Brother's Best Friend for Christmas: A Bad Boy Second Chance Romance

by Amy Brent

  Yes, ma’am, that would have been a revelation right there.

  A real viral moment... Yawn... Sigh…

  Maybe we’d start with the boring Denny Chambers you would find if you Googled my name or looked me up on Wikipedia.

  Denny Chambers is the forty-year old cofounder and Chief Marketing Officer of Internet Data Systems, Inc.—IDS for short—one of the world’s premier online data storage companies with over 30,000 employees worldwide.

  Basically, it was my job to make sure the letters IDS were branded into the brains of every corporate IT director and manager on the planet that used online data storage systems and software. I did my job well. So well, in fact, that IDS now owned 30% share of the online data storage market. Not too shabby for a company I started in college with my two best friends, Isaac and Sammy, fifteen years ago.

  I’m one of those good looking, young, adventurous, tech billionaires you hear so much about but rarely ever see in person. Tech billionaires are like Bigfoot in a lot of ways. Legendary, mythical, believed to exist but seldom spotted outside of their natural habitat, the mystic hills of Silicon Valley.

  I won’t bullshit you, there are worse things to be than a billionaire. Being insanely rich has its obvious perks, but it’s not all unicorns and fairy tales. There were downsides of being a high profile, tech billionaire in this age of instant sharing. I was always under the microscope or the focus of some tech paparazzo’s zoom lens. If I so much as farted in public TMZ or Wired picked it up and made a big deal about it. They didn’t do that to Warren Buffet or Bill Gates, but I can’t cross my eyes without making the news. Then again, Warren Buffet doesn’t look like me or fuck super models in the back of limousines or frolic on the beaches in Cannes with topless actresses or escort the daughters of rich industry giants to stuffed shirt fundraisers. And I’m pretty sure Bill Gates has never been caught naked and drunk swimming in the ocean outside their Malibu beach house (that’s a story for another time).

  On the upside, I have more money than I could ever spend, though sometimes I try my hardest to go through it all. When you have a net worth of two billion dollars it is nearly impossible to go broke, no matter how much cash you blow on crazy shit. And I have spent a ton of dough on crazy shit, trust me on that one.

  Would you pay a million bucks for a pair of Angelina Jolie’s dirty panties stolen and sold to you by the Peruvian woman who cleaned both your houses?

  Well, I did.

  Don’t ask me why.

  Let’s just say I’m a dude with a very active imagination.

  I keep them sealed in a large, air-tight freezer bag in a safe in the floor of my bedroom closet.

  I bring them out occasionally to… well… you know.

  I’m going to hire a chemist to figure out how to keep them fresh forever. Seriously.

  Hey, don’t judge.

  Just let it go.

  I don’t blow money like that every day. I invest in the usual things. For example, I spend a shit ton of money on real estate. I own houses and property all over the world.

  A villa in Tuscany...

  A winery in France...

  A beach house in Malibu and a shoreline estate in the Hamptons...

  A fifty-acre estate south of Los Angeles that once belonged to the aforementioned Ms. Jolie…

  Then there was the thirty-million-dollar apartment in Manhattan that looked out over the park...

  The ski lodge in Vale…

  A small island in the South Pacific…

  And half a country in Latin America (another deal my Peruvian cleaning lady turned me on to).

  Sometimes, I just throw a dart at a map and have my real estate guy buy me something there just so I can say I own it.

  Yeah, I’m a bit of a hoarder.

  I’m also a dude, so naturally I own a fleet of cars.

  You name it, I own it.

  Lambos, Ferraris, Bugattis, Porsches, McLarens…

  I own a Hennessy Venom GT Spyder that cost me a cool $1.3 million.

  A Ferrari LaFerrari Aperta that cost $2.2 million.

  An Aston Martin Vulcan that cost $2.3 million…

  And my favorite for the moment, a dark red Koenigsegg Regera that looks like something out of the freakin’ future. That baby cost a mere $1.9 million. It’s one of those cars that rich fucks like me buy just so we can brag about owning it, but we never drive it. It’s like the world’s most beautiful woman with the world’s most perfect pussy. She’s simply too perfect to fuck. You’re happy just to stare at her for hours and pull your pud until you shoot your load all over the garage floor and…

  I mean…

  Never mind…

  The sad thing is, I never drive any of them because IDS provides a black Mercedes G-Wagon and a driver named Al who ferries me anywhere I need to go whenever I need to go there. I couldn’t tell you the last time I actually drove a car. Like I said, I just like to stand in front of them all and close my eyes and jack off in my mind.

  Don’t try to psychoanalyze that comment, ladies.

  It’s a guy thing…

  Same with motorcycles. I probably own three dozen bikes of all makes and models, some new, some classics, some custom builds that were never meant to be put on the road. All expensive as hell, sitting in a pristine, hermedically-sealed, $5 million garage under the watchful eye of my full-time garage manager, Pete.

  Who has time to ride? I usually work twelve to fourteen hours a day, seven days a week. I think the last time I took more than a couple of days off was when my partners Isaac, Sammy, and I took two weeks to climb Kilimanjaro back in 2007.

  Again, ladies, it’s a guy thing.

  It’s a mountain: we must climb it!

  I do go on dates every now and then, when I can find the time or meet a woman who is just so fucking hot I simply have to take the time to wine and dine her so I can fuck her, but mostly I work, hang out with my buds, and hit Club D on the weekends. I love that fucking place. I can just leave the real world outside those big stone gates, pick myself the most beautiful woman (or two or three) in the room, and let it rip all weekend long.

  Club Votre Désire was actually a hundred-fifty-year-old estate tucked in the mountains north of San Jose, so remote that you could never find it without a guide. The location was so secretive that the employees and guests were not allowed to drive there. They were ferried in by limos and buses with blacked-out windows from a parking garage in the next town over. There was a large stone and iron gate that was guarded 24/7 by a team of armed guards that looked like something out of a Sylvester Stallone movie. The manor house sat on fifty wooded acres and stood four stories tall. It had once been a swanky hotel built by some rich dude out of New York, with 55,000 square feet of indoor space that had been divided into thirty luxury suites on the top three floors. The bottom floor housed a 5-star restaurant, a bar, small meeting rooms, and a banquet hall, which was as big as a football field. There was a humongous guest house out back with thirty double rooms for the employees who came to stay each weekend. The place was like a small, self-contained city. All you had to do was ask for it, and it could be had at Club Votre Désire.

  Opening that place was the best thing me and my boys had ever done, at least in my opinion. Club D generated tens of millions of dollars for our charitable trust every year and gave us a place to hide away and drink and fuck our brains out without worrying about anyone finding out.

  Club D’s members included billionaires, mega-millionaires, wealthy CEOs, Wall Street wizards and trust fund managers, senators, congressmen, a couple of vice presidents, sheiks, oil barons, rock stars, actors, and athletes.

  Only the wealthiest and most discreet men can apply for membership at Club D and that’s only at the referral of a current member in good standing. Each applicant has to put up a million bucks just to apply and their black American Express Card gets tapped monthly for everything except the air they breathe when they’re at Club D.

  Everything comes with a price at Club D.


  The food, booze, rooms, sex… ah yes… the sex…

  Club D employed what were called “Specialists and Escorts”, women who made Victoria’s Secret models look like Plain Janes and porn stars seem like rank amateurs. They were there for the pleasure of our guests and they charged accordingly.

  Ever had a five-thousand-dollar blowjob?

  Ever paid thirty-grand to have one girl sit on your face and another bouncing on your cock while still another fingered you in the ass?

  Ever paid fifty-grand to watch a gorgeous Russian woman take a cock in each hand, another in her pussy, another in her ass, and yet another in her mouth, and make all five guys cum at the same time? If you wanted to be one of those cocks getting serviced that was another twenty G’s in the kitty, thank you very much.

  Ever seen a girl contort her body double so she could lick her own pussy and make herself squirt like a geyser when she came?

  I know, I know…

  It all sounds a bit like a freak show, but that’s what makes Club D so interesting. And so special.

  Whatever you desire is yours for the asking…

  For a price.

  And the members would tell you that it was worth every fucking penny, no pun intended.

  No one’s ever asked for a refund at Club D.

  Ever.

  Members willingly pay their tabs and come back the next week for more.

  Honestly, I’d be shocked if you had heard of Club D. Me, Isaac, and Sammy started the place as our own private playground three years ago and have done everything possible to keep the place a closely-guarded secret.

  I mean, basically Club D is a high-end whorehouse and what goes on there is illegal in most states even if we do donate every penny to charity. Imagine the shit storm that would occur if word got out that the mythical Club D really did exist and was owned by the three billionaire founders of Internet Data Systems. That would be a mess even I couldn’t put a positive spin on.

  The authorities have sniffed around a few times, trying to find proof of the legend, but when there is a four-term, United States Senator with a girl sitting on his face in one room, and a high-ranking assistant director of the FBI getting it in the ass from a six-foot-tall blonde Swedish chick with a strap-on dildo in another, you don’t worry too much about being exposed.

  And even if the world found out about Club D, they’d never be able to connect me, Isaac, and Sammy to it. We were not only rich as fuck, we were smart, too. Club D was technically owned by a blind charitable trust in the Cayman Islands that was set up by a company that didn’t even exist. Me and my boys were so well insulated that it would take years for anyone to find any way to connect us to the place; other than the fact that the three of us were there every weekend banging our way through the girls and getting charged for it just like every other member.

  That’s right.

  We pay to play just like the members.

  We do not take freebies like owners.

  When the FBI comes poking into your shit, the devil is in the details.

  A little perk like a free blowjob could open a crack in the dam that could drown us all. We were too smart to let that happen.

  Sadly, Isaac didn’t play so much anymore, not since he met Amy Rossetti, the smoking hot consultant who now shared his bed most nights. Their relationship irked me a little at first because she effectively took Isaac off the market and out of the fun, but now I got it. He was happier than he’d ever been and Amy was a great girl. I just wished that I had seen her first.

  I had to admit, I was a little jealous of what they had.

  Sometimes I thought it might be time for me to settle down with one girl.

  Then I walked through the doors at Club D and that notion flew right out the window.

  Me?

  Denny Chambers?

  Monogamous?

  Gimme a freakin’ break.

  Chapter 2: Denny

  I heard someone say my name.

  I felt someone touch my hand.

  I blinked away the thoughts of Club D that had my cock getting hard and realized I was still on the set of Good Day America. Robin Robinson was asking me another silly question. That’s when it happened. My brain played a terrible trick on my mouth and I said the most honest words ever to be spoken by anyone on live TV.

  Ah, you recognize me now?

  Yep. That was me.

  I’m that guy.

  Of all the things to be famous for, I’m most notable for saying those three little words on live morning television, broadcast coast to coast for the entire country to hear and gasp at—not to mention the bazillion times the clip was rebroadcast on other shows and the viral video that some asshole posted on YouTube two minutes after the words left my mouth, which at last count, had gotten over a hundred million hits.

  Hell, some sharp dude in Wisconsin even had the good sense to trademark the phrase and put it on a t-shirt along with a cartoon scribble of my face. I’m sure the guy made a killing off it. Well, good for him. That’s good old American commerce at work at my expense.

  And no matter what else I accomplish in life until the day I die…

  No matter how much money I make or how much I give away, I will always be that guy.

  The guy who smirked and shot off his mouth on national television when Robin Robinson, the buxom blonde host of Good Day America asked me the question I get most often.

  She gave me a demure look and asked, “So, Denny, what’s the best part about being you?”

  The look in her eye made me think she knew what I was going to say and wanted to hear the words. The way her mouth dropped open after I said the words told me I sucked at reading a woman’s mind.

  I didn’t blink.

  I didn’t hesitate.

  I just shrugged as if she’d ask me my favorite flavor of ice cream and said, “The pussy. Duh.”

  I know, I know, I know…

  Look, in my defense, it was a stupid fucking question and one I got every time I sat down to be interviewed in my role of Cofounder and Chief Marketing Officer of IDS.

  I normally didn’t have to think about the answer because I’d been asked that fucking question a million times since becoming filthy rich and filthy famous. For 999,999 of those times I had rambled on about using my money and fame and clout to help make the world a better place. Or about being at the forefront of emerging tech and being able to work with some of the most brilliant tech minds on the planet or bring clean water to thirsty African kids.

  Blah… blah… blah...

  So earlier that morning, when my best pal and business partner, Sammy Branniff (yes, that Sammy Branniff, the former All American out of San Jose State and part owner of the Los Angeles Marauders) called two minutes before air time and triple-dog-dared me to say, “The pussy. Duh”, my brain simply could not resist the dare. Never triple-dog-dare a guy with no filter. It will not end well.

  Sammy was the Chief Operating Officer of IDS, and one of the sharpest business minds on the planet. He was the guy who took Isaac’s data storage software and turned it into a real business. He got the angel investors onboard early, then had the Silicon Valley Venture Capitalists fighting one another to cough up tens of millions of dollars. He took IDS public and has guided the company to stellar heights. Bezos and Zuckerburg had Sammy on speed dial. Gates and Buffet consulted him on trends in tech. Trump wanted him to serve on some committee on entrepreneurship. He was a brilliant guy, but not too brilliant to triple-dog-dare me to say those words.

  “The pussy. Duh.”

  So, I said the words, but I blamed the fallout on Sammy.

  And I was amazed at how quickly the shit hit the fan.

  Of course, our other partner, Isaac Hanson—aka Mr. Serious—IDS Chief Technical Officer and the guy that Wired Magazine dubbed “the brains of the outfit”, was foaming at the mouth when I got to the office later that morning. I figured he’d be cooled down by the time the corporate jet ferried me from Los Angeles to San Jose, but I wa
s wrong. I’d never seen him so pissed.

  “I can’t believe you actually said that on live fucking TV!” Isaac screamed as I sat across the conference room table during our late morning meeting. I glanced out of the corner of my eye to see Sammy sitting at the head of the table hiding his face behind a big mug of coffee.

  I pointed at Sammy and mocked the voice of a ten-year old kid who’d just been caught taking a piss in the teacher’s desk drawer (wow, another flashback).

  I shook my finger at Sammy and whined. “It’s not my fault. Sammy triple-dog-dared me to do it.”

  “Oh my god!” Isaac roared, his hands cutting through the air like Bruce Lee fending off an army of ninjas. “You sound like a goddamn kid! Do you do everything Sammy dares you to do?”

  I put on a hurt face and tried not to grin. “No, not everything. Just the triple-dog-dare stuff.”

  Isaac blew out a long breath and rubbed his eyes. “Un-fucking-believable. And you’re our Chief Marketing Officer? The guy in charge of our brand messaging?”

  I bit down hard on my bottom lip and spread out my hands. “That’s right. And this was a brilliant marketing move on my part.”

  Isaac gawked at me. “You can’t be serious.”

  “It certainly has people talking,” Sammy said, chiming in as he held up his phone. “Two thousand Tweets so far. Trending on YouTube and Facebook.”