Vic clapped his hands. “That’s the spirit! ‘Why not!’ Come on!” he shouted, and with a swipe of his hand through the air leading us onward, he started down the beach towards the water.
“Just remember, you were the one who agreed to this,” Ian said ominously.
“If you don’t want to go, just say so,” I said. His Eeyore act was annoying me.
“I don’t want a block party outside my house,” he answered as he started down the beach after Vic. “And I have no doubt in my mind that he’d do it.”
33
We walked a couple hundred feet down to three jet skis beached on the sand.
They were nice – brand spanking new. Four or five teenagers were standing around admiring them.
“Outta the way, outta the way!” Vic called out good-naturedly.
One of the kids looked at Vic and cried out, “It’s that dude! That dude on Instagram with the beard!”
All the other teenagers freaked out.
“Can we get a picture?” one girl asked excitedly.
“Hell yeah!” Vic said. He leaned over in the middle of them, crossed his arms over his massive chest, and threw up devil horns with his fingers. All the teenagers beamed as one of them snapped a selfie.
As soon as it was over, Vic stood up. “Just be sure to tag me and say something like, ‘Never know when you’re gonna see The Beard!’ Alright, now outta the way!” he said, and flapped his hand to get them to scoot.
As the teens dispersed, I asked Vic, “Did you rent these?”
“Hell no, I don’t rent – I own. Get on, get on!” he said as he swung one tree-trunk-like leg over his jet ski’s seat.
The nerdy guy in the Atari shirt stood back and made a nauseated face.
“What’s wrong?” Vic asked.
“I get sick on the water,” Bryce said.
“Don’t be a pussy, Bryce!” Vic roared.
“Hey,” Ian snapped. He glanced over at me before glaring again at Vic. “Watch it with the language.”
Awww… that was so cute.
“Oh my God,” Vic groaned. “Katie, tell me you’re not offended.”
I was, but I didn’t want to come off as prudish. “Well…”
“Don’t worry, I only say it, I don’t grab it like Trump.”
Okay, this guy was sort of a d-bag.
Vic clapped his hands. “Let’s go, let’s go!”
“There’s only three,” I pointed out.
Vic waggled his finger back and forth between Ian and me.
“You two seem friendly enough – ride together! Or…” He paused and wiggled his eyebrows. “…you can right with me.”
Ew. NO.
“I’ll ride with Ian,” I said.
“Then let’s go!” Vic yelled, and pushed the jet ski into the water before firing up the engine and roaring off.
As Bryce struggled to push his jet ski into the water, Ian got on the third and motioned to me. “Come on.”
I climbed up behind him, straddled my legs around his, and wrapped my arms around his waist.
Unnnnhhhh.
I could feel the grooves of his abs under my hands as I grabbed onto his stomach. I sat so close that his ass pressed between my thighs. (His perfect ass. So tight… so muscular…) And my entire view was comprised of his broad, muscular back and his perfect, bronzed skin.
No matter how the party went, this had been a very good idea.
34
We raced out over the waves, with Vic far in the distance.
The ride was exhilarating – I’d never been on a jet ski before, and skimming over the water shot my adrenaline through the roof. Water sprayed all around us, wetting down my hair, cooling the hot glare of the sun on my skin.
“Woo-hooooooo!” I yelled in delight as I clutched the Greek-god-like body in front of me (which, as much as I was enjoying the jet ski ride, was probably my favorite part).
Ian was quiet the entire time, though.
“You don’t seem to want to do this,” I shouted over the roar of the jet ski.
“I don’t,” he yelled back.
“Then why are we?”
“Because you wanted to.”
“What?! I only said yes because of the whole block party thing outside of the house! Remember that?!”
He looked back at me. “You didn’t say yes because you’re curious?”
Dammit.
“Well… sort of…”
He smiled, then faced forwards again. “Just remember that later when you get all outraged.”
Outraged?
Now I really had to see this party.
35
From the shore, the yacht had looked like a tiny dot on the horizon. I had no idea how far away it was.
Turns out, it was really far away.
And the closer we got to it, the bigger it got.
It was huge. Not on the same level as a cruise liner, but it was still gigantic – like a miniature floating town. It even had its own little marina attached to the side – a floating pier to dock the jet skis.
Vic basically roared the thing into his bay and stopped on a dime. Ian was more cautious, but he got us right up against the pier with no problem. Poor Bryce limped into his spot, his face as green as the inside of an avocado, and kept banging into the sides of his stall before he finally gave up and accepted help from one of the deck hands.
Even before the ski jets’ engines died, I could hear the music – hip-hop blaring at decibels reserved for trying to make the deaf hear again.
And the women.
So many women.
All of them virtually naked.
They were all over the place – up on the top deck, hanging off the railing, zooming down a corkscrew slide attached to the side of the yacht and plunging into the water. They were all gorgeous – they had to be models, there was no other explanation – and they were wearing the tiniest bikinis you’ve ever seen. Some of them were only wearing thongs and pasties. Some weren’t even wearing the pasties.
It was like a floating Ibiza.
Or strip club.
Kind of both combined.
EWWWWWWWW.
The only guys around were big bouncer-looking dudes and a couple of faces that seemed… familiar. Rappers, maybe? Actors I’d seen inside US WEEKLY? Not big names, not anybody you’d recognize right away – but they were all young and good-looking. Not as good-looking as Ian – but then, that would be damn near impossible.
There were also photographers, guys with high-end digital cameras going around snapping pictures willy-nilly as the women shook their asses. And other things.
Overall, though, the women outnumbered the men at least ten to one.
“What the hell?” I muttered.
“Your idea. Not mine,” Ian reiterated as we walked up the gangplank to the main deck.
“Did you know it was going to be like this?” I asked suspiciously.
“I had an idea, yeah.”
“How?”
“Because most of Vic’s parties are.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?!”
“Would you have believed me if I had?”
“Yes!”
He shot me a look.
“…probably,” I amended.
To be honest, if anybody had described the utter bacchanalia going on, I wouldn’t have believed them.
“Would it have stopped you from coming here?” Ian asked.
“Yes!”
Another highly dubious look.
“…I don’t know…” I grumbled.
Probably not.
This was the sort of thing you had to see to believe.
Once we were up on the top deck, Vic clapped Ian on the back, leaned over, and shouted to be heard about the music. “Katie, have fun – whatever you want, just ask the staff. I’m gonna steal Ian for a little bit so we can go have a talk.”
I immediately grew suspicious. “About what?”
“Business, baby, business!”
Bryc
e came staggering up the ramp after us. He looked a little less green now – maybe the shade of a dollar bill. “Hey, wait for me…”
Vic waved him off. “You stay out here, buddy! Enjoy the ladies!”
Bryce got a stricken look on his face. “But – ”
Vic grabbed a bullhorn out of nowhere. I swear to God, it was like Harry Potter – it wasn’t there, and then all of a sudden it was.
“HEY LADIES! THIS GUY RIGHT HERE?” He pointed at Bryce. “WORTH A HUNDRED MILLION, AND HE’S GOT A COCK AS THICK AS YOUR WRIST. SHOW HIM A GOOD TIME!”
It was like chumming the water for sharks. Within seconds, Mr. Nerdy was surrounded by a dozen, suntan-oiled girls who started twerking and grinding on him in time with the music.
Suddenly all of Bryce’s problems with nausea and the sea were forgotten. His expression looked like he’d taken some of the best drugs ever, and they’d just now hit the blood-brain barrier.
I glanced back to see Ian getting dragged through a doorway past a couple of black-shirted bouncers.
I caught his eyes a second before he disappeared.
Your idea, not mine, he seemed to be saying.
Jerk.
36
Ian
Vic dragged me into a plush dining room with leather sofas on the sides. Over in the kitchen area, a topless redhead was juicing fruits and vegetables.
I noted idly that she was attractive… but not nearly as beautiful as Katie.
“How ‘bout a drink, buddy?” Vic asked as he plopped down on one of the leather sofas.
Why not. “Orange juice.”
“Screwdriver or mimosa?”
“Just an orange juice,” I said as I sat down opposite him.
“Make him an orange juice, Chantal,” Vic ordered the redhead.
“It’s Juliana,” she said petulantly.
“Whatever,” Vic said, hardly taking notice as he turned his attention back to me. “So – ”
“Do you want anything, Vic?” Juliana asked.
“I got my own,” he said, and proceeded to pour a couple of shots of rum into a glass full of ice.
“You really shouldn’t have done that to Bryce,” I chastised him.
“What?”
“He doesn’t need a bunch of gold diggers putting the moves on him for his money.”
“He’s going to need the money when they find out I lied about the size of his cock,” he chortled. “I mean, I’m assuming I lied… never peed next to the guy at a urinal, so who knows?”
“Not cool, Vic.”
His expression changed from jovial to that look he got when he was sitting across the negotiating table. “You know what’s not cool? Bailing on a friend who sank 200 million into your company.”
And here we go.
“You didn’t sink your own money into it,” I said.
“It’s my family’s fund, so when my uncles start screaming for my head, I’ll be wishing it was my money. And you’ll wish you listened to me if you don’t go back and handle business.”
Juliana sashayed over and handed me a glass of orange juice.
“Thank you,” I said.
She smiled – then screeched as Vic slapped her rear end.
“Thanks, doll,” he said. “Now split.”
She tried being seductive. “I could keep you company – ”
“The adults are talking, babe. Go outside and play.”
She walked out, royally pissed.
I sighed. “You really shouldn’t treat women like pieces of meat, Vic.”
He laughed and pulled out a cigar from a humidor by his sofa. Probably a Cuban, $50 apiece. “Then they really shouldn’t keep offering themselves up to me on a silver platter. You want one?” he asked, motioning with the cigar.
“No. Tell me something – were you always an asshole? Or did you have to practice?”
He cut off the end of the cigar and fired it up with a mini blowtorch. “I’m not an asshole. I just know how to enjoy myself – unlike some people.”
“Well, I was enjoying myself before you came along half an hour ago.”
He gave me a look like Touché. “I don’t blame you. Nice little piece of ass you got there.”
I fixed him with a steely look. “Don’t talk about her like that.”
“Alright, alright,” he said, throwing up his hands like it was a stickup. “Look at you, all smitten.”
I didn’t dignify his comment with an answer, but my thoughts did trail back to Katie.
What was going on with her right now?
What was she thinking about all this?
37
Katie
What a bunch of ASSHOLES.
I’ve never seen such an obnoxious bunch of drunk people. Other than the general outlandish behavior of dancing naked on tabletops, there was the constant narcissism. I take a selfie every now and again, but I don’t do it every five minutes. That’s what half the women were doing. Find a rapper, do a selfie. Find an actor, do a selfie. Pop a bottle, take a selfie. Go up to the front of the boat, do a Titanic-themed selfie. And then post, post, post to Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat, whatever.
The photographers were even worse. They were all over the place, appearing out of nowhere and shoving their lenses up in people’s business. The drunker the women were, the more they seemed to like it.
Seeing as I was stone-cold sober, I didn’t like it at all.
A paparazzi wannabe rolled up on me, stuck his Canon a couple of inches from my bikini top, and started snapping away.
“Hey – cut that out!” I yelled.
He ignored me and circled around, snapping more pictures from different angles.
I grabbed the nearest drink off a waiter’s passing platter and threw it in the guy’s face – and all over his camera.
“You bitch!” he screeched.
“That’s what you get, you asshole!”
There was a flurry of motion at my side, and suddenly a tall blonde woman wearing a high-tech headset and a white business suit was pointing in my face. “YOU!”
“What?! That guy was taking photos of my boobs!”
“You signed a waiver when you came on board!” she yelled.
“No I didn’t!” I yelled back.
She looked surprised. “Who are you? Are you on Instagram? Are you a cam girl?”
“…what?!”
“What’s your website?” she snapped as she pulled out an iPad.
“I don’t have a website!”
“What agency are you with, then?”
“Agency?”
“Modeling agency!” she said, in a tone of voice that indicated she hated dealing with people like me.
“I’m not a model!”
She frowned. “Then what are you doing here?”
“I’m with Ian and Bryce.”
“Bryce who?”
I pointed over at Bryce, who by now had his shirt off, was popping a bottle of champagne, and had at least three women pawing at his crotch.
EW.
“I don’t know him,” the woman said. “Ian who?”
I tried to remember his last name from when he called the police. “Mc… something. McLowry? McOwens? I don’t know – he’s Vic’s friend.”
Business Suit Barbie touched the headset in her ear, Secret Service-style. “Do we have any idea who ‘Ian Mc-something’ is?”
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“What do you mean? This is a Vic Cortelian party,” she said, as though that were explanation enough.
“So?”
She looked at me like I’d just said the earth was flat. “Don’t you know who Vic Cortelian is?”
“He said he was the king of Instagram,” I said, then added sarcastically, “He said he has, like, ten billion followers.”
“That’s only a slight exaggeration,” the blonde chick said as she handed over her iPad.
There was an Instagram account on the screen. I stared at it, then started flipping through the photos.
There were so many shots of material excess, it was indescribable. Magnums of Dom Perignon… Lamborghinis and Maseratis… Gucci and Armani… gold bars, million-dollar views, and conspicuous consumption to the extreme.
Not to mention shot after shot of beautiful women – or, more accurately, beautiful women’s body parts. Reducing them to breasts, asses, legs, crotches.
And in the center of it, Vic presided like a third world tyrant. Some banana republic bozo with endless bimbos to stroke his ego.
I felt sick.
This was Ian’s friend?
“What an asshole,” I murmured.
“Hey,” the woman in the white business suit snapped. “You’re on his boat.”
Suddenly, a topless redhead stalked out of the room I’d seen Ian disappear into five minutes earlier. She seemed pissed off.
My stomach twisted in fear.
“What’s going on in there?” I asked her as she walked past.
She looked at me, and suddenly her look of anger turned into smug superiority.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she sneered as she disappeared into the crowd.
I turned to the woman in the business suit. My panic was rising as I asked, “What’s going on in there?”
She smirked, too. “Well, if he’s one of Vic’s friends, I think you can probably guess.”
I didn’t care about guessing at that point.
All I knew is that I wanted to kill somebody.
38
Ian
Vic sat back in his chair. “Where was I? Oh, yeah – my money.”
“Your family’s money.”
“Same difference.”
“You’ll get it back.”
He leaned forward hungrily. “I don’t just want it back – I want a 500% return on investment.”
“So maybe you should be back in San Jose,” I suggested, “shepherding it through the IPO process.”
“Or maybe you should.” He switched to a more amicable tone of voice. “I need you making speeches, drumming up support, like Zuckerberg did when Facebook went public.”
Sex On The Beach: Bad Boys Club Romance #1 Page 9
