by Avery Aster
“Cannes is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me, Miss Brill. I can’t thank you enough.” Eyes filled with tears, Kiki’s face puffed as if she’d cried for days.
“Kiki, please don’t start crying.” It was common for Brill girls to shed tears from stress, dieting, being dumped, missing their parents, being evicted, or not making the Barneys Warehouse Sale in time to find anything in a size two. But she’d never seen this. “Remember what our handbook states about crying?”
Her assistant blew her nose. “Eh?”
“You are permitted on occasion to whimper, whine, and snivel. But under no circumstance shall you blubber, sob, or bawl.” Bodily functions were for the weak. Girl, dig your acrylics into your palms, bite the inside of your cheek, take a deep breath, and suck it up.
“These are good tears. I’m happy.” Kiki wiped her pink nose again. “My family isn’t speaking to me much. Not since I left Utah for here. It’s just nice to have some TLC in my life again.”
Unfamiliar with crying because of happiness, she offered, “Sorry, honey…I didn’t know.” Her assistant worked against impossible odds to make it in the Big Apple. Brill, Inc.’s statistics revealed fifty percent of her new hires, ages twenty-one to twenty-six, returned home within the first year. Half from the remaining group followed their predecessor at year two. And a third from the final group wed and bred, moving to Long Island, Westchester, or Connecticut a year later. Leaving her Utah family and LDS congregation behind wore on Kiki, and Taddy identified with her homesickness.
“I call Provo weekly and leave messages at the house—”
“And?”
“My parents don’t call me back.” Kiki shrugged.
“Why?” She didn’t understand.
“They’re trying to manipulate me into giving my Manhattan dreams up and—”
“What?”
“Mom and Dad want me home.”
“Keep calling your folks. Once they get how serious you are about living here, they’ll come around.” Taddy didn’t want to see Kiki in pain. The ache in her heart when her parents stopped calling her while she boarded at Avon Porter had nearly killed her. There had to be a way for Kiki to secure her family’s support and thrive in this city. “It’s not as if you’re no longer their daughter.”
“I do everything they taught me to do. I pay my tithing. I attend church and take institute classes.”
“No wonder you don’t have any fun in your life.”
“It’s what we Mormons do, Miss Brill. I don’t understand what else will make my family happy.”
Taddy poured Kiki a glass of water from the pitcher on her desk, handed her the glass along with more tissues, and waited in silence for her to catch her breath. The family drama, breast surgery, and the new attention she received, working twenty-four-seven, having romance—even if exclusively online—and a trip to Cannes perhaps overwhelmed Kiki.
“Are you nervous about meeting DJ Dejon?” She remembered her first crush. He’d attended the Connecticut Military Academy a few miles down the street from Avon Porter. They’d met at her freshman dance. Christ Almighty, he screamed beautiful. So hung. Total gorgeousness. What the flip did I nickname him? Ah, yes, ‘the drill sergeant’.
“No, we talk online nightly.” Her blue eyes dried while she gulped the water. “It’ll be similar to seeing an old friend.”
“Yes, but you’re not going to be friends with him, darling. You’re going to be his ‘special’ friend.” Please get your Pollyanna-hymen torn. I blackmailed a Fortune 500 CEO to get you to Europe.
“What do you mean?” Kiki blinked in obvious confusion.
“Who’s your best friend here in the city?” She glanced over her friends’ photos featuring her clique. They outranked any real family. In the New Year, she’d thrown out the Brayden Brooks photos on her desk and replaced them with the real people in her life. From her teen years, she had images of Lex, Blake and Vive. From college, a picture of her with her artist friend, Miguel Santana, sat in the middle. And her media bud who she’d met since opening her agency, talk show host Poppy White.
“I don’t have any friends in Manhattan, Miss Brill.”
“Not even in Jersey City?” People had friends over there, didn’t they? Taddy couldn’t imagine but she hoped it was possible.
“Nope.”
“At church?”
Her assistant shook her head in embarrassment.
Taddy hoped her questions would motivate Kiki to socialize and create new pals. The girl worked as hard as Taddy—which wasn’t good. Ever since she’d made the no-man-fucking-for-a-year agreement with Lex and Vive back in December, she felt miserable. Rich? Without question. But wealth did not equate joy. “I’m your friend, Kiki.” She handed her assistant another tissue after noticing tears pour.
“Thank you.”
“Monsieur Jérôme du Tautou has you and DJ Dejon seeing films at the Grand Théâtre Lumière. The screenings are within walking distance of your hotel. These films compete for the Palme d’Or.” She feared Kiki might get confused. There were hundreds of production companies promoting their films that year, some not even associated with the official program. It would be easy to get them mixed up. “Stick to the schedule he’s put together for you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She pulled out a folder on Cannes she’d created for Kiki’s trip. “Here are the details. I’ve included my Amex card with you on the account, giving you spending money.” Taddy reflected on the trips she’d enjoyed over the years: Frankfurt, Singapore, Oslo, Genève, Zurich—the list went on and on. Three passport books later, not once had anyone paid her way for anything—ever. It felt good to do it for Kiki, as she didn’t expect much from anyone.
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” She took the folder. “I’ve never stayed at a Warner Truman property. I feel important.”
“You are special, Kiki!”
“I mean famous. I’m so excited.” Her assistant’s innocent smile graced her features.
Glancing out the window at Truman Times Square, she confirmed, “His hotels are wonderful.” They are overpriced, but the vajazzle spa service and private clubs are worth every penny. Her mind hadn’t tripped on St. Barth’s in a while. As hard as it’d been, she’d pushed Big Daddy far from her mind. No smart woman obsessed over someone else’s boyfriend, fiancé, or husband.
“José helped me cart over some accessory items from your penthouse. You mentioned I could take whatever caught my attention.” Kiki pulled the box from the far side of Taddy’s desk up, the one she’d come in with. She placed it on the chair next to Taddy. Tearing the lid off, she took out a bronze handbag.
Taddy thought she’d lost the Judith Leiber Aurelie croc clutch. I haven’t seen you since…my Candy Land trip at Privé Extreme with Garner. She sat back in her seat, allowing her neck to fall against the headrest, enjoying Kiki’s enthusiasm over her trip. It could very well be her assistant’s happiest weekend.
Kiki held the purse in her hands. “Díma found this in your Louis Vuitton suitcase. It’s covered in dirt, but I’m drawn to it.” She set the Judith Leiber bag on her desk. “I’m not sure it’ll go with my dresses, but I love it. You have the nicest things…”
Tuned out, not listening to Kiki, Taddy was staring at the bag as if someone had dropped a fat, thick, veiny cock in her face. Big Daddy’s smile, his chest and hands, his tongue and those words came to mind. There was no man similar to him. She remembered his words, “You’d like the champagne’s body to sparkle, sense initial firmness as it fills your mouth, and experience a cream rush as you swallow.” As Taddy pressed her fingers to her temples, she rubbed them while staring forward. Kiki talked on and on. She shook her head. It’s lust, Taddy Brill. You’re a horny woman. Move on with it already. Taddy opened her desk’s top drawer and withdrew a pack of Nat Sherman Fantasia cigarettes. She’d quit many months back, but kept them on standby for times like this.
“Miss Brill, what are you doing?” Kiki reached, but fa
iled to grab the cigarette from Taddy’s grip. “I’m supposed to call Blake’s office if you start smoking at your desk again.”
The cellophane wrapper came off the pack with one rip. She tapped the box and struck the filters’ end against her left palm—one—two—three. Flipping the lid open, she smelled the dry tobacco, admiring the many wrappings’ colors.
“It’s against the law to smoke indoors. We could get fined.”
She put the filtered tip to her mouth, held up the sterling silver lighter, pressed down on the butane switch, and with a spark, inhaled a hit. For a few seconds, she closed her eyes. Her mind escaped more toward Big Daddy, replaying his words. “Look at you coming, Red. You’re beautiful. Let your body go, baby. I have you.” The smoke burned intensely as it came out both nostrils.
Kiki jumped in front of her face.
“I own the building, Kiki, please.” She exhaled another puff and spoke in a husky voice. “Can’t I have one vice in this world? Everyone else does.”
“I don’t.”
“Good point.” Taddy couldn’t argue with her on that one.
“Go to Exhale Bliss Spa for a facial if you’re stressed.”
“No.”
“Gilad’s Pilates?”
“Screw Pilates.” Her body needed more than just a conditioning workout. “I’d rather take a BDSM class at the Dupree Club.”
From the look on Kiki’s face, she didn’t care for what they’d watched on Queen Dick’s video.
“Or you could grab your Fendi and head down to the rifle range, shoot some rounds.”
“Love that idea.” It had been a while since Taddy had fired her gun at Lipstick & Lead’s Rifle Range.
In a flash, Kiki snatched the cigarette pack and slipped it into her pocket. She beamed with obvious accomplishment that she’d stopped her boss from smoking again.
“Give me a hug good-bye and get your beautiful butt to the airport. You can’t be late for takeoff.” She smiled at Kiki. “We’ll figure out your accessories when you get back.”
“Hugs aren’t allowed. That’s what it says in the handbook,” her assistant cautioned as if being tested.
“We’re friends, aren’t we?” She extended her hands out to put Kiki’s worry at ease and gave her assistant a hug. Sensing Kiki’s body shake, she whispered in her assistant’s ear, “Have fun, darling.” Taddy slipped her hand into Kiki’s pocket and took back the cigarettes without her noticing.
Kiki picked the trip folder up from her desk and took a sip of water, lingering perhaps to ensure her boss was okay. Taddy smiled at her. “I’ll be fine, honey. I need a day off. I promise, tomorrow I’ll go get a facial uptown, shoot some rounds downtown, whip someone in a sling in midtown, and won’t come into the office.”
“Don’t forget, you have a nine a.m. fitting for your Candy Land Ball costume.”
“Yes. Long live Princess Lolly.” Taddy was starting to feel better just thinking about her party.
After Kiki closed her office door, Taddy took one final puff and then extinguished the cigarette in the Waterford crystal bowl her Aunt Muffie had given her for Christmas. She reached over, grabbed the clutch, and opened it. I forgot what the hell is in here. I never… She remembered returning to the villa after she’d walked Garner home from Privé Extreme. Up late, Lex had sketched her dress designs, a late-night de-stressor from all the shit Birdie had put her through. Vive had come in at the same time. They’d discussed in detail their goals for the year ahead, including the pact to focus on their careers and not give men time they didn’t deserve.
Opening the clutch, she pulled out the Baden Cosmetics Utah Virgin lipstick. I wondered where this shade went. A hairbrush and some cash fell out. Oh, my God. She picked at a few loose vajazzle gems and admired their brilliance. I felt sexy. The look on Garner’s face when he pulled his hands out from under the table was too funny. Taddy couldn’t give Kiki a messy bag. Not one with all this crap in it. She reached over and grabbed a sheet of copy paper from the printer off her desk. With a flick of her wrists, she emptied the sparkles out onto the paper. Amber glass bits clumped in dried blood toppled onto the paper before a business card fell out.
Warner Truman’s name was printed on one side. She turned it over to read his contact information on the other and remembered his final words. “I put my card in your—” She’d cut him off.
The card listed three numbers—office, mobile, and assistant. Taddy would try his New York office and see if his voice was on the greeting. He couldn’t be working that late. Garner spoke in a deep, heart-racing, thigh-clenching voice. She’d be sure to recognize him if she heard it again. Picking up her desk phone, she dialed the “212” number on the card. She pressed the nine key on her keypad a little longer than she did the other numbers to be sure she wanted to do this. Releasing the final digit, she heard a buzz. On the second ring, his greeting picked up.
“This is Warner Truman. I’m out of the country for business. Please call my cell or ring my executive assistant by hitting one on your phone. Have a great day.”
Taddy slammed the phone down before it beeped to leave a message. His voice. It’s him. What a pig. Garner is Warner. That made sense. The crowd at Privé Extreme had worshiped him, after all. They’d sat alone, behind a velvet rope and VIP curtain. He’d owned the club and the hotels all along. The second she’d touched him, he’d felt influential. Warner Truman and Big Daddy were the same man.
I never meet men with any expectations other than having a good time. Then I’m never disappointed. It was her motto, and she forced herself to remember the mantra. The second she’d looked into Garner’s eyes, which kept changing colors, and felt him put his arms around her, she’d felt at home. For the first time in...she couldn’t remember how long, she’d touched the most amazing man she’d ever met.
Ripping the card up, she dumped the shreds into her wastebasket. She placed the bronze purse back into the box and walked it over to Kiki’s workstation. Then she went back to work. Warner Truman, you are a douchebag.
The Infamous Orgasmic Pedicure Chair
Cannes, France
“A riot is ahead.” The driver attempted to turn the corner from Rue Pasteur onto La Promenade de la Croisette but failed. “Monsieur, we are stuck.”
“What the hell…?” Warner sat straight up in the limo’s backseat.
Moments before, he’d flown in to Aéroport Nice Côte d’Azur from a Tokyo business trip. Even on his private plane, the eleven-hour flight had left him crippled with jetlag.
Star-fuckers in the street blocked cars from going anywhere; they seemed to be chasing a celebrity.
“What’s going on?” Warner asked the chauffeur, who’d released the steering wheel. People had come from all over Cannes to stand at Hôtel de France’s entrance. He slid a piece of sugarless gum into his mouth and chewed, hoping it would wake him. I smell trouble.
Before the season started, he’d instructed management to book production crew for the film festival, no party animals. Truman Enterprises’ strategy for making money during the summer in Cannes came from remaining off the celebrity radar. Hôtel de France catered to behind-the-scenes industry folks. If they were to host any starlets, they would be the low-drama Julia Roberts or George Clooney types. Not the young partying Lindsey or Mischa, troublemakers who’d alert paparazzi to their every move prior to making one. He rolled the car’s window down as the driver inched closer.
“Gimme your meat, baby!” a woman’s voice screamed from the balcony above his car. “Oui, Oui, Oui, Manuel. Fuck me harder.”
Manuel?
“You magnifique slut, Caramel!” a man shouted huskily.
Caramel?
Warner stuck his head out the window, glaring up at where the voices came from, at what everyone else in the street gawked over.
Against the sun’s bright rays, two famous porn stars, who he’d seen in several movies, fucked on his presidential suite balcony. Their names? Manuel Coq de la Grande and Caramel Swallows.
Caramel Swallows, who’d been nicknamed the Porn Queen, had a number-one-selling online video. It translated in English as Cream Caramel over the Causeway, and had grossed over thirty-five million dollars in digital downloads. With her own reality show titled Her Porn Life, cameras tracked Caramel for months, catching her every move. And at the Cannes Film Festival, it appeared to be Manuel.
“You want me, Caramel?” Manuel stabbed his stiff rod in her ass. He held onto her hips as the woman’s face twisted with erotic pleasure.
Her breasts jiggled so fast Warner couldn’t tell one nipple from the other. Caramel’s long, black hair flew wild in the humid Mediterranean air, and her body shook as Manuel’s thrusts increased.
“FUCK CARAMEL. FUCK CARAMEL.” The crowd howled, egging them on.
Manuel’s nuts rammed her like a sandbag. Sweat came off him, his face focused and possessed, pounding her so hard she’d become quiet.
Panicked, Warner jumped out of the car. “Move! Get out of my way.” He pushed through the crowd when they didn’t pay any attention to him. Everyone was too busy staring.
“FUCK MANUEL. FUCK MANUEL,” tourists chanted. Cameras flashed and video recorders streamed. TV film crews had run over from another event to capture the footage.
“What the hell is going on?” Warner snagged Hôtel de France’s valet manager’s attention before he could drive off to park a hotel guest’s regal blue Bugatti.
Slouched down in the car’s white leather interior, with no place to escape, the attendant’s lips twitched, trying to speak. He hesitated, not knowing how to respond.
“Answer me,” Warner demanded.
“Prix du Cinéma Pour Adultes…”
“No?”
“Oui.”
Prix du Cinéma Pour Adultes was the largest adult film convention in the world. Held annually alongside the Cannes Film Festival, it wasn’t anything like the other award programs taking place that season. Instead, pornography actors received Oscar-style awards at lavish dinners. The extravaganza was always oversold and booked months in advance at a competing hotel, not a Truman Enterprises property.
