The Rich Girls' Club (5 page)

S
ituations are going to get complicated real fast…if I can’t cover my ass!

Three weeks had passed since Morgan had revealed her plan in early January. Only seven weeks remained before Brooks had to go public with her candidacy in late March.

The closer it came to Brooks making her announcement to enter the race, the more she thought about the people she’d randomly sexed over the past twelve months. She’d had more one-night stands than she could remember. And they were meant to be that way—buried in the back of her mind. She didn’t care to see those men again. For Brooks, sometimes it just seemed best to sex married men. She doubted any of them would jeopardize their relationships to slander her.

The more she told herself, “Think like a dick. Keep your emotions out of the race,” the more she worried about being the primary candidate exposed.

Her broke and broken down ex-husband, along with the media, could prove to become her worst enemies. Brooks sat in her home office all morning and afternoon carefully studying each document before her. Information began taking longer to digest than it should. She found herself re-reading the same sentences but nothing registered. Removing her glasses, she rubbed her eyes. Her hands flopped to her lap.

She’d barely slept last night, and tonight would be the same if she didn’t uninvite her married lover, who was in town on business. But with her mounting stress, she needed his stiff dick deep inside her to release her endorphins.

They’d been sexing one another going on two years. No one knew but them. Brooks liked their secret affair. He provided the companionship she needed and she gave him the orgasmic pleasure his wife didn’t.

Pussy was a terrible thing to waste. A week without seeing one of her lovers was too long. She enjoyed this man because he knew all of her erogenous zones. He could make her cum just by sucking her fingers or licking her toes. But how could she continue seeing him for the next nine months, until Election Day, without her other opponents finding out? Worse, how could she keep the girls from discovering she was doing him?

The cup of coffee on her desk was cold. Brooks stumbled to the kitchen to brew a fresh pot. She’d seen commercials and propaganda gone wrong. If that should happen to her, by the time they aired there wouldn’t be anything to do except fight back in self-defense then pray the voters believed her. Starting a fight was much better than defending herself.

Maybe she should rethink that. Obama never started a nasty debate but he always finished the strongest. Perhaps finishing strong should be her approach.

Grinding Columbian beans, she envisioned her opponents, and frail seniors with walkers and wheelchairs outside her mansion holding signs that read, “Kennedy claims she’s for healthcare but voted against hospitalization for the uninsured elderly.” Brooks knew what she’d really voted against was the hospitals’ practice of double-billing the elderly’s private providers and Medicare. Hospitals collected money from seniors’ healthcare plans and those institutions were charging Medicare for the same services and getting away with it.

The “what ifs” cluttering her mind about pharmaceutical drugs versus the legalization of medical marijuana were exhausting. While Hope, Storm, and Morgan slept peacefully, she hadn’t gotten a good night’s rest since she’d agreed to run for governor. Brooks prayed she could keep her eyes open while making her press announcement two months from now with Morgan standing by her side. Then she’d have to keep moving until she crossed the finish line in November.

Her cell phone rang. She closed the bag of coffee beans, set the package on the counter. Dragging her feet back to her office, she saw on the caller-ID that it was Morgan.

“Hey,” she exhaled, sitting on the edge of her desk.

“Hey, Brooks, sweetie, I’m calling to check on you. How are you doing, honey?”

“Tired. Managing.”

“Did Bo deliver your lunch and dinner? He said he would do me that personal favor.”

Brooks was too tired to eat, too hungry to sleep, but if Bo had licked her pussy before his handsome behind left she’d be horizontal. If she’d had a few vitamin B-Complex tablets in her system she would’ve had enough energy to devour Bo. But none of the girls drooled over Bo because he was the cook and no matter how sexy he was, the Rich Girls didn’t fuck the help.

Maybe Morgan’s enthusiasm could revive her. “Yes, and thanks but I haven’t eaten any of it yet. I was just about to take a break. You want to come over?”

Damn, she really was tired. Why did she ask Morgan that? Morgan couldn’t come over. If her lover arrived while Morgan was there, Morgan would cancel her brilliant plan. Maybe that wasn’t a bad idea. Then Brooks could resume a normal life without being subjected to having others judge her.

“I’d love to come but I’m headed to Sacramento. I can’t wait to get my foot in Goodman’s door before I put it up his ass. I have a meeting with his assistant tomorrow.” Morgan sounded refreshed, chipper. Her excitement drained Brooks even more.

Brooks knew Morgan was meeting with Goodman tomorrow but Brooks was more concerned with wrapping her legs and locking her feet around Goodman’s sexy white ass tonight. She was Bailey’s lover, but it was best if Morgan did the dirty work. If Brooks exposed Bailey, her confession would admit to their double affair and give the other party an advantage.

“You can do this, honey. Everything is on track. Hang in there. I’ll book you a two-hour massage with my personal masseuse, Nathaniel Brown, when I get back. He’ll come to you. He’s the absolute best. All the celebrities hire him. I’ll check on you later sweetie. Bye.”

That was what Brooks needed: to marry a massage therapist. That way she could have all her physical needs met by one man.

Sighing heavily, Brooks ended the call. “Now, where was I? Oh, yeah. That’s right. Coffee. No…food,” she mumbled, stumbling back to the kitchen.

She stood at the marbled island in the middle of the floor, opened the vegetable tray, and began eating her first piece of food for the day, a carrot stick. The dark blue island, that doubled as a wet bar, was the main place where the girls gathered when they were at her home. Four plush chocolate-colored swivel barstools lined the sides, two on each. Unlike at Morgan’s place, not much cooking happened in Brooks’s kitchen.

Her doorbell rang.
Can’t be.
“Don’t tell me he’s early?” Brooks looked at the time on her cell: 4:00 p.m.

Hurrying to her office, she closed the door then rushed to the living room. She entered the foyer, and peeped through the view hole. Yep, he was early. She knew she looked a hot mess but when she sniffed under her armpit—“damn”—she smelled like sour milk. If she didn’t know him so well, she would’ve walked away and pretended she wasn’t home.

Opening the door, she asked, “Why didn’t you call first? I need to shower. Don’t get too close,” She dodged his kiss. “You should’ve called or at least texted me…something.”

“I apologize, sweetheart. My meeting ended early so I thought I’d surprise you,” he said, handing her a bouquet of red roses. “Are you going to move so I can come in?”

She stepped aside. “Yes. Of course. Come in. Make yourself comfortable in the bedroom. I’m going to take a bath right now,” she said, closing the door behind him.

Passing by her office, Brooks pulled the handle to make certain the door was completely closed. She made a mental note to have a lock installed as soon as possible.

“I’ve never seen you look this tired,” he said, following her. “Are you okay? Maybe you need to get your thyroid checked.”

Thyroid…right. What did he know or care about her thyroid?

“Maybe you’re right. I’ll have my thyroid checked out,” she agreed in order to pacify him. It was best not to tell him why she was exhausted. Now wasn’t the right time.

Seeing him made her realize he was exactly what she needed. His silver hair had a hint of pepper sprinkled throughout. He was twenty years older than she was but his sixty-five-year-old body could compete with any fifty-year-old’s. The golden tone of his smooth skin and his perfect Hollywood veneers could’ve easily allowed him to star in
An Officer and A Gentleman
. Now he could double for Richard Gere in
The Double
. Bailey Goodman was probably every woman’s fantasy.

Brooks headed to the bathroom, turned on the hot and cold water to her spa tub, removed her clothes, then quickly tossed them in the hamper. Generously she added lavender crystals. Covering her hair with a plastic cap, she folded a bath towel in half, then rolled it up. Settling in the tub she leaned her neck against the towel and closed her eyes.

Her body struggled to relax in the warm water as she inhaled the calming fragrance bursting from the bubbles. She was stiff, feeling like her weight was sinking to the bottom of the rose-colored porcelain. For the first time today she noticed how much her muscles ached from countless hours of sitting in the same position.

Suddenly, she felt his gentle touch. His hand slid between her breasts, over her navel and pubic hairs, then between her thighs. He pressed a finger against her clit and held it there.

She opened her eyes long enough to see him sitting on the edge of the tub. He whispered, “Relax. Let go of all the stress. I’ve got you. That’s why I’m here.”

She inhaled deeply, her eyes closed, and she allowed her head, toes, and every part of her body in between to submit to his touch as she slowly inhaled then exhaled. Why couldn’t her ex-husband have been this attentive before they’d separated?

Was he still living with his mistress, now his forty-something girlfriend? If he were, she could hardly consider the woman a mistress at this point. But if he weren’t, for all she knew…Brooks’s eyelids flashed upward. “That’s it!”

“What’s ‘it’? You okay?” Bailey asked.

Brooks closed her eyes without answering then exhaled a sigh of relief.

When her ex-husband had left her twenty years ago, Brooks had never mentioned him again, but there were times she’d thought about him. Back then, when they’d stood at the altar, they were both young, barely twenty-one. Neither of them had known much about being married. But now, if they could somehow re-marry before the election, Brooks thought she could win the hearts and votes of hopeless romantics.

“Mmm, that feels so good,” she moaned to let her lover know he was stroking her nicely.

Having been cheated on during her marriage, Brooks knew how horrible that felt. Based on the numerous stories she’d heard at her coffee shop, Brooks knew how other women shared her pain of infidelity. Many of them, despite being cheated on, wanted to reunite with their husbands or boyfriends. Forgiving her ex would encourage other women to do the same and possibly win her votes as long as the ladies never found out she was also a potential home wrecker.

Sexing another woman’s husband for sexual gratification was wrong. Period. But now she understood how easily affairs happened when neither person exercised control. Brooks wondered if Bailey pleased his wife at all.

“You want me to go faster or slower?” he asked.

“A little slower would be nice.”

The first notch of his finger penetrated her opening ever so gently. He paused, allowing her to relax. Her libido spiked. A small fluttering orgasm stimulated the lining of her uterus. She inhaled again. No matter what he did to her, it always felt so right and something that felt so right couldn’t be totally wrong. If she were his wife, would he be stroking someone else? Should she tell him now?

What she had to say would ruin not only the moment but definitely terminate their relationship. Brooks wondered if there would be a way for them to remain lovers after she’d claimed his seat.

His middle finger eased all the way inside her pussy, pressing upward against her G-spot. He held his finger there. She squirmed, lowering her hips, then moaned with pleasure.

“That’s it. Let it go,” he whispered. Leaning forward he kissed her ear.

The sensation of his lips to her earlobe made her cum again. She knew she had to tell him the news before the press conference but now wasn’t a good time. She stepped out of the tub. Dripping wet, she led him to her bed. His dick had to finish what his finger had started.

She imagined the conversation going something like, “Bailey, I need to tell you that I’m going to be your opponent. I’m running for governor and I’m going to win.”

Perhaps he’d respond, “Is this some sort of a joke? You can’t be serious.”

She’d have to tell him at some point, “I am serious. Dead serious.”

Whenever that confession happened, it would kill more than his career.

N
ext to Manhattan, San Francisco was Hope’s favorite city, ranking above Chicago and Atlanta. What she liked most about southern California was the weather. Temperatures were warm enough to enjoy year-round tanning by her pool. The only downside was that it was seldom cold enough to wear any of her mink coats. Yet out of all the places she’d traveled, the only area she comfortably called home was Los Angeles.

Today, things were strategically in place and she didn’t have to fly to meet him. He’d come to her town. Brooks’s big announcement was six weeks away, and what Hope had to accomplish didn’t require clothing or a trip outdoors. If she were meeting Stanley, all she would’ve worn was a mink and her stilettos.

But she wasn’t meeting Stanley.

Hope roamed her luxury suite at the Beverly Hills Hotel, checking each of the hidden cameras she’d placed in the living, bed, and bathroom areas. BHH was her number one choice for many reasons: the décor and exterior were her favorite color, pink. The five-star accommodations were available for those who could afford it. Celebrity sightings were common at the hotel, although that didn’t mean much to her. Hell, she had more money than most celebs she knew.

“It’s show time,” Hope said, jiggling her perky titties in the mirror. Instantly her nipples became erect. Now all she had to do was get Johnathon back to her room after their luncheon and fuck him senseless.

Her cell phone rang, reminding her to power it off later. But before she did, she answered, “Hey, Stanley. No, I haven’t changed my mind about rescheduling the vacation any time soon.”

“But I postponed Paris just for you. When are we going to go, Hope?”

“I’m busy right now. I’ll call you later, baby. Bye.”

“Hope, don’t hang up on—”

She ended the call and turned off her phone. She understood Stanley’s frustrations but it wasn’t like he was going to give up the best pussy he ever had. Stanley would get over it eventually. Hope smiled a devious smile. “Now, where was I?

“There’s no way any man can resist all of this.” Hope slapped her own juicy booty. Her butt wasn’t flat like a pancake. It was hump-a-licious. She had the kind of ass a man could easily cuddle up against and part from behind, cup a handful and squeeze it tight. The best view for her man was when she bent over for Stanley—he could see her hair-free ass and pussy.

Dropping three strong peppermints in an empty wine goblet, she added a half an ounce of bottled water. Upon their return, she’d drink the mixture before French kissing and sucking Mr. Water’s dick. The cooling sensation was sure to get him hard and the minty freshness was guaranteed to keep him close.

Massaging her breasts, ass, vagina, stomach, arms, legs, and feet with shea butter, she toweled off the excess, leaving the right amount to make her skin radiant but not too slippery. She tied the sash on her red halter wrap dress. Although she preferred pink, when it came to seducing men a sexy red outfit was always best.

Allowing her pussy freedom, she passed on wearing the red thong. She’d slip it on when she returned so he could ease it to the side and slip his dick into her slick pussy.

Hope dabbed perfume behind each ear and between her breasts. Bright red lipstick highlighted her warm vanilla-toned face. Long luxurious strip lashes made her brown eyes captivating. She stepped into her leopard platform sling-backs, making sure her perfectly pedicured toes were visible.

Easing her arms into her fluffy, white, wide-sleeved ankle-length mink, she admired the pink diamond solitaire on her right ring finger. Her earrings, necklace, and tennis bracelet were flooded with pink diamonds, too. Everything about her was real, including her intentions of deception.

“Damn, I love being a woman,” she said, closing the hotel room door. Hope rode the elevator to the top floor. She was fifteen minutes late but with a million-dollar check in her purse she was certain Mr. Waters would wait if he had to.

Her grand entrance into The Polo Lounge commanded everyone’s attention. All eyes, especially the men’s, were on her before she assumed her diva pose—tall stance, navel to the spine, ass tilted backward, one foot slightly in front the other. The stares from the women made it clear, although they didn’t know her, that they hated her.

For Hope, men mattered; women that didn’t know her…did not.

“Welcome, madam. What can
I
do for
you
?” the host asked in a high-pitched tone, like he was going through puberty.

She looked directly into his eyes, thrust her breasts forward, then smiled. Hope placed the tip of her manicured nail between her teeth, then slid her finger from the corner of her mouth to her chin. “I’m here to dine with—”

Johnathon quickly appeared. “Yes, ye-yes,” he stuttered in a soft, sexy kind of way. “She’s the one I’ve been waiting for,” he drooled. “Come with me.”

His eagerness seemed personal. The thrusting of his chest and squaring of his shoulders as he turned his back to the host resembled what a man would do if she were his date. That or he was already interested in marking his territory.

“May I please take your coat, madam?”

Hope slowly eased the soft fluffy collar down her back. The host nodded at Johnathon, an unspoken signal that said, “Damn! Man, now I really see why you got your ass up here in a hurry,” but he remained professional.

“I’ve got it,” Johnathon said, taking her mink from the host. He tossed it across his arm, clenched it to his side.

Hope nodded toward her coat, gesturing for the host to take it right away.

The host nodded back at her then said to Johnathon, “Sir, please, allow me.”

Before Johnathon could respond, Hope thanked the host then told Johnathon, “You are quite the gentleman. Thanks, Mr. Waters, but my coat will be properly stored. A mink should never lay.” Her eyes trailed from his face to his chest. “A real mink is always hung.”

“Oh, please, call me Johnathon,” he said with a brilliant smile that already proved to outshine his intellect.

Men were clueless when it came to valuing the precious belongings of a woman. Unfortunately, that sometimes included what was between her ears and thighs.

Hope’s coat wasn’t some three-thousand-dollar knock-off. The price tag had been fifty grand, pre-tax. But there was no need to chastise him. She was sure his ego was like most men’s…fragile. As with Stanley, sometimes it was best to quietly correct a man’s mistakes to keep the pendulum, and the dick, swinging in her direction.

Hope fluffed then shook her hair in front of him. Men loved a slightly untamed look. It was more appealing than the stiffness of having every strand in place. Boring hair implied an equally boring woman.

Johnathon Waters looked good enough to suck his dick in the middle of the restaurant. His navy suit, white-collared shirt, and solid blue tie were crisp. He was on our party’s side, along with Brooks and Bailey. The light fragrance hovering around him made her pussy notice the swollen imprint in his pants that peeked between the opening in his jacket. Indeed, he was very well-endowed.

The waiter motioned to pull out her chair. Johnathon beat him to it, waited until she was seated, then sat across from her. His dark wavy hair was tapered on the sides, fuller on top, not a gray strand in sight. A clean shave highlighted his left dimple. The bridge of his nose extended forward, his nostrils flared wide. Lips thin and sexy as hell when he smiled.

“Please, move his chair next to mine,” Hope told the waiter. “And bring us a bottle of your finest champagne. We’re having a celebration.”

“If you prefer, madam, I can relocate you to a private booth,” the waiter said, then asked, “What’s the occasion?”

“Thanks, but that won’t be necessary,” Hope replied, not answering his question.

Staring into her eyes, Johnathon said, “Well, I must admit I had no idea you were so, um, attractive.”

That wasn’t what he really wanted to say, was it? He’d seen her before. What he hadn’t witnessed was the size of her breasts without a bra.

Beauty was a woman’s trump card. Good looks could yield good favor, open closed doors, and garner respect even when unwarranted. Gorgeous women made men do dumb things, but only when the woman was intelligent enough to know she was in charge.

Hope smiled, placing her hand on his knee under the table. Her fingernails lightly scraped his thigh. “I’m Native American and look just like my mother.” And she had the ruthless, cut-throat characteristics of her father. “But we’re here to discuss business.”

“Yes, ye-yes. We are. So, are you a lobbyist or a philanthropist, or are you a member of an organization that wants to support my campaign because you want me to push your agenda?” he asked. The lust in his eyes shifted to curiosity.

“I’ll get straight to the point, Mr.—” she paused then continued, “I mean, Johnathon. It’s no secret who my father is or that the Andrews family—”

“I apologize for interrupting, but how are you Native American yet your last name is Andrews?”

“It’s about Christopher Columbus claiming he discovered America, the Pilgrims betraying the Indians, and the U.S. stealing this great state from the Mexicans then denying them citizenship. What’s in a name? Pick one. You are seeking to represent California, aren’t you?”

His thick brows drew close together. “Didn’t mean to put my foot in my mouth. I apologize.”

“Accepted. Now please, I’m the one asking the questions, but if you don’t want the million dollar donation, I’ll let you ask all the questions you’d like.”

Johnathon’s lips tightened as he nodded. Occasionally a woman had to slip a man a little bitch to hold her position.

He definitely wasn’t as smart as Hope had anticipated, but she wasn’t here to be impressed by his intellect. The waiter placed the silver stand holding an ice bucket and the bottle of champagne by the table.

“Please, send this to my Presidential suite. Hope Andrews.” She looked at Johnathon. “Why don’t we continue this conversation where no one will overhear us? Can’t be too trusting of people around you. Wouldn’t want any paparazzi taking pictures of us at this innocent luncheon then plastering them online.”

They retrieved her coat from the host, then went back to her room.

“Make yourself comfortable.”

“Impressive,” he said, sitting on the sofa near the fireplace.

The champagne arrived. Hope instructed the waiter to set up everything by the bar then tipped him accordingly. If Johnathon had had real class, Hope thought, he would’ve tipped the waiter instead of letting her do it.

She filled two flutes, handed one to Johnathon, sat beside him then crossed her legs. The opening in her wraparound dress exposed her overlapping thighs. Noticing was his job. Pretending not to notice was hers.

“You know, by accepting this donation,” Hope paused. Opened her purse and handed him the check payable to the Johnathon Waters Campaign Fund. “We are counting on you to make sure an initiative to tax casinos on reservations will never pass if you’re elected and as long as you’re in office. Never.”

Nodding at the contribution, Johnathon said, “I reassure you that will never happen when I’m elected.” He stared at the check, folded it, then stuffed it in his wallet as though it would be deposited into his personal account.

He scooted to the edge of the sofa. Glancing between his legs, he said, “Yes. Yes. Well, I thank you but I should be going.” The imprint in his pants grew larger.

Hope thrust her breasts toward him, held up her glass. “There’s more where that came from if you do the right things.”

Johnathon paused, picked up his flute, held it next to hers. “How rude of me; we should toast.”

His glass tilted toward his lap. Champagne spilled onto the erection bulging in his pants. He sprang to his feet. “Oh, damn. I guess I’m so excited,” he said, placing the glass on the table.

“Of course you are. A million dollars is a lot of money and you deserve every penny,” she lied. “You can’t leave like this. What would people think?” Standing beside him, Hope unbuckled his belt, unzipped, then removed his pants. “It’s a good thing we came up here,” she said, parting her red lips just enough for him to imagine sliding his dick inside.

A real woman could undress a man before he realized he was naked. “I’ll tidy these up for you.” She selected a bottle of soda water from the bar, got a hanger from the closet, then took his pants into the bathroom and hung them behind the door. She spot-cleaned the outline so when the champagne dried it wouldn’t leave a watermark.

Hope dipped her fingers into the wine glass she’d set aside earlier, smeared a little peppermint mixture on her pussy, downed the rest like a shot, then returned to the living room. “We’ll need to let those air-dry for about thirty minutes then I’ll blow it with the hair dryer,” she said, refilling his champagne glass before sitting beside him on the sofa.

“Yes, ye-yes; where were we?” he asked, appearing very comfortable in his black cotton boxer briefs.

She could tell he was proud of his protruding manhood. Hope touched his knee, massaging his inner thigh. “You tell me.”

“Be careful,” he said, moving her hand. “If I spill this again, I’ll have to remove my underwear.” His smile sparkled, matching the light in his eyes. Men had a price just like women.

Hope tilted her glass toward his. Champagne spilled onto his boxers. She looked into his eyes and smiled. “Oops. Now this
is
crazy. I didn’t mean to do that.”

Johnathon took her glass and his, placing them on the table. His thin lips perched in her direction. She met him halfway.

“I’ve been wanting to taste these all day,” he said, lowering her halter over her breasts.

“Oh, wow. Is this what happens behind closed doors with politicians? I’ve heard quite a few stories.” She thrust her titties forward.

“I don’t do this kind of thing, but I find you so hot.”

“It’s okay. You deserve this, Johnathon,” she said, feeding him one nipple, then the other. “Oh, yes. Bite a little harder. You are the man and a man in your position shouldn’t be denied any woman he desires.”

Johnathon removed his briefs. His dick was big, beautiful, and circumcised just the way Hope liked them. She untied the sash on her dress and dropped it on the sofa so she wouldn’t have to pick it up off the floor. She didn’t want him to have a Monica Lewinsky flashback and end their session early.