Filthy Gorgeous Page 2

  I have to confess that I’m not a one-night-stand kinda guy these days, though I do make an exception from time to time if the pussy on offer is too irresistible to turn down.

  Sadly, this evening has taken a turn for the worst. Renée has just committed the ultimate fuck-buddy faux pas. There are three words that no committed bachelor likes to hear during sexy time.

  Can you guess what they are?

  That’s right.

  I. Love. You.

  Ladies, listen up and let me give you some advice. If you’re going to engage in casual sex with a guy, you need to adhere to the golden rule: keep your panties low and your expectations lower.

  I know that women say they can have sex like a man, blah blah blah.

  That’s bullshit.

  They always want more in the end. At least, they do from me. The universe has been kind to me. I’m successful. I’m smart. I won the genetic lottery. You can’t blame a woman for wanting to hijack my DNA to ensure her progeny gets a head start in life.

  It’s instinctive.

  Before you go to slap me, you should know that I’m no Don Draper. I don’t cheat. I love women, and they certainly seem to love me. I just don’t do monogamy. I’m honest about my intentions and I expect my partners to keep to their side of the bargain.

  Polyamorous is glamorous, that’s my motto.

  Now back to the business at hand.

  Renée pushes me back against the leather couch and slides herself down my throbbing cock. A groan of pleasure escapes my lips as she grinds around on my lap.

  Fan-fucking-tastic.

  “You want to hear something sexy?” she whispers in my ear. “I did the midyear audit today. Slade Group is on course to make a 34% year-on-year profit.”

  Nice.

  Well, it would be if I wasn’t faced with the ultimate sexual dilemma. Do I allow this evening’s pleasure fest to continue, indulging Renée in orgasm after orgasm as a parting gift? Or do I be the gentleman? Or should I pull out, have ‘the talk’ and pay her cab fare home?

  It seems like a simple decision, right? Wrong. You’d be shocked at the number of ways a raging hard on can cloud a guy’s sense of right from wrong.

  Bzzzzz.

  My cell phone bursts to life, bouncing around on the coffee table. Shit. It’s my father. Under regular circumstances I’d never answer my cell while pleasuring a lady, but I see this as some kind of divine intervention.

  I press my index finger to Renée’s lips, signaling for her to keep quiet. My father isn’t in the know about my nocturnal trysts with our head accountant, and I’d prefer for it to remain that way. If he finds out that I’ve been fucking in the factory again, I can kiss goodbye to my fat annual bonus.

  “Hey Dad, how’s tricks?” I try to sound as breezy as possible. It’s a difficult stance to maintain when you have a naked hottie ferociously sucking your pinky finger.

  “Son, we need to talk,” he says sternly.

  We. Need. To. Talk.

  Sure. Preferably after I’ve blown…

  “Dad … um … I’m kind of busy right now. Can I call you—?”

  “Son, make sure you get your ass home tomorrow morning! It’s important,” he barks.

  “If you’re still upset about the Daylon account, don’t be. It’s all good. I rechecked the copy and handed it back over to Karl.”

  Silence.

  And then…

  “I just got off the phone with Bob Strevens. You know Bob Strevens? Deputy Mayor Strevens? I’m sure you don’t need an introduction. It seems you know his daughter though, don’t you, son?”

  Is that a rhetorical question?

  I do, but I wish I didn’t. Either way, it’s better to ‘fess it than dress it. Is it just me, or does he sound pissed?

  I met Lisette at a mutual friend’s party six months ago and she’s been obsessed with yours truly ever since. I didn’t promise her forever. I didn’t promise her the night. I didn’t even buy her a goddamn drink. Lisette Strevens is a fantasist and a stage five clinger. Believe me, if I had a time machine and could magically relive one day of my life, it would be the day I met Lisette Strevens.

  Renée gives up the rodeo act, wraps herself in my silk robe, and heads to the kitchen. I hold my cell a little further away from my ear as he continues his tirade.

  “I hope you’re proud of yourself, son. Your mother is in tears. Of all the goddamn women in Manhattan you could step out with, you choose to mess with Lisette Strevens? What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Dad, I—”

  “Enough! Are you trying to ruin me? If so, then congratulations, son. You’re doing a damn fine job!” I hear him pour a drink. “Just get to Montauk by noon tomorrow. Oh, and give my regards to Renée.”

  Click.

  This is bad. As if another Lisette-related drama isn’t enough to contend with, I now discover my father knows about Renée. Speak of the devil, she returns with a bottle of wine and sinks down to her knees.

  “Now, where were we?” she asks, sliding her hands over my thigh, toward my crotch.

  It’s too late. The party is over. The Godfather has spoken and my dick is sleeping with the fishes.

  I guess it’s time to call that cab.

  Chapter Two

  It’s Saturday morning. At my father’s request, I’m driving to the Slade family home in Montauk. As I negotiate heavy traffic on the I-495, let me give you the low down on the Slade family dynamic.

  Under regular circumstances, I enjoy spending time with the folks. But right now, I’m nervous. Tense. Tonight, I should be hitting the town in search of a new Friday girl. Instead, I’m staring a parental curfew of ten o’clock in the face. In my mind’s eye, I see all possible ways that this adventure home could pan out, and I’ve narrowed it down to two scenarios.

  One: My father and I will sweep this whole sorry debacle under the carpet and celebrate with a mug of Mom’s homemade cocoa while listening to Burt Bacharach on vinyl.

  Two: In true mafia style, my father will take an axe to my balls and mail them to Deputy Major Strevens as a peace offering, and I’ll spend the next three weeks writhing around in agony in an emergency room.

  My cock reflexively twitches at the latter.

  Fasten your seatbelts boys and girls. This is going to be a real laugh riot.

  Whatever the outcome, one thing is clear: my father is pissed. He obviously considers my regrettable entanglement with Lisette Strevens as the latest in a series of sexual indiscretions to taint our company’s reputation.

  Is he right?

  Yeah, probably.

  Jack Slade rules the family business with an iron fist. My father is both respected and feared by his employees. Our relationship has been strained since the infamous WangGate incident last fall. Slade Group was on the brink of forming a partnership with an esteemed agency based in Shanghai. Completion would have seen us establish a presence in Asia; a huge market of opportunity.

  Boy, did I mess up big time. With the contract due to be signed by Mr. Wang, I hosted an impromptu party in the office. We sunk twelve crates of Budweiser and I wound up doing the nasty with my then secretary, Jessica. She was beautiful, by the way, a real screamer, too.

  Passions ran high and panties fell low. What better way to celebrate our imminent merger than by merging myself with the delectable Jessica on my father’s desk? The fact that my father had agreed the loan of his office to Mr. Wang for a conference call was unknown to me at that time, I swear.

  Imagine the look of horror on Wang’s face as he entered my father’s office, only to be greeted with the sight of us engaged in the flying-V. Apparently the deal breaker came when I asked Mr. Wang if he’d like to join us. In my defense, I have no recollection of that particular proposition. I had been drinking for twelve hours straight.

  During a series of heated arguments that took place later in the lobby, Mr. Wang—in no uncertain terms—told my father that this was not how they conducted business back in the East. Bullshit. I
have a whole catalogue of DVDs that prove otherwise. The Crouching Lotus, Hidden Serpent series is a particular favorite of mine.

  I find them to be highly educational.

  Anyway, the months following WangGate were a particularly dark period in our father-son relationship. My father demanded a complete remodeling of the office. Walls were ripped down and replaced with ceiling-to-floor glass panes. Doors were removed from stationary cupboards. Lavatory stalls were replaced by frosted glass. There was no place to hide, and certainly no place to get your freak on.

  Jack Slade’s transformation from cool CEO to omnipotent fun-police-overlord was complete.

  Extreme? Yes.

  Necessary? Abso-fucking-lutely.

  Don’t get me wrong, I love and respect my parents. I’m their only baby. Their golden child. They worked hard to afford me the privilege of a private school education. I was the first person in the Slade family to attend Harvard. Joining the family business was the next natural step after college.

  They should be proud of me, right?

  And we’re here.

  I pull up the driveway and park the Aston. Welcome to the Case del Slade. Our family home is a beautiful colonial-style property that stands beachside within five acres of immaculately manicured grounds.

  I’ve so many fond memories of this place. See that oak tree at the rear of the garden? I got my first blowie under that tree. Poppy Morgan—or ‘Poppy Rocks Off’ as the boys in school used to call her—lived next door to us. Man, that heifer would do anything for a bag of popping candy. All a guy had to do was rustle the bag and she would emerge from a nearby bush and drop straight to her knees.

  What she lacked in technique, she more than made up for with her can-do attitude. Sometimes she even combined the two activities, and let me tell you, it was mind-blowing.

  Good old Poppy.

  Hey, do you think she’s free on Friday evening?

  I jog along the garden path to find Mom kneeling down in front of her azalea bed. My mother is shit hot with a trowel. A real green-thumb, she used to have her own show on the local cable channel. Mom hasn’t worked since we hit the financial big time. When she isn’t in the garden, she likes to keep busy with various fundraising activities.

  I’m full of enthusiasm when I greet her. “Hi Mom!”

  “He’s in his office,” she says, peering up at me from under her shades.

  Wait … no hug? No peck on the cheek? No interrogation into my dietary habits over the past week? Nope. She goes straight back to raking the crap out of the soil.

  This is more serious than I thought.

  I roll up my shirt sleeves and head inside the house.

  Let battle commence.

  ***

  One Friday afternoon when I was in fifth grade, I was summoned to the headmaster’s office. My crime? Flashing my dick at the lunch lady, Mrs. Tucker. The truth is that I’d been engaged in a game of ‘I’ll-show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours’ with an Italian exchange student. I showed her mine, and then she ran away. Mrs. Tucker caught me all alone with my pants down behind the bike shed.

  Anyway, I’m telling you this because I have that same gnawing sensation in the pit of my stomach as I did when I stood outside Mr. Fellowes’ office while awaiting my punishment.

  Shame.

  I give a courteous three raps on the door of the study and enter. I can just make out the silhouette of my father through a fug of tobacco smoke. He’s sitting behind that huge slab of antique mahogany he calls his desk. Is it just me, or does it remind you of one of those tables the Inca’s used to use to sacrifice their children?

  I shudder.

  “Son?”

  “Dad.”

  “Son.”

  He gestures for me to sit down and splashes whiskey into two crystal tumblers. Christ, it’s a little before eleven in the morning and he’s already on the juice. This is not a good omen; he only drinks alcohol before midday if he has to attend a client presentation. Dad slides a glass of scotch across the desk and lights up a cigar.

  Well, isn’t this cozy.

  My father holds a glass up to the sunlight. “We were given these tumblers shortly after you were born. They were a christening gift from Papa Frank.”

  Jesus Christ, here we go.

  Wait for it.

  Three.

  Two.

  One.

  “Son, what the hell were you thinking? You can’t fuck around with Bob Strevens’ daughter and expect no repercussions.”

  “Dad…”

  “Tell me. Where did we go wrong? Are you some kind of masochist?”

  Now he’s ranting about the New York business scene, rambling on about the upper echelons of the social strata in the city, blah blah blah. I slam my empty glass back down on the desk.

  “I told you last night, Dad. I’ve done nothing wrong. I was a gentleman. Lisette Strevens just happened to want a little more than I was willing to offer.”

  He shakes his head and flicks ash into the marble ashtray. “Is that so? According to Bob, you promised her the next step.”

  He can’t be serious.

  “That’s bullshit!”

  His eyes widen. “It seems not, son. Bob told me that Lisette got inked. As we speak, she’s walking around Manhattan with the initials A.S.S. tattooed on each earlobe. I’d say she’s pretty serious about you.”

  Incredible.

  In light of this fresh information, I think we can safely upgrade Lisette to a stage six clinger.

  Scratch that.

  Make it seven. That’s Fatal Attraction territory. I’ve only had to deal with a level seven once before. No bunnies were boiled, but I’m not game for a repeat experience.

  “Dad, listen. Lisette Strevens is bat shit crazy. A cuckoo.” I stand up and brush the creases from my trousers. “Now, if that’s all, I’d like to go and talk to Mom.”

  My father rises from his chair, faster than a balloon filled with helium. “Sit down, son! I’m not finished with you yet!”

  Resistance is futile.

  A crinkle the size of the San Andreas vault forms across my father’s forehead. He reaches inside his desk drawer and pulls out a stack of glossy magazines. See those colorful, dog-eared pages? He must have found my vintage collection of Playboy.

  Shit. I thought I’d sold those suckers to Karl an age ago.

  And relax. It’s just a pile of Mom’s trashy magazines.

  My father opens a page marked with a bright pink sticky note.

  “March the seventh edition. There you are, son, stepping out with this pretty gal. It says ‘Amelia Smythe and Alexander Slade attend the opening of the Hodin exhibition at MoMA.’” He lowers his voice. “In all seriousness, I hope you wrapped it. Ms. Smythe has quite the reputation in the Hamptons.”

  Good God. Is this really happening? I knock back my scotch.

  “March the fourteenth edition. ‘Alexander Slade and Sarah Corea attend the Prada spring show. Are they more than just friends?’ Ha! Wouldn’t we all like to know that, son? By the way, your Mom likes the look of this girl, thinks she might be a keeper. Would you like to invite her over for a Sunday roast?”

  I smile happily to myself as I recall the antics of the weekend past. Sarah and a willing friend already joined me for a Sunday roast.

  Just not the kind my father’s talking about, you hear what I’m saying?

  And the inquisition continues. Judging by the self-congratulatory look on his face, I’d say he’s getting a real kick out of watching me squirm.

  “March the twenty-first edition. ‘Alexander Slade attends Belmont Park with Samantha and Zoe Harvey.’” He rotates the magazine at a forty-five degree angle. “Great rack on Zoe. That dress really enhances her bosom, don’t you think?”

  I’m a resilient guy, but enough is enough. It’s time to mount my defense. I cough into a clenched fist. “I was networking.”

  My father throws back his head and lets out a booming laugh. You ever seen that movie Legend? You know,
the one with Tom Cruise prancing around with unicorns while he’s dressed like a fish? I watched it when I was a kid and it still scares the shit out of me. Truth is I was terrified of The Lord of Darkness; that badass red dude with the black horns. It’s who my father reminds me of right now.

  My father taps his finger on the desk. “Networking. How about that! Were you networking with Lisette Strevens too, son? Is that what you kids are calling it these days?”

  I roll my eyes to the ceiling and sigh. “Dad, I’m having fun. It’s what young people do. I know it was different in your day…”

  His face flushes an even deeper shade of crimson. “You arrogant piece of shit!” He kicks back in his chair and blows an oval-shaped smoke ring that settles above my head, forming a halo.

  Can you see where I get my skills?

  Forget WangGate, I haven’t seen him this angry since second grade when I washed his vintage Chevrolet with pebbles. Such was the magnitude of his resentment that he only forgave me when I turned twenty-five and was solvent enough to repay him with a Bugatti Veyron.

  He’s calmer now. “Son, did I ever tell you about the time I got high on marijuana and had a threesome with Heather Hollander and her sister Judi at ChicagoFest in eighty-one?”

  Uck.

  His revelation has my mind whirring. Is he trying to outdo me? It wouldn’t be the first time. As far as I’m concerned, my father has only had sex once, the result of which was the greatest gift of his life—yours truly.

  Wait a moment ... Miss Hollander?

  I wrinkle my brow in horror. “My kindergarten teacher?”

  He smiles, obviously remembering the event with fondness. “Yes, son. Miss Hollander. This was before I hooked up with your mother, of course. Heather was incredible, a real doll of a girl. Legs like Darryl Hannah. She should have been a model. We watched Muddy Waters together and then my friend Steve Donovan and I took it in turns to … well,” his eyes twinkle. “You know the score.”

  Before I can interject, he extends his index and pinkie fingers to form rock star hands above his head a la Gene Simmons.

  Remember I said that if I could go back in a time machine and change one day of my life? Screw Lisette Strevens—it would be today.