Curvy Delights: Billionaire Romance BBW Boxset

by Tara Brent

Although, I bet I’d get a lot of ‘likes’.

  “So?” Harvey boomed in his best Hale Fellow, Well Met affectation. “Is this, or is this not, as good as I told you it would be?”

  “Harvey, you never let me down. It’s perfect.”

  “It should be, for what it’s gonna cost you.”

  Blake turns to introduce me. “This is Kira. She’s the genius behind the whole wedding.”

  “Kira, a pleasure. Harvey Maxwell.” He gestures back toward his daughter, who is half way hiding behind Harvey’s Beemer. “I hear you already met Cassie.” He waves at her to come over. She shakes her head no, vigorously. “She is so embarrassed. I’m sorry if she...” He stopped without spelling it out.

  “Don’t worry, Harve. It was just a mix-up.” Blake sure makes that sound like the truth, but then, he can be very convincing.

  “Let’s go back to the office to go over the lease, and we’ll lock this place up for you.” Bang. This guy is a shark. What a closer.

  “We can go over the details on the phone tomorrow. I need to talk this over with Kira first. That’s why she’s here. She has great taste, and I trust her completely.”

  That makes one of us, buster, but I just smile politely. Fuck U-Tube, I’m not going to become click bait over this shit.

  “We’re flying home tonight,” Blake says. “In fact, if you don’t mind, we’d like to get going. I want to Kira to relax a little, and think things over. She’s been under a hell of a lot of pressure getting this whole three ring circus together back home.”

  “I understand. You know what? You should take her snorkeling.”

  Chapter 15: Aloha Means Peace

  In the car, we drive back to the hotel in silence. I’m also not about to hash this shit over with the Pete, our driver, sitting there, listening.

  Pete drops us at the front. He’s getting out to open the doors, but I am out like a shot, walking quickly to the entrance. Blake hustles to catch up, just as we enter the lobby.

  “Kira. Please. We need to talk.”

  “Right now, what I need is a massage. And a spa. The works.”

  “Sure. Put it on the room.”

  As I walk away, I repress the nearly overwhelming urge to flip him the finger.

  Boy, rich folks must suffer with terrible, crippling stress. Why else would the staff of this pamper palace have nirvana at their fingertips, for a mere $600? I really would love to say they rubbed and kneaded me for an hour and a half, and it didn’t do jack shit.

  But really? After about five minutes I am Jell-O. I would fall asleep, but I don’t dare. Because I never want this heaven to end. I take every decadent treatment this dump has to offer. Except for the hot rocks on my back. Just on principle, I wasn’t going let anybody pay for a heaping dose of that hoogy-poogy. They might scald my chakra.

  I also have plenty of time to think, while they smooth out all my crumples. First, I let go of the anger. I can’t quite shake every scrap of it, but at least I manage to mute the shade of my screaming green jealousy. Then I try to take an honest look at what I am feeling about Blake. Sure, I’m crazy about him. Or is this about the version of ‘him’ I’m really just inventing? Is he really going to turn over a new leaf? If he is, it’s not going to be easy for him. And it’s not going to be all about me, either. This is about him, about who he really is, who he wants to be. I see all the evidence of who he has been before. I even think I can understand it. All his hedonistic pursuit of swinish pleasures says there’s a very empty hole this man is trying to fill. Who is he really, anyway? The playboy, the dare-devil, the lavish spender, the party meister. Is he racing headlong into all that excess because he wants it? Or is all of this self-indulgence just the best place he can think of to run and hide? And... is he tired of running away. Does he really want to grow up? Can he?

  Oh, and that other thing: Did he fuck that delicious pixie today?

  Or is he telling me the truth?

  Will I ever know the answer?

  Is that even the right question?

  Most of all, I need to figure this out: If I have to ask, ‘can I trust him?’ doesn’t that tell me the answer right there? If I am looking for proof, it means, ipso facto, that I don’t trust him. I don’t take his word on faith.

  So where does this leave me? Does it mean I leave him?

  Or does it mean what I need to do is take him on faith? Help him answer his own questions, even face his own demons, by showing him my trust? Let him know he can trust me to be there for him.

  And if I do decide to jump off that cliff, will I fly off into a happy sunset? Or just smash myself on the rocks below?

  I just don’t know what to do next.

  ...Actually, yes I do.

  What I do next is have my facial.

  When I get back to our room, my whole body tingles and glows. I feel like a billion bucks. Minus the $600 I just spent, and a 25% tip.

  “Feel better now?” He asks, trying to sound casual.

  “Yes and no.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it now. I just want a ride to the airport.”

  He looks stricken, but he tries to salvage it. “Okay. I’ll call for the car. And I’ll find out how long the pilot needs to get ready for take off.”

  “You don’t have to. I’m flying commercial, it’s already booked.”

  “Kira. No...”

  “In fact, I need to haul ass to make my flight.”

  He’s staring at the floor, head in his hands. “I just wish you’d think about this.”

  “I have.”

  “Then don’t leave. Please.”

  “Blake, I’ve decided. I can’t control who you are. And I don’t want to. That’s up to you.”

  “Then... Can’t you just... think about giving me another chance?”

  “Don’t you mean give us another chance?”

  “Baby, I swear. I didn’t touch her. I don’t know how to convince you.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “...Huh?”

  “I decided to trust you.”

  He looks up. Hope and confusion fighting for control of his expression. “Then... I don’t understand. Why are you leaving?”

  “Because Jimmy just called me. The shit hit the fan.”

  Chapter 16: The Shit and the Fan

  Turns out the jet is already set. It can take off as soon as we can get to the airport. And I can’t believe how fast Pete is going. Maybe this car is going to be the first Bentley to qualify for Nascar. His driving is as scary as shit.

  I don’t want to sound like a baby and ask him to slow down, so I say to Blake, “I’m worried Pete’s going to get a ticket. That’s not fair, is it? Maybe you can tell him.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I mean, he’s really speeding. What if he lost his license?”

  Blake gives a little chuckle. “Pete? I don’t think so. He was a cop for sixteen years. Now he’s the Governor’s personal driver. Only he moonlights for me when the Governor’s out of state.”

  “Oh,” I say as we swerve around a delivery truck, and gun through a yellow light at around 85. “Now I feel much better.”

  We get there alive. Why am I not surprised that Pete is allowed to just drive out onto the tarmac and park by Blake’s jet? We are aboard the plane, and in the air, in under ten minutes. In my ‘real life’, I don’t think I’ve ever found a parking space at an airport in ten minutes. Of course, as Blake pointed out, not everyone has a guy like Pete to drive them to the airport at eighty miles per hour. In fact, he says, the only time he can count on Pete to get him to the airport is when he’s in Maui.

  The rest of the time, anywhere else, he is forced to use a helicopter.

  After we land, Blake has the limo drop me at the office to meet Jimmy. I say I’ll call him later. “Aloha,” he says. I stare at the taillights as he’s driven off. Doomed. I am doomed, doomed, doomed. Why did I tell him I decided to trust him? How can I?

>   The next thing I do, I am a bit ashamed of. If I really trust him, I wouldn’t go on Facebook to check out Angel Tits. And although it would not surprise me to find a profile for someone named Angel Tits, if they could get away with it, I decide to go with Cassie. Her dad is Harvey Maxwell, so I look for a Cassie Maxwell, living on Maui. How many can there be, right?

  And there is only one. There she is, with a surfboard (so unexpected) and her rock hard body. Oh, here she is again, with Daddy, at some stupid Luau thing. Wearing a fucking grass skirt. Oh, here’s another one. She’s standing with her arm around a cute blonde. Besties, I assume.

  Then I read the caption. It’s a picture of Cassie with her wife, Diane. They look so happy. It says they’ve been married three years now.

  Why Blake, of course I trust you! Why wouldn’t I? You’d never even think about another woman. How silly can I get? Heaven forefend. Perish the thought.

  Jimmy has two reasons to panic. First is music. His D.J. flaked. Yes, Curtis. The one Jimmy had promised me, swearing up and down, that he would never flake, because Curtis was Jimmy’s guy, but now, he’s out.

  “Full story,” I demand before I’m halfway into the office.

  “He’s just a jealous little bitch,” Jimmy proclaimed.

  “Ah-ha,” says I. “What did you do?”

  “Me? I didn’t do a damn thing...” I wait for more. “That’s true! I only wish I had!”

  “Fine. So tell me what you didn’t do.”

  “I didn’t go out to sea.”

  “Why not, sailor? Fleet’s in?”

  “You know, sometimes you can be quite cruel.” And then, the pout.

  I am not buying. “Spill it, Jimmy.”

  “The Bachelor Party.”

  “We aren’t doing the Bachelor Party. Wait. Wasn’t that yesterday?”

  “Day before. They left right after you did.”

  Right. The Gulfstream flies the Groom and his merry men to Jamaica, they sail off on the luxury yacht (or was it the S. S. Minnow?) to bag a few marlins, drink too much and get terrible sun burns. Maybe smoke a cigar with the ghost of Ernest Hemingway. Your typical boys outing, all put together by Seb’s Best Man, Harold Parker. The bachelor party which did not include strippers, hookers, groupies, models, starlets, or... women. The penny drops. Oh, shit.

  “Christ, Jimmy. It’s not Harold Parker?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “The Best Man? How do you even know him?”

  “I don’t. Well, I didn’t. But, just for ‘good will’ and all that? I arranged a little treat for the lads. Just a few snacks for the plane, tide them over. You know, for the flight to the Caribbean?”

  “Sure, sure. I know. The food they usually serve on those private jets is terrible. Oh wait, that’s airline food.” I slap my hand down on the desk. “What the Hell, you don’t have enough to do? Now you’re packing lunches for the boy scouts?”

  “Hey, you’re the one shagging the Groom’s brother.”

  Touché. “And all this ties into our D.J. bailing how, exactly?”

  “Curtis was just giving me a hand. And he put together a couple of mixes for them to listen to.”

  “Old sea shanties, I’ll bet. I can just see them dancing the hornpipe.”

  “Now who’s digressing?”

  “Sorry. Go. Tell.”

  “Well. We’re in the hanger, they’re loading up the jet, and we’re all working on a magnum of Veuve Clicquot. And... there he is.”

  “Harold.”

  “You know, everyone always talks about blonde hair and blue eyes? But you have never seen brown eyes like his. Brown like chestnuts, like—”

  “Yeah, right, limpid pools. Skip that. Skip the rough silk shirt and the cashmere sweater thrown loosely around his shoulders. What happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Right. Well, that makes sense then.”

  “They just got into the plane. Took off. Gone...”

  “Aaaah, yes. There. It’s all as clear as mud now.”

  “He never even said a word to me.”

  “Curtis?”

  “Harold,” And the sigh. Oh, nobody can sigh like Jimmy. “Like he didn’t know I was alive. And that’s why he threw a hissy fit.”

  “Harold did?”

  “Curtis did. He saw the way I was looking at Harold. He knew.”

  “He knew you were crushing on Harold.”

  “No. He knew Harold was gay.”

  “Harold’s gay?”

  “Curtis is never wrong.”

  “I thought you were never wrong.”

  “Everything I know about spotting guys in the closet, I learned from Curtis.”

  “Okay, okay, let’s recap. You took one look at our Harold, and fell for him. He doesn’t know you’re alive. Or even that he’s gay. So where does the crisis come into it?”

  “I told you. Curtis is a jealous bitch.”

  “Wait. Curtis dumped this job because you looked at a guy who wouldn’t know a wink from a nod?”

  “See? It’s not that complicated.”

  “Curtis...” I shake my head. “That guy’s a bitch.”

  “Told you. And we’re fucking the goat.”

  “Give me his number.”

  “I don’t have Harold’s number.”

  “Curtis! His number!”

  “Why? What are you going to say.”

  “Just a little chat. About his future in music. As a soprano.” One down, one to go. “What’s the other goat fucking?”

  “Permits.”

  “For...?”

  “Everything. There’s a neighborhood association. City does nothing if these crusty old plutocrats don’t give the high sign.”

  “And? What? Do they have any specific complaint, or are they just congenital assholes?”

  “Well, of course they’re congenital assholes. It’s a hallmark of Good Breeding, after all, but no, there’s nothing specific. It wouldn’t surprise me if they don’t even know what the event plan involves. They just say ‘no’ to anything that might inconvenience them in the slightest as a general reflex.”

  I chuckle. “That’s all?”

  “Kira? Are you serious? We can’t even have a parking service without permits. And roach coaches? How’s that gonna fly?”

  “Okay, Jimmy. It’s time for our chant again. All together now...” And in unison, we chant our mantra to each other “You are the best. We can do this. We are not going to fuck a goat.”

  It doesn’t do the job for Jimmy, who almost whines, “Sure, but Kira, what are we gonna do?”

  “Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy. Haven’t you heard? I’m fucking a billionaire.”

  In my business, I deal with a lot of high net worth individuals. I am not shy about taking advantage of their position – their “privilege” – to accomplish what I need to do for them. These folks tend to sit on boards, socialize with movers and shakers, and contribute mind-numbing fistfuls of dollars to politicians. And when they run up against rules they don’t like, they can usually find a way to get around the inconvenience. Yeah, I know. It isn’t fair. It’s a fucking disgrace.

  Which is why I never use any of their “influence” to benefit me personally. Okay, not strictly true. I benefit indirectly. When a client uses favors, like blowing away zoning or restrictions to make their event better, they do it for themselves. But, technically, I benefit if the event benefits. But other than that, I wouldn’t use my relationship with the mayor, or my acquaintance with a lieutenant governor to pulls strings in my personal life for so much as a parking ticket or a fine for littering (which I never do – it’s just an example!)

  Bully for me, but that still doesn’t make me proud of asking a client to lean on one of their country club buddies to bend the rules. And I’m sure when the revolution comes, I will be frog-marched up to the guillotine along with the fat cat pols and C.E.O.s. You lie down with dogs...

  I gave the word to Blake. He mentioned the permit problem to his father. Daddy mad
e some calls. Check that. He probably only made one call, and then the invisible army of enablers went to work. All I know is we got the thumbs up for the roach coaches. For the valet parking. For the noise. We even got the promise of a couple of police to work traffic in the neighborhood, and two off-duty firefighters to be on standby, just in case.

  So much for scraping that shit off the fan blades.

  Jimmy and his wounded, aching heart? That was something I’ve tried to help him with a hundred times. And I still have a batting average of 0.000.

  And while it’s up to Jimmy to get over his personal problems, and not let his romantic tragedies interfere with his work obligations... It just never quite works that way.

  There’s moping. Pouting. Crying. Distraction. Forgetfulness. Lethargy. Woolgathering (yeah, I know – he’s the first genuine ‘woolgatherer’ since Emily Bronte. What do you think about that? A penny for your thoughts.). Which is all by way of saying the odds of whatever event he is supposed to keep humming along with his usual competent efficiency goes off the rails, over the embankment, and into the goat pen, where the copulation goes into gear.

  And that, we can’t afford on this gig.

  So, to try and keep Jimmy’s head out of the gas oven, I set up a lunch with me, Jimmy, Seb, the budding Groom. And his Best Man, Harold Parker. Ostensibly, we are there to discuss the cadre of Groomsmen / Ushers that Harold will need to wrangle to have them seat people for the ceremony. Which seats to block off for relatives and close friends, where to seat people who know both the Bride and the Groom, how to deal with sneezing fits, snoring, crying babies, and all the other inconvenient bullshit that can interrupt the ceremony, and distract attention from the happy couple.

  I let Jimmy do most of the talking. Harold does most of the listening. Jimmy is the consummate professional – no flirting, no mooning looks. Just his usual organized, brilliant self. He is thorough, charming, funny, and efficient. Even I am impressed. Sebastian is bored to tears.

  But Harold pays attention to every word. To every gesture. He laughs at Jimmy’s jokes. He asks questions. He takes notes. And by the time desert (okay, four deserts) is on the table, they have exchanged business cards. And Harold is the one who says “I know you’re swamped, but can I call you if I have any questions?”