by Cynthia Dane
Artistic expression didn’t mean shit when he had a blank piece of paper mocking him.
“Still fighting with your muse, I see.” His best friend sat next to him at the table. Zack hadn’t brought his art book with him today, but he had that look on his face that said he shot a three-pointer elsewhere in the café. Playboy. Seth wouldn’t dare tell another man what to do with his sex life, but Zack was the type of guy who could use, “Hi, I’m an artist,” to his eternal advantage. For one thing, he was a man of many mediums. Drawing, painting, pottery, sculpting, knitting… there wasn’t something that Zack wasn’t willing to try, whereas Seth was firmly entrenched with pen, paper, and paints. (Sometimes he went wild and used watercolors instead of oils.) “Would you at least let me buy you a beer? You’re depressing me. Or maybe it’s your muse depressing me.”
Seth flipped his book shut and slammed it on top of his duffel bag. “I didn’t give up medicine to sit here and watch you flirt with half the women in a café.”
“Sure you did. Because you didn’t ‘give up’ shit. I’ve known you since you were pissing and moaning about delivering yet another baby when all you wanted to do was use amniotic fluids to paint your next great masterpiece.”
“I’ll pretend that made sense, and then further pretend I didn’t hear that.” Zack loved to speak without thinking. Somehow, it endeared women to him. If I did that, I’d get slapped.
He could get any woman he wanted, if he played his right cards. Like being rich. An angsty artist. The fact that he knew his way around a woman’s body. The one good thing to come from my education. Lots and lots and lots of anatomical experience.
Yet he quickly became bored with whatever woman he was with. They were either well below his intelligence level, only interested in what he could give them, or… well, he couldn’t put his finger on it. He blamed his artistic mind, that often argued with the more logical, doctoral side. Women were beautiful. The way they moved, laughed, and made love. Except that magic quickly wore off once Seth got to know them. He’d say it was the type of women he dated, but they came from all sorts of backgrounds. Medical women. Socialites. The waitress at the corner café… oh, wait, Zack had dibs on that one this week. The way they traded winks when she walked by said as much.
“I’ve fired my muse,” Seth said, referring to nothing in particular. “I need to find a new one. Something to get me out of this funk.”
Zack was distracted with the waitress again. What was it? His casual clothes, even though he and his family were worth a collective billion dollars? The scruff on his face? Oh, it was probably the most expensive thing about him – his cologne, which he swore could get any woman wet between the legs. Seth wasn’t sure about that, not that he had extensively tested it. Then again, his education had rather destroyed the romantic notion of women and “getting wet.”
“You need to loosen up is what you need to do.” As soon as he had a round of cool beers ordered, Zack turned his full attention to his friend. “You’ve been in this so-called funk for months now. It’s amazing I even got you out of your house, you fucking introvert.”
Ah, yes, the introvert and extrovert, such great best friends. “I haven’t been really inspired to do much of anything lately.”
“That’s why we need to get out of here, man. I don’t know how much you care, but I’m thinking about heading up to the mountains in a couple of days.”
“The mountains?” That was not like Zack at all. Seth could not imagine his friend hiking, camping, or doing anything that would require that kind of gritty manliness. To be fair, it wasn’t Seth’s bag either. He loved the views, though. In fact, that may be what he needed to get out of his funk. I need to see some real views. A sunset. A valley. Anything. Perhaps his next phase would be scenes. Those were big right now, right? “I could be game for that. My cousin has a lodge we could stay in.”
“Hell no, I’m not talking about shacking up in some underused ski lodge and wearing sweaters around the fireplace. You didn’t let me finish.”
Their beers arrived. Seth had to refocus his attention from his work to the conversation at hand, which was not easy when a million other conversations were going on around them that fine spring day. Traffic noise. Birds. The clatter of utensils and plates. Seth hated such cacophonies. This was the man who couldn’t even listen to music while he worked. Absolute silence. It was a necessity.
“All right. So finish.”
“I’m talking about going to that brothel.”
Seth barely had beer on his lips before he was prompted to spit it out.
“Calm down. It’s not a real brothel. That’s what everyone calls it. You’ve heard of the Château, right?”
Seth couldn’t believe they were having this conversation in public. He sat back in his seat, crossing his legs and his arms in the hopes that nobody around them would think he was actually a part of this conversation. “I’ve heard about it in passing.” Anyone with enough money and the right connections heard of all sorts of things. Like that one BDSM club right beneath their feet that catered to every depraved taste a rich enough man had. I don’t think I’m depraved. Others may beg to differ.
“Basically it’s this ‘house of pleasure,’ or whatever they call it. My friend Brian went a month ago and said he had a blast. The girls there are really hot and know their stuff, if you know what I mean.” What a stupid grin. Too bad it was infectious.
“Not sure how I feel about paying a woman for sex.”
“You don’t technically, you pay for their ‘time.’ They’ll hang out with you, wait on you, let you see their tits…”
“I’m failing to see the difference here.” He may not be talking about red light districts around the world, but Zack was definitely close to saying “Tickle your balls, lick your balls, and make your balls blow.” Seth tightened his legs. Been a while since he went out looking for some ball licking. “Sounds like a brothel to me.”
“Brian called it a courtesan house. Does that sound better?”
“Courtesans, hm?” That did sound better. Paying for sex was tasteless. Some men who could have any woman they wanted still paid for escorts and sugar babies because it was a display of their wealth and power. Seth was too careful with his money to care about that. He still lived in the same townhouse he bought ten years ago when he originally started his practice. That was unheard of among the rich. Worth a good few mil, though. “Do they perform?”
“With their tits, yeah.”
Seth rolled his eyes, not that Zack could see it between their pairs of sunglasses. “I see. I was hoping for something… more. Like artistry.”
“Man, have you ever seen a pro? That is artistry!”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Come one, I’ll treat you. You obviously don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do there. We’re getting away for a day or two.” Zack chuckled. “Who knows? Maybe it will help jar that brain of yours. Get you out of this art funk. I know it will work for me.” Zack perched his chin upon his hand and watched that waitress go by again. His eyes were absolutely entranced by her ass. “I’m going to sculpt this woman right here, for instance.”
“Fine. I’ll go, but only to shut you up and to get away from this city.”
“Man, you are such a whiner.”
“Whiner? Must be easy to say when you’re putting out one piece a week.” Zack had a different name he displayed his works under, and he was quite popular. Galleries all over the world called him for this and that. Buyers stopped by his studio on a constant basis to peruse his newest wares. Zack didn’t have to make any living off his works, but he made a lot of change anyway. Then again, he sold them for less than Seth did. Things have to even out somehow. Seth wasn’t letting go of his pieces unless he was well and sure the buyer would appreciate them.
“Come off it, man. Sheesh. Maybe you should get laid while we’re there. Having a pro do you over? If that doesn’t shake you up, I don’t know what will.”
“Let me guess… you’ll pay for that too.”
“God knows you won’t.”
“I already said that I would go. Don’t make me regret it before we even get in your car.”
“In my car?”
“Of course.” Seth resumed drinking his beer. “Mine only has ten-thousand miles on it. You think I’m going to jeopardize that?”
Zack continued to shake his head in disbelief. “You are ridiculous. If you don’t get laid while we’re there, I’m not sure we can be friends anymore.”
“Piss off, Feldman.” It was so satisfying calling him by his last name. Simple pleasures in life. Like art. And sex. Not that Seth would ever call them simple out loud. The bigger deal Zack thought it was, the better. Seth had a reputation to maintain.
That reputation apparently now included the patronization of courtesans. There was something romantic about that.
Chapter 3
MIGUEL
Night sure fell early in this part of the world. That’s what Miguel Bolivar thought every time he came to America and attempted to drive anytime past six. If he came in the winter? The good Lord help guide him, because American road signs were so damn tiny and made it difficult for a guy to get around.
And get around he liked to do. When Miguel wasn’t overseeing the expansion of his family’s casinos back in Europe, he was on the test tracks taking every newest model under the sun out for a spin.
Here in America, he had one favorite car that he always drove: a 2015 Aston Martin Vanquish Volante, the sleekest, sexiest car a country north of France had ever put out. Miguel didn’t concern himself with American cars. In Europe? He was beholden to Italian and German cars, mostly. America was an excuse to strut his Vanquish up and down every street he could get himself on.
Tonight he had only one destination. High in the lofty mountains of the countryside was a legendary place he had heard of all the way in France – or more specifically, his home country of Monaco. There, billionaires and their heirs whispered over cigars and drinks about the only place a man should go to in America if he wanted some high quality… attention.
Miguel always snorted to hear it. Now that he officially split his time between Monaco and America? Moving to the region’s busiest commercial district meant he had the time to check out a little abode called Le Château.
He didn’t know much about it, besides that it was extortionately expensive (not a problem when one was heir to an established European fortune) and the women trained in every kink and wonder. True professionals, offering any experience a man could dream up.
Miguel had many experiences he wanted to do with beautiful women. However, there was one thing that often came in the way of achieving that sort of dream, and it stirred in his pants right now.
“Down,” he grumbled, switching gears as he ventured farther up the mountain. His GPS said he was about five minutes away. “We’ll see if there’s anyone who can take you on tonight.”
He felt no shame in admitting he had frequented many such establishments all over the world. He had hired his fair share of escorts and other so-called professional working women. Perhaps more than most men he knew. For Miguel, it was a practicality. They weren’t messy, like common women were. Professionals knew to be discreet. They also had more experience in handling a man like him, and at the end of the day, that’s all he cared about.
“Turn right fifty meters ahead.” The GPS had a silky, feminine voice, custom created for Miguel. Sounded like his old girlfriend, Rosa. Thinking about her always panged Miguel’s heart. Not what he wanted on a night like this.
The long private roads leading to Le Château were probably impressive in the daylight, but at night all Miguel could see were strings of Christmas lights and the occasional lamp burning a dull, soft yellow in the night. The guard patrols waved him down this driveway and that until he came upon a sizable manor glowing on top of a hill.
Exquisite French architecture at its finest. Miguel was used to hearing places be called Châteaus and then discovering that they were… well, not what he pictured. His family owned four French Châteaus as it was. This one, while still quite American in its sensibilities, could pass. Now, to see what French wines he could get…
First things first. An attendant smartly dressed in a heavy suit pointed out a parking spot beneath a dormant cherry tree. There were other cars lined up, including some of Miguel’s favorite Ferraris, Porsches, and Jaguars. He took a moment to admire them in the chilly night before seeing himself to the Château entrance.
“Your name, sir?” asked a doorman, who looked like he could well turn into a formidable bouncer at any moment. “For the announcements.”
“Miguel Bolivar, of Monaco.” He handed the doorman one of his business cards. The attendant glanced it over with careful eyes. “I have an appointment with the madam, although I’m a few minutes early.”
“Very good.” The doorman stepped into the foyer. Within a second, a loud, booming voice declared Miguel’s arrival. A maid popped out of a side room and hustled to the door, where the doorman whispered that Madam Monica had a special guest. “Do come in, sir. The lady will be right down.”
Miguel assumed he would be ushered into another room to sit and wait. Maybe receive a complimentary glass of something. That’s how it usually worked in these places. If it was a particularly seedy place, a young woman might show up with the intent of getting ready to get off. Those places were always about the high turnover.
None of that occurred. Before Miguel could inquire where his coat was going, a woman came down the stairs and extended her hand to him.
This is a sight. The woman was small in all ways but one: her giant stomach bulging out in maternal wonder. Miguel had seen plenty of pregnant women in his life, but this was a feat. How is she not falling over? Is she going to pop at any moment? Regardless of his thoughts, he smiled graciously and shook the woman’s hand. The finesse with which she moved told him that this was more than a lady – this was a madam.
“Pleasure to have you in our abode, Mr. Bolivar,” the woman greeted with a sweet voice. “I’m Monica Warren. We spoke on the phone.”
If it weren’t for the rock on her ring finger, Miguel would wonder how the madam had come into such a state. “Miguel Bolivar. Thank you for taking the time to see me.”
Monica gestured to the room immediately to their left. “Come, have a drink and a seat. We’ll discuss what you’re looking for this fine Sunday evening.”
He followed her, a maid fluttering by Monica to receive orders in her ear. Where are the ladies? So far the only people Miguel had seen were the madam and the staff. Not that kind of staff. He was under the impression that some gorgeous women worked here. Certainly, he would like to see them.
Or maybe this was the kind of sophisticated place that kept them behind closed doors, only to be seen by staff and their client of the night.
Miguel sat in large armchair made of Italian leather. He knew this because the same exact leather adorned the furniture in his father’s office back in Monaco. Javier Bolivar liked his furniture as masculine as himself. Nice selection. Sure enough, a maid offered Miguel either brandy or wine. He took the brandy.
Monica sat in a chair across from him. Although heavy, she managed to strike an elegant pose, one leg swung over the other while her elbow rest on her knee and her hair fell softly against her face. It wasn’t until now that Miguel noticed pearls dangling from her ears. My favorite. His mother and sister had an extensive pearl collection between the two of them. Always made Miguel think of the comforts of home.
“How may I help you this evening, Mr. Bolivar? You were quite insistent that we converse first.”
“Yes, well…” Miguel waited for the maid to leave the room, latching the door behind her. He continued. “I will be upfront with you, Madam Warren.”
“Please. Monica.”
“Madam Monica.” For a woman of her standing to eschew her family name, she must be in a very naughty profession. Miguel
had come to the right place. “I want you to know that I intend on using the full extent of services offered here tonight.” Quite frankly, he had come here to fuck a woman he had never met before. I know what I want. “Before I meet any of your eligible young ladies, all of whom I am sure are absolutely perfect, there are a few things I want to discuss. Particularly about my… well, do I have to say it?”
“No need to be embarrassed, Mr. Bolivar. Discretion and professionalism are our utmost priorities. Also, I’ve heard everything. I doubt you could shock me.”
That unchanging expression told the truth. At least Madam Monica wasn’t bullshitting. Nothing worse than that in a pleasure house. “I’m glad to hear it. First off, I want you to know that cost isn’t an issue. You already have my credit card on file, I believe.”
“Indeed, Mr. Bolivar.”
“It has no limit. Whatever charges I accrue tonight, please feel free to go ahead and add them to my account.” This could be the most expensive place he had ever visited, although that would be difficult to achieve. Pleasure houses in France, Italy, and yes, Monaco, charged high prices as well for men of his standing. “Next, there is the matter of what I want.”
“Naturally.” Monica flicked something out from beneath her nail. “Go on. Almost anything can be accommodated, as long as it does not endanger anyone.”
He’d get to that later. “I don’t want coy, but I also don’t want someone who wants to be rid of me as soon as she can.”
“I assure you that we are not such a place. As long as you pay for the whole night, you are free to spend the night either with your lady of choice or in a guest room. Let us know if you would like to be put in a guest room.”
“I will.” Miguel drank more. What was this label? He couldn’t tell. “I have no preference in appearance. A woman of any standing and form will be fine.”
