by Jess Bentley
“You sure about this?” my contact, Jeffrey Shipton, asks me nervously. “I… don’t want to get into trouble with your dad, man. He’s bad news for a guy like me.”
“Don’t mention his name,” I say. “And when he has his people call you to pull the story, do it — just make sure it’s been shared and spread around first. He gets a briefing about whatever he’s working on, so he’ll find out, but Reginald doesn’t understand how the internet works. It just needs to be out there in people’s feeds. That’s all. You can do that?”
“Yeah man,” Jeffrey assures me, “I can get about five or six thousand shares by people who can get… maybe two or three hundred a piece, maybe more if it hits a chord.”
“Play up the fact that she’s a woman,” I tell him. “See if you can get it shared onto some feminist blogs, women in business, as professionals — whatever you can find.”
“Will do,” he says. There’s a pause. He’s nervous about this. Hell, so am I. “If this gets back to you — ”
“It won’t,” I tell him. “Not from you, not from anyone. If someone demands a source, say it was one of Janie’s clientele; she’s got celebrities that are loyal to her. Reginald will just assume it came from one of them.”
Another pause. Keys are tapping rapidly on Jeffrey’s end. “Gotcha. I’ll have it up in a few hours.”
“Thanks for this Jeffrey,” I breathe. “I owe you.”
“I think I still owe you, buddy, but… we’ll call this an installment, how about that?”
“You’re a good man, Jeffrey. Make sure I get a link.”
“Done and done, my friend.”
He hangs up, and I take a moment to calm my panic. It’s the first time I’ve acted directly against my father’s interests. The chances he’ll find out it was me that circulated the story are slim. But once it’s out there that Janie Hall is being specifically targeted because she’s a successful single woman, everything else that comes out against her after will be suspect, and will only support the story Jeffrey puts out there.
It only takes a piece off the board, though, as far as Reginald is concerned. Still, he’ll have to be more careful. Once the story circulates for a while and has time to simmer in the public mind, he’ll be in a tough position — if it ever comes out that he’s responsible for trying to cut Janie down, the backlash would be serious.
The link comes in about three hours later. In another two, it’s had over ten thousand likes and more than six thousand shares. The major feminist blogs are on fire, and there are even people calling for blood.
I’m happy about that, and proud, but I can’t calm my worries. Still, done is done. You can’t take anything back from the internet and that’s the truth. It feels surprisingly good, and I want to go tell Janie what I did for her, but…
There’s no way she’d believe me. Instead, I go to Ferry Lights, like it was any other evening, and calm my nerves with whiskey. It’s just the start of the evening, and it’s incomplete. What I need is a hot piece of ass to take my mind off all of this. Off of Reginald and his thug tactics, off of my own strangling inability to tell him off to his face instead of running around behind his back, off of Janie Hall and her… everything.
Like flies to rotting fruit, the women descend upon me — many of them are the same ones that do so every night and I’m even pretty sure one or two are women I’ve slept with before. They don’t make a point of mentioning that. I’m certain they remember, especially if I do, but if I’m not going to admit to knowing them then they’re perfectly happy playing that game to win.
One after the other I send them away. It’s like fishing for trout. One after the other the wrong one nibbles the bait and either gives it up or I throw them back. God, how long has it been since I went fishing? Maybe I should take the yacht out soon. My father loves to fish. Once, when I was a kid he took me…
But no; I’m five drinks in and remembering that wrong. It wasn’t Reginald — it was the guy he hired to take me out on the ocean, a longtime champion swordfish guy. He was nice enough, almost fatherly in fact, but something about the presence of my bodyguards tainted the experience with an expectation of danger. Back then, Reginald had a lot of enemies. That was a while ago.
I wonder if Janie likes to fish? She doesn’t seem the type, but then again she doesn’t seem like the sort of person who cares for hard work in general and yet there Red Hall stands, right? She’s not the sort of girl you can judge by her appearance. Those fitted dresses and sharp heels, that mane of thick hair that frames her face just right, those lips…
Dozens of women, and not one of them catches my interest for even long enough to get me to a hotel room or, hell, even the back of the Maserati I drove here for a blow job. None of them are Janie Hall.
It’s got to be that old classic, right? Every guy wants what he can’t have. I don’t remember the last time a woman played hard to get with me. I’ve been in the public eye so long now — since I was ten — that there’s never been a girl in my life who didn’t start out knowing who I was. Even Janie knew. But Janie didn’t try to sink her hooks into me.
I had my father to thank for that. And I suppose, myself. If I had just said no, for once… who knows what might have been?
Janie
“I can’t stop myself from waiting for the other shoe to drop,” I tell my best friend, Sahara, over the phone while I pace the plush rug in my living room. Over the last three years, it’s developed a slightly faded track near the edges. It’s a good rug for pacing on, and I pace a lot. That’s pretty much how I choose a rug.
Sahara takes the sudden table turn between us in stride, God bless her; normally she’s the one calling me, bitching and moaning about one boy or another and the tiny things about them that bother her — or the major things that bother her, sometimes. It’s like my own personal ringside seat to the longest reality dating show in history.
“Girl, I know you are not in a panic right now,” Sahara says.
I can almost see her face. No one has been a more vocal supporter of me that Sahara since we were roommates in college. She literally thinks I can do anything. I used to think that too, but… it’s slipping. That’s why I called.
“This isn’t just a dip in business,” I insist. “This is someone intentionally out to get me. I knew that, but… I mean, did you see the piece that just came out?”
“I saw it. You think it was about Reginald Ferry?”
“And his son, Jake. That rat bastard walked right into Red Hall and asked me to dance, Sahara.” I scoff and shut down the image of Jake’s smile in my mind. “To dance. Well, we’re certainly dancing now.”
“That article is getting hard press. Want me to go comment on a bunch of the reposts pointing fingers? I’ll do it.”
“I know you would,” I say. And for all I know it would help. But… “Leave it. I don’t want to play his game. That’s not what I want to be known for, and if it got back that my best friend was commenting it would look like I asked you to sling mud on my account, and… that’s just as bad as doing it myself. But, what am I going to do? I don’t have any idea.”
“Listen to me,” Sahara says, putting on the big girl panties I must have taken off at some point, “this is nothing. A busted pipe is not going to ruin your business. Not with everything going on right now. It’ll be forgotten about in a week once you’re open again. You’re too good a person to be broken down by this complete nonsense, okay?”
“I hope you’re right,” I mutter. My throat is a little tight. “I wish you were here.”
“I know you do,” she says. “Trust that I am hugging you through the Force day and night, okay?”
I chuckle. “Nerd.”
“Always.” She sighs. “Keep your head up. You’ve got something neither of the Ferry jerks have, baby and that’s dignity. Capital D on that.”
“And all they’ve got is billions of dollars, and, I suspect, some kind of criminal network of spies and saboteurs.”
“Stop i
t,” she warns me. “Just stop. You know what you need? A day off. The plumber doesn’t come until Thursday, right?”
“Yeah,” I say. “But I need to help bring in the new inventory and — ”
She makes a rude noise over the phone. “Nope. I forbid you to work tomorrow. Take a day off, Janie. Go to the spa. Treat yo’ self, woman. Or I will order strippers and naughty massage therapists and send them to your apartment one after the other until you are relaxed and packed to the gills with sweaty, sexy, gyrating men.”
I don’t doubt for even a moment that she would do it, too.
Saying the words is like pushing against some kind of latex wall; I can feel the tension resisting as I push through it and make the decision and very nearly get bounced right back. But if I can just say the words, it’ll start to be real. “I… guess…” Deep breath. “Chester could probably handle inventory with Lacey’s help. Gloria is almost useless, but she can at least write numbers down.”
“How many people does this job take?”
“I normally do it myself but — ”
“Good Lord, Janie,” Sahara groans. “Give it to Chester and Lacey, then. You said they’re on board for the ride, right? You trust them?”
“Lately? Yes… I guess. It’s hard not to feel like everyone has a price tag these days.”
“Do you?”
I want to spit. “Some people seem to think so… but no, I don’t.”
“Then maybe they don’t either, okay? Now,” she says, serious again, “say the words, Janie Hall.”
“Fine,” I say, caving in at last. “I’ll do it. I’ll take a day off and… go to the spa.”
“Good girl. If you were here, I’d give you a treat and pet your head.”
We laugh, and honestly… I do feel a little better.
If I had my way — I mean, if I could literally bend reality to my will — I would live my life in near-boiling water.
I’m up to my chin in salt water, after subjecting myself to a deep-tissue massage and a half-hour seaweed wrap that I can still feel aching in my muscles. After that much-needed abuse, they led me to a room all to myself with a massive bamboo tub, Japanese style, and after some argument on my part agreed to crank the heat up — if I signed a waiver, which I did.
The heat sinks into me, summoning a torrent of sweat on every inch of skin exposed to the air, and for a little while I am able to clear my mind of all my worries. The scents of lemon and lavender fill my nose, and I drift.
Like a boat crashing on a rocky shore, I drift right into thoughts of Jake Ferry. Of those strong hands when they were briefly on my hips, and of that confident grin of his in the moments just before he asked me out in the most bullshit way possible.
But if I back up… if I imagine a different question, a different outcome. If I imagine that I’m not fighting a losing battle against him and his father…
My fingers find my clit before I realize where they’re headed and I have to drag them away. For one thing, the staff here will check up on me at some point, and I’ve lost track of time. But for another, even if he isn’t here to know my thoughts I refuse to even give imaginary Jake the satisfaction of knowing how he stirs me up. Oh no. You can go fuck yourself, imaginary Jake.
I take a mental left turn, and immerse myself in planning instead. A literal brainstorm as I try to think of the buzz around this or that distillery or vineyard. Who has something coming up that would make some noise? Someone loyal, that I could keep the Ferrys cut out of? I hate that I’m thinking that way, but at least regional exclusivity is entirely above board. I don’t doubt for second that Ferry Lights is making deals like that. Though for all I know I’m going to find myself blacklisted by every distributer in the region before long.
Didn’t I hear something about a wedding recently? Who was that… I sift through memories of my daily trek through the social media universe, looking for what I’m reminded of and… yes! That’s it. Tim Waller and Jenna Stone just announced their wedding plans a few months ago, and it should be happening sometime this month. I’ve known Tim for years, and he’s been meaning to come by Red Hall. I bet if I offered to host the reception he’d take me up on it. An exclusive event like that would catapult Red Hall way above Ferry Lights; and Reginald can kiss my ass from below.
I need to take more spa days.
Jake
Reginald doesn’t bother to schedule parties. When he’s in the mood, people show up out of the woodwork to attend. It’s one of the rare times when all his little playthings are in one place.
When I come home from a much-needed visit to the gym — the one across town, not the one at home; it’s as much about getting out as it is burning off stress — it seems one of these affairs has sprung up spontaneously in my absence. For all I know, it’s because of my absence.
The first sign of the event, of course, is the line of cars filling the circular driveway in front of the house, surrounding the great fountain at the center. I have to park the Benz to one side because the garage is blocked.
The second sign, this one far more troublesome, is Toia, who’s barely keeping herself together as she stalks across the foyer and up the stairs, dressed in a bathing suit. That’s not usual, but it’s not unheard of — just normally not during a party. I assume this means Reginald is feeling particularly sadistic tonight.
A quick visit to the party deck, where the pool is, informs me of the problem. It seems there’s a fashion show in progress. Walking across the glass bridge over the pool as though walking on water, there’s a slender Asian girl parading from one end to the other in one of Toia’s evening gowns. Looking around, it’s easy to see that she isn’t the only one. My father is lounging in a speedo, proudly displaying his erection while he cheers them on.
Poor Toia. She’s too damn dumb and helpless to grow a spine. Not like my mother was; though it took her long enough to do so. Somehow, I didn’t think Toia ever would.
It’s disgusting how he treats people. Everyone is a pawn or a plaything. A rapid alpha male, if Reginald can dominate the people around him, he will. Even his own wife. Even these playthings — all of them have the look of women who hate one another, but what are they going to do? Complain? My father keeps them stocked in pretty clothes, prescriptions from crooked doctors, and for the ones he really likes he even puts them up in nice apartments. Two of them have chauffeurs.
The Asian girl leaves the walkway and is replaced by someone who is clearly a professional fashion model — she manages a more or less genuine-looking smile. She’s probably new. I don’t recognize her, but then again it’s hard to keep track of Reginald’s women.
When I look away, I see my father staring at me. There’s a cold, meaningful fury to his eyes and I know right then that he knows what I did. The timing was too perfect for it to have been a coincidence. As far as I know, he didn’t put the hit piece out at all. There would have been no point.
At least for now, he’s not in the mood to have a discussion about it. Well, to call it a discussion… probably it would be a dressing down or maybe, finally, a disinheritance speech. I find myself hoping it will be. Except I doubt that my father would stop there.
He waves a hand, and one of the girls approaches him. He glances up at her, and then down at his tented Speedo before he looks at me again, a vicious grin on his face. Like a good little pet, she kneels beside his chair, pulls him out of his Lycra prison and starts to go down on him, his fingers tangled in her hair. Like watching a train wreck, for half a second I can’t look away. I see her eyes close tight, and I recognize the spasm of her shoulders as he forces her down and she gags.
I don’t show my disgust outwardly. Just turn, and walk away. He doesn’t have to say what he’s thinking for me to know what he means. He’s in charge; don’t forget it. No worries, Dad. I never do.
I make my way to my room, lost in thought. My father has never been one for things like spankings, or even beatings. Oh, he’s hit me a few times. But the real punishment is always mo
re clever, more subtle, more insidious than that.
What I did was a big deal. I know that. But I also know how my father thinks. Whatever he comes up with, it will be a warning shot across the bow — a reminder that he’s in charge. It’ll hurt, but it won’t be the end.
The part that will hurt the worst, I realize, is what he comes up with to make up for the lost opportunity to hit Janie Hall where it will make a difference.
As I let the cool water wash over me in the shower, I start to doubt the wisdom of what I’ve done to help Janie. There’s every chance in the world that I’ve only made it worse.
Shit.
Janie
Most of the time, the celebrities that frequent Red Hall are a boon. They show up, they bring their friends, and they attract the paparazzi. While I don’t care for them personally, they do attract the crowd that knows how to locate celebrities. Every person in this weird social food chain has money and wants to spend it in Red Hall. It’s good business, and I’m grateful for it even if I sometimes have to let security throw out the occasional stalker.
But once in a while, one of the bad ones shows up.
You know the ones — they’re recent reality TV stars or known divas who live to make a scene wherever they go. One of them, Martin Twill, who did two seasons of some TV show I didn’t see, has managed to consistently stay in the public eye by mouthing off, getting wasted in public, and pulling every trick he can think of to stay in the public consciousness.
In his defense, it’s worked. In the last year or so he’s managed to finagle everything from a successful YouTube channel to spots on major panels for the hot networks. Whatever, go him.
