by Avery Aster
“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 o
ut 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 hours 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.’
“I get why they don’t allow any common folk. This place is gorgeous.” Taddy appreciated any hot spot that prohibited the hanger-on types.
Vive’s head spun. “Move over Russian aristocracy. This champagne club is what VIP should embody.”
“Don’t you dare ruin it with a magazine article.”
“So says the publicist.” Vive huffed. “You can be such a hypocrite sometimes.”
“Shut your mouth.”
“My stories don’t detract.” Vive wouldn’t drop it as she glanced around for management. “I wonder who I need to speak with to land a photoshoot here for Debauchery.”
The main room featured a bar in the center with two side areas of smaller service stations. Couples chatted in French and English, laughed, kissed, and danced.
Wait a sec… “Do you see what I see?” Taddy’s vision refocused from the space’s far corners. She could’ve sworn she’d observed shadowed bodies screwing. Sex oozed in the Privé Extreme’s atmosphere.
“I smell Ssss…” Vive waited for Taddy to spell it out.
“E.”
“X!” Vive finished and then kissed her on the cheek. “I see some hunks. I’m hittin
’ the dance floor. Check ya later, girlie.”
“Text me if you leave to hook up.”
“Ditto.” Vive strutted off toward two men who were waving her over. As a Swedish blonde, Vive always secured first looks, even in the dark.
Alone, Taddy felt the night stood to get ten times hotter. Maybe better than what she’d planned for Algarve, Portugal. Please, sweet Jesus gumdrop. Anytime you wanna bring me a man, I’m ready.
Moonlit ocean views glowed behind the wine bottles as she walked over to the main bar. Taddy studied the champagne menu. It listed over fifty varying bubbles from France’s champagne houses along with brands she’d tasted from media parties in years past, such as Bollinger, Moët & Chandon, and Piper Heidsieck. However, this place had even stocked the unique and unfamiliar from Italy and California.
“Pouvez-vous m’aider?” Impressed with the menu, she secured the champagne sommelier’s attention. “I’m hoping for a suggestion from your overwhelming menu.”
“Talk to him, mademoiselle,” the tuxedo-wearing server shouted over the loud music, pointing to a far corner.
Her eyes followed his direction toward men dressed in their best linen suits and women in lavish cocktail attire. The patrons seemed relaxed yet elegant, possibly homeowners living on the island for the season. She could tell by how at ease people mingled with one another, as if they’d been friends for years. One tall stud stood out from the rest, though.
Huh?
Taddy was shocked to see what appeared to be a Midwesterner from the Buckeye State. How did he beat the in-the-know system? Oh, my God. It’s my NFL quarterback Brayden Brooks. Pussy creaming while standing, she held on to the bar as if an Ohio tornado swept her right off her Casadei alligator-embossed platform pumps. She studied his backside. He had to be at least six-foot-five. Yummers.
His legs appeared thick, like great oak trees. She imagined herself as Red Riding Hood, ready to walk through his forest under those trees. And his back. Holy Mary mother of…
Certain Heaven had gifted her with an NFL player as a royal payment for the Birdie Hell she and Lex had endured, Taddy reminded herself of the $175,253.84 she’d paid. She waved the server off with a graceful smile. Taddy stepped closer for a better view.