Put your energy into your core, ladies. Come on, let’s do this.”
Taddy’s energy was focused on his core, caressing her core. She went into a helicopter position and twisted her legs up. Her focus wasn’t on her body but his as she stared at his cock. Either he’d grown hard or wore a cup. Lips licked, he studied her face with encouragement to continue. “I want you, Gilad,” she whispered.
“Lex!” Gilad shouted over Taddy’s station. That broke her soon-to-be workout climax.
“Huh?” Lex mumbled behind her.
“Why aren’t you following along?” In a pissed-off stance, Gilad stalked over to her.
Taddy took her eyes off Gilad-lusting and glanced in Lex’s direction.
Not flexed, her bestie wasn’t paying any attention. Perhaps in another world, Lex’s face spoke worry. It wasn’t over the exercise, though. Hell, when Lex was a kid, she’d struggled with her weight, so now, in her late-twenties, Lex made fitness her focus. The woman could teach Pilates if she so desired. She didn’t. Lex lived and breathed fashion. Her Easton Essentials apparel business was a hit, thus her funk wasn’t over haute couture, either. “What is Lex’s problem?” Taddy mouthed to Vive.
Not condoning exercise, Vive sipped on her happy hour, aka a gin and tonic. Between gulps, she coated her nails in Baden Cosmetics’ popular toe lacquer, Gold Mine. Arching her eyebrow, she mouthed in response, “I dunno. But somethin’ is up.” Vive slid her nail file along her left wrist in a mock suicide. With Lex always came drama.
After the fifty-minute session, Taddy walked over to Gilad while Lex pulled herself together. Vive waited at the door with her second cocktail in hand.
“Do you give private home lessons?” The erotic man-smell from his body made her clench her thighs together.
“Yes. Why?”
“Gilad, I need you.”
“Now?”
“Tonight, when I get home from a party.” Screw me, pah-lease.
“My rates double after hours.”
“I bet they do.” Taddy hoped he wasn’t flirting with her just for her riches. She didn’t pay for sex—not blatantly, at least. When he came by, she’d be sure to find out exactly if Gilad’s intentions went beyond Pilates. “Let’s not let a little thing called money stand between us. I like to think large. Very large.”
Gilad stepped close to Taddy. “Me, too.” Ever so slightly, he grazed his hardness against her stomach. The body contact and the implied suggestion sent a chill up her spine. She didn’t jump back, but rather leaned in closer to him.
“Taddy, let’s go,” Lex snapped. In a call for her attention, she then clapped her hands.
“One sec, darling.” Taddy shot Vive a look to rein in their moody friend.
He turned his back to the rest of the girls and faced Taddy more intimately. “I’m free after ten.” Gilad adjusted himself, grinned, and asked, “Shall I come by your penthouse, Miss Brill, for a home lesson then?”
“Yes.” Taddy winked and slipped him her card with the details on the back. “Here’s my address.”
“Can’t wait.”
“I’ll tell my butler to expect you.”
“Hello! I’m out of here,” Lex blurted extra bitchily. She waved goodbyes to Gilad and pushed on the front door.
Taddy followed Vive, who walked a few feet behind Lex, one block over to Juice Press on Third Avenue and East Sixty-Second Street for
their liquid dinner. They didn’t talk. Once they received their shakes and sat at a café table, Taddy asked, “Lex, is there anything you wanna tell us?”
Vive leaned in closer.
“Mom’s sick.” Lex’s mother, Birdie Easton, widow to heavy metal icon Eddie Easton, who’d also found fame in ‘82 when she hit platinum with her own two chart toppers “Am I Wicked” and “Lucifer’s Mistress,” always carried on just a little sicker than the norm.
“Say what?”
“Mom has diagnosed herself with Stevens-Johnson syndrome, a fatal skin condition.”
“What do you mean ‘diagnosed herself’?” Vive spoke as if they were slated for a feature in Debauchery magazine.
“Mom researched her symptoms online.” Lex pulled a few papers out of her gym tote, handing them to Vive to inspect.
“WebDoctorMD and DiseasePedia are not credible.” Vive’s journalistic eye skimmed the papers. “And the symptoms state patients with the disease show a hideous rash triggered by infected facial tissue. If that were true, Birdie’s face would blister.” She passed the documents over to Taddy who read on.
“I saw Birdie a week ago. She looked like her usual rock-star self,” Taddy muttered, convinced Birdie bathed in formaldehyde to maintain her youth. Lex’s mother may’ve been a whacko and frail, but she was still gorgeous.
Taddy dropped the papers on the table. “This journal cites excessive cocaine use as a possible cause.” Birdie’s decade-long partying in the ‘80s with drugs proved enough to swing Taddy’s convictions from “no way in Hell” to “not really.” It couldn’t be possible. “Birdie is a bit of a hypochondriac, though.” And a full-blown loon. Taddy shook her head and sipped her Acai Extreme Energy smoothie. She struggled to demonstrate any sympathy, and her empathy-feeling days for the Easton’s were long past. This has to be bullshit.
“Mom hasn’t been the same since Dad died.” Obvious embarrassment washed Lex’s face.
“No kiddin’.”
“Birdie dove headfirst into the cray-cray pool, breaking her skull wide open eons prior to Eddie killing himself.” Vive snorted and rolled her eyes.
