by Avery Aster
“You tried to screw my brother.”
“Well.”
“Withdrew funds from my bank account.”
“I hoped to pay you back.”
“You’ve got two hundred thousand dollars you can give me?” He didn’t think so.
“I could.”
“Let’s not forget the biggest shitter of them all.”
“Stop.”
“Faking a pregnancy to secure our engagement.” His hands gripped the phone tight. He didn’t realize he’d get so worked up again over her, but he did.
Rielle released a puff of air over the line. “Why, I never…” She cleared her throat, ramping up for a second attempt. “Plenty of time has gone by for you…to cool down. You should be as calm as a June bug, sugar.” Rielle pressed on. “I’m fixin’ to swing by your St. Barth’s home tomorrow. We can talk about us in person.”
“Stay in Dallas. There is no us.”
“I’m not in Texas, baby. I’m at the Delano in Miami.” Amused with herself, she snorted, twice.
“You are not welcome here.” Warner leaned close to the desk’s edge. “We have nothing further to discuss. Please do not contact me again.” He smiled in hopes she’d hear the sincerity and conviction in his voice then offered, “Have a wonderful New Year’s, Rielle, and a great life. I’m hanging up now.”
“Sugar pie.”
“Good-bye.”
“Warner, I’m coming to St.—”
He returned the phone’s receiver to its cradle and rested his head on the desk.
Warner hadn’t visited Secrète de St. Barth’s in months. Not since he’d called off his nuptials to Rielle. He hadn’t done much lately, spent time with his family in Newport, Rhode Island, toured his hotel properties in Middle and Far East Asia, and spent the fall season in his favorite city in the world—Manhattan.
A knock sounded on the office door. “Come in.” It was Kip Von Scott, his general manager.
“My apologies for Rielle’s call,” Kip took ownership of the situation. “Our operator didn’t have your accepted phone number list when she patched her through.”
“It’s okay, Kip. The holidays make people nutty. Rielle would’ve flown down here if I didn’t talk to her.” Warner sat back in the chair as his heartbeat returned to normal. If his ex-fiancée was in Miami and flew to St. Barth’s, she’d arrive in three hours, assuming she’d probably connect in St. Maarten. He prayed that was just another Rielle threat. He didn’t want to see her face.
“Yes, sir.” Kip stepped farther into his own office, which Warner used during his visit.
“It’s nice to be back. Your team has kept the property in great shape.” Like most Manhattanites in his circle, he hated the snow and enjoyed St. Barth’s winters.
“We’re happy to have you with us this week.” Kip glimpsed around, his face showing he was missing his office.
“Thank you for offering your desk.” He smirked. “Who do we have staying with us this New Year’s?”
“The usual. Mr. and Mrs. Hayashi from Tokyo, the Yesikovs from St. Petersburg, and Chile’s prime minister is here, too. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
It didn’t take Warner’s MBA from Harvard University to ascertain when a property manager answered with a, “Nothing out of the ordinary,” to conclude something quite extraordinary had or would be taking place.
“Why did I see paparazzi when I came into the lobby a few hours ago?”
“Right…” Kip looked at the floorboards.
“Secrète de St. Barth’s retains a strict ‘no celeb’ policy.” Warner didn’t want that location to get lost to the Hollywood drama. He owned a mansion nearby. The island was as much his holiday getaway as his guests’ who came to relax. Each resort in the Truman Enterprise’s profile possessed different traits and characteristics. For example, Cannes, France exuded glamour. Bangkok, Thailand gave outstanding service, and this Caribbean castle ranked high in privacy and seclusion.
“Understood, sir.”
“Our shareholders don’t want this property to become one of those types of establishments.” He stood. “They can go to Eden Mal Rock down the beach, but not here.” He pointed out the window.
Warner’s eyes squinted and then refocused. A bright orange racing boat was docked at their pier. Sleek in design, the vessel’s side read in bright yellow, “Farnworth Firewater.” Underneath the brand logo was the slogan, “Party with our girl Vive.”
What the hell…?
Located on the east end of the island, Secrète de St. Barth’s faced a picturesque beach on a turquoise cove, protected from the ocean waves by a coral reef. Voted by Luxury Travel Channel as “the pre-eminent hush-lush hideaway in the world,” guests lounged in their swim trunks, women topless. Royal dignitaries and those born into old money came to Secrète de St. Barth’s to get away from the world, not to whoop it up.
“I’ll tell them.” Kip turned for the door.
Curious, he asked, “Who is he?” Who’d come to Secrète de St. Barth’s for New Year’s Eve. This property exuded quiet.
“Our guest is a she, three young women registered under an alias. The bellman who took two of the ladies’ bags noted their luggage tags. They flew in from JFK.” He smiled. “It’s Lex Easton.”
“As in the late Eddie Easton’s daughter?” Suddenly, his favorite Eddie song, “Sandman’s Witching Hour,” played in his head.
“The one and only.” Kip’s excitement at her arrival showed on his face. “The press caught them at the airport and followed them here. We sent the reporters away.”
“Miss Easton received quite a raw deal.” Poor thing had gotten ruined in the press growing up. “Who did she fly in with?”
“A real beauty, didn’t give a name. I put them in the Nouvelle Beauté suite.”
The Nouvelle Beauté suite had been built as an old spa in the 1950s. When Warner acquired the property, he turned it into a villa for hotel guests and designed a new skin and body center adjacent. Secrète de St. Barth’s regular guests didn’t care for the room’s location. Too far from the lobby, they didn’t fancy the walk.
“It’s not a nurse or personal manager or anything is it?”
“No, sir.”
“Miss Easton isn’t here to detox is she?” He hated when celebrities used his rooms to dry out from partying or heal after their elective cosmetic enhancements. Truman Enterprises would be made liable if they dropped dead, and they sometimes did. Pontiak Fontana, a chart-topping R&B singer, had been found floating in his Beverly Hills property’s tub a few months before. They were just starting to put the scandal behind them.
“My concerns are the same, sir. But our bellman, Tristan, assured me the women smelled, stood, and spoke sober. Her friend didn’t appear to be a nurse, but rather gave the impression she might be a family member. Let me pull their card. One minute.” Kip left the office and returned with a file, which he handed over.
Warner read over the printout. “American Express reads Tabitha Adelaide Brillford.”
“Correct.” Kip grinned.
“Never heard of her.” Of course, he’d heard the Brillford name. They were an academic family from Manhattan society and had won various Nobel Prizes for their work in economics and finance. Central Park had benefited over the years from the Brillfords’ generous donations. This Tabitha wouldn’t be caught dead with an Easton if she came from their stock. “Care to tell me about the boat parked in our dock?”
“It belongs to the third guest who arrived to meet them. She’s staying in the suite, as well.”
“Name?”
Kip glanced down at the reservation. “A Viveca Farnworth. She came over today from Anguilla.”
“Obviously.”
Farnworth Firewater sponsored trashy sex parties along the East Coast. The Farnworth family equated to trouble and owned one of the largest alcohol brands in the world.
“Sir, Miss Farnworth dropped a liquor case off for the dining hall. She came to rest with her friends and
left a note that they aren’t to be disturbed under any circumstances.” In the ‘trained to deal with difficult guests’ Truman Enterprises manager’s smile, Kip flashed his whites and continued. “It says in the room instructions that we are to leave breakfast, lunch, and dinner at the door. They have the gym blocked out to exercise in private tomorrow, sir.”
“All standard, except for the odd gym request.” Familiar with eccentric guests’ requests, he assumed the girls were too chubby to work out in public. Hmmm, maybe they’re here to lose weight.
“They fly back to New York on January second, sir. I don’t imagine they’ll do us any harm. Miss Farnworth reserved the dock until tomorrow. Then she’s sailing back to Anguilla.”
“Let them stay.”
Kip seemed please he’d gotten his way and smiled, then dropped his head. “And, Mr. Warner, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry to hear about Rielle. I know how much you loved her.”
“I thought I did, Kip.” Blinded? Yes. Pussy-whipped? Fuck no. “People change, and just when you think you know someone, they wind up being something they’re not. I don’t regret my decision not to marry Rielle in the least. I’m better off. And so is she.”
“Enjoy your night, sir.” Kip left the office.
Hearing Rielle’s voice had made his blood run cold. Warner wondered why a woman couldn’t be herself—say what she meant and call it as she saw it. He’d always admired the upfront and honest approach, no smoke and mirrors. Didn’t women use that strategy to date anymore? Or were the rules different when one became a billionaire? He asked himself those questions as he headed to Privé Extreme, his favorite watering hole, for a nightcap.
Vajazzling was listed on Secrète de St. Barth’s spa service menu, which shocked Taddy. She’d deemed the Warner Truman resort and spa elegant, but too stuffy for her taste. With a desire for pussy glamour, she’d asked the French beauty therapist, Brigitte, if she could squeeze in time for a ruby gem application. Brigitte sprinkled the garnet crystals over her upper pubic area. Lex spent the day in the pool swimming as Vive nursed her post-Christmas hangover with a midday nap.
Taddy zipped the side of the Céline dress up. Phoebe Philo, the garment’s designer, always managed to make her look her best. She didn’t see the sense in sporting her usual thong with the vajazzling goings-on. Walking across the suite, she caught Vive coming out of her room.
“Love my dress?” Decked in a gold slinky number, Vive spun around for approval. Taddy nodded a yes. “It’s Bottega Veneta. I adore this metallic fabric. We covered the collection in my last issue.” Vive’s knack for stealing fashion samples from editorial shoots and never returning them had started many years prior. Since Vive wore a size two, she snagged whatever the models sported. Unlike Taddy, who wasn’t as fortunate. Her outfits were tailored for taller sizes.
Taddy knocked on Lex’s door. “Darling, you ready?”
Lex opened the bedroom door, phone glued to her ear, hair undone, shouting into the phone. “No, Mom! Tomorrow when midnight strikes and the ball drops, Manhattan will not experience another 2003 blackout.” Her friend covered the receiver. “Go ahead without me and have fun.”
“We can wait,” Vive offered. The insincerity in her tone suggested otherwise.
“No, go.” Lex waved them on. “I’ll catch up with you girls later.”
Taddy went out to the foyer and brushed her hair back in the mirror, creating the desired Gisele Bündchen look. She spritzed her favorite tuberose perfume, followed by an aerosol round of hairspray. I’m scented, sealed, and ready to go. Grabbing her Judith Leiber Aurelie croc clutch, she called out, “Take your time, Lex. Text us when you’re ready, and we’ll let you know where we are.”
“Tell Birdie Taddy and I wish her a happy New Year.” Vive’s eyes rolled. “Let’s get a drink or two or three.” She grabbed some furry-looking dead animal thing from the counter.
“What the hell are you carrying?”
“Tom Ford’s latest handbag.” Vive seemed proud.
“I’ve never seen black and white striped long fur. Except on a—”
“Skunk…Taddy. It’s skunk, and I love it.”
“Does it smell?”
“No, honey, and it’s as in-vogue as mink. Skunk is the new thang. Wait and see.”
You twisted magazine editor.
Marijuana proved easier to score from the concierge than finding the local watering hole. Taddy tipped the Secrète de St. Barth bellman, whose name tag read Tristan, two hundred dollars to tell her where she and Vive could go to have a nighttime pick-me-up. They were hoping for a festive night, but they sure weren’t going to get that in their stuffy hotel.
Tristan enlightened her, advising on a place sightseers didn’t linger called Privé Extreme, a members-only champagne club. Privé Extreme required an application process, a $100,000 membership fee for the winter season, and had a five-year waiting list.
Vive had already pulled her own VIP media pass out. “Get a clue, buddy, about who the hell we are. I own America’s number-one-selling magazine, Debauchery.”
“Pardon?” Tristan glanced over at Taddy.
“Ignore her.”
“You should be rolling out the red carpet for us.” Vive crossed her arms. “We’re doing you a favor by being here.”
Oh, brother. Taddy pinched Vive’s elbow. “Farnworth, stop it. We promised their manager no New York diva shit, remember?” She pushed her friend to the side and stepped closer to the bellman. “Tristan, chéri, in the United States we call your little runaround ‘bullshit’.” With a squint, Taddy leaned her cleavage over the counter and dug her nails deep into his desktop.
The bellman stepped back. “Je suis désolé.”
“Your bubble club recommendation is priced higher than Manhattan’s most elite establishments.”
Tristan eyed Taddy for more of her American dollars, fixing his stare on her handbag.
She grabbed her purse tighter. Taddy wasn’t familiar with having to pay for drinks, let alone to get into a club. It was Chinese to Vive, as well.
“Mademoiselle Red, those are the rules.” Tristan’s hand motioned at her with an open palm, insinuating, ‘Tip me again, you stupid American.’
“Il m’agace vraiment. You’ve gotta be able to pull some strings—something.” She slipped Tristan two additional Benjamins.
He took something out from his back pocket. It was a VIP Card in an ivory velvet box, embossed with the words “Privé Extreme.” Tristan handed them a map with directions to the club and pointed them in a direction south of the hotel.
“Merci beaucoup.” Upon receipt, she turned the white card over to read on the back as Vive eyed over her shoulder, “A Truman Enterprises Property.” Smart man you are, Mr. Truman.
Per-fucking-fection
Taddy held on to Vive’s waist as they walked out into the dark.
“I imagine this Mr. Truman as an old, fat, hairy ass hooked up to an oxygen tank, sitting in some reclining automatic bed, eating green Jell-O,” Vive said.
“I love your imagination, Vive.” Taddy put the card in her purse. She’d never thought about the man behind the resort empire before. Having never met Mr. Truman, she’d heard he lived as a notorious recluse who hated having his photo taken. In fact, no one knew who he was or what he looked like. Taddy’s natural assumption? The man ought to be hideous. Most billionaires who owned hotels and hid from the public were.
“It’s true. I bet he’s watching The 700 Club on his jumbo in-home theater system, laughing his way to the bank.”
Taddy and Vive’s cell phones chimed at the exact same time. They were close to the address Tristan had given them for the club.
Vive shook her head as Taddy already knew who the text was from and what it would probably say, more or less. She reached for her phone to read, “I’m spent, going to sleep. Have fun. Love, Lex.”
“Typical. Damn her. I wish she’d come out and party with us.” The last time Lex cut loose was over a year before, just hou
rs before her father killed himself.
“She’s in a funk. All she does is work on those Easton Essential garments.” Vive pulled her in a little tighter, resting her head against Taddy’s. “We’ll keep on loving her and pray she snaps out of it. We can’t push her otherwise.” Maybe Vive was tipsy twenty-four-seven, but every once in a while, she could come up with something pretty damn profound.
Taddy and Lex had met Vive their first day at boarding school. Everyone else gave frigid a new meaning, but Vive was the first girl in their class to talk openly about losing her virginity. She lifted their long faces with jokes and designer shoes when they became homesick. Taddy knew that year they’d be friends—for life.
Walking down the winding sandy road, it took a minute for Taddy’s eyes to adjust to read the sign. She showed the bouncer at the door her membership card that permitted a ‘plus one’.
“Entrez.” He scrutinized her and then Vive once over. The security video camera flashed, “Now Recording.” With a blink, the doorman’s eyes did a double-take over Vive’s skunk handbag.
“Baby, my purse won’t bite ya unless you want it to.” Vive put her arms around the bouncer’s jacked biceps. “Would you care to get better acquainted with my other accessories?”
“Come on.” Taddy grabbed at her before the guy could change his mind and refuse their admission.
Electro house music pumped from the other side of the room. The synthesizers thumped to the tune “Juice Box” by her favorite artist, Waris Sugar. It was a song she’d played on the elliptical while fantasizing about Brayden Brooks.
The Privé Extreme platinum double doors opened.
Waris Sugar’s words jived through her.
Fruit on my lips
I got blackberry, blueberry and grape for yous, too
Take a sip from my juice box, boo
Privé Extreme’s interior didn’t match its exterior. It radiated luxury, lust, and sex. Imported French and Italian eighteenth-century materials created a platinum, blush, and bronze backdrop, enhanced by flickering candles. From tall candelabras to votives, long to short, the flames burned as if to say, ‘Tonight’s your night, Red. Go for it.’
