Wow… It’s been I-dunno-what here. I can’t even remember when I had couple of weeks like this. And the work is just starting! But I’m taking a short break to post this. So here’s the next chapter. Finally… 😊
I’ve been fooling around a little, think of getting a pic of Jae. And Tee. I know some people might prefer to just go with their imaginations. Others like an image. I can feel either way. But here goes… I’ll post these two. Hopefully that’s OK?
Thank you more than I can say for reading!
Behind the 8-Ball…
Monday, I finished my first shift and went upstairs to the VIP floor to check messages get a quick bite to eat. All the girls who work the VIP floor have their own rooms for entertaining clients, same as us dommes have our own dungeons: a small, neat space with a bathroom that girls decorate to their own taste. They tend to go all out, and you can see some fantastic examples of what you can do in nineteen-square meters.
Tori gave me a space up there so I’d have a place to crash to between shifts if I need to, although it’s smaller, doesn’t have a bathtub or even a shower like the other rooms and I haven’t decorated it. It’s all bare wood floor, antique whorled cream wallpaper and an old tin ceiling with a narrow bed, a little desk and a single chair. I like it that way: clean and spartan, although I doubt the old Spartans would have appreciated the wallpaper.
As I munched a frozen burrito I’d nuked in the bar’s microwave and responded to a couple of texts from Tee, Tori knocked on my door. Tori’s knock is as characteristic as her voice and she’s also one of only three or four people who’d dare.
“It’s open”—through a mouthful of burrito.
“Yummy.” Tori winked from the doorway. “Is that the best you could do?”
I wiped my mouth. “Well, Emil’s out of spiced larks’ tongues in aspic with caviar.” Emil is the chef here on the VIP floor. He’s Swiss, makes a soufflé to die for, has a temper and would probably kill me for what I just said.
Cuz, yeah, that does sound disgusting.
Even Tori winced. “I’ll have to talk to him about that.”
“What’s up?”—eyeing the rest of my dinner. Not that I didn’t love chatting about larks’ tongues, but Tori usually has a point when she visits. Given the circumstances of our last meeting, I was curious what it might be.
“Thought you might have dinner with me. Not sure I can compete with a frozen burrito, though.”
“Go ahead. Try”—setting it down.
“Fish sticks?”
I burst out with a laugh, covering it with my hand so Tori didn’t get flecked any of my so-called dinner. You see, Tori—who can afford to eat at any place in the world, including delivery from Paris or Singapore—has this thing for fish sticks. When she teases me about eating nuked burritos, I’ll return the favor by giving her shit for her fish-stick lust. And Tori will say “Ohhh… but they’re so crunchy” and moan a bit.
I have to say, it’s awesome.
“Fish sticks with grilled cheese?” Yes, I like grilled-cheese sandwiches with my fish sticks—with fish sticks on the inside, that is. That’s my other little confession.
She winked. “Anything for my bestie.”
“Yeah, okay. That wins.” I wrapped the burrito’s remains in a napkin.
“Excellent,” Tori beamed, taking out her phone. “Who’d you like to give your shift to?”
“Tamara.” Tamara was a young, sweet dancer who’d been going through a rough spell. We’d already had to have security explain the facts of life to her fucked-up stalker ex-boyfriend and Tori helped her get a new place. Still, the extra cash would be welcome.
“She says ‘Thank you’”—smiling at me across her phone.
“I say ‘you’re welcome’.”
Smiling still, Tori’s finger swiped. “Take my car?”
“What? You still don’t trust my driving?”
“Of course, I do,” Tori fibbed. “But I’ve already had my adrenal glands worked out this week. No sense overdoing it.”
The image of him handing her a bike helmet flashed in my mind. Riding behind him was that much of a rush? Yeah, I could see that.
And I wondered exactly why Tori was inviting me to dinner on this particular evening. You might not think it from her public persona but there are times when she can’t resist a little matchmaking.
Dinner suddenly sounded much more interesting.
♦ ♦ ♦
We arrived at Tori’s place, which—like the fish sticks—might surprise you. She lives in a studio apartment above her office at the headquarters of the foundation she runs. Most rich people’s bathrooms are bigger. The bigger surprise is that you’d expect it to be neat as pin, and it’s not. What almost nobody knows is that Victoria Colt, who’s bulletproof in public, might spend a day off in rumpled sweats binge watching old movies (if you think of the 60s and 70s as old) and sometimes lets the dishes pile up in her sink.
We came in through the very private (and heavily secured) back entrance, which has a laundry niche on one side and small but serviceable kitchen on the other. A granite counter separates the kitchen from the living area, which has a couch and single chair boxing in an oval marble-topped coffee table, and a TV mounted on one wall. Bookshelves flank the TV and take up half of the other wall—the hold more vases of flowers than books. There’s no dining table; the coffee table serves for that. To the left is a small tiled entryway for the main entrance with a side table and an antique hall tree that looks weirdly out of place. I’ve never asked Tori about, but it must have a story. The rest of the furnishings are nice but not extravagant in the least and are almost but not quite devoid of personality.
For that, you have to look to the art on the walls. It’s eclectic; there’s Maxfield Parrish, Japanese shunga prints, black & white landscape photos and some erotic art by artists you’ve never heard of but should—and would—if society had better taste and was less prudish.
Most telling is the sleeping alcove with her desk, dresser and bed—a single bed. That says all you need to know about how many people she ever lets into her private space. Across from the alcove is a modest walk-in closet, and next to that is the bathroom which has a nice big tub.
That’s it. The complete domain of one of the richest and most infamous women in the world.
I perched on one the three barstools at the counter while Tori reached into the pantry and pulled out a bag of potato chips. Filling a large plastic bowl, she set them in front of me while she went to the fridge.
Yes, Victoria Colt also likes ketchup potato chips. You heard it here first.
“Orange juice, Lucozade, sparkling water or white grape juice?” she asked, bending so her butt stuck out from behind the refrigerator door. She was kidding about the orange juice—orange juice and ketchup chips is just gross.
“How about sparkling water?”
“Perfect.” She backed out with the bottle in one hand and the fish sticks in the other. Giving me the bottle and glass, she put the fish sticks in the oven, poured herself a gin and tonic and finally sat down next to me.
While the fish sticks baked, we nibbled the chips and engaged in a wandering conversation until I asked how well they enjoyed the concert. That put a gleam in Tori’s eye.
“The concert was very nice. But…”
The timer for the fish sticks beeped. I waited, resisting the urge to squirm while Tori got up to take them out. “Would you mind grabbing the cheese for me?”
I retrieved the cheese from the fridge and together we assembled a couple of sandwiches. I plopped a trio of fish sticks in mine, was rewarded with a delightful little snort, and we set them in the grill to toast.
“But?” I nudged, unable to stand the silence any longer.
Toni gave me a sideways smile. “But I think he was more interested in you.”
Well, I was kinda interesting that night. “Did he say anything?”
“He asked about you.”
Okay. “Did he mention the part where I threatened to kill him?”
The tip of Tori’s tongue flirted with her perfect upper lip. “He didn’t have to. I walked in on that part, remember?” Do I have to? “He’s too much a gentleman to bring that up. Do you want me to tell you about him?”
“I don’t think you have to.” Back then I knew what everyone knew about him—Cole (Tori’s nickname for him, by the way): American, mid-40s, CEO of a global logistics company that specialized in critical infrastructure, medical transport and first-response disaster relief. Unmarried, but had a string of relationships with some notable women, including a navy fighter pilot, the CEO of a rival company (which led to an investigation), and a popular romance author (who allegedly wrote a book about him). Those made him a hit with gossip sites and his work got him on the news whenever calamity hit the fan in a major way.
A guy like that, plus what I learned about him in the hotel room; seriously, what’s there to say?
Other than: be careful playing with fire.
Tori removed the sandwiches from the grill and handed me mine on a plate. She always cuts hers diagonally. I rarely bother. I’m too impatient. “I know I don’t have too. That’s why I want to.”
The sandwich smelled divine—the cheese melted to rich gooey perfection. “Okay.”
“I met him last summer after the EVD outbreak.” That was last year’s big panic, of course. The vaccine-resistant strain of the virus had people predicting it would be the worst epidemic yet.
As we know, it wasn’t, because the response was much better this time. What you might not know, because the media failed to report it, is that Cole’s people were on the scene first, setting up more than a dozen of specially equipped field hospitals that held the line during the critical initial period. All the usual suspects moved in after that, cleaned up, gave interviews and squabbled over who should get the credit. I know that because Tori told me but that’s not what floored me. What she said next did.
“It’s true they didn’t bother to mention those were Cole’s hospitals all those people were being treated in but they also didn’t say he was there the whole time.”
“He was in the area?” Traveling to a region experiencing a nascent Ebola epidemic didn’t fit my picture of how rich corporate CEOs behaved.
Tori shook her head. “Not in the area, Jae. In the hospitals. He toured the wards every day, making sure procedures were being followed, patients weren’t being neglected, that everyone had everything they needed before they knew they needed it.”
I put down the sandwich I was about bite. “But that was… months.”
“About four months, yes.”
It was all I could do to close my mouth. Exposing yourself to that kind of risk for that long…
“He takes it personally, Jae. And he doesn’t ask his people to do anything he won’t.”
“Did he ask his people to stay there for four months?” All I could think to say.
“No.” Tori shook her head with an expression I’d rarely seen before. “They rotated home after a month. But there were other people who could do those jobs.”
It didn’t seem incredible—it was incredible. But then I remembered the guy who could wake up, find a strange half-naked girl in his room, and just… smile.
“Why didn’t they report it?” That sort of publicity would have been priceless.
“If the media knew he was there, they would’ve made the story all about him. He wanted the focus to stay where it belonged—on the people affected.”
No wonder Tori wanted to tell me about him. I wouldn’t have believed it otherwise.
“How did you meet him?”
“Those orphans we took in. I did tell you about that.” She had. Her foundation took in a few dozen children whose families had died, about half of them Ebola survivors themselves. “He became close to a number of them—wanted to come down and say goodbye before he went home.”
“Oh.” A stone-cold sentimentalist? My brain hurt from spinning. “So you became friends?”
“Yes, we became friends. He does a large amount of business here, even more since the outbreak. His company has its main facility outside the capital but he’s setting up a new regional headquarters here. Usually visits once a week.”
Very few people impress Tori. But there was still that playing-with-fire part. Tori’s a good judge of character but she hadn’t know him that long.
“He’d like to see you,” she finished.
“He said that?”
“In so many words.” Tori’s expression went impish. “Would you like to meet him… again?”
She just had to add that. The answer was an unqualified yes but I don’t do dates and I don’t drink, which puts a crimp on the “let’s have a drink” angle. Substitute coffee—more likely tea, in my case—and the crimp didn’t entirely go away because making small talk with CEOs isn’t my strong suit.
Okay, small talk isn’t my strong suit. Most people talk about their jobs and that’s off the table.
So how’s the stripping biz? Flog anyone interesting today? I hear sequencing is a real gas!
I don’t think so. He probably wouldn’t appreciate me asking about his latest disaster either. Maybe we could chat about bikes except that reminded me of last Saturday and the less I thought about how we met, the better…
Tori let me twist in those variable winds for a full minute before coming to my rescue. It’s the sadist in her.
“He enjoys shooting pool.”
I squinted daggers at her. She could’ve said that at any time.
“Alana’s flying in tomorrow,” Tori added, flicking those daggers aside with an airy smile. Alana—her full name is a lush mouthful: Alana Marcella Zavala-Marquez—was that sizzling little Brazilian domme Tori had been seeing. Cole + Pool + Alana = Something’s Up. When Tori gets elliptical like that, is usually best not to say anything and wait.
I waited.
“Maybe we could all get together later this week. What do you think?”
What did I think? If I could avoid threatening his life again—“Um… Sure. That would be great.”
“Excellent. I’ll speak to both of them. There is one thing I ought to mention, though.”
Here it comes. The thought spread its hood like a cobra. The playing-with-fire part.
“What’s that?”
“Cole can be a bit of an old-fashioned gentleman at times. Some people think he’s being distant when he thinks he’s simply being polite.”
“Okay.” Why Tori thought I should know this was a brain teaser that my brain—thinking of the hot mess he left me in the hotel room—didn’t have the resources available to handle. “What’s that mean?”
“He’s not like the other men you’ve met.”
“Uh huh. Right.” That was obvious but it didn’t mean he didn’t want what other men wanted.
“Jae, don’t make assumptions about him.” Tori’s tone carried a hint of warning.
“Okay, I probably deserved that.” I had been a trifle snide.
“Oh, I’d say you definitely deserved that,” Tori teased. “It’s not like the effect he had on you was unobvious. Especially under the circumstances.”
Wait… the light in the room wasn’t that good. Not good enough to see how wet I’d been.
Was it?
“Tori…”
Her eyes twinkled over her gin and tonic as she raised it for a slow sip. “I just don’t want my best friend to miss out because she leapt to conclusions.”
The light (as they say) dawned. “Tori! What d’ya think I’m gonna do the first chance I get?”
She gave me a feline smile. “Would you like more fish sticks with that?”
I looked down at my now cold and forgotten food. “Sure… um… You’re really thinking that?”
Reaching over, she squeezed my hand. “I’m just saying don’t overanalyze this one. Trust your feelings. I think you’ll have fun.”
If Tori knew my feelings, maybe she wouldn’t have said that. Or maybe she knew them better than I did. Sometimes you simply have to trust your friends. I forced myself to relax—until he actually said he could make it, the whole thing was academic anyway.
But the rest of dinner was great.
The sandwich and fish sticks were good, too.
♦ ♦ ♦
Tori called the next day. Our conversation was short and sweet.
Tori: “If Friday evening works for you, we’re all set.”
Me: “Friday works. Where?”
Tori: “I thought it would be best to choose neutral ground.”
Me: “Okay. What?”
Tori: “A pool table. Is that all right?”
Me: “Sure, that’s fine.”
Tori: “We’d have more privacy the club. I’ll set aside a room.”
Me: “Yeah, okay.”
Tori: “They’re both eager to see you.”
Me: “Likewise.”
We agreed on 1830 and after a few parting pleasantries, hung up. I’d felt like this before meeting LP‑45 and Kade, but that was a rock-star crush. You’re allowed to sound like an idiot over those. This was entirely different, more a feeling of stepping out of my depth.
Maybe a long way out.
It didn’t take me long to convince myself I was overreacting (that is, if you don’t consider a day to be long). As often as the high and mighty come through our doors at the VT, there was really no excuse for getting all worked up. So he was high and mighty and hot. That’s still no excuse.
Looked like I’d have to find another excuse.
Thanks so much for reading! I truly appreciate all your amazing support!