by King, Jayna
I couldn’t believe it, but Stanford Boyle actually sounded kind of sweet. “So you think she’s stealing it?”
“She’s got to be stealing at least some of it. Maybe some to pay off the voting booth guy and some to squirrel away for a rainy day.”
“So we have to find out the truth.” I wasn’t sure how to go about that.
“Or,” Stanford said, a wicked grin appearing on his face, “we could set her up to do something so awful that Donald would kick her out. Divorce her.”
“Oh my God, that’s evil,” I said. “I love it.”
Stanford and I were so deep in the middle of plotting how to orchestrate Tina’s demise that I didn’t even hear the front door open.
“Hey, babe.”
Garrett’s voice scared the hell out of me, and after I peeled myself off the ceiling, I introduced him to Stanford.
“Um, nice to meet you,” Stanford said, conspicuously avoiding eye contact with Garrett.
“Good Lord, honey, you need a shower.”
“It’s just good clean sweat, Tatum. You’d remember how good it feels if you hadn’t been avoiding me and your bootcamp classes.” Garrett smiled at Stanford, as if he was including him in a private joke.
“Whatever.” I waved him off. “I’ve missed one class, asshole.”
“That’s how it starts,” Garrett warned, before turning his attention to Stanford. “So how do you and Tatum know one another?”
Stanford stuttered his reply. “I … um … I work for Tatum’s father.” He looked at his phone. “I need to get back to work. Talk to you later?” he asked, looking for all the world like a caged animal desperate to escape.
“Absolutely. We have lots of work to do.”
“Yeah,” he said, darting out the door without another word.
I looked over at Garrett, dumbfounded. “I have no idea what got into him.”
Garrett laughed. “He’s clearly overwhelmed by his attraction to me.”
I punched him in the arm. “Get outta here.”
Garrett stopped laughing. “I’m serious, Tatum. Don’t tell me he’s not out.”
“Stanford’s not gay, Garrett. For God’s sake, he’s hit on me more times than I can count.”
“Girl, how many times do I have to prove to you that your gaydar is shit? That boy is gay. Whether he knows it or not, he’s gay.”
“No way, man. He’s all buttoned up. And he’s a Republican, for crying out loud.”
“Maybe in a log cabin,” Garrett said as he left the kitchen and headed down the hall. “Definitely gay.”
I shook my head as I heard the water turn on in Garrett’s bathroom. Could he be right about Stanford?
7 -- Reed
I rolled over and picked up my phone to check the time. The light from the screen hurt my eyes in the darkened hotel room, and I was surprised to see how late it was.
“Shit.” My mouth tasted like I’d made bad decisions the night before, and I fumbled around the nightstand hoping to find a bottle of water. No luck. I picked up the phone instead. “Coffee, water, and aspirin,” I said to the woman who answered the room service extension. She’d answered in French, of course, since we were in Paris, but I assumed she spoke English.
I hung up and lay back, eyes closed, trying to sort out the tangle of thoughts in my head. My dreams had been flashes of ink, porn stars, music, and Tatum.
Tatum.
The last time I’d talked to her, she’d seemed preoccupied. I looked at the necklace I’d bought her nearly every single day, and even though I knew I should have called her more frequently, I really was working hard. I wanted to get back to her, and with all the sex swirling around me, I needed her. I was jerking off more frequently than a fourteen-year-old, but I knew I needed a woman, and Tatum was the one I wanted. I’d kept my promise to her, but it hadn’t been easy. Nearly every woman working on the tour would have fucked me, my father, my friends, and probably Tatum, too, if I’d agreed. I’d kept my promise, but it hadn’t been easy.
God. The night before had been the hardest. Our first night in Paris had kicked off with a party for a bunch of celebrity VIPs, and the club we’d taken over had been full of skin, vodka, cocaine, and music that made me want to fuck someone up against a wall.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, sitting up slowly while I evaluated the intensity of my headache. Deciding it was manageable, I stood up and stretched. I started toward the window, intending to let a little light into the room, when a woman’s voice startled me.
“What a view.”
I turned around to face the bed and realized I hadn’t been alone. In the dim light, a woman lay on her side, sheets covering her body, and she looked at me with clear approval in her gaze. I was naked, and her voice, soft and sultry, combined with the fact that I could see the curves of what looked to be amazing tits, gave me the beginnings of a very obvious hard-on.
“Come back to bed,” the woman said. “Let me wake you up properly.”
I couldn’t quite place her accent, but she was definitely European. I also had no idea what her name was or how she’d come to be in my bed. I thought briefly about Tatum, honestly unsure about what had happened the night before, and I was about to tell the woman—regardless of how beautiful she was—that she needed to leave, when she slid the covers to her waist and stunned me speechless.
“You fell asleep last night before we could get to know one another properly.” She watched me staring at her.
She had a body straight out of a pornographic fantasy. She uncovered enormous, full tits—clearly implants, but good ones. Her pink nipples were erect, and she looked at me, her lips parted by her tongue as she fondled the silver hoops that pierced both nipples. I could see a portion of a tattoo on her ribcage, the graceful arcs of vines and flowers disappearing under the covers, and I tried to tell myself that it was purely professional curiosity that led me back to the bed.
The woman arched her back and thrust her tits in the air as she tugged at her piercings. I was hard as a rock, and I reached down to move the sheets aside. I wanted to see all of her, and I couldn’t think about anything but my hard cock and the perfect fantasy body in front of me. I threw the sheets aside and discovered she was completely naked, her bronzed skin completely free of tan lines, and completely, entirely waxed bare. She spread her knees apart, and I could see her pussy, a silver bar just below her clit. She was wet, and she was hot.
“Do you want me?” she asked, sliding her hand down between her legs.
I couldn’t say a word as I watched her slide a finger inside herself, pull it out, and raise it to my lips.
“Taste me,” she said.
I let her put her finger inside my mouth, and my cock throbbed as I tasted her—sweet, salty, musky—everything good about sex.
I put a hand on my cock and stroked it as I watched her return her hand to her pussy. She shoved two fingers inside herself as she flicked the silver bar that rubbed up against her clit. She moaned and twisted the piercing in her nipple slightly, her skin starting to redden with the intensity of her touch.
I wanted to fuck her. I wanted to eat her. I wanted to lose myself in her body—clearly on display for my benefit and pleasure—I wanted to bury my cock in her pussy, in her ass. I wanted to come in her and on her, and I wanted to go back to sleep and wake up and do it again.
But I’d made a promise.
I wasn’t going to fuck her, but I was sure as hell gonna come all over those tits. I reached down, leaving one hand working up and down the length of my cock. I squeezed her nipple, slipping a finger through the hoop and tugging gently.
“Fuck yourself with your fingers. Fuck yourself and come for me.”
I watched her spread her legs even wider, and I could tell she was enjoying herself. She slid her fingers in and out of her pussy, glistening juice visible on her fingers, and she flicked and rubbed the piercing between her legs.
She looked up at me. “Fuck me.” She reached for my cock with h
er hand, all slick from her juices. “I want you to fuck me. I want you to fuck my mouth, fuck my pussy. I want you to fuck my ass,” she said, rolling over and getting up on her hands and knees to show me what I was missing.
God, it was gorgeous. Her bare pussy was wide open, shining with slick wetness and begging me to put my cock inside it. Even her ass was perfect, the tight hole just waiting for me to push my cock inside, force her open, and fuck her hard. I knew she could take it. I knew she wanted it.
It took every ounce of restraint I had not to bury myself in her, but I had made a promise. I stuck my fingers inside her pussy and used her juices to lubricate my cock, stroking it harder and faster as my orgasm approached.
“Turn over,” I said. “I want to come on your tits.”
She turned onto her back, squeezing her nipple harder, pulling it, twisting it, as she rubbed her clit. Her head was thrown back as she started to make herself come, and when I ejaculated, I threw huge ropes of cum all over her tits. She rubbed the sticky white mess all over herself as she bucked and writhed with her own orgasm.
I stepped away from the bed. “Get yourself cleaned up, and leave, please,” I said, opening the door of the bedroom and walking out into the sitting room. I knew I wasn’t being very nice, but the woman was obviously a professional of some sort, and I wanted her gone. I hadn’t fucked her—as least not that I remembered—but I knew Tatum wouldn’t be happy with the scene if she walked into the hotel room right then.
I was tired, I felt guilty for having used the woman in my bed, and I felt guilty about Tatum. My head hurt, and for the first time since I’d left for the tour with my dad, I felt like the whole thing had been a big mistake.
I heard the bathroom door close, so I went back into the bedroom to get a pair of jeans. I let the room service waiter deliver the coffee, signed for the bill, added some sort of tip, and washed down a handful of aspirin.
“Coffee?” I asked, when the woman emerged from the bathroom dressed in her club attire from the night before.
“No time,” she answered with a casual wave. “Ciao. I have to get to work.”
I had no idea what she did for a living, other than fuck on camera, and I didn’t really care. I buried my face in my hands, realizing I felt nearly as empty as I had back when every day started with a bump of coke and more often than not, a hooker in my bed.
I’d wanted to be better than that, be a better man than I had been, but in a short period of time, I’d slipped right back into my old ways. I picked up my phone to text Tatum.
I miss you.
I looked at her name on my phone, and I realized the moment I’d decided to go on this stupid fucking tour, everything had gone to shit. I’d told her I was coming home, and the minute I’d changed my mind, I’d turned into an asshole. I didn’t want to be that guy. Scrolling back through my last few phone calls, I found Rob’s name.
He sounded disgustingly bright and chipper when he answered. “Reed, my man. Didn’t expect to hear from you before dark. You were the hit of the party, man.”
“I want out,” I said.
“Out? What do you mean?”
“Out of the tour. I’m going back to Vegas on the first flight I can get.”
“No way, man. You’re booked solid for the rest of the tour.”
“Cancel the appointments.”
“Fuck you, man. You can’t just back out like this. Pussy Katt’s gonna want her money back.”
“Then I’ll give her the money back.”
“What the hell happened? When I left you at the club you had porn stars dripping off your arms, and you looked like you were having the time of your life.”
“I woke up.” I sighed. “Look, man, I appreciate all you did for me in setting this thing up, but I’m out. I gotta bail.”
“Gordon’s going to be disappointed.”
“He’ll get over it.”
“You sure about this?”
“Positive.”
I hung up and thought about calling or texting Tatum, but I decided to surprise her instead. I showered, threw my clothes in my suitcase, grabbed my tattoo equipment, and hailed a cab for Charles de Gaulle airport. I was going home to Tatum, and I couldn’t wait to show her just how much I’d missed her.
8 -- Tatum
Not only did I have almost more work than I could handle at my job, working on a new case we thought could make the firm some serious money and improve the working conditions for all tipped employees in the state of Nevada, but also had my hands full outside of work, too. Stanford and I had met a couple more times, racking our brains trying to think of some way to publicly trip Tina up and get Donald to see her for who she really was. Add to that the fact that Garrett had decided he had a thing for Stanford—the man who still became tongue-tied every time my roommate walked in the room—and I hadn’t even had a moment to think about Reed, at least not until I opened my laptop with my morning coffee before work.
“Definitely fake,” I said, scrutinizing the boobs of the two women who’d been photographed hanging off my stepbrother in Paris.
Garrett leaned over my shoulder. “Agreed.” He sat next to me with one of his revolting kale smoothies. “You doing okay? You haven’t said much about Reed lately.”
“Not much to say, I guess. We talked, had phone sex, and he said he was coming home. Next thing I know, he’s gone on some rockstar bender with porn stars. Doesn’t look so good for the two of us.”
“I’m sorry, honey. Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be.”
“I guess. It just sucks, though,” I said, indulging in a little self-pity. “I’ve wanted him since I was a little girl, and now—just when he finally notices me—it all goes to shit. His white trash mother marries my father, and he finds out he’s the kid of a celebrity. Goddammit, I just wish I could have had him a little longer, without the spotlight, without the drama between our parents.”
“Well, if those are the kinds of women he prefers, he doesn’t deserve you. They look like whores.”
“You know the ironic thing?”
Garrett shook his head as he drank another sip of the green crap he started every morning with.
“I’m finally learning how to deal with the press and all the attention from my dad’s campaign.”
“I’ve been proud of you, girl. I know it was hard for you, but you’ve done it gracefully.”
“Stanford was actually a big help. He told me that if I give reporters a little information, they’re more likely to respect my privacy.”
“Ah, Stanford. How is my little Republican cutie pie?”
“Garrett, I think you’re going to lose that battle. I think he’s barricaded himself so deep in the closet, he’ll probably never see the light of day.”
“Oh, ye of little faith. Not only am I going to pry him out of the closet, but I might even come out with him.”
“No fucking way.”
“Here’s the thing, Tatum. I really like him. I like that he’s so dedicated to his work, and he really believes that an individual can make a difference in the world. He’s conscientious, and goddamn, is he cute.”
I shook my head. “I guess he’s cute in a Republican kinda way.”
“Not everyone can be a tattooed sex god like Reed. Of course, look where that’s gotten you.”
“Ouch. I know. You don’t have to point it out.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, sweetie.” Garrett hugged me with one arm. “I just want you to be happy and I don’t think he’s the man that’s gonna help you get there.”
I closed the laptop. “I think you’re right, unfortunately.”
“So when’s Stanford coming over again?”
“He’ll be here after work tonight. He’s bringing Indian carryout since I cooked last night.”
“Mind if I crash the party?”
“You know you’re always welcome.”
“Great. Well, I expect to see you at the gym after work. You’re gonna have to earn that Indian food, girl.
”
“Deal.”
As I was leaving for work, I saw a text from Reed that had arrived hours before.
I miss you.
Nothing more. I was tempted to reply right away, something about Little Miss Fake Tits, but I decided to think about it before I answered. Clearly, there wasn’t anything pressing between Reed and me at the moment. From what I could see in the pictures online, he had his hands full over in Paris.
I managed to put him out of my mind and lose myself in work, distracted only a few times by texts from Stanford. Apparently, he’d come up with a plan for Tina, and I was looking forward to hearing about it. I sweated my ass off at the gym, cursing Garrett under my breath, and arrived home with just enough time to shower before Stanford was due with dinner.
Just out of the shower, with my hair wrapped in a towel, I heard the knock at the front door and threw on a robe to go answer it.
“Hey,” I said as Stanford came in, hands full of fragrant Indian fare. “I forgot to tell you Garrett’s going to be here for dinner, too. Did you get enough?”
He looked flustered as he answered. “Of course. I hoped … um … I mean, I thought he might. There’s plenty just in case…” His voice trailed off awkwardly, and I decided to let the matter drop. Sorting out sexuality wasn’t really my area of expertise.
“Well, you can go ahead and set up in the kitchen. Let me go throw on some clothes, and I’ll be out in a sec.”
“I can’t wait to tell you my idea,” Stanford called from the kitchen.
I ran a comb through my hair, slicked a little moisturizer on my face, and headed to the drawer that held my rattiest, most comfortable clothes. When I emerged from my room in yoga pants a size too large and a frayed University of Texas sweatshirt, I knew Garrett would tease me about looking like a slob when he came home. I didn’t care.
“So fill me in,” I said, picking up one of the plates Stanford had set on the counter.
“Should we hold dinner for Garrett?” he asked. He looked at me for an answer, and when I just looked back at him, he started to stutter and blush.
I had to say something, and I decided to handle it gently. “We can, if you like. Garrett has really enjoyed hanging out. He shouldn’t be too much longer. He just had a meeting with a couple of the trainers at his gym before he could leave.”