Chapter 6

Alexis and I rode in the back seat of Mama’s leased Lexus. She held my hand in hers and stared straight ahead, smiling that notorious, unnerving Cheshire smile. I felt like we should be talking about everything; my history as ‘Brandi’, her recriminations over my hiding it from her, my reasons for doing so, her perceptions of this new ‘me’ and its effect on our relationship. She didn’t seem at all inclined to discuss it, as though this, all of it, was the most natural thing in the world.

Essence was the ‘it’ club of the moment; the place for the beautiful people to see and be seen. The line of hopefuls extending down the block bore testament to the venue’s popularity. The valet hustled the Lexus away as the three of us advanced directly towards the door. The catcalls and wolf whistles from the line were immediate and vociferous. The hunky sentinels at the gate took one look at us and the velvet rope parted like the Red Sea for Moses. Was that fair? It was to us. The coat check was open and exchanged our wraps for tokens – and a fee, of course.

If club owners could figure out a way to charge the rabble for breathing, they would do so.

Taking me firmly by the arm, Alexis hustled me into the Ladies Room. She again took my chin in her hand and looked me directly in the eye.

“Do you love me?” she challenged.

“More than my life,” I acknowledged.

“Do you trust me?”

“Implicitly.”

“And I love you more than my life,” she avowed solemnly. “Remember that. Now, let’s go have a good time.”

The club was more expansive than most. The dance floor was big and equipped with the obligatory thundering sound system, lasers, light trusses, fog generators and so forth. Multiple bars with multiple waitresses slaked the built-up thirst of the masses. There were tables and standing areas, as well. Upstairs, via a conventional staircase in back and a spiral staircase in front, disappearing through the floor directly to the dance floor, was a VIP seating area, equipped with enough acoustic insulation in the walls and floor that it was possible to carry on a normal conversation. The area had an array of low-slung tables and a line of high-backed, semicircular upholstered booths along one wall.

Mama led us directly to the middle booth and slid in, followed by myself and Alexis. The booth was already occupied by a spectacular emerald-eyed redhead. She looked to be in her prime; perhaps early 30’s. She and Mama air-kissed, then did the same with Alexis. Then Mama introduced her to me as Elizabeth Masters. The other three fell easily into conversation, as though they had known each other for years. Elizabeth made a point of drawing me into it as well. She didn’t pry, per se, but without realizing it, I was opening up freely about my past and present. Her obvious poise, confidence and worldly-wise demeanor were that of a woman a decade older than my original estimate. Alexis held my hand and squeezed her encouragement. The way she gazed lovingly at me made me melt, as it always had.

They approached our booth with an ease born of habitual, unshakable confidence. Then again, it was easy to see that was the natural state of affairs for these two. Had it not been for the drugs carrying me aloft among the clouds, I might have dived under the table to hide in shame. Even though I was seeing his face clearly for the first time, there was no doubt the one on the right was Jean-Claude, the hunk who had made me his bitch the night before. He was a handsome hunk at that; perhaps six-foot-four or –five, two hundred fifty pounds of sculpted muscle under that designer suit, GQ-handsome, shaven head and smooth ebony skin. His companion was... Brock Maitland!

Alexis slid smoothly out of the booth, holding out her arms. Brock swept her up in his and kissed her with easy familiarity, as though they had rehearsed this ritual a thousand times. I had no time to make anything of it. Jean-Claude swept me out of the booth like a rag doll and into his powerful arms. I felt so helpless – and alive! Alexis introduced him formally as Jean-Claude Chrétien of New York, Paris, London and Port-au-Prince. She also introduced Brock as her ‘date’. The way her eyes bored into mine as she announced his status confirmed we were playing our ‘hotwife’ game for real – with an unexpected twist.

We re-arranged and re-seated ourselves. Alexis was next to Elizabeth, with Brock on the outside. I was seated next to Mama, with Jean-Claude taking his place as the other muscular bookend to our little coterie. From the course of the conversation, it appeared I, and possibly Jean-Claude, were the only strangers here. The other four clearly knew each other well.

“Jean-Claude, I have barely heard a word out of you,” Alexis teased. “Do you approve of the companion I have selected for you?”

“Now that I have had a chance to see her in the light,” he began with an intoxicating Caribbean-French accent, “I most definitely approve. She is everything I could have hoped for, and more – and she has a twin!”

“I don’t know anything about Brandi,” Brock leered, “but I can personally vouch for Tiffany’s charms.”

That remark earned him a well-deserved elbow to the ribs, causing him to raise his hands in mock surrender.

The evening was magic. Champagne and conversation flowed with equal aplomb. I danced with Jean-Claude. Alexis danced with Brock. Mama and Elizabeth both danced with admirers who approached them. My partner may have been a man-mountain, but he was graceful as a panther on the dance floor. As we danced, he was remarkably candid about his less-than-humble origins. He had been born into that rarest of breeds; Haitian Old Money. His family had done business with their French overlords during colonial days. Their holdings and influence had spread throughout the Caribbean, to the French colonies on the North American continent and to France itself, then the rest of Europe. More recently, they had entered the Asian market. Jean-Claude himself had been educated at the Sorbonne and the London School of Economics; groomed to take his rightful place as the next patriarch of the family business empire.

Brock had introduced himself at a Mr. Olympia event they had both attended; Jean-Claude as a contestant. Brock was familiar with the Chrétien family’s global holdings and had solicited my companion to manage a portfolio of the family’s investments. The worldly Haitian had, of course, heard of Maitland and Associates and was impressed with its track record. The recent Genesee Industries coup had been of particular fascination. He had accepted Brock’s invitation to come to town and discuss the matter further.

We couldn’t help but notice Brock and Alexis on the dance floor. They seemed intent on making sure everyone noticed. The song playing was a popular Trance track; slow, rhythmic, compelling. They were spooned together, his front to her back. His hands were on her hips. Their lower bodies undulated in time to the pounding beat. She had reached behind his head with one hand and was gazing at him over her shoulder with heavy-lidded, bedroom eyes.

Déjà vu.

On one hand, the erotic display was intoxicating. But for the effects of Depro-Gen, I would have been writhing in erectile agony within the tight-fitting prosthetic. On the other hand, I felt a gnawing in the pit of my stomach. They looked so good together. The dreamy expression on her face – the one she had, in the past, held only for me – indicated she was certainly enjoying herself. I had fretted in the past about losing this woman to a more ‘manly’ man – especially if she had learned about ‘Brandi’. Was my worst-case horror now playing out before my eyes, with me helpless to do anything about it?

“They make an attractive couple, no?” my dance partner observed, as if reading my thoughts. “She reminds me of that actress; you know the one. She and I had the opportunity to talk last night. In addition to her spectacular beauty, she has a warmth, an... empathy that makes a man want to tell her things, unburden his soul. I revealed things I have never told a stranger before. I am a complicated man, cheri. I have ... appetites. I cannot deny my feelings, any more than I can deny the air that I breathe or the morning sun. She listened to me, ma cher. Then she told me she knew a girl she wanted me to meet; the perfect girl for me. That girl is you, my Brandi, and you are perfect; in what you are now, and the promise of what you can be in the future.”

As he spoke the words, I could feel the massive bulge snaking its way down his pant leg, half-way to his knee. I could only imagine how uncomfortable he might be with that monster trapped within its cloth prison. Pressed up against it, and him like this, I could feel the growing attraction between us. He had taken me the night before, made me his bitch. It had been the most intense sexual experience of my life.

In my Rapture-fueled frenzy, I wanted, craved more.

When we returned to the booth, Alexis corralled my arm, offered our excuses and escorted me to the Ladies Room. I did my business in the stall, then joined her before the mirror, where we touched up our makeup.

“You and Jean-Claude looked good out there on the dance floor,” my wife complimented with a warm, understanding smile.

“As did you and Brock,” I replied non-committally.

She detected the hitch in my voice, turned, and took my chin in her hands.

“This is not the time to get into all of this,” she attested, an expression of concern on her face. “I realize this is a lot to throw at you all at once, a lot to process, but the timing is what it is. Look at it from my perspective; you have had your entire life to prepare yourself for this moment, while I have had a lot less. Everything you have seen, everything you are yet to see and experience tonight is just the love life we have enjoyed, taken to its next logical step.

“Do you remember what I told you when we arrived here tonight?”

“Yes,” I verified.

“Remember it now,” she urged. “I am asking you to take all your doubts, all your fears and uncertainties, put them in a box, close the lid and set it outside the door. Tonight, just be. Let the night take us where it will. Tomorrow, we will make time to discuss all of this, and where we go from here. Okay?”

She hugged me tightly, emphasizing the emotions running between us. Without missing a beat, she reached into my purse, withdrew my injector and hit me with another dose. As always, I was reduced to the giggling little bimbo I reflected in the mirror. After packing up, we returned to the booth, where the other four, plus the flavor du noir Mama had picked up, were engaged in conversation about football; specifically the relative merits between FIFA-rules football and its American counterpart. Not surprisingly, the three men were dominating the conversation while Mama and Elizabeth were doing their best not to look bored.

After allowing me entrance, Jean-Claude re-took his seat. Taking Alexis’ advice, I snuggled up to him, slipped my right hand between his thighs to gently, suggestively stroke his massive trouser snake and otherwise hung on his every word. All my drug-besotted brain could think was I wanted this beautiful man, a real man’s man, so bad. Across the table, my wife was putting on a similar display with Brock. She caught my eye. The expression in hers, and the coy smile – almost a smirk – on her lips sent me conflicting messages.

I felt other eyes on me; Mama’s and Elizabeth’s. At another time and mental condition, I might have felt embarrassment, even shame. In my current state, I felt like I was on stage; the star of the show. That was good for an endorphin rush in and of itself. Mama’s smile and almost-imperceptible nod of approval reinforced that feeling. Elizabeth’s attention was more neutral, detached, as though she were just observing.

This party broke up, as all parties eventually do. The next one, featuring Brock, Alexis, Jean-Claude and myself was about to get underway. We all made our way to the coat check to recover our wraps. Mama was clearly going home with her new toy boy. The redhead took me aside and slipped her hand into mine.