Public

by Xavier Neal

  I lightly chuckle, turn her, and place a kiss on her shoulder before fulfilling the request.

  “Five minutes max,” Brynley promises. “Gotta tidy myself back up.”

  We exchange a naughty chuckle, and she struts out of the room taking my attention with her.

  Once she’s disappeared and my dick is securely back in my suit pants, I make my way to the living room to find J.T. messing around on his phone.

  He glances up at me. “Your tie is crooked.”

  Adjusting the deep red accessory with a smirk, I inquire, “Did you knock?”

  J.T. shakes his head. “Why would you give me a key if you wanted me to knock?”

  The counter causes me to nod at his point.

  It’s not like he’s unwelcomed here or unwanted. It’s just one of the benefits of being in this penthouse was supposed to be carefree sex without having to worry about someone stumbling upon us.

  “Don’t worry,” he says with humor in his tone. “I waited until it sounded like the episode on Animal Planet was over.”

  A slight red hue burns into my cheeks.

  “Jealous, Puppet Boy?” Brynley’s voice slides into the conversation during her stroll into the room.

  “Of his booming sex life? Yes. Of him sleeping with you?” J.T. quickly shakes his head. “Not at all, Aquawoman.”

  I clear my throat and slide my hands into my pockets. “Can we get going?”

  My fiancée pulls her straightened hair to the side of her face as she teases, “Aw. Look at that. He still gets embarrassed talking about our sex life.”

  “It’s not a subject that should be open for discussion,” I promptly scold.

  “Which is why we don’t talk about it publicly,” she agrees. “But, come on. It’s just J.T. If you can’t talk about how much fucking fun it is to bend your fiancée over your desk and fuck her brains out with your best friend, then who can you?”

  J.T. groans, “Un….Unneeded imagery.”

  Brynley proudly smiles. “I get that a lot.”

  Holding my hand out for her, I lightly laugh. “Let’s get downstairs. I’m sure Jeffery is impatiently waiting.”

  “Thank God, it’s Lurch!” She exclaims folding her engagement ring hand with mine. “He has much better taste in music than FrankenSuck.”

  Her references to our security guards grab chuckles from all of us during our exit of the penthouse.

  After a short ride on the elevator, the three of us slide into the limo I didn’t want to take.

  It’s awful enough I have to attend this gala in person. Showing up in an unnecessary, over the top, luxury vehicle for the sheer sake of being photographed ‘in style’ sickens me. But it wasn’t my decision. Evie makes these edicts without room for rebuttal.

  Brynley leans against me, and I instantly wrap my arm around her shoulder. “What is this thing for again?”

  Without looking up from the email I was reading, I reply, “It’s a gala for charity.”

  “And what the fuck is a gala? Is that like the rich people word for party?”

  “Think a fancier, less fun version of that scene from Batman and Robin where Poison Ivy arrives.”

  J.T.’s explanation receives a squeal of glee. “Tell me there’s gonna be an auction like that! I will gladly let you purchase a scantily dressed redhead for us to watch dance around in a green corset with a big ass ruby around her neck.”

  My conflicting responses trip over themselves forcing out a contorted, “What?”

  Brynley wiggles her eyebrows at me while my best friend loudly laughs.

  I shake my head and slip away into the joy that staring into her bright blue eyes brings.

  “Less fun, Bryn,” J.T. repeats grabbing both of our attention. “Think same stuffy people chugging back champagne except instead of auctioning off beautiful women for dates it’s pieces of artwork and private tours of places like The Bower and Powell Aquatic Institute.”

  She instantly glares. “Why the fuck would I wanna bid on work?”

  Tightening my grip on her, I inform, “We will bid on something else. All the money goes to supposedly a good cause, so if you see something that interests you, let me know.”

  “And what if what I want is like a half a million dollars, Bruce?”

  The joke nickname rolls my eyes.

  “What if I want a boat?”

  “We have one of those.”

  “Or a plane?”

  “We now have two.”

  She tries not to glare. “Or that big ass ruby necklace she wore in the movie?”

  J.T. beats me to the response, “That wasn’t real.”

  “Missing. The. Point.”

  “Oh, we’re missing the point?” I playfully poke receiving a nudge in the ribs. “Baby, we’ll walk around the entire thing together and bid on whatever excites you. Like I said, the money is going to a good cause, so I don’t mind.”

  “What’s it going towards?”

  “Boosting education in lower income areas,” J.T. answers as the vehicle moves into slow traffic.

  Helplessly, I grump, “If that’s actually where the money is going.”

  “Don’t do this again,” my best friend sighs. “Don’t start second guessing the foundations we contribute to. Have a little faith in Myra.”

  “Who the hell is Myra?” Bryn immediately asks.

  “Myra works in public relations. She keeps a close watch over the organizations the Wilcox family has been supporting for decades, such as the institute where you work, but she primarily spends her time, going through charities and causes, filtering out ones that seem sketchy, lack significant evidence of improvement over their time of being established, and ultimately collecting what she thinks will not only make the company look good, but most likely please Wes on a personal level.”

  “I thought I was the only one who got to please you on a personal level.”

  Her sexual implication invites my cock to the conversation, which causes me to shift my free arm to my lap. “I just wish there was a way to actually see firsthand the thousands of dollars we invest in these organizations was indeed helping do more than line the pockets of those who have mastered the art of profiting from non-profit.”

  My fiancée swiftly states, “That’s because you’ve got severe control issues.”

  I glower at the comment.

  “Is that what all those files on your desk were?” Brynley innocently questions. “Were you looking for a new cause to donate to?”

  The question receives a curt nod.

  One of the benefits of having my fiancée work where I donate is hearing the testimony to how money is being spent. Like learning the number of rescued animals has increased thanks to the new equipment they were able to purchase with an increase to our annual budget and how the research department has managed to develop a better relocation system for releasing creatures back into the ocean due to several new sizable donations from other Wilcox shareholders. Investing in our future, in the Wilcox legacy, means investing in providing a better tomorrow for my future children. It’s what my father socially stood for. It’s something he made sure I grasped the concept of while growing up. It’s why he took me along to charity runs and made us volunteer together at charitable festivals. He wanted us to see the faces we were potentially helping. It’s my obligation now that I have returned to the public to reestablish such customs.

  My mind starts to wander towards the idea of seeing Brynley’s stomach swollen, her wavy brown hair messy, and her foul mouth even fouler from the misery of being uncomfortable against her will.

  Hell, I can practically hear her cursing my name for getting her pregnant….

  “Wes!” She shouts, snapping me out of the reverie.

  “Yes?”

  “We’re here,” J.T. announces and tosses his head towards the open door where Jeffrey is waiting to escort us inside.

  I briefly shut my eyes, let out a slow, deep exhale, and search for the courage to step out of the vehicle.


  While I have begun to reappear at social functions they have been few and far between. I do not enjoy mingling and pretending I don’t notice people staring. Gawking. Cringing. I do not enjoy silently disgusting an entire room with the marks seared into my skin. I do not enjoy being the main attraction like a two-headed circus freak for them to snicker over behind their vintage glasses of Dom Pérignon. However, those are a few of the consequences of my return to the public’s vision. I now have an obligation to clink glasses with those whose money I have doubled in the last decade. Smile charmingly at women whose husbands my father initially made rich, but I’ve made richer. Chuckle with clients at charity events to prove I care about more than dollar amounts. Our family name has a cultivated image and stepping back into the limelight requires I adhere to it.

  Brynley’s warm breath hits my ear. “If you don’t get out before me, I will inevitably flash the photographers and recreate a next generation Britney Spears moment.”

  I smirk at the reason all of the unwanted attention is bearable.

  She’s like having a guardian angel who forgot to read the fine print about swearing and dressing provocatively.

  With a small chortle, I slide out of the limo and block Brynley’s less than lady like exit. Once her hand slips into mine, we step to the side together and smile for the cameras. Flashing lights repeatedly swarm us. She leans into me, posing as Evie forced her to practice, making sure to leave her engagement ring in prime photographing opportunity. Our heads lightly touch as we continue our rehearsed expressions for the paparazzi.

  Despite my own personal hatred for them, they love the hell out of us. We’re some sick, twisted fairy tale the world loves to watch and take part of whenever given the opportunity. Over the past year I’ve tried to recall my parents being “celebrities” or followed as socialites. I vaguely recall their photographs plastered in places outside of annual functions and political fundraisers. Clark, like the father figure he is more actively stepping into the shoes of, continuously reassures me their presence was known, but this is a different time. We’re being held to a new social standard. He also likes to remind me I can handle it just as my father and grandfather handled their social responsibilities.

  Certain we’ve been exposed long enough, I grip Brynley’s hand and nod for Jeffery to lead us to the door. Questions are thrown at us during our departure, yet we proceed to the people waiting for us inside. As soon as we’ve crossed the threshold we’re assaulted by more photographers, but thankfully no reporters. We pause again; same position, same forced expressions, and allow for our posed love to be captured. Unlike outside they lower their cameras the moment they’re convinced they’ve grabbed the right shot and allow us to stroll away unbothered.

  At the first sight of champagne from a passing waiter, we each grab a glass and down a portion to soothe our nerves.

  Neither of us enjoys events like this. Sometimes I wonder if it reminds Brynley of the serving jobs she had before she started working in her field. Sometimes it makes me curious to the past she has yet to offer up in conversation.

  We link hands and veer right towards the area set up for auction purchases. Our stroll along the back wall where the art is displayed is filled with an abundance of laughter. Brynley’s commentary on every piece receives not only chuckles but impromptu kisses to silence her in front of buyers who show genuine interest.

  “Should we buy something for the penthouse?” I sweetly suggest, fingers stroking her hip.

  Brynley shrugs. “We can? I mean….I don’t know dick about art so that’s all up to you. You’re the one who probably has a secret stash of Vincent van Gogh painting in his basements’ basement.”

  With a crooked smile at the comment, I retort, “I don’t know anything about art either. That was more my father’s department. All the art work at the estate are pieces he purchased by himself or with my mother at these things. The stuff at the penthouse was picked out by the decorator.”

  “Who I still hate,” she quickly interjects. “I asked for one thing. One thing.”

  “We’ve been over this. A zebra print upholstered chaise lounge for our bedroom would not have fit.”

  “If we didn’t have a bed big enough for King Kong it might have.”

  The two of us suddenly stop in front of a water color painting where only half of the canvas is colored in blue, green, and brown dots.

  “Now this is just lazy,” Brynley fusses at it. “Didn’t anyone teach him to finish his homework before turning it in?”

  “It’s abstract art, baby. I’m sure in his opinion, assuming this Treme person is a him, that this is finished. A completed masterpiece.”

  She looks up at me sarcastically. “For 15k you better at least cover the entire thing.”

  Casually, I prepare to take a sip, but reply first, “There are people who have paid more for less.”

  “There are also people who have paid to have their dick sucked in public restrooms.”

  I instantly choke on my champagne.

  “It doesn’t make it any more acceptable.”

  During my attempt to regain my composure, we are joined by Evie and what appears to be a slightly shorter clone.

  “First of all, you are not permitted to leave this event in an ambulance, so please get it together.” She tilts her face at me sternly then directs her attention to Brynley. “And we’ve talked about this, Brynley. You have to cut your use of that word in at least half when attending public events.”

  Brynley gives her a mocking head bobble.

  “Posture up, Wes,” Evie continues her directions, hands folding in front of her. “You exude power not passiveness.”

  Her new accessory softly speaks, “So much power….”

  “He’s not the only one,” Brynley instantly snips at the tiny blonde.

  She shrinks back behind Evie who sighs, “Brynley’s bite is much worse than her bark, so I suggest you keep all further flirtatious remarks to yourself since your insurance does not cover violent attacks from fiancées.”

  Unable to resist a pleased grin over Bryn’s reaction to someone potentially hitting on me, I slide my free hand around her waist, and whisper in her ear, “You can show me your power on the way home.…”

  A wild smirk crosses her lips.

  “Jenni, dispose of Wes’ empty champagne glass and bring J.T. here, please. I believe he’s near the bar.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  The moment Jenni has made it a safe distance away, Evie sighs, “You have no idea how stressful it is tending to the three of you around the clock. I essentially work in a permanent state of damage control and live off a diet of coffee and Sugar Babies. I needed an assistant, and at the time was desperate. Jenni was the only one who didn’t cringe in disgust at your photo, Wes, or seem interested in sleeping with you, Bryn. In my book, that’s the bottom line for winning.”

  We offer her matching smiles of gratitude.

  “It helps she’s observant and takes initiative, like sharing a photo of you Brynley, helping feed a shark after someone tweeted about you saying something crass about ‘tree hugging hippies’.”

  My eyes cut her guilty expression a glance.

  Brynley defends herself with a crooked smile. “I’m sure it was taken out of context.”

  I’m not.

  “Now speaking of damage control, you two are here to keep our headlines happy, but not informative. Do not answer in depth questions on any specific topic regardless if it is politics or your favorite NBA player. Do not ask questions that would lead anyone here to believe you have an additional agenda such as having them invest in your company or side company or any projects you may have on the back burner. Keep all conversation centered on the charity event and above all else, if you are unsure of what to say, say nothing. Smile politely. Nod. And look lovingly into one another’s eyes.” Her rambled instructions are preceded with her instructing a waiter to continue walking rather than allowing me to have another drink. “Let’s keep the
drinks down to a minimum as well. Last thing we need are headlines about either of you being a lush or Brynley drunkenly expressing her growing distaste for contemporary art to the wrong person.”

  “That’s barely art,” she argues, offering me her still very full champagne flute.

  There isn’t time to question why she doesn’t want to finish it.

  “Yes. I am aware of your position as well as your hatred for tonight’s pending entrée of Tuna Tartare.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Brynley groans. “I have to spend the evening having my breath smell like-”