Unscrupulous Read online

  “It burns. My muscles are tight—so tense,” Taddy flirted. She pressed her back into the Pilates board, the rubber bands snapped in the air, her legs stretched out.

  “Put your energy into your core, ladies. Come on, let’s do this.”

  Taddy’s energy was on his core, caressing her core. She went into a helicopter position and twisted her legs up. Her focus wasn’t on her body but his as she stared at his cock. Either he’d grown hard or wore a cup. Lips licked, he studied her face with encouragement to continue. “I want you, Gilad,” she whispered.

  “Lex!” Gilad shouted over Taddy’s station. That broke her soon-to-be workout climax.

  “Huh?” Lex mumbled behind her.

  “Why aren’t you following along?” In a pissed-off stance, Gilad stalked over to her.

  Taddy took her eyes off Gilad-lusting and glanced in Lex’s direction.

  Not flexed, her best wasn’t paying any attention. Perhaps in another world, Lex’s face spoke worry. It wasn’t over the exercise. Hell, when Lex was a kid she’d struggled with her weight. Now in her late twenties Lex made fitness her focus. The woman could teach Pilates if she so desired. She didn’t. Lex lived and breathed fashion. Her Easton Essentials apparel business was a hit, thus her funk wasn’t over haute couture. “What is Lex’s problem?” Taddy mouthed to Vive.

  Not condoning exercise, Vive sipped on her happy hour, aka a gin and tonic. Between gulps, she coated her nails in Baden Cosmetics’ popular toe lacquer, Gold Jizz. Arching her eyebrow, she motioned with her lips, “I dunno. But somethin’ is up.” Vive slid her nail file along her left wrist in a mock suicide. With Lex always came drama.

  After the fifty-minute session, Taddy walked over to Gilad while Lex pulled herself together. Vive waited at the door with her second cocktail in hand.

  “Do you give private home lessons?” The erotic man-smell from his body made her clench her thighs together.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Gilad, I need you.”

  “Now?”

  “Tonight, when I get home from a party.” Screw me pah-lease.

  “My rates double for after hours.”

  “I bet they do.” Taddy hoped he wasn’t flirting with her just for her riches. She didn’t pay for sex. Not blatantly at least. Tonight she’d be sure to find out exactly if Gilad’s intentions went beyond Pilates. “Let’s not let a little thing called money stand between us. I like to think large. Very large.”

  Gilad stepped close to Taddy. “Me too.” Ever so slightly, he grazed his hardness against her stomach. The body contact and the implied suggestion sent a chill up her spine. She didn’t jump back—rather leaned in close to him.

  “Taddy, let’s go,” Lex snapped. In a call for her attention, she clapped her hands.

  “One sec, darling.” Taddy shot Vive a look to rein in their moody friend.

  He turned his back to the rest of the girls and faced Taddy more intimately. “I’m free after ten.” Gilad adjusted himself, grinned and asked, “Shall I come by your penthouse, Miss Brill, for a home lesson then?”

  “Yes.” Taddy winked and slipped him her card with the details on the back. “Here’s my address.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  “I’ll tell my butler to expect you.”

  “Hello, I’m out of here,” Lex blurted extra bitchily. She waved her goodbyes to Gilad and pushed on the front door.

  Taddy followed Vive, who walked a few feet behind Lex, one block over to Juice Press on Third Avenue and East Sixty-Second Street for their liquid dinner. They didn’t talk. Once they received their shakes and sat at a café table, Taddy asked, “Lex, is there anything you wanna tell us?”

  Vive leaned in closer.

  “Mom’s sick.” Lex’s mother, Birdie Easton, widow to heavy metal icon Eddie Easton who also found fame in ‘82 when she hit platinum with her own two chart toppers “Am I Wicked” and “Lucifer’s Mistress”, always carried on just a little sicker than the norm.

  “Say what?”

  “Mom diagnosed herself with Stevens-Johnson syndrome, a fatal skin condition.”

  “What do you mean diagnosed herself?” Vive spoke as if they were slated for a feature in Debauchery magazine.

  “Mom researched her symptoms online.” Lex pulled a few papers out of her gym tote. She gave them to Vive to inspect.

  “WebDoctorMD and DiseasePedia are not credible.” Vive’s journalistic eye skimmed the papers. “And the symptoms state patients with the disease show a hideous rash triggered by infected facial tissue. If that were true Birdie’s face would blister.” She passed the documents over to Taddy who read on.

  “I saw Birdie a week ago. She looked like her usual rock-star self,” Taddy muttered, convinced Birdie bathed in formaldehyde to maintain her youth. Lex’s mother might be a whack and frail but she was still gorgeous.

  Taddy dropped the papers on the table. “This journal cites excessive cocaine use as a possible cause.” Birdie’s decade-long partying in the ‘80s with drugs proved enough to swing Taddy’s convictions from “no way in hell” to “not really” as she considered what she’d read. It couldn’t be possible. “Birdie is a bit of a hypochondriac.” And a full-blown loon. Taddy shook her head and sipped her Acai Extreme Energy smoothie. She struggled to demonstrate any sympathy. Her empathy-feeling days for the Eastons were long past. This had to be bullshit.

  “Mom hasn’t been the same since Dad died.” Embarrassment washed Lex’s face.

  “No kiddin’.”

  “Birdie dove headfirst into the cra-cra pool, breaking her skull wide open eons prior to Eddie killing himself.” Vive snorted and rolled her eyes.

  “I know, I know.” Lex’s eyebrows furrowed. “The unauthorized biography on Mom really did her in.”

  “Ya think?”

  The book, titled Banging Birdie, was penned as a Kitty Kelley-styled tell-all slammer. True to all faults, the 506 pages depicted the Birdie Easton scandals. A legend in her own right, Birdie had become infamous amongst the music community for sleeping with over one thousand men. Although Birdie swore she never kept count.

  Music magazine deemed the glossy, hardcover New York Times number-one bestseller contentious and far-fetched. The book gave insights into Birdie’s mothering skills on Lex’s abusive childhood. The chapter titled “A Modern Rock-N-Roll Rapunzel” detailed weekends locked in the Park Avenue penthouse. Another chapter, “Big Apple’s Sweet Virgin”, narrated Birdie’s OCD over Lex maintaining her virginity.

  Those who couldn’t do—taught. And Birdie couldn’t help but be promiscuous. She projected the reverse sexual appetite onto her daughter. Possibly in hopes Lex wouldn’t follow in her footsteps with endless cock cravings.

  When Lex gained weight, Birdie starved her daughter. That chapter was titled “Alexandra the Great”. Reporters blew the book off as being off-the-charts crazy. Taddy recognized Banging Birdie as one hundred percent accurate.

  “Mom’s obsessed with finding something fatally wrong.” Lex stirred her straw in her protein shake. “She wants to die.”

  “This is another Birdie scam. If she wants to kick it, she can borrow my pistol from my ‘97 vintage Fendi Baguette anytime she likes.” Taddy remembered, in addition to Birdie being a manic drug addict and unfit parent, she thrived on kleptomania. “Maybe I should leave my gun out on the kitchen counter for her to steal.”

  Lex’s green eyes filled with tears. She pulled out her cell phone and held a picture up. “I snapped a photo this morning of Mom’s skin. I emailed it to Dr. Fassenbender. We’re waiting to see what he thinks.”

  No. Stunned, Taddy almost knocked her organic smoothie on the floor. Mrs. Tomato Face stared back at her. Birdie’s cheeks, nose and forehead suggested Freddy Krueger. “Holy shit.” She inhaled panic through her nose and covered her mouth. Birdie’s face was Hamburger Helper. “Lex, please don’t cry. We’re here for you…and Birdie too.” Suddenly Taddy felt horrible for the Fendi joke.

  Vive tapped her Cartier.
“Let’s walk over to Birdie’s before we go to Bradley Cooper’s premiere. It’s down in Soho. I’ll call us a car and they can pick us up at your mom’s.” She wasn’t convinced either. Vive apparently wanted to see the disease with her own eyes.

  “Sorry, I’m not up for a party.” Lex crossed her arms. “Mom’s convinced she’s on her deathbed. She’s even managing her own funeral arrangements.”

  “Get out of here.” Taddy had heard enough. She’d march over to Birdie’s house before the movie and see what’s what. Bradley Cooper could wait.

  “Yup, a nice cemetery lot next to Dad at the Calvary Cemetery in Queens. Mom called Lita Ford and Joan Jett and asked if they’d give the eulogies.” Distraught, Lex put the papers back in her tote.

  Sick to her stomach, Taddy threw her unfinished replacement meal shake in the trash.

  “I’m going to your mother’s house to pay my respects,” Vive said in Lex’s direction then turned her head with a wink in Taddy’s. She was ready for a Birdie shakedown. No one could decipher malarkey better than a gossip columnist, and Vive was the best at her field.

  * * * * *

  Sure enough, later that night when Taddy arrived with Vive at Birdie’s condo, Helga the housekeeper greeted them with a cold shoulder and said, “Lady Easton is asleep. Lady Easton asks not to be disturbed under any circumstance. Lady Easton is sick.”

  “Who the hell is Lady Easton?” Taddy asked.

  “Birdie shall ring you tomorrow,” Helga responded and went to slam the door but Taddy stuck her foot out. The door swung wide open.

  “Helga, we must see Birdie, now!” Taddy pushed her way in and headed for the bedroom. Vive walked behind her and slowed her pace when they came to Birdie’s bedroom. In unison, they poked their heads in to witness a sight worse than what Lex had captured with her camera.

  “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 underestimate
d the illness?

  “Kiki!” she screamed from her exercise machine, hoping her Miss Goody Two-shoes had come in early. “Kiki, get in here!”

  The pitter-patter from Kiki’s Michael Kors Vail patent leather d’orsay wedges tapped the marble floors. “Coming, Miss Brill.”

  “HELPPP.” Motionless atop the exercise equipment, disbelief gripped her core. She held the paper with both hands, moisture between her legs. Brayden’s image paused on the screen with Waris Sugar rapping into her headset.

  “What is it?” Kiki asked with a short breath. “What’s going on here?”

  She threw the periodical in Kiki’s direction, ripping the earbuds out and wiping her wet body down with a towel. “Did you see this?”

  Perplexed, Kiki collected the damp pages from the floor and glared at page sixty-nine. “Oh my goodness.” Kiki’s usually saucer-sized eyes enlarged to soup bowls. “Poor Birdie.”

  “Cancel Portugal!”

  Kiki’s hands started shaking.

  Taddy climbed off the elliptical and braced Kiki’s narrow shoulders. “Do me a favor.”

  “Anything, Miss Brill.”

  “Track down an expert on Stevens–Johnson syndrome.” Taddy squeezed Kiki’s shoulders tighter. She hated to say this for Lex’s sake. “We don’t have much time. I want you to find the best doctor in the world, you hear me?”

  Her assistant nodded, sinking in her pumps. “Does Birdie have health insurance?” Kiki asked.

  Kiki’s uprightness annoyed Taddy at times. “Lex and Birdie are broke.” She pushed down onto her assistant’s petite body.

  “What about Eddie’s estate?” Kiki’s voice echoed confusion, shoulders collapsing.

  “Rocker Easton left them with no will.” Her nails dug into Kiki’s skin. She’d never spoken ill about the Eastons to anyone, in particular a Brill, Inc. employee, but Taddy seethed on, “Everything that legend earned, Eddie intravenously shot into his veins.”

  Eddie’s manager—and Birdie’s—Jasper Records retained the catalog rights to his songs. An agreement he’d signed off on before his death to pay his debts.

  “Ouch! Miss Brill.” Kiki broke from her boss’s embrace, rubbing her apparently sore arms. She inched for the door.