“Poor Birdie,” Vive gasped.
Eyes closed, Birdie was snoring on her back. Her swollen face appeared raw and tender. On the TV screen by her bed played a video.
“What is Birdie watching?” Vive stepped in closer.
“Eh?” Taddy felt as if she’d just been hit with a baseball bat. Instinctively she reached for Vive’s hand for balance. A quick swallow and deep inhale, she pushed the lump that was coming up in her throat back down. “It’s Lex’s tenth birthday party.”
“This is so sad.” Vive seemed to better understand Birdie’s condition.
On the screen, Birdie and Eddie sang happy birthday set to a rock-n-roll melody. Taddy noticed herself in the video with her own parents. Countess Irma and Joseph Graf sat at a table clapping along, out of rhythm. She’d forgotten what it looked like to see everyone happy, especially herself. “All Lex wanted that year was for Eddie to be home and spend time with her.”
“Did he?”
“No.” It pained her to think about it. “Eddie came for the party. It was good press for their family.” Taddy kept her voice low. She noticed in the video how Lex clung to her father, afraid to let him go.
“God, Eddie was such a beautiful man.”
“Such a waste.” It angered Taddy to think about how he’d neglected his family.
“Those are your folks, right?” Vive squinted at the TV and then back to Taddy.
“Yup.” Taddy suddenly felt sick. She couldn’t stand looking at her parents.
“I’ve never met them.”
“And for good reason.” Taddy stalked over to the TV and punched the off switch. “Let’s let Birdie sleep.” Before leaving, she pulled the plush covers snug around Birdie.
The next day Taddy called Birdie and offered to hire a nurse for around-the-clock care. Birdie declined and argued she was ready to see her husband in heaven. Taddy didn’t know if Birdie was being dramatic or if she should be taken seriously. She put another call in to Dr. Fassenbender.
He disregarded Birdie’s images and disease claims as nothing but a skin irritation.
Resisting the urge not to get sucked into Easton drama, she figured Birdie would be fine. Maybe it was denial. Maybe it was hope. Either way she didn’t want to get involved. The only thing to do was to wait and see what Birdie did next.
* * * * *
“Screw me, Brayden Brooks,” she chanted per usual at seven a.m. mid-week, pre-Christmas, about a week prior to her sunny jaunt to Algarve with Lex. Taddy exercised on her elliptical. The private Gilad sessions gave her ass a new tighter, higher, younger shape, although he had yet to fuck her. Gilad held out for Taddy to purchase a twenty-session package. Taddy told him the package that interested her came from his pants and should take one session, not several. There was no desire to see the same man twenty times for anything, including sex, so Taddy crossed Gilad off her men-to-screw list. Fuck that! She wasn’t about to pay for sex from her Pilates instructor.
She’d hit the thousand-calories-burned mark strutting on the exercise equipment. Endorphins flew. The tangy ammonia hint soared from her pores, a sign she could eat whatever carbohydrates she wanted. She’d earned it. Jamming to “Honey Hive Filled Love” sung by Waris Sugar, Taddy sang the lyrics to herself:
I’m pullin’ my Victoria Secrets down
A-ooh baby baby, ooh baby baby
You’re slickin’ your dick up
A-ooh aah aah, A-ooh aah aah
I’m gettin’ my honey hive filled
A-aah mmm, A-aah mmm
Taddy knew women orgasmed while doing intense cardio. They didn’t come like a geyser, rather with mini-climaxes. Natural to her, she came too when endorphins flew. So frequent in fact, she did the elliptical alone, unless with Lex who remained oblivious. When she pushed her body hard enough, closed her eyes, let the song take over and Brayden Brooks danced in her mind’s eye—she’d come. Pilates with Gilad didn’t compare to this exhilaration, let alone the Brayden Brooks fantasy.
Utilizing this morning’s workout as she did any other—watching her recorded Brayden Brooks games on ESPN in slow motion—she pretended her beloved NFL athlete trained right by her side as sung in the song, “Honey Hive Filled Love”.
She hit “play” and “repeat” and “pause” with her remote. Brayden running. That’s it, baby. Brayden tackling. Go, baby. Brayden scoring a touchdown. Oh yes, baby. She wondered if he’d ejaculate in her mouth. In return, would he gaze intently into her eyes when he came? It was her strongest desire.
When Blake and the executive staff didn’t come in to start their day—perhaps too hung over from the press launch the night prior¾she stepped faster. Taddy moved her hips harder, and with no reservations, she slipped her right hand down her Lululemon pants. For a few minutes, she sexed on with Brayden Brooks—in her head. Scissoring her legs back and forth, she’d set the endurance level at 10, speed set at 20, pumping at 40, heart rate at 120. She rubbed herself, and for the next fifteen or so seconds she…
Ooooh fucking—fuck me, Brayden Brooks. Come on. Shove your nice, juicy dick into my Taddy-lic-icous-kitty. She envisioned him spreading her legs and lower lips apart with his football-playing hands. Tap my clit, baby. That’s it, honey. Harder, right here, love it, ah-huh… Images of his mushroom head sliding deep inside filled her mind. You like that tight pink little nub, don’t cha? Oh you are g-g-g-good. Keep going, get in there. Now…now…now…like that…tap my pussy, baby. She shoved her hand down farther, fingers in deeper, imagining taking Brayden’s cock inside her. With her acrylic nails, she flicked her clitoris. A chill went through her. You wanna come in my mouth, Big Daddy. Come on. She came hard enough to start the day with a smile. No Baden Cosmetics rouge on her cheeks required.
Finished pleasuring herself, she reached for her favorite industry trade journal to get her mind off her vulva’s needs and onto her workday ahead. On page sixty-nine, no less, she found a full-blown advertisement announcing a farewell to a living icon from the music industry.
WTF?
Birdie Easton’s pre-obituary letter. She’d never seen such a thing. Birdie was going through with this. Was this for real? Had Taddy underestimated the illness?
“Kiki!” she screamed from her exercise machine, hoping her Miss Goody Two-shoes had come in early. “Kiki, get in here!”