“Michael!” she squealed, letting go and kicking herself away from him. He followed and came up behind her, grabbing her around the waist from behind to lift her out of the water.
She screamed in outrage and delight, laughing as he swung her around in the small rolling waves of the sea. Finally they settled down, him standing up, holding her floating body in front of him as he cradled her chest against his.
“Isn’t this nice?” he said “Skin to skin, no barriers. Just the sun and the sea. You and me.”
“You are a poet,” she said, smiling up at his face, and yes, enjoying the feel of his chest against her unencumbered breasts.
“And you, London, are pure perfection.”
* * *
They had spent longer than usual in the sun and sea, indulging London’s newfound libertine views on toplessness. When they finally stumbled back up to their hotel room, they were too tired to do much more than take a quick shower and fall into a nap in each other’s arms.
When they finally rustled themselves awake, it was dark and they were both hungry. They pulled on some clothes and walked with their arms around each other down to the first floor where the hotel’s restaurant was.
After dinner they made their way across the lobby and both of them took note of all the people, mostly young, laughing and grouped together in tiny dresses for the women and chic, yet laid back clothing on the men.
“What’s going on?” Michael stopped to ask the concierge.
The man smiled, and shrugged. “This is Ibiza, the better question is, what isn’t going on. The clubs here are quite notorious, if you and your date are interested.”
Michael looked over at London with a questioning eye. She looked at the cliques of girls, giggling in dresses that were far too short, and the groups of men, puffing out their chests in hopes of impressing them. All of them had to be on average about 10 years younger than the two of them. It was all too much.
But when in Ibiza….
“Well, I’ve already done one thing I shouldn’t today, why not?” she laughed.
Michael smiled, obviously pleased with her decision. “So which one would you recommend?”
The concierge looked them over and thought about it. “Well, there’s Azure, which is rather upscale and quite nice. Then there is Prestige, which is particularly fun with good music and interesting vibe.” He paused as if deciding whether or not to continue, then went for it. “Then there is Astro, which is…a bit out there. It caters to a youngish crowd and can get pretty crazy at times so—”
“Perfect,” said Michael
“Let’s go to that one,” London said gleefully.
They both spoke at the same time and looked at each other and laughed. The concierge pursed his lips with amusement, obviously picking up on what they were after. It probably wasn’t the first time he’d seen a couple trying to make up for their wasted youth.
* * *
Even before they stepped inside, they both knew they had made the right choice. Starting with the outfit that Michael had insisted on purchasing for her, since she owned nothing even remotely “appropriate” for clubbing.
At first London felt incredibly self-conscious in the gold, lamé, micro-mini dress that just barely covered her ass. The top was a simple drape of fabric that tied around her neck, leaving a plunging neckline and a completely bare back. God help her if her father could see her now.
When she looked at the competition waiting in line outside, she knew she had nothing to worry about. She felt even better when the bouncer let both of them in with a wink in her direction. It wasn’t lost on Michael, as he pulled her in closer to him possessively. He had on a pair of black pants and a black dress shirt, with a few open buttons to expose the hair on his chest.
The party was in full mode already and both of them stopped to stare in wonder at the spectacle before them. Across the tall ceiling, lights flashed along the dark blue surface, like shooting stars. Rainbow colored lights flashed elsewhere in the club, beating to the pulse of the music as the crowd below them hopped up in down in unison to the DJ’s music.
Women hung from the sky contorting their bodies in what looked like large hula-hoops, wearing nothing but silver bikinis and orange bobbed wigs. Other dancers in identical orange wigs danced on various stages placed around the club, wearing silver corsets, booty shorts, and Barbarella boots. London could see the glitter covering their bodies even from across the room.
The couple looked at each other, shrugged and headed down to join the partiers, throwing their hands in the air and yelling and screaming with wild abandon.
Over the course of the evening, things did indeed get as crazy as the concierge hinted. There was the moment an extremely obese man, dressed as a woman was lowered on a platform from the ceiling, playing Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star on a baby grand piano as the crowd sang along. Michael and London laughed as they joined in.
The dancers on the stages stripped out of their corsets and shorts and were left with nothing but thong underwear and glitter tape covering their nipples. At some point fiery sparklers were shot into the air, startling everyone and were followed by at least 50 performers dropping out of the sky, twisting around on ribbons in an impressive display.
Even members of the crowd stood out with their outrageous costumes. She saw one man in an octopus suit, someone dressed as Barney the Dinosaur, a man dressed as a banana, and a handful of Elvis Presley’s. It just went on and on. London had the vague idea that this was probably what it was like to be on hallucinogens, even though she’d never indulged herself. At some point during the night, so much confetti fell from the sky, they could barely see the people next to them.
They didn’t leave until 6 o’clock in the morning, stumbling through the streets, arms around one another, thoroughly spent. No doubt they presented an unfortunate picture, but neither one of them cared. It had all been so much fun.
Besides, what happens in Ibiza, stays in Ibiza.
Chapter 23
Michael looked across at London sleeping next to him in the same “Honeymoon Seats” they’d flown to Spain in. She was at least a few shades darker now than she had been at the beginning of their trip. Caramel had deepened into more of a toasted hazelnut brown.
He looked down at his own skin, which had taken on a deep, dark tan. The tan would fade but the memories would last forever. It had honestly been one of the best vacations of Michael’s life, mostly because of the woman sitting next to him on the plane.
Stealing kisses from her in hidden alleyways. Dancing until morning like a couple of college kids. Washing the sand and salt off each other’s bodies. Holding her naked chest against his as they floated in the sea. Making love every night. At least a few of those adventures he hoped they would bring back with them to New York.
As he watched her shift under her blanket, he realized that he wanted a lifetime of experiences with her. It had only been about four months but he was certain: London Jefferson was the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.
* * *
London was wakened by the slight feel of the plane descending as they made their way back to New York. She blinked her eyes open and saw Michael staring back at her. She smiled at him and reached out to grab his hand.
“Thank you for this,” she said as the lights in the cabin lit up to rouse their fellow travelers in preparation for landing.
“No, thank you,” he responded, squeezing her hand.
She gave a soft laugh as she sat up, adjusting her seat into an upright position at the command of the flight attendants. It would be hard going back to reality of New York after all of that sun and fun, but Michael had been right. She had needed this.
With the memories they had created together, she could face anything that Dion Davis had to throw at her. She could still feel Michael’s body pressed against hers in the sea, in the shower, in bed. She realized that she wanted to spend a lifetime with his body pressed against hers.
It was with th
ese giddy thoughts still in her head that she plucked her phone out of her handbag and took it out of airplane mode.
She had left New York with strict instructions that she was not to be bothered unless it was a clear emergency. With the media blackout Michael and London had agreed upon, she was out of the loop as far as the New York political and news scene went.
As her phone reconnected to her local cellular network, the first thing she learned was that she, London Jefferson, was the number one focus of the New York political and news scene.
* * *
Michael watched in frustrated anger as London fretted next to him, tapping her thumb against her front teeth the way she did when she was nervous or upset.
“I can’t believe it,” she said. “Did you see those pictures? How in the—I just don’t get it.”
They had sat on the plane looking through her phone until they were the last people left on board and the attendants finally had to politely suggest they leave.
Every sleazy media outlet, and even a few slightly reputable ones, had pictures of London and Michael acting exactly how they had felt during their vacation: like two crazy teenagers.
But that was far too tame for the tabloids. They took it a step further, making it seem as though London was some sort of cheap thrill for Michael, who was all of a sudden presented as some billionaire playboy just out for a good time.
Here was one of Michael pressing his body into hers in an empty alleyway as one of London’s long brown legs came up around him, while they practically made out against the wall.
This one showed her in the extremely revealing dress he’d picked out for their night at Astro in Ibiza. In the club it had been completely appropriate. Walking back to the hotel in the early morning afterward—which this shot had captured—made her look like a cheap whore, complete with mussed hair and clothes in disarray.
The worst was the one of London topless as Michael grabbed her from behind and swung her around in the water. The American press had the sort of prudish nature that encouraged them to blur out the most revealing parts…which somehow made it seem even more obscene.
There was even a photo of the two of them meeting up in the lobby of the Roosevelt Hotel, which had all sorts of unspoken, but absurdly obvious, implications.
By the time they made it off the plane, he was certain she was going to hyperventilate. As he calmed her down, his mind was already going to work on figuring out how these photos had come about.
They weren’t allowed on their phones while waiting in customs and London was pacing in small circles, causing everyone in line around them to look at her suspiciously.
“Honey,” he said placing his hands on her shoulders hold her in place. “Just calm down. You’re making the customs agents nervous. Once we get out of here we’ll deal with this…together.”
He brought his face down to look her in the eye. She finally met his and nodded. “Okay,” she said sighing, but the worry didn’t leave her face.
They made it past customs without issue, London finally realizing that bringing attention to herself before hand would do no good.
As soon as they were through the gates, he saw her instinctively reach for her phone. Michael grabbed her hand and held onto it firmly.
“No,” he ordered. “Not here.”
“But—”
“No,” he insisted. “I need you to breathe. Keep calm.”
She looked around worriedly, no doubt thinking that everyone in the airport recognized her from the photos and news articles she had been glaringly profiled in.
“No one is looking at you,” he assured her. “They all just want to get their bags and go, like we should be doing.”
She nodded grudgingly but the worried look never left her face.
It had started with a text message from her father:
Depravity and Debauchery! We need to talk about this!
Michael had a few choice thoughts about Frank Jefferson’s descriptors, but he certainly had no intention of expressing them out loud.
From there it was a series of texts and voice mail messages ranging from the scandalized to the amused. Even her sister Brooklyn had chimed in.
At least ur having better time than me right now. Don’t let em get you down, sis. :)
He didn’t know London’s sister that well, but she rose a few notches in his opinion of her.
By the time they had collected their bags and made it outside to grab a taxi, the first few members of the paparazzi were there to greet them. How the hell had they known when the two of them would be returning?
Michael was semi-familiar with the spectacle of it all. Being the son of Richard Wright was not without its growing pains. Frank Jefferson was not quite as infamous so London had been stunned into paralysis as cameras flashed in her face, before Michael could grab her and whisk her into a cab.
In the taxi, Michael let London scroll through the various news outlets, knowing it would do no good to try and stop her at this point. Each groan and gasp from her side of the cab caused his anger level to rise.
But getting angry would only go so far. Instead he focused on the sneaking suspicions he had about how these images had come to light, and more importantly, why.
Chapter 24
“Hello, how can I help—?”
The words came to a halt when Brooklyn saw who had finally ended the momentary lull in the activity at Joe on the Go: Brianna Nolton. She had a small possé of two females with her, both sporting the same condescending smirks that the head Mean Girl had plastered on her face.
“Well, it seems our Alex really enjoys slumming it,” Brianna said, grinning to the girl on her left, who gave a sycophantic laugh. Then Brianna brought her icy stare back to Brooklyn. “I suppose being a coffee barista is a few steps up from being a hood rat. But I guess you don’t have to worry about that for much longer, do you? It must be nice to have a trust-fundie as your very own sugar daddy.”
Brianna gave a derisive laugh, which her two minions mimicked with the appropriate level of enthusiasm.
Brooklyn bristled, but recovered quickly, knowing this was just a pathetic attempt to get under her skin. So it was a battle of words was it? Well, two could play at that game.
She gave a bored sigh, letting Brianna know that she had failed to get a rise out of her. “Can I get you a coffee or something?” she asked impassively. “Perhaps something rich and bitter?”
The rapid blinking and faltering grin was enough to appease Brooklyn. All the same, she continued with her look of disinterested apathy.
“Oh, this one thinks it’s witty, girls,” Brianna said, doing her best to recover. “Obviously not a trait she picked up from her father.”
The façade of indifference cracked—just enough to let Brianna know she had pushed a button. Brooklyn’s relationship with her father was still rather delicate. All the same, no one—especially not some pathetic, useless waste of space—was allowed to speak disparagingly about him straight to Brooklyn’s face.
“Well, I suppose it’s a good thing that I don’t have to depend on my father to get by in life,” Brooklyn responded, knowing exactly where to stick the dagger. “Especially if I should find myself lacking any other redeeming qualities,” she added, twisting it in good and hard.
Brianna’s icy grin turned into a scowl. Girl #2’s eyebrows shot up in wary surprise and girl #3 made the mistake of actually gasping out loud.
Brianna turned her chilly stare in her friend’s direction, causing the girl to cower in regret. Brooklyn suppressed the satisfied glee she felt, despite having been caught embarrassingly off guard by this confrontation. She’d take her victories where she could.
Just as she was beginning to feel she had the upper hand, she saw Brianna’s eyes travel past her friend’s shoulder, along the wall to take in Brooklyn’s art work, each piece glaringly signed by the artist herself in big bold strokes at the bottom. A feeling of dread began to sink in.
She saw the wicked grin appear as B
rianna spoke up. “What’s with the crap on the walls in this place? It seems coffee shops will put any old thing up these days. Frankly, I think they’d have been better off leaving the walls bare. This shit would make me lose my lunch.”
That pushed Brooklyn over the edge.
“Well, art is subjective,” Brooklyn agreed. “There’s no accounting for taste.”
Brianna gave a sharp laugh. “That’s for certain!” She looked Brooklyn up and down. “Frankly, I don’t understand how anyone could find anything of value in this place.”
The meaning wasn’t lost on Brooklyn…and she shot it right back at the girl.
“Well again, art is subjective. For instance, when one man finds what he considers a masterpiece, all other”—she looked Brianna up and down critically—“pieces no doubt pale in comparison.” It was low, but it felt damn good.
Then Brianna pulled the trump card. She looked over at Krystal, the barista next to Brooklyn, who had been surreptitiously listening to the entire episode of verbal sparring.
“Can you please get the manager?” Brianna asked.
Krystal shot Brooklyn a brief look of alarm before scurrying off to get David.
Brooklyn looked down at the cash register in stony silence waiting for the hammer to fall. No doubt the bitch would make something up to try and get her fired.
What happened was far worse.
“How can I help you ladies,” David said, pleasantly.
“I’d like to buy one of these pieces,” Brianna said smugly.
Brooklyn’s eyes shot up in surprise and without thinking she blurted out, “They’re not for sale!”
David looked over at her in surprise. “Brooklyn—”
“No,” she insisted, giving him a desperate look.
These were her creations, her passion. More importantly, they were her memories of Alex. Even though she was still angry with him and refusing his texts, she wasn’t about to have those memories sullied by the likes of Brianna Nolton. She had no idea what evil intentions the bitch had in mind but it killed her to think of the possibilities.
Mr. & Mrs. Wright: A BWWM Romance (Wright Brothers Series Book 2) Page 12
