by King, Imani
“Bonsoir! I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Blaize Simon, host of this evening’s party and man of your dreams. I do hope you’re not planning to haul away those desserts…….they were the most delicious things at the party. Other than you, of course .”
She was clearly unimpressed .
“You’re the host? Don’t you think you should be outside tending to your guests instead of in here chatting with me ?”
Without missing a beat, she looked down at my crotch and added, “And you might want to zip up your pants .”
Just my luck, my dick was hanging out of my fly. It was still quite impressive even in its shell-shocked state, but I hastily tucked it away .
“I’m so sorry! Really! And yes, you’re absolutely right…… I need to go out and check on my guests. Please don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.” I tore out of the house, now with only half the interest I’d had just a moment ago. The rubble in my pool and the concern for my guests was suddenly overshadowed by the all-consuming need to get back to the breathtakingly beautiful angel in my kitchen .
2
Chelsea Dixon
F ood shopping at the bustling Saturday street markets was one of my absolute favorite things to do in Paris, whether for fun or for my internship at the Café de Fourchette. And it was definitely tops on my list of things I knew I would miss when I returned to the U.S. on Monday. I had a heavy heart, for sure, but I knew I was extremely lucky to have had this invaluable culinary education in the premiere food capital of the world. And I was even more fortunate that I got to experience such a unique learning opportunity with my best friend since childhood, Tiffany .
The past three years had been truly glorious and surpassed even my wildest dreams. They had practically flown by! During that time, Tiffany and I literally lived and breathed food! We had taken every imaginable advanced pastry class, interned at two world-class restaurants and even worked as volunteer chocolatiers in one of the city’s finest chocolate boutiques. It was hard to believe that in two short days our lovely French adventure would be ending and our scary “time to make a living” adventure would begin. For the moment, we decided to just enjoy our last 48 hours in the City of Light, unburdened by any weighty thoughts of future business. We both agreed there was no better way of doing that than by visiting our favorite marketplace on the left bank of the Seine River .
It was lively and noisy and the whole neighborhood shopped there. The air was thick with a variety of smells: Crisp fresh produce, briny seafood, roasted almonds, and pungent cheeses. Our favorite vendor was Madame Babette, the cheese lady. She was a tiny, round old woman with flaming red hair and an obvious fondness for brightly colored costume jewelry. She was known for her giant laugh and her giant heart. Everyone loved her as much as we did .
There was always a long line of people at her small counter, which was also due to her vast wealth of cheese knowledge and huge selection of local delights. Tiffany and I had learned, within the first couple months of our stay, that the French were notorious line cutters. After silently suffering through this unacceptable social practice time and time again, we figured out a way to put a stop to it: We both bought huge shopping baskets and propped them against the front of our thighs while in line. Our basket “fences” created the perfect uncuttable barriers that prevented even the skinniest of little French bodies from inching their way in front of us ever again. We always got such a kick out of playing our little game .
“Did you see her face, when she ran into your basket Tiff? Oh my god, that was funny! People sure do get into a snit when they have to go to the end of the line, don’t they? I sure am gonna miss this .”
“Me too, Chels! But you never know. We might still get a chance to use our little shopping technique in Los Angeles. There’s a lot of hoity toity entitlement types over there .”
When it was finally our turn at the counter, we politely ordered a small wheel of Camembert. We really wanted a bigger one but knew we’d never be able to eat it all before our trip home and we just couldn’t bear the thought of throwing any of it away. Equally painful, was the idea of saying our good-byes to Madame Babette. But we did so with teary eyes and a group hug. She made us promise we would stop by and see her if and when we were ever back in the neighborhood. We had learned practically everything we knew about cheese from her. She was so generous and patient with us .
“Au revoir, Madame!” We felt like school girls waving farewell to our favorite teacher at the end of the year .
Tiffany and I made a few more market purchases before heading down to the inviting riverbank for lunch: A box of red ripe raspberries, a two-foot long French bread baguette, and two Cokes. We lucked out and found an empty bench under a large shady Chestnut tree .
It seemed all of Paris was out enjoying the warm June sunshine. Lovers strolled hand in hand near the water’s edge, artists leisurely painted their colorful canvases from the sidewalk above and the packed tour boats chugged past, gliding underneath the arches of the stone bridges. What a perfect setting it was. The perfect setting for girl talk ……
My curious friend had been bugging me all morning to tell her about last night’s already infamous party at bad boy novelist Blaize Simon’s villa. We were supposed to work together as catering staff at the event, but the company pulled Tiffany away to handle another event at the very last minute. She was pretty bummed out over her bad luck. Unlike myself, she was a pretty big fan of Blaize’s work .
I honestly wasn’t sure where to begin my incredible tale; the entire evening had been so outrageous. It just seemed like the perfect type of story to share over a long leisurely lunch. As soon as we sat down, she pounced on the subject and begged me unrelentingly for the details .
“All right, times up girlfriend! I’ve waited patiently. Now let’s hear it! Did you get to see Blaize Simon or not? Is he as good-looking in person? What was his villa like? Is it true, what they said on the news about a balcony falling off onto people? C’mon spit it out…….. I’m dying to know!” She broke off a piece of the crusty baguette and popped it in her mouth .
“Whoa! Settle down! Holy cow, you are crazy! I didn’t know you were that big of a fan !”
“Yeah, I am! That’s what made everything so extra unfair! It wouldn’t even have bothered you if you hadn’t been able to go. The whole experience was pretty much wasted on you !”
Tiffany gave me her fake pouty face; the one she usually used when trying to zing me with extra guilt, but it didn’t work. It never actually made me feel guilty; it only made me laugh because it was super funny .
I took a few gulps of my Coke and thought about Tiff’s accusation. Was it wasted on me? “I guess you’re probably right.” I finally replied. “I could have totally lived without that experience. I didn’t really enjoy watching hundreds of people acting like raving lunatics. It was a little scary… And the ridiculous amount of wealth and waste and decadence; it was almost sickening. Nothing but extreme overindulgence. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. It reminded me of a bunch of rich brats running around in serious need of a parent. I’d say the word disgusting pretty much sums it up .”
“Chelsea! What is the matter with you? You were lucky enough to be at probably THEE most talked about party of the year! You’re getting a little snooty, girl! You need to loosen up a little. What about the balcony? How did that happen ?”
“Pretty much just like the news said. The villa is gorgeous inside and out, but it’s super old. Too many freaks and maniacs were dancing and jumping up and down on one of the balconies. It just broke loose and fell in the yard and the pool. I still can’t believe nobody was hurt .”
As I began describing the various sordid sex acts I had witnessed in and around the enormous estate, Tiffany’s eyes grew wide as dinner plates. She was shoveling handfuls of raspberries in her mouth like it was movie popcorn. She was so engrossed in what I was saying, it was one of the few times in our entire friendship that she didn’t interrupt me. She jus
t listened intently, hanging on my every word, uttering an occasional “Oh my god!” or “Holy shit!” here and there .
When I was finished, she just sat there for at least one full minute shaking her head in disbelief. Eventually, she found something to say :
“You know Chels….. you hear about stuff like that all the time and you read about it and see it in the movies. You know it goes on, probably every day, but sitting next to you on this bench right now is the closest I’ve ever come to that level of craziness in real life .”
“I’m not sure if I’m supposed to take that as a compliment or not!” I laughed, as I slapped her in the back of the head with the baguette .
“Hey, you still haven’t told me if you got a glimpse of Blaize Simon at the party or not. He is one unbelievably hot, fucking gorgeous man. If I ever saw him in person, I think I would pee my pants !”
“Well you better hold on to your wig then sister, because I got quite a glimpse of him. A glimpse of him and his dick !”
Tiffany let out an eardrum-piercing squeal. “No way! No you didn’t! No you fuck-in’ didn’t! Did you say anything? What did it look like? Oh my God did you sleep with him ?”
I almost couldn’t bring myself to tell her the rest. She was already jumping up and down next to me in a complete tizzy .
“We had a brief conversation. That’s it. He was definitely full of himself. His dick was sticking out of his fly…….. I told him to zip up his pants .”
With that announcement, I calmly placed a piece of Madam Babette’s cheese on my bread and matter-of-factly took an aloof bite before adding, “He’s hung like a prize bull .”
That did it. My normally sane best friend was now running around in circles and flapping her arms like a crazed chicken .
“Who are you, anyway?” She yelled at me, half laughing in disbelief. “You are deep! You know that? You are fucking deep! How could you keep all this to yourself the entire morning?! I would have woken you up last night, yanked you out of bed and screamed that news in your ear if that happened to me! You think you know somebody…………shit Chelsea, you are deep. But c’mon now, let’s get real. You have to admit the man is drop-dead handsome. Even if you’re not a fan. C’mon, just admit it .”
There was no getting out of it; Blaize Simon did have a certain sexy quality about him. And he did have an indisputably perfect face and killer body. Still, I felt compelled to torment Tiffany a little bit longer: “I guess he’s okay………in a pompous ass sort of way .”
3
Blaize
R olande rattled off facts and figures to me, with no realization that I wasn’t paying the slightest bit of attention to him. I leaned back in my leather seat and stared out of the private plane window, taking sips of my scotch and occasionally nodding with feigned interest. He was a great agent, no doubt about that. He knew exactly how well each and every one of my books and films was doing at any given time, and how much money they were making. He was always on top of it .
I thought I heard him say something about my latest novel from my vampire trilogy, Midnight Hunter: Sweet Revenge , being on the New York Times best-seller list for eight straight weeks since its release. And I think he muttered something else about my lucrative script-writing deal. But my mind was elsewhere. No matter how hard I fought it, it kept returning to the night of my party and the Halle Berry look-alike who verbally took me to task in my own kitchen. She was so deliciously feisty! And fucking smoldering hot! Two of my utmost favorite qualities in a woman !
By the time I came back inside that night, she was gone. Upon inquiring about her, in the following days, I learned she had left France. I figured “C’est la vie. No big deal.” After all, Paris is swarming with beautiful women. But for some reason, I just couldn’t shake that one out of my mind. She haunted my dreams. I was somewhat embarrassed about my obsession over her and hadn’t totally fessed up to Rolande about it yet. Truthfully, I was hoping my mental preoccupation with her would become just another passing phase. It caused me to feel out of sorts and off my game and I really had no patience or time for it. Perhaps with a bit of time away from home I could sweep her from my mind. I smiled as we started our descent into my favorite home away from home: Los Angeles, California .
Rolande and I were both suffering from jet lag and the usual sleep-deprived crankiness. It was always hard for me to get any real shut-eye during these long transatlantic flights, no matter how comfortable the plane was. I always felt like I needed to stay awake and watchful over the pilot. Sometimes my flying credentials felt like a curse, but I guess it came with the territory. The fatigue was adding to my usual dread of the hoop-jumping required by U.S. Customs at LAX .
After standing in a long line of foreigners and having his passport and visa scrutinized, Rolande finally made it through to the other side. He did a little touch-down dance and waited for me to follow him. But the sweet sound of the passport stamp never came. Instead, I was hauled off to a small private room by a big burly immigration official. I called out to Rolande to get a hold of my lawyer, Max Snyder, just before I was led out of sight .
These sorts of delays were a minor inconvenience… The kind I’d become all too accustomed to .
“What the fuck is going on? Do you have any idea who I am? I’m Blaize Simon. I’m a world-famous writer and filmmaker! This is obviously some pathetic attempt at exercising your limited authoritative powers by hassling international guests. I’ll have your job, you fat-assed twit! My agent is getting my legal counsel on the phone as we speak .”
“We are well aware of who you are, Mr. Simon. But the United States has rules regarding not only the maximum stay of our foreign visitors, but also the frequency and length of time between visits. We have very specific visa restrictions and it appears you are in breach of them, sir .”
“What the fuck are you talking about? My visa is above-board and always has been. I’ve been conducting regular and frequent business over here in the states for almost a decade. America loves me !”
“Your American fans may love you, sir, but the United States Department of Homeland Security is not so crazy about you. Are you aware that there is a maximum 90-day stay ?”
“Yes, of course. I’ve never stayed longer than that, so what’s the problem ?”
“It appears that you return with obvious regularity, with only a month between visits .”
“So? Is that a problem? That certainly can’t be a violation !”
“I’m afraid it is, Mr. Simon. A 90-day visa is not intended for indefinite, unlimited use. You’re not a permanent resident. You don’t have a green card. You’ve been abusing your visa privileges .”
“So what’s the fine? Let me just pay it, so I can be on my way, for Christ’s sake! Money is no object.” I held open my wallet to display the thick wad of bills in the hope that they might also consider a bribe .
“Put your money away Mr. Simon. I’m afraid it’s much more serious than that. There’s the very real possibility that you will no longer be permitted to enter the U.S. It’s also possible we will be deporting you tonight .”
“This is fucking insane! I never heard of such nonsense !”
It was truly a nightmare. I needed Rolande. Where the fuck was he? Suddenly, and almost on cue, another immigration deputy entered the room with Rolande following immediately behind him. Thankfully, he already had my lawyer on the line. I grabbed the phone and relayed all the distressing details to him. Rolande’s face turned white as a sheet as the grave nature of the situation sank in. Max suggested I put him on speaker and told me to calmly cooperate with the security officers .
The deputy handed a clipboard with a thick stack of paperwork attached to it to the officer I was with, causing deep furrows to form in his forehead. They huddled together and whispered back and forth to each other for a couple of minutes before turning back around toward me and Rolande. The biggest and meanest-looking one of the two flipped through the seemingly endless amount of pages as he began h
is interrogation :
“It seems the United States Department of Homeland Security also has a problem with your past criminal behavior, Mr. Simon. Specifically, an arrest the last time you were here. We have a report citing charges of animal cruelty during a party at your temporary residence? Could you please explain that ?”
“Those charges were dropped! It was a horrible misunderstanding! There was no harm done to any animal! Yes, there was a donkey but he only urinated on the carpet. The Cornelius sisters had a threesome with the donkey’s owner , and that’s all! I would never condone or facilitate anything like that with my four-legged friends! Right Rolande? Back me up here! You were there !”
“He’s right! The donkey wasn’t even in the room with them! It was outside trying to drink out of the beer keg !”
Max immediately broke into the conversation: “Rolande, I don’t think you’re helping the situation ..……”
Both officials remained stone-faced. “It also shows that the visit before that , you were charged with vandalism and drunk and disorderly in Beverly Hills. You broke the window out of a woman’s Porsche with a rock ?”
“Those charges were dropped as well, officer. I only broke the window because I locked my keys inside my rental Porsche. What was I supposed to do ?”
“Haven’t you ever heard of AAA? The report also states the car was not yours, nor was it rented to you, Mr. Simon .”
“That’s correct. Mine was parked on Beverly Canyon Road. The one I vandalized…uh I mean…. damaged, was on Bevery Glenn Road. I got mixed up! You can’t blame a foreign guest for that, can you? That’s not very welcoming. Those American street names of yours are confusing. Besides, I bought the woman a whole new fucking Porsche !”
