sex.lies.murder.fame.

by Lolita Files

“What’s wrong, babe?” Penn asked, startled, annoyed. What could it be this time? he wondered. Her emotions could be so hair-trigger at times.

  “What about kids?” she sobbed. “What if our children have narcolepsy, too?”

  Penn cringed inside. He set the Red Bull he’d been sipping on the nightstand. The only reason he was drinking it was because he thought it might be one of those nights when he needed to perform for Beryl. He was feeling a little low on energy, and way, way low on motivation. Now she was crying, which succeeded in killing any remote chance of an urge. More and more, she was coming up with bullshit.

  He put his arm around her.

  “Our kids will be fine,” he managed to convincingly say.

  She looked up at him with her wet eyes and her crooked face. The corners of her lips trembled.

  “But we don’t know that,” she whimpered. “I had it. My dad had it. My grandfather. Look at all the devastation in my family because of it.”

  “That’s because they were ashamed of it, babe,” Penn said, rubbing her back. “If our children had narcolepsy, we would educate them about it. I would make sure I knew as much as possible so I could take care of all of you. There’s no reason why we have to treat it like some crippling disease. It’s a shame you spent so much of your life embarrassed about it. It’s really not that big a deal.”

  “Really?” she said, her face turned upward, toward his, like he was the sun. “You mean that?”

  “Of course,” he said, leaning down to kiss her.

  She smiled luminously, and for a moment, just a moment, she was downright pretty.

  He felt the stirrings of an urge. Perhaps he could still fuck her tonight.

  Just as quickly, the urge went away as the thought of making narcoleptic babies with Beryl entered his head and strangled his loins.

  Miles nibbled

  …on Brookie’s neck.

  She giggled.

  “Stop it,” she said. “You’re just trying to change the subject. I want to know when you’re going to deal with this.”

  She was at the stove cooking a low-fat seafood stir-fry. Snow peas, baby corn, broccoli, and shrimp. The shrimp was high in cholesterol, but she’d done some research online and found that it could still be part of a healthy diet. Brookie was very antifat. She didn’t dare to allow such toxins in her body. Far too many of her Southern relatives had died from eating all that greasy food.

  Miles was standing behind her. Now his hands were coming around to her front, slipping something around her neck.

  “What’s this?” Brookie asked, looking down. She was blinded by the glimmer. She fingered the thing. “Miles! What is this? What have you done?”

  She dropped the spatula and raced into the hall beyond the living room where there was a mirror. A series of perfect endless stones encircled her neck, an eye-popping array of carats. Brookie welled up.

  “Oh, Miles!”

  He waited for her in the kitchen, feeling like Kublai Khan. An overlord of love.

  He was full of confidence and pomp these days. Tickled money green. He had successfully wooed Jussi Seppinen, and that elusive Finlandian fish Golarssen had joined the growing number of once-elusive fish that now flapped around in the bottomless belly that was ComMedia Wells, whose apparent objective was world domination. Milestone Tate would see to that.

  He had been back home in New York a whole month before his wife was aware of it. He didn’t have to worry about her finding out. Even though they were both on the island of Manhattan, Sharlyn lived in a bubble. When she wasn’t writing, she was trying to cling to the celebrity lifestyle with her friends. Miles wasn’t into that scene. His friends were power brokers, and unless power brokers were fucking pop stars and actresses, they weren’t of much interest to the rag sheets of the world. No one at the office ever contacted Shar without his express direction and Sharlyn didn’t much care for ComMedia Wells of late, so there was no threat of her ever stopping by.

  So Miles had spent the month undetected, living uptown with his passion, his pet, the pride of his resuscitated manhood, Brookie. She wasn’t really his cousin, not per se. She was in the family, but strictly by law. She was the stepdaughter of his favorite cousin, Ian, which made her his cousin, but not by blood.

  Brookie had turned his head on its axis the very first time he saw her, when she was but a nubile fifteen. She had long flowing hair, rosy cheeks, succulent breasts (small mounds, just enough), skin of silk, and a bottom so incredibly round it could have been bounced down a court and rocked a perfect three-pointer. She had haunting green eyes that held him hostage every time he looked into them. Brookie had owned him from that very first day, even though she didn’t know it, couldn’t know it, and he couldn’t show it, her being fifteen years old and all.

  But now he could, and did, and would, every opportunity he got. It had taken him some effort to crack her. Eight long years. During that time, he had suffered mightily, watching her ripen into gorgeous fruit. Deadly fruit. This girl was going to be his making and breaking, and Miles Tate knew that, but he had to have her. He’d never wanted anything, not a business, not even Shar, as much as he’d desired Brookland Ames.

  She had almost married a Morehouse grad during her college years, but Miles had called up a friend on the quiet, a Japanese electronics mogul, and had gotten the boy a high-paying two-year stint overseas. Miles made sure there were plenty of sexy distractions to amuse the young man, so it came as no surprise to anyone but Brookie when he called up and said he planned to make Japan his permanent home. He wasn’t ready for marriage, he said. There was still so much (sideways pussy) to see. Brookie had been stricken. She stopped eating, closed herself off, cried, cried, and cried herself sick. Her stepfather Ian didn’t know what to do.

  Miles Tate, to the rescue!

  “Send her here,” he had said. “She needs to get out of the South anyway, away from all those girls who feel like they need to get married as soon as they’re out of school. She’ll come into her own in New York. Sharlyn needs a personal assistant. Brookie can meet lots of people and get some exposure to a bigger world. It’s the best thing for her. I’ll make sure she’s taken care of, Ian. You know you can count on me for that.”

  And so the oblivious Brookie had flown to the North and had lived with the Tates at first, until Miles realized that just wouldn’t work. He could barely function with the girl in the house. He found himself hovering outside the bathroom in her upstairs suite, listening to her shower, sneaking into her room, smelling her things. Erections plagued him unmercifully. He was jacking off everywhere, in the shower, the car, his private bathroom at ComMedia Wells. Shar would surely catch him if he kept this up. He got Brookie a place in Harlem.

  “It’ll be good for you to have a sense of freedom,” he said to the girl, “without having to worry about being pushed up with us.” She was looking at him with those eyes, snatching his soul out of him like a reaper. “You’ll be fine. I’m always just a call away.”

  “We both are,” Sharlyn assured the pretty young girl. “Remember, Brookie, it’s not many girls your age who can have their own place in Manhattan, all expenses paid, car service on demand, with an expense account. You really do have a wonderful life.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Tate,” Brookie had said. “I’m not worried. I’ll be okay.”

  She had been in New York for three months when Miles finally broke her down. Sharlyn was away at the London Book Fair. Brookie had a bad moment, thinking about how she’d been abandoned by her Morehouse man. They were having dinner at the Tates’ Upper East Side apartment. Just her and Miles. It was an evening he had planned with quiet care. After the meal was prepared, the staff was dismissed. Miles served the food himself, something Brookie found exquisitely endearing. Somewhere between a bite of the arctic char with horseradish cream and a sip of the Pouilly Fuissé Cuvée á l’ Ancienne 2002, things went terribly awry. She had fallen into pretty pieces, a tearful, sobbing, mournful mess.

  “Why me? What make
s those Japanese girls better than me?”

  Of course Miles wouldn’t say the many things he’d heard, things about the incredible submissiveness of (non-American) Japanese women, their willingness to please and accommodate their men, and, purportedly, the sweetest private parts in all the world. He would never tell her that. That, at the time, had nothing to do with anything.

  “Brookie, my darling,” Miles had exclaimed. “Please don’t do this. That boy was trash to abandon you like that. Why would you bother to spill any tears over him?”

  He had rushed to her side and was kneeling, pulling her into his arms.

  “But what’s wrong with me?” she asked. “Why wasn’t I good enough? I gave him my virginity. He was the only man I’ve ever been with. He was the only man I ever thought I’d need.”

  “Pshaw!” scoffed Miles. “That’s ridiculous. I would never encourage you to sleep around, but I can certainly tell you the first guy you have sex with is usually not the one with whom your destiny’s bound.”

  “Really?” she sniffed. “You think so?”

  “Brookie, I’m certain of it. He was just somebody for you to cut your teeth on. I’m just sorry you had to get hurt in the process.”

  She leaned into his shoulder, her tears wetting his shirt, her lustrous hair falling over him and beyond.

  “He wasn’t a man, Brookie, he was a boy. There’s a huge difference. A real man knows how to take care of a woman. A real man would never abandon someone he loves.”

  He was rubbing her back in a way that was neither avuncular nor cousinly. It wasn’t threatening, but it was the stuff that boners were made of. Brick ones. This was no regular rub. This was the rub of lust.

  “But I let him…”—her wet lashes shrouded her downcast eyes—“I let him…do things to me.”

  “What kinds of things?” His voice was soft, strong, comforting, close to her ear, even as he continued to stroke her back, his hands moving lower, just a little lower, somewhere between her lumbar region and a bit too far.

  “I can’t tell you that,” she said, looking up at him shyly, shooting X rays of power from her green eyes. “I’m too embarrassed.”

  “You don’t have to be embarrassed with me, Brookie. I’ll always look after you. I would never judge you about anything you did.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Fresh tears covered Brookie’s lashes as she leaned further into his shoulder.

  “He made me…he had this…oh, Mr. Tate, please don’t make me say these things!”

  “Miles, dear. Call me Miles.”

  She leaned back, looking into his face.

  “But I feel funny calling you that. You’re my elder. I was taught to show respect to my—”

  She never got to finish. Miles Tate and his elder lips were all over her.

  Brookie couldn’t come.

  Miles had carried her to his bed, his and Sharlyn’s, even though there were other bedrooms he could have taken her to. He laid her down and pored over her, his eyes wet at the prospect that he was finally getting to worship at the temple of Brookland, a mecca he had been journeying toward for eight solid years. He had taken Viagra earlier that evening to ensure, should things get this far, nothing stood between him and consummation. But he didn’t count on Brookie’s…issue. She had given herself over to him rather willingly, the thought of her cousin-not-cousin Miles taking care of her, showing her love.

  But Brookie couldn’t come.

  She was too mentally fucked-up for that.

  Until visions of Japanese girls stopped dancing in her head and whatever her ex had done to make her so sexually ashamed, she wouldn’t be able to, no matter how much Miles stroked and tasted and penetrated and probed. She was accommodating enough, lying there in the bed in all her goddess splendor, hair strewn about, lithe limbs, ample flesh in only the pertinent places, looking at him with those eyes. Those eyes. Miles was willing to do whatever it took to fix things. He was just happy to finally have her.

  Miles loved Sharlyn. He really did. It just wasn’t with the passion he felt for Brookie. Shar had been his best friend, his (half) life partner, a steadfast, faithful lover for more than two decades. They’d had a dedicated love that the two of them managed to keep stoked over the years. Even during the years Miles silently longed for Brookie, he was still able to channel that longing into lust for his wife. Shar kept herself up and was sexy, sensual, and fun. But that was over now. He was entering the next phase of his life.

  There came a time when fun—the childish, attention-seeking kind—needed to be put aside. His wife was beautiful, but older. She even seemed a little softer around the middle since his return from Finland, not as toned as she used to be. And she was into things he wasn’t. Brookie was young and completely pliant. He could shape her into whatever he wanted.

  What he felt for her was bigger than love. It was a burning, a yearning, a desire for something so strong, he was powerless against it.

  Brookie was young, tender, sweet, the essence of everything, so delicate in demeanor that it would offend her sensibilities to ever curse or swear, as Sharlyn did so freely. She was the reward for all his hard work building an empire. Women like her were the pot of gold at the end of a mogul’s rainbow, the second wife who offered a second life, with babies this time, babies Sharlyn hadn’t given him. He would have Brookie, the whole of her, with her young skin and young hair and young eyes and young essence. That youth would sustain him through the end of his days. That was his right, after all, wasn’t it?

  Every man was entitled to such things, especially if he could afford it. Warren Beatty had summed it up neatly, that a man should be able to change a forty-year-old wife for two twenties. Miles didn’t think his desire to do this was unreasonable. After all, he didn’t want two twenties.

  He only wanted one.

  Brookie would be all that he’d ever need.

  Since his return from Finland, he and Brookie had been going to an orgasm therapist at an exclusive private practice that guaranteed them the utmost secrecy. Three days a week. She was going to have to learn how to come. She still hadn’t told Miles what things the Morehouse man had done to her, but whatever they were, they had scared the living feelings out of her snatch.

  Miles would fix her. He would use his billions and powers and influence and body to that singular end.

  Because a cumless Brookie was still better than a thousand cumming Shars.

  Any day.

  He would break the news to Shar when the timing was right. He didn’t want to do it just yet. Now was not a good time. He couldn’t focus on this sex therapy thing with Brookie and corporate takeovers and conflict with his wife. Everything in stages, everything in stages. But he couldn’t get as hard with Sharlyn anymore. Not enough to sustain the entire sex act. They tried four times after his “return,” but nothing seemed to move him. He tried his best, but it was as though his penis had decided it would remain faithful to Brookie by no longer getting hard for his wife.

  It was frustrating and awkward for both of them. So Miles did whatever he could to avoid it altogether.

  “I’m going out to the country,” he said a few weeks after his “return.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Shar said.

  “No, no, don’t worry yourself. Stay here in town. I’m going to play some tennis this weekend.”

  “Tennis?”

  “Yeah. With that young writer at the cocktail party. He looked very athletic, so I asked him if he played. He claims he’s halfway decent, so I’ve set up a few games of doubles for us on Saturday.”

  “He’s staying at the house with you?”

  “Yes. Is that a problem?”

  “No,” she said. “I just didn’t know you’d asked him out to the country. I’m surprised he didn’t tell me.”

  “I wouldn’t get so upset over it. He probably didn’t think it was a big deal. It’s just tennis. If he’s any good, I might have myself a regular partner.”

&nbs
p; “I see.”

  Look at that expression, Miles thought. He couldn’t tell if she was pissed or puzzled. Sharlyn couldn’t just take what he’d said and leave it alone. Everything was a debate now. She would probably give that poor writer useless grief over not telling her about the tennis thing. Her behavior would only grow more complicated with time, he knew.

  Which was why he’d begun eyeing his next takeover.

  He needed another reason to get out of the house. There was a Wi-Fi company in Brazil he’d been investigating. Perhaps this time, he could find a way to get Brookie relieved of duty for a few days to accompany him.

  Brookie had been nervous about her affair with Miles from the start. Not because she didn’t want to do it. She couldn’t believe her great fortune in getting Milestone Tate, a man she had looked up to with awe since she was a teen. A billionaire. A man of international power and authority.

  From the beginning, when her life was still pure, she had believed she would be with a powerful man, but she would have never imagined it to be Miles. She’d had high hopes for her college boyfriend, Mr. Morehouse, Mr. Perfect, until he showed himself. She’d done everything for him. She’d done the ugly thing. The ugly, ugly thing.

  It was right after she’d finished pledging. She had just joined Alpha Kappa Alpha, and suddenly guys who’d been merely flirting before were aggressively trying to step to her. Having a pretty girl in a popular sorority was like a status symbol for some guys. Brookie wasn’t just pretty. She was drop-dead.

  Darren, her boyfriend, had just graduated from Morehouse and was going away for an internship. He was worried someone would steal her affection while he was gone. She’d been under his control for nearly four years. He needed to make sure he owned her, that he could manipulate her enough to ensure she’d stay put until his return.

  “You say you won’t cheat,” said Darren, “but that’s what all women say. I see those guys coming at you. I see you checking for them. I’m not blind.”