The Rich Girls' Club (9 page)

“Yes, you did. I know what I heard. Were you fantasizing about Magnum while I was eating your pussy?”

Brooks stared Morgan in the eyes, kissed her, then said, “No, I wasn’t fantasizing about your husband. The thought of that is absurd. You’re my lover.”

And that was half the truth.

S
acramento, California was like most state capitals. Outside of politics one couldn’t find an abundance of exciting or entertaining things to do here, especially after dark. Sac was contrary to LA, with its stars and wannabe celebrities looking and acting alike. Men, women, and children competed for the spotlight on Venice Beach, hoping to be discovered. Whatever God didn’t bless people with in Los Angeles, a plastic surgeon could. And having so many functions and parties happening in the City of Angels, there were plenty of moments for the struggling folks to shine and party as though they were rich.

The Streets of Sacramento
would never make it to Hollywood as a movie or reality show. Filmmakers didn’t care enough about small towns, or the people that resided in them unless those people were famous before moving there, like Arnold Schwarzenegger had been. Living in Sac could be a good thing if one wanted peace and enjoyment in their day-to-day activities, and depending on what neighborhood one chose.

Hope was sure today’s face-to-face with Laura Littleton would prove uneventful. No blackmail cameras. No hotel suite. No hidden voice recorders. This was the beginning of a business relationship with an end in mind. By every means she could think of, Hope would eventually find a way to make sure Laura lost to Brooks. Men usually screwed themselves because they underestimated women. But with only four weeks left before Brooks’s announcement, Hope wasn’t taking the chance that Mrs. Littleton would somehow sabotage her own campaign.

Laura had chosen Lucca, one of Sacramento’s top ten restaurants nestled between midtown and downtown, for their meeting. Hope arrived twenty minutes early, hoping to watch Laura walk through the doors. A person’s walk and body language were their first forms of communication.

If Laura slouched, she was just that. Slouchers were procrastinators and underachievers. If Laura stood tall, exhibiting confidence in her stance, her character was possibly the same, but not necessarily: People who exercised regularly generally had good posture. But being poised didn’t equate to having intelligence. Hope had met enough great-looking men to know that looks and brains weren’t always equal partners. Hope would draw her conclusions only after Laura opened her mouth.

Approaching the host, Hope said, “Reservation for Lau—”

“Hey, Hope. I got us a booth away from the door. I’m so glad to meet you!” Laura said, rushing in her direction. Extending her hand, Laura’s shake was firm and tight, her rhythm stiff like the black crinoline pantsuit she wore.

Damn, girl. Relax.
Laura almost cut off her circulation. “My pleasure,” Hope lied, stretching out her fingers. Laura never noticed.

“You know what they say: if you’re on time you’re late.” Laura’s high-pitched laugh sounded like she was a hyena gasping for air. Patrons’ heads snapped in their direction. Laura never noticed.

“Follow me, Hope. I just adore this place. Have you eaten here before?” she asked, sliding into the booth. Her back and shoulders flushed against the vinyl. There wasn’t much up top to thrust forward. The smile on her face almost appeared permanent, like something painted on the face of a porcelain doll, except that Laura’s manly persona was not so adorable. Her hair was short, blond, tapered on the sides and higher on top, just like Johnathon’s. She wore no makeup.

“No, can’t say that I have,” Hope said, picking up the menu, raising it to cover her face. She exhaled, rolled her eyes to the side, composed herself, then lowered the menu.

The restaurant’s red-brick wall décor reminded her of New Orleans. The ambiance was warm, inviting, and the staff appeared happy. The place was spacious but not so spread out that Hope couldn’t see the faces of other diners across the room.

“You’re going to love the food here. I’ll order for you,” Laura said, leaning across the table and taking the menu out of Hope’s hand.

If Laura wins by a fluke, she’ll need someone to taste her food first just to make sure the person in the kitchen or at the table isn’t trying to shut her up.
Was she for real? Hope took the menu.

“Just like I’m capable of giving you a check for a million dollars—which by the way may I remind you, you haven’t gotten yet—I can and will order for myself.”

Mentioning the check reminded her she needed to have a conversation with Morgan. There was still that undisclosed reason why they weren’t using resources from the Rich Girls’ Fund, and Hope was determined to find out what was going on. The fact that Hope’s father was wealthy and that she earned her own millions was no reason she should have to invest more of her money to trap Brooks’s opponents. When the campaign was over, Morgan was going to reimburse her.

Laura gasped. “Oh, my. I didn’t mean any harm. It’s just that I’m so used to taking charge and I thought rich people like yourself loved having others do things for them. I figured I was doing
you
a favor.” Fanning her hand in a downward position, she continued, “Take your time. I already know what I’m having.”

Laura’s contrived smile never vanished. “You’re beautiful, Hope. I’m surprised you can afford such a generous donation. I like you already.”

Stay in your lane, Missy.
Hope was sure Laura’s wife wouldn’t appreciate the comment, which accompanied Laura’s lustful stare at her cleavage. But if licking Laura’s pussy on top of the table right now would end their luncheon and give Brooks a slam-dunk win, Hope would do it without hesitation.

If nothing else could lose Laura votes, her fake personality was a guarantee. Hope was beginning to believe Laura’s entering the race would split the Republican vote. Maybe Goodman, a Democrat, had orchestrated having Laura run. Hmm, perhaps helping Laura to get more votes was an even better strategy than buying her out.

Maybe the Rich Girls could create an in-house competition and let the Republicans fight amongst themselves. Truly, Laura couldn’t be serious about being in charge of California. But then again, Sarah Palin did run for Vice President after having been elected governor of Alaska.

Hope shook her head. She hadn’t selected a single item on the menu. Her purpose overruled her hunger for food. “Let’s see.” Maybe if she spoke a few words aloud she could decide what she wanted to eat. That was, if she didn’t lose her appetite first. Truth was, she didn’t want to break bread with Laura. She wanted to regurgitate.

The waitress approached their booth, no pen or pad in hand. “May I start you ladies with something to drink?”

“Yes, we’ll have two waters, no ice, with lemon. Hope, what else would you like?” Laura asked.

To, leave. Now.
Hope looked at the waitress. “I’ll have a strawberry lemonade with ice and I’d like ice in my water, no lemon. And I’ll have the Myzithra Cheese Bread with the red lentil hummus, green olive pesto, and mixed olives to start.”
And end her meal.

Laura’s smile widened. “That’s exactly what I was going to order for you! I’ll have the same but I’d like a regular lemonade, no ice.”

The waitress walked away, and Hope desperately wanted to follow her wherever she was going.

“So is your dad like a real Indian Chief? How much money do his casinos make? You know, taxing the revenue made from casinos on Indian reservations would really help boost California’s economy.”

Oh no she didn’t.
Had any lobbyist groups given this woman money to support their agenda? Obviously, Laura didn’t understand how large campaign contributions worked. Hope wanted to hit Laura in the head but feared even that wouldn’t knock sense into her.

Hope stood, then lied. “I just remembered. I have another candidate to meet with.”

“Wait, you’re not leaving, are you? What about the million dollars you promised me?” Laura pleaded.

For the first time, Hope saw the smile on Laura’s face disappear. Laura’s ignorance was unbelievable. Hope refused to financially aid her campaign.

“Like I said, I’ve got to go.” And Hope strutted out of the restaurant. If she stayed, the story of her beating up Laura would definitely be breaking news.

Hope had met with Laura intent on giving her the money in order to gain access to inside information. She glanced at her watch. Fifteen minutes of digesting ignorance was fourteen minutes too long.

There had to be a better way.

I
love you, Storm.”

Love represented a wide array of meanings that dwelled in a person, not in the person’s words. Chancelor’s eyes softened as his finger trailed under her jaw to her chin. His thumb brushed across Storm’s lips. Gently she held then kissed his hand.

She knew what Chancelor’s
words
meant but what did he mean? What was his heart saying to her in the moment? Had he given considerable thought to what he said? Was this the kind of love that made a man want to propose? Was he responding to her financing his past, present, and possibly his future? Or was his confession based on how amazing she made him feel sexually?

Storm placed her feet on the bar underneath his stool, put her hands on his firm thighs, then searched his eyes for answers to her questions. This was her opportunity to let go, to trust that he’d catch her if she admitted she was falling in love with him.

Frowning, he squeezed her hands. “What’s taking you so long to say something? You don’t believe me? Or you don’t feel the same way I do?”

Why did he have to do this at Trader Vic’s? He should’ve waited until they were at his or her house. He could’ve told her before they got out of the car. Was the liquor talking for him? They sat at the end of the bar. The nearest person to them was the mixologist, who was laughing with a couple of females at the opposite end. Storm motioned for him to come over.

“Another round of our original Mai Tai?” the bartender asked, smiling happily.

Storm nodded. She was enjoying the fruitful Pacific Island, Indo-Chinese, Japanese, and Creole flavors of her drink more than her conversation with Chancelor, but this was her last one. She had to drop him off and meet Tony at her house in a few hours.

“I do believe you, and please don’t lead my response. You know how much I hate it when you do that.”

“Well.”

“Well what?” she said, sighing heavily.

“Am I annoying you?”

Storm’s voice rose. “Chancelor, stop it!”

The bartender switched their empty glasses for the new round of drinks, then quickly headed back toward the lively, giggling females.

Chancelor released her hands, folded his arms high across his chest.

“Excuse, me. Bartender. Close us out,” Storm said, slapping her credit card on the counter.

“I am annoying you. Sorry,” Chancelor said, turning his back to the bar.

She hated when her man acted like a child. Chancelor’s moping was solely for sympathy and she refused to pacify him. Refused to tell him what he wanted to hear.

What did love mean to a twenty-one-year-old? Had he lived long enough to understand what he’d said? Dated enough women to figure out if she was truly the one? Maybe he’d have more in common with those girls across the bar. They were definitely closer to his age.

Storm exhaled. What did love mean to her, a thirty-year-old who never felt the depths of caring for a man so much that she could say, “I love you,” or “I love you, too,” and mean it…until now.

“Let’s go,” were the words that escaped her mouth instead, as she signed off on the bill.

The drive to his condo took forty minutes. The silence was equally as long. When she parked in front of his building, Chancelor exited her car, slamming the door. Storm drove off. She had more important things to tend to. In transit to her house, her cell phone rang non-stop. What did Chancelor have to say now that he wouldn’t say while they were together? She ignored each of his calls.

Disgusted, Storm arrived home and immediately turned on her iPod. Music played throughout her entire house. The list containing her favorite slow jams didn’t help her to forget about Chancelor but it did put her in the mood to have sex with Tony.

Standing in the shower, Storm let the hot water pulsate against her body. Why was it so difficult to have an intellectual conversation about love with Chancelor? She wasn’t opposed to answering his question, but love for her wasn’t some casual acknowledgement that he should’ve made at a bar over drinks.

“Whatever,” she said, massaging anti-aging cream on her face and body.

Storm slipped into what she called her indoor/outdoor attire. Dancing barefoot around her bedroom, she draped her body in a sheer green, blue, brown, and white printed dress. The hem clung mid-thigh, the sleeves flared over her wrists. She flung her arms wide, twirled like a ballerina. Brown beads lined the plunging V-collar that dipped below her cleavage, slightly exposing a hint of her areolas.

The black boy-cut Rodeo-H briefs were her new way to strap-on. No harness. No straps around her waist and thighs. All she had to do when he was ready was attach the dildo to the front opening. The briefs would allow her to get close like a man, while fucking a man.

Three-inch black sandals exposed her succulent onyx-and-diamonds pedicure. She was ready for Anthony and he was right on time.

Opening the door, Storm smiled. “Hi, come in.”

“Well, I’m glad we were able to get on the same page before I got here,” Anthony said, strolling into the foyer like he’d been to her house before. Immediately he removed his shoes and socks.

Storm extended her hand. “Pleased to finally meet you.”

“Aw, with your generosity more than a handshake is in order,” he said, raising his brows twice. “We don’t have to be that formal behind closed doors. I want to hear more about your riding techniques,” Tony said, giving her an affectionate slow rub down her spine.

The things men agreed to do for money or sex were astonishing. Their freakish fantasies were jaw-dropping. If anyone had seen Tony walk through her front door, based on his Calvin Klein, charcoal, slim-fit suit they might assume he was the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. Nails impeccably manicured and pedicured. Tapered afro, just enough to pinch, not grab. The sexy skinny goatee that showed he was edgy, different. Unlike the other opponents, he wasn’t afraid to grow a little facial hair.

He navigated his way to the first stop in her home, the bar. The living area was off to one side, entertainment room to the other. “Wow, this would make the perfect bachelor pad.” Reaching for a bottle on the top shelf, Tony helped himself to a hefty glass of scotch. “So you live in this mansion by yourself?”

If he thought her place was a mansion, what would he think of Morgan’s, Brooks’s, and Hope’s homes? There was one thing he was right about: every man that had stepped foot in her spot drooled.

“Only when I don’t have company,” Storm replied with a smile. She set an empty glass on the bar in front of him.

“Oh; how rude of me.” He laughed, poured her a triple shot, refilled his glass.

Well, Anthony Dennison wasn’t short on being a self-​c
entered
asshole. If she didn’t need the footage, she would’ve put him out, then thrown his shoes and socks after him. Storm left the glass of scotch untouched, opened a bottle of chilled champagne, poured herself a drink, then hurried to catch up to Tony.

“I hope you don’t mind me giving myself a tour. I need to buy my wife a house like this.”

What he really meant was he wished her house was his. “You do plan on winning the election, don’t you? Otherwise, I can invest my money in Randall Wallace.”

He downed the remainder of his drink, plopped the glass on her nightstand, removed his clothes. “Don’t be silly. That’s enough small talk. Let’s do this.”

Damn, she had enticed him over the phone but this man seemed to have zero reservations. Maybe he subscribed to the Rich Girls’ motto: Never fuck anyone who had nothing to lose. Storm wondered why some men just wanted to get off with little or no conversation. Maybe Tony had fucked so many women without getting caught that taking off his clothes was automatic.

Inspecting his body, Storm determined that Tony’s best asset wasn’t his ass. It was his creamy chocolate lips that exposed perfectly aligned teeth. His smile alone was worth a million dollars. Maybe that’s what had gotten him in the race.

Cocktails, the promise of a check, and a candid conversation about sex had landed Anthony Dennison in Storm’s bed. When some men thought no one was watching, or there was no way anyone would find out, and they believed that the woman they could act out their fantasy with was naïve, their pants quickly came off.

Not every man wanted to sex the woman they were with. Some desired spankings, others flogging. Some wanted to mutually masturbate or have the woman jerk them off. Others, like Tony, claimed, “I just want to role-play with you, Storm. I’ve never had a real jockey mount me. Ride me, baby.”

Storm exhaled, eased pink lace panties over Anthony’s feet then pulled them up to his hips. The head of his dick nearly touched his navel. His balls hung out of the bottom of the boy shorts. His lower shaft was snug inside the elastic.

His colossal dick was long and hard, just like the rest of his body. Storm’s pussy wanted him inside her. She wanted to pull her harness underwear aside and let him fuck her, but Tony had made it clear that pussy wasn’t on his agenda.

“Those shorts are hot on you, Tony. How long have you been into cross-dressing?” Fastening the back of the pink lace bra, Storm trailed kisses from the nape of Tony’s neck down to his sweet ass.

Storm had to find a way to convince him to fuck her, or else she was going to have to text Chancelor to come over and take the edge off for both of them. That wasn’t a bad idea. Makeup sex would be the perfect apology for not answering his calls and his question.

“You have to promise to keep this between us,” Tony said, smearing on strawberry lip gloss. “I’ve been secretly doing this since I was a little boy, playing dress-up with my mother’s wardrobe.”

“And your mom never caught you?”

“Never. Parents don’t give kids enough credit for knowing right from wrong. Whenever she noticed her panties were missing, I blamed my sister.”

“What about your wife. Doesn’t she know?”

“Are you serious? Hell, no. The worst thing a man can do is confide in his spouse. Telling my deepest secret or fantasy to my wife is a divorce wish. If she doesn’t leave my ass the first time I make a mistake, she’ll publicly embarrass me or throw it in my face, like a feeding a pig slop.”

“So are you into men at all?” Storm asked, glancing up at her hidden cameras then back to him.

“You’re hot, Storm, but if I wanted pussy, I’d fuck my wife.”

“If I were a man I’d want to fuck you in the ass, Tony. You’re, like, irresistible.”

Tony laughed. “It’s like a straight guy knows he shouldn’t do a dude, but if no one was watching, he’d definitely bang another straight guy like me. Turn around, babe. Look at me.”

“Keep it real. Have you ever had sex with a man? If you did, I sure hope you weren’t on top,” Storm said, sliding her hand along his firm dick.

Anthony shook his head, then nodded. “That’s the thing about my liking to cross-dress. It’s not about fucking men. But I can’t lie. I’ve been on the top and the bottom with a man. Once. I prefer having a woman penetrate me. Life is short, you know. No matter who I fuck at the end of the day, it’s my decision and it’s my dick.” He shook his head. “Why am I telling you all of this? You have a pair of heels and wig I can put on? And since you’ve got me all hard and shit, go on and strap on for me like you said you would.”

She’d gotten everything in his size to fulfill his desires: shoes, lingerie, and wig. The makeup on the nightstand was fresh, plentiful, and colorful. If he asked, she’d create a work of art, from making up his face to polishing his toes.

Tony sucked in his lips, raised his brows, strutted back and forth in his stilettos, then tilted his head down toward her. He was totally dressed in drag but he wasn’t a drag.

“It’ll be my pleasure,” Storm said, easing her dress over her head. Her titties were perky and her nipples hard. She licked the silicone dick then snapped her dildo into the opening of her harness underwear.

Storm peeled back the pink boy shorts clinging to his hard round ass, squirted lube inside, then massaged his asshole with the lace. She pulled his underwear to one side then said, “How would you like this dick? Gentle? Or rough?”

“Start off easy, then fuck the shit out of me. And don’t you hold back, bitch,” he said, looking over his shoulder.

Bitch? That’s cool.
“Bend over. On your knees,” she commanded, shoving him forward. She kicked his knees farther apart.

Storm eased the head up and down the crack of his ass, slowly put the head in then pulled out. In and out. She went a little deeper, gently squeezed his balls. Holding his nuts in her hand, she glided all the way in.

“Uh, yeah!” he grunted. “That feels amazing. You sure know how to ride.”

With the millions of dollars she had, if Storm had a dick, what kind of man would she be? Nice and considerate? Careless, reckless…getting women pregnant then dogging them out? Would she be the marrying kind? Or would she be like Anthony, with a dick in her ass?

“Yes. That’s it! Now fuck me like you mean it,” Tony grunted. “Give it to me like an F5 tornado. Swirl then rip me apart!” Anthony braced himself on the edge of her bed, tilted his ass higher in her direction.

Whack!
Storm slapped his ass.

Riding him like he was her champion thoroughbred, she stroked his dick until she couldn’t take it anymore.

Damn! She thought about him ejaculating and had to feel that dick deep inside of her before he came. In one fluid motion, Storm tore open a condom, covered Tony’s dick, pulled the dildo out of his butt, flipped him onto his back, turned her dildo in the opposite direction, sat on his dick, then slid the dildo back in his ass.

“Aw, shit!” Tony screamed like the bitch he’d soon become.

Perfect
, she thought.

Tony invited himself into her shower, put on his clothes, then collected his million dollar check. “Thanks,” he said, staggering to the left, then right. Speechless, he shook his head. “I’ll see myself out.”