You twisted magazine editor.
* * * * *
Marijuana proved easier to score from the concierge than finding the local watering hole. Taddy tipped the Secrète de St. Barth bellman, whose name tag read Tristan, two hundred dollars to tell her where Vive and she could go to have a nighttime pick-me-up. They were hoping for a festive night but they sure weren’t going to get that in their stuffy hotel.
Tristan enlightened her, advising on a place sightseers didn’t linger called Privé Extreme, a members-only champagne club. Privé Extreme required an application process, a $100,000 membership fee for the winter season and had a five-year waiting list.
Vive had already pulled her own VIP media pass out. “Get a clue, buddy, who the hell we are. I own America’s number-one-selling magazine, Debauchery.”
“Pardon?” Tristan glanced over at Taddy.
“Ignore her.”
“You should be rolling out the red carpet for us.” Vive crossed her arms. “We’re doing you a favor by being here.”
Oh brother. Taddy pinched Vive’s elbow. “Farnworth, stop it. We promised their manager no New York diva shit, remember?” She pushed her friend to the side and stepped closer to the bellman. “Tristan, chéri, in the United States we call your little runaround—bullshit.” With a squint to her eyes, Taddy leaned her cleavage over the counter and dug her nails deep into his desktop.
The bellman stepped back. “Je suis désolé.”
“Your bubble club recommendation is priced higher than Manhattan’s most elite establishments.”
Tristan eyed Taddy for more of her American dollars. He fixed his stare on her handbag.
She grabbed her purse tighter. Taddy wasn’t familiar with having to pay for drinks let alone to get into a club. It was Chinese to Vive as well.
“Mademoiselle Red, those are the rules.” Tristan’s hand motioned at her with an open palm saying, “Tip me again, you stupid American.”
“Il m’agace vraiment. You’ve gotta be able to pull some strings—something.” She slipped Tristan two additional Benjamins.
He took something out from his back pocket. It was a VIP card in an ivory velvet box embossed with the words “Privé Extreme”. Tristan handed them a map with directions to the club and pointed them in a direction south of the hotel.
“Merci beaucoup.” Upon receipt, she turned the white card over to read on the back as Vive eyed over her shoulder, “A Truman Enterprises Property”. Smart man you are, Mr. Truman.
Chapter Six
Per-fucking-fection
Taddy held on to Vive’s waist as they walked out into the dark.
“I imagine this Mr. Truman as an old, fat, hairy ass hooked up to an oxygen tank, sitting in some reclining automatic bed, eating green Jell-O,” Vive said.
“I love your imagination, Vive.” Taddy put the card in her purse. She’d never thought about the man behind the resort empire before. Having never met Mr. Truman, she’d heard he lived as a notorious recluse who hated having his photo taken. In fact, no one knew who he was or what he looked like. Taddy’s natural assumption? The man ought to be hideous. Most billionaires who owned hotels and hid from the public were.
“It’s true. I bet he’s watching The 700 Club on his jumbo in-home theater system, laughing his way to the bank.”
Taddy and Vive’s cell phones chimed at the exact same time. They were close to the address Tristan had given them for the club.
Vive shook her head as Taddy already knew who the text was from and what it would probably say, more or less. She reached for her phone to read, “I’m spent, going to sleep. Have fun. xo Lex”.
“Typical. Damn her. I wish she’d come out and party with us.” The last time Lex cut loose was over a year ago, just hours before her father killed himself.
“She’s in a funk. All she does is work on those Easton Essential garments.” Vive pulled her in a little tighter, resting her head against Taddy’s. “We’ll keep on loving her and pray she snaps out of it. We can’t push her otherwise.” Maybe Vive was tipsy twenty-four-seven, but every once in a while, she could come up with something pretty damn profound.
Taddy and Lex had met Vive on their first day at boarding school. Vive was the first girl in their class to talk openly about losing her virginity. Everyone else gave frigid a new meaning. Not Vive. Vive lifted their long faces with jokes and designer shoes when they became homesick. Taddy knew that year they’d be friends—for life.
After walking down the winding sandy road, it took a minute for Taddy’s eyes to adjust to read the sign. She showed the bouncer at the door her membership card that permitted a plus one.
“Entrez.” He scrutinized her and then Vive once over. The security video camera flashed, “Now Recording”. With a blink, the doorman’s eyes did a double-take over Vive’s skunk handbag.
“Baby, my purse won’t bite ya unless you want it to.” Vive put her arms around the bouncer’s jacked biceps. “Would you care to get better acquainted with my other accessories?”
“Come on.” Taddy grabbed at her before the guy could change his mind and refuse their admission.
Electro house music pumped from the other side of the room. The synthesizers thumped to the tune “Juice Box” by her favorite artist, Waris Sugar. It was a song she’d played on the elliptical while fantasizing about Brayden Brooks.
The Privé Extreme platinum double doors opened.
Waris Sugar’s words jived through her.
Fruit on my lips
I got blackberry, blueberry and grape for yous too
Take a sip from my juice box, boo
Privé Extreme’s interior didn’t match its exterior. It radiated luxury, lust and sex. Imported French and Italian eighteenth-century materials created a platinum, blush and bronze backdrop enhanced by flickering candles. From tall candelabras to votives, long to short, the flames burned as if to say, “Tonight’s your night, Red, go for it.”
“I get why they don’t allow any common folk. This place is gorgeous.” Taddy appreciated any hot spot that prohibited the hanger-on types.
Vive’s head spun. “Move over Russian aristocracy, this champagne club is what VIP should embody.”
“Don’t you dare ruin it with a magazine article.”