Billie Jean

by StangStar06

Copyright© 2011 by StangStar06

Sex Story: Billie Jean is not my lover. She's just a girl who claims that I...

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Consensual   Romantic   Reluctant   Cheating   .

Author's note: This is a long and crazy one so be warned. I wanted to kick off the summer with something fun and hopefully this is it. There are a few people I wanted to thank because without them you wouldn't be reading this story. First the real life Helena Martinez, who claims to have read every one of my stories and dared me to write a story about this song. I'd also like to thank the two best writers I know DQS1 and Rehnquist for letting me borrow their toys, and I hope they aren't upset with what I've done to them because just using them was a dream come true for me. Lastly I'd like to welcome my new editor MikotheBaby to the party. She did a great job of prying my fingers loose from the comma key. Anything you don't like about it was my fault, she just made my gibberish legible. Okay Harry in Va here it is rip me a new one.

My name is Alexander Blake. As I wind my Cobalt blue Shelby GT 500 KR Mustang through the crowded streets of L.A. I can't help but feel a sense of Déjà Vu. You know that eerie feeling that you've been here before.

I guess it only makes sense seeing as how almost exactly one year ago I was doing the exact same thing. I was on my way to a charity dinner honoring me as the top man in the advertising industry. It was one of those stupid honors that were designed to let the other ad men know who had brought in the most money over the past 12 months.

Advertising is a truly weird business. We don't make anything or own anything, but without us the general public has no idea of who does do those things. Take my hopped up Mustang here. Do you think it would matter how great this car is if no one knew they made them or had heard of it? I think not.

No matter how many pencil protector wearing engineering geeks it took to design and build this beast, it would all be for nothing if some smart marketing wiz hadn't come up with a way to sell it. It also takes a genius to decide which market to sell the product to and how to approach it.

Any way, this year just like last year, I brought in more advertising dollars for my company than any other ad man in the world or at least in the industrialized nations. I guess that's where my sense of Déjà Vu came from.

The funny thing about it though is that even though I feel like I've done this before and I have, nothing is the same this year as it was a year ago. The Shelby I was driving last year is at home in the garage. Last year I worked for a different company or at least a company with a different name and I was married to ... Shit, I may as well tell you the whole story and let you see why I feel so weird. Sherman, crank up the way back machine. Set it for one year ago today...

Okay, last year my name was still Alexander Blake and as mentioned I was on my way to a charity event to honor me as the top man in advertising and make an absolute shit load of money for some charity that I had no interest in.

I'm sure the charity did great work for the homeless whales environmental disease cure or whatever it was. In my mind the big thing was that I was on top of my game. I had the world on a string and didn't give a shit who knew it. In fact I wanted everyone to know it.

I was again guiding a ridiculously powerful Shelby Mustang through the crowded streets near the convention center, with my lovely wife at my side.

Mary Beth, my wife of 6 years was 28, like me. Where I was California born and bred, she was New England royalty. It wouldn't have surprised me if she turned out to be related by marriage to the Kennedys. She had that Bostonian accent with its odd sounding vowels and clipped delivery. If someone had modernized Kathryn Hepburn, they'd have Mary Beth, at least on the surface.

I can't say that Mary Beth was ravishingly beautiful, but she was pretty and healthy and she had that All-American girl glow. Kind of like the Governator's wife Maria Shriver. She was the perfect wife for a top ad exec, attractive, but not overly so. Classy, sophisticated, well read, she was all of those things. But none of those are the reason I married her. I married her because I loved her like there was no tomorrow and I thought she felt the same about me.

Of course the fact that she could suck a golf ball through a garden hose and loved doing it didn't hurt. In public or around people, Mary Beth gave the impression that she was some kind of perfectly poised Ice Queen. Alone or out of the public's eye she was probably the biggest sex fiend I knew.

It was normal for me to come home to find her naked and bent over the back of my sofa as the first sight that greeted me when I walked in the door. There was nothing off the table for Mary Beth when it came to sex. I remember times when she'd come into my office in the middle of a meeting and tell the clients and my colleagues that she needed to borrow me for a few minutes. I'd be worried thinking that some dire emergency had arisen, only to have her pull me into my secretary's office for a quickie. "I just wanted you to understand what's really important," she'd said to me as she scooped up a finger's worth of my sperm that had leaked from her vagina and licked it off of her fingers. Then she kissed me goodbye and told me to come home straight after work.

Needless to say, I loved her back and our life together was never boring.

Besides being way under forty, my personal style also separated me from a lot of the top guys in the industry. I didn't wear suits unless I was going to an occasion that required it. I had never owned a black foreign sedan and never intended to do so. And I simply hated fucking golf with a passion. I preferred casual more modern clothing, Muscle cars and extreme sports.

I was the bad boy of the ad world. Of course having the might of one of the world's biggest ad agencies behind me hadn't hurt me, but I had worked my way up through the trenches on my own.

When I started at McMillan Worth, it was as an unpaid (yep I worked for fucking free) intern during my college days. I started out running down to the corner store as a gopher to some of the ad execs. And now I dictated policy to the ad execs from a corner office.

Mary Beth was particularly stunning that night in a long tight black Vera Wang dress with a diamond choker as her only adornment. It was a simple, but classic look that she managed to make effortless. Of course I knew that she'd been in make up for three hours to look like she was barely wearing any make-up. And having her hair styled to appear she'd just thrown it up and pinned it, cost us more than some people made in a month. But it was all worth it, this was my night.

Hundreds of flashbulbs went off as we surrendered my Stang to the valet. Mary Beth and I exchanged a chaste kiss for the reporters. I smiled as I remembered why the front of my raw silk pants was ever so slightly stained. She'd just had me pull over less than two blocks from here to give me a sloppy blow job, only moments before we got here.

As we stepped into the cavernous room, another round of flashbulbs exploded in our eyes. This time we were greeted by cheers and applause as we were introduced to the waiting crowd. The ceremony hadn't started yet but the party was in full swing. There were throngs of rich and or famous people there. Politicians, athletes, actors, musicians, the entire human zoo was represented and they were all here to honor me.

A bit later the ceremony began and they started out by acknowledging the works of some lesser honorees. There were awards for commercials, ad campaigns, product placement and other things. When my award was announced and the truly staggering amount of dinero I had procured for McMillan Worth, there was near stunned silence in the room. Even one of my ex college buddies and greatest competitors, Caesar Anthony's jaw dropped as he heard the amount of money I'd raised for the firm.

After that, the night moved onwards. They announced how much money the dinner had raised for the charity and then people returned to eating, drinking, dancing, socializing and networking. I'm sure that my earning power was a topic of discussion. I was also sure that taking me down was being discussed with equal fervor.

I was, to quote a line from a movie about a sinking ship, "The king of the world." But little did I realize, my ship was about to sink as well.

As I looked over the crowd of well heeled men and women, they all seemed to blend into startling similarity. The men all wore tuxes, and except for cufflinks or some other minor personalizing trim all looked the same. The majority of the women all wore some version of the famous little black dress. Only the name of the designer differentiated them. Maybe their hairstyles were different too, but I couldn't tell. I was dutifully dancing with several of the assembled ladies in an effort to be polite, when I saw her.

She had long unbound blonde hair that cascaded down around her shoulders as opposed to an up-do. Her hair covered one side of her face completely, so that only one eye was visible. The style was reminiscent of Veronica Lake and was extremely arousing. Among all of those rich and beautiful women there, she stood out. She was more like a beauty queen from a movie scene. As she slowly made her way across the floor towards me, I noticed the way her red dress cut through the crowd that was dressed mostly in black.

Watching her as she approached me was like seeing a fireball cut through the darkness of space.

She actually bowed in front of me as the music started. I looked at Mary Beth and she just shrugged her shoulders and nodded. Of course at least fifty photographers took pictures of us as we started to dance. She danced extremely well and I suppose we looked good together. We didn't actually talk, until just before the dance ended.

Then with at least ten microphones near us she said the one fucking line that started all of that hell for me. She said that I was the one. Her voice was so soft at first that I didn't hear her. But apparently all of the microphones picked it up well.

She said I was the one, who would dance on the floor in the round. When she said that, my heart clutched. I hadn't heard that term in over six years. It was before I'd met Mary Beth, back in my days as a carefree single guy. It referred to a practice of mate swapping that we did back then. A bunch of couples would all form a circle, hence the term, "the round." Anyway, we'd dance for one hour, in a very dimly lit room, changing partners constantly. Whoever you were dancing with when the lights came on, you went home and had sex with. Most of the couples involved didn't survive.

It was a great thing for a young single guy like me. I'd meet some girl that I didn't really care that much about, take her to the party and let the chips fall where they may. Most of the time, I went home with someone completely different than I'd gone with.

Naturally I'd given things like that up long before I met Mary Beth. Dancing in the round was not conducive to stable relationships. Anyway back to the party.

The reporters, sensing a story were swarming around us like stink on shit. They were there as the whole thing collapsed. She told me her name was Billie Jean and she caused a scene.

Then every head turned to see what was going on. Mary Beth came over to stand beside me like a good wife. She knew the drill. Some gold digger looking for money or publicity showed up at a big event to cause a scandal. Half of the guys there took one look at her and dreamed of being the one themselves. Billie Jean was really fucking hot.

The problem was that try as I might, I simply couldn't remember her. Not only did I not remember fucking her, which I have to admit, was a crime. I couldn't remember ever meeting her or ever hearing of a Billie Jean.

Before I knew what was going on, before I could even hear the rest of her bullshit. My people whisked me and Mary Beth out of there. I really have to give Mary Beth credit. She was cool and professional. She smiled and posed for the cameras, even as they tried to turn my life to shit. If pride goeth before a fall, I was headed for a hell of a tumble.

As we left the hall I could see two things and neither of them boded well for me. The first was that Billie Jean was literally surrounded by reporters and microphones. For an evening that had started out all about me, it had ended up being all about some woman I was sure I'd never met before now.

The second thing was that Mary Beth was studying me intensely as if she'd never seen me before either. I could tell that my fit and status as her spouse was being carefully weighed and measured on a number of levels. Before that, I'd have told anyone who asked that Mary Beth and I were eternal. Or that we'd spend the rest of our lives together regardless of any circumstance.

We managed to slip out the back door and into my Mustang without being seen. As we roared off into the night only the deep throaty growl of my Magnaflow exhaust system gave evidence of our passing.

Inside the car Mary Beth was excited as usual. She quickly reached for my pants and for the first time ever, I pushed her hands away.

"Ooh teasing me huh?" she said. "I swear, even after all of this time. You can still surprise me. So what was all of that shit back at the party about?"

I really wasn't in the mood to talk right now, but I loved MB with all my heart, so I answered her questions.

"You were there MB, you saw her," I said. "She's some chick from my past that crawled out of the woodwork and claimed we had sex. Honestly, I don't get her point. If every person I had sex with came out and admitted it. There would probably be a long ass list. And we wouldn't get to you until the end. You'd be the last one in line, but definitely the best."

"You flatterer " she smiled. "You don't have to try to charm me to get some pussy. It's all yours, whenever you want it. I think you should just chalk this one up though as a publicity stunt that didn't quite go the way you wanted it to."

"MB, this wasn't one of mine," I said. "This was real."

"Well then it makes perfect sense all of a sudden," she said. "She's some unemployed actress who remembered that you once fucked her. When she found out that you were being honored at a big charity event, she decided to crash it and steal your limelight to generate some publicity of her own. It'll probably do wonders for her career."

She was silent for a few moments and then continued. "Realistically I thought that you'd planned it. It is after all brilliant. I don't know why we never thought of it ourselves," she said.

I looked at her skeptically. "Why would I want this?" I asked.

"Think about it Blake," she said. "Our next logical step is to separate you from the firm. Instead of people hearing about you as McMillan Worth's Blake Alexander, we want them to simply think Blake Alexander. It's the first step in you becoming famous on your own instead of as just an employee of some giant ad company."

"That way if it takes them too long to offer you a partnership and try to avoid giving you a titled partnership, we'll just walk and start up on our own." She seemed awfully confident.

When we got home it was business as usual. The necklace that I'd paid a ridiculous amount of money for was dropped casually on a table. The dress was on the floor at the bottom of the staircase, and Mary Beth was walking slowly up the stairs with only her thigh high stockings and panties on. She hadn't even worn a bra that night, not that she really needed one. The closing of our door was the signal for the previously perfectly coiffed paragon of class and dignity to resume her chosen role as my personal slut.

She settled down on our massive bed and spread her legs. "You didn't eat much at the party," she smirked. "I don't think you should go to bed hungry. So come on over here and eat some of this." Her hips lifted off of the bed in anticipation. I knelt before my carnal goddess and did what she hated most. A lot of women want their men to be gentle and careful, when they eat them. Not Mary Beth, "RRRR ... quit fucking teasing me and get to it," she snapped. I blew a gentle gust of air at her shaved bare vagina and was met with an icy glare. Just as she got ready to chastise me again, I caught her off guard and roughly swiped at her sensitive area from anus to clit as hard as I could in one swift stroke.

"EEEEEEE," she screamed. Her head jerked backwards and her legs flew even further apart. "Ohhh! fuck that was good." I swabbed her deck with my tongue as if I was trying to rub the skin off of it. She jerked and grimaced as if she was being tortured and screamed like a dying cat. Within seconds her eyes were rolling back in her head and she was gushing her juices all over me.

"Get your fucking clothes off, already," she snapped. "No that's okay; I can't wait that long, just do me."

I shook my head, in disbelief. Even after being together for six years, I was still shocked by exactly how slutty Mary Beth could be. Less than twenty minutes ago she'd appeared to be a woman who wouldn't say shit if she had a mouth full of it. Now in the privacy of our home, she could teach drunken sailors how to swear. I pulled my pants down around my ankles and grabbed her off the bed. I turned her around and slammed myself home in her tight hairless pussy. None of that romantic rubbing and easing my way in for her, she was already sopping wet and she liked it rough so that's what I gave her.

The first brutal stroke found me bottomed out inside her and her trying to get her legs even further apart, so I could get deeper. "Harder, baby. Slam me," she said. I was already fucking her so hard that if she got pregnant our kid would be born with a black eye, but she wanted it harder so I obliged her.

I grabbed her by her slim waist and pulled her onto me harder with each stroke. She pushed her ass against me increasingly harder also. It was more like we were fighting than fucking. I was getting closer with each stroke and Mary Beth knew it. "Don't you dare fucking cum," she said. She pulled herself off of me and turned to look at me. "Do my ass," she said. She was out of her mind. She was slurring her words together, and she had the biggest smile.

"Who was I to turn down the love of my life? I pulled her cheeks apart and started to lick her anus for lubrication. "Just put it in me," she screamed. "Force your dick into my shitter, now!" So again I complied. She pushed against me as I pushed into her. It was so tight I thought my dick was going to break. Finally I got the head in and she started oohing and screaming, "yes."

After a while we got the whole thing in and she started sawing against me again. It was so tight and I was already close." It didn't matter. I reached under her and rubbed her clit. Mary Beth started slamming her ass into me again.

Mary Beth doesn't have a large fleshy ass so her pelvic bones slamming against me were not the most comfortable thing, but it was brief thankfully. She started jerking involuntarily, and I grabbed her around her waist and drive myself home one more time. I came like a fire hose. Semen erupted from the end of my dick and blasted her insides. She reacted from the warmth of the fluid more than the volume. She ripped herself free of me and turned around quickly taking my shrinking member into her mouth and slurping greedily. Her tongue circled the head of my shaft and even probed the hole in the end of it for the last few drops. A few errant drops had escaped and landed on the bed. She scooped them up and swallowed them as well.

"Oh baby, that was so good," she crooned. "Just the way, I like it."

We fell back on the bed wrapped around each other and slept the sleep of the damned, while the world around us started to fall apart.

The next morning I woke up and unwrapped Mary Beth's arms from me. I showered and stumbled into my Mustang. Fortunately it was a Saturday, so it really didn't matter that it was nearly 10 a.m. when I got on the road. I noticed a few people staring at me as I went into my favorite Dunkin Donuts for coffee. I was sure it was the car. How did Michael Keaton say it in that Batman movie? "Chicks dig the car."

As I pulled into the parking lot behind our building, there was a group of reporters gathered. I figured that one of our advertising clients was making their shoes with slave labor in some third world country again. Or someone we represented has destroyed some tree in the rain forest. While I'm sure they were tragic, they were neither my job nor my concern.

I was working on landing a huge new client. They owned several hundred hotels all over Europe. Their advertising budget alone was worth over 10 million dollars a year. If I could land them, I'd already be one of the top five in terms of sales for next year already.

I'd been doing conference calls and video conferencing with them for the past few days. They were open to my advances but their responses were lukewarm at best. I was avoiding the inevitable trip to Europe to meet with them until I could arrange to take Mary Beth with me.

As I stepped into my office, things got weird. Normally the office would be deserted on a Saturday. But the few people that were there would greet me. I guess I expected some type of congratulations for the award I won last night. There was nothing. I did notice a few people staring at me and talking, but not much else.

My longtime secretary Myra grabbed me by my arm and yanked me into the office. "What the he'll were you thinking?" she asked.

"Well, I was thinking that I'd have coffee and call our new French client to see how the deal is going," I replied.

Myra looked at me as if I'd arrived at work on a short yellow bus instead of a $70,000 Mustang.

"Not that, you idiot," she said. "I may not like your wife much. She seems too uptight for you. It's like she has a stick permanently up her ass. But you married her. How could you cheat on her?"

"Myra what the hell have you been smoking?" I asked her.

"Didn't you read the paper this morning?" she asked. "What about this Billie Jean thing?" She looked at me closely. It was as if she expected me to confess to some terrible crime. But I was as cool as a cucumber. I just shrugged my shoulders.

"Blake, aren't you going to say something? It's not every day that your lover comes out of the woodwork and..." I had to stop her before she got too wound up with this, so I interrupted her.

"Billie Jean is not my lover," I told her. "To tell you the truth, last night was the first time I ever saw her."

Myra was still looking at me, intensely. Finally she nodded her head.

"I believe you," she said. "I've known you long enough to be able to look into your purple peepers and tell when you're being truthful." I laughed a bit. Because of a weird genetic melding in my family's gene pool, some of the kids were born with red eyes. My uncle Stanley had them. He wore brown colored contacts to disguise them. The trait was supposedly dominant. But my mother's side of the family all had very deep brown eyes. When you matched her with my father it got messy. I guess I should have been born with red eyes but when you mixed my mom's brown with the red I'd been born with very striking purple eyes. From a distance they looked brownish. But anyone who got close to me could see their purple shade.

My purple eyes were one of the reasons that I'd been so successful with women throughout my life. I really like to think that the fact that I'm a nice guy didn't hurt either.

Myra held up a copy of the morning paper. The headline read, "Blake's in trouble!" The article went on to give the usual background crap I'd become used to. I was described alternately as both an advertising genius and a ruthless business man. It talked about the award last night, some of the highlights of my career and all of my failures and setbacks. Then it talked about last night's fiasco.

A second article had the banner headline, "Who is Billie Jean?" I didn't read more than the first two lines of that one before I discovered that Billie Jean was talking to everyone she could. She was scheduled to appear on television, radio and many more magazine and newspaper articles. Apparently my nightmare was just beginning.

I called my lawyer, Montgomery Burns. He was a ruthless old bastard. I wanted him to jump on this whole Billie Jean thing and find out what she wanted and what it would take to get rid of her. Barring that I wanted him to start the proceedings to sue her for Libel.

I called home to see if my blushing bride was awake yet. She eerily answered the phone and yelled for our maid to bring her some "fucking," coffee.

"Mary Beth, you probably won't want to read the papers this morning," I warned her. "They're all full of the Billie Jean shit."

"Oh my God, you're kidding," she laughed. "It must be a really slow news day. Why else would they be interested in some woman you slept with back in college?"

"Mary Beth, would you please listen to me," I said seriously. "I don't remember that woman. I don't remember having sex with her period. I don't even remember talking to her or seeing her."

"You were probably bombed out of your mind," she said.

"I don't think I've ever been so drunk that I couldn't remember having sex with someone," I said seriously. Mary Beth in the way that people who have been together for a long time can, sensed that my mood had shifted.

"Blake, don't worry about this. It's nothing. I believe you. I'm on your side no matter what. For better and for worse, remember? I love you, stupid," she started making little kissing noises over the phone. I started laughing and felt better instantly. Naturally she wasn't done sticking it to me though. "Blake did you notice the way every guy in the place couldn't take their eyes off of that Heifer's Tata's though? I think I'm going to have to insist on breast implants for my birthday. I think I'll move up to like a quadruple Z cup," she laughed.

"Oh yeah, I can see it now," I laughed. "We'll have to get you a wheelbarrow to carry them around in."

"And I'll terrify our kids when they breast feed," she said.

"What kids?" I asked. "How are we going to have any kids?"

"We can have kids any time we want," she said. "I come from damn good breeding stock. All I have to do is stop taking my pill and I'll start spitting out little Alexander's like there's no limit."

"I don't see it," I said.

"Why not?" she smirked. I could already imagine her at home on our huge bed completely naked with her head tilted to the side. It was the way she always reacted when someone told her she couldn't do something.

"Well," I said, with mock seriousness. "In order for us to procreate ... You do understand the term procreation don't you? I'm not being too technical here am I."

"I know what procreation is, you idiot," she said.

"Well, in order for us to procreate, I'd have to shoot my stuff into your Hoo hah," I said. Mary Beth erupted with laughter.

"I thought this was a serious technical talk," she said. "You and I have more sex than anyone I know. And you can shoot your stuff anywhere you want, but your stuff is my stuff. No one else gets a fucking drop of it. Especially not Billie Jean." she was still laughing as she hung up the phone.

For the rest of the weekend, Mary Beth and I just relaxed and enjoyed each other. We took the boat out on Sunday morning and just lazily sailed around the bay. We stopped off at several secluded coves and did what came natural. We even moored just off of an island where we could make out picnickers with our naked eyes. We took off all of our clothes and had sex right in front of them to act out one of Mary Beth's fantasies about having sex in front of other people. The people on the beach did start pointing at our boat, though.

It was lucky that we did it then because if we'd waited a couple of days, there'd have been reporters all over us.

While Mary Beth and I were relaxing Billie Jean had been telling her story. Monday morning it was all over the papers again. As much as I hoped it would die down and go away, the story seemed to have legs.

When I went into the office Monday morning I was told to appear at a special meeting of the board of directors. This was what I'd been waiting for. I assumed that they were going to offer me a partnership as a reward for all of my bard work.

When I walked into the meeting, it was the same as it always was. A group of old men, who had all, at one time or another been in my shoes.

Each and every one of them had been the company hotshot at some point. Each generation's hotshot had to rewrite the record books until they were so important to the company that they had to be offered a part of it.

First I was asked about the new account I was working on. I told them that we hadn't actually landed it yet, but things looked promising.

Then the moment I dreamed of came. I knew that once the discussion of money was over we'd move to discuss me personally.

"On a more personal note," said Arthur Harris. I was trying very hard not to smile. I needed to remain professional and in control. I couldn't let them see how much this would mean to me to become a partner before turning forty. I'd also become the first to make partner before turning thirty.

"What are we to make of this Billie Jean situation," continued Harris. I sucked in a breath, and remained silent for a few ticks.

"This adverse publicity could possibly affect our bottom line if allowed to run unchecked," he said.

"I guarantee you that it is being handled as we speak," I said flatly. I kept my voice as free of emotion as I was able to manage. Inside I was seething. I was beyond pissed but I managed to hold onto my cool.

I returned to my office and sat down behind my spacious desk. What I'd thought was an annoyance was becoming a true problem. It was obvious that Billie Jean would need to be dealt with. The problem was that I didn't know what she wanted or what it would take to get rid of her. I was smart enough to realize that I needed to handle it all through my attorney. Any direct contact between the two of us would simply lend credence to her claims.

Myra burst into the office unannounced and looked at me. "How did Mary Beth take the latest news?" she asked.

"What latest news?" I asked back. I was so pissed that I could care less. The thing that had me the most upset was the fact that this whole Billie Jean thing might allow those old bastards to delay me getting my partnership for a while longer.

"Billie Jean claims that your affair with her was four years ago," said Myra, looking at me suspiciously.

"That's pure bullshit," I yelled. "I was out of college and already married to Mary Beth by then."

My outburst caused several heads in the outer office to turn and look towards us. My office had floor to ceiling glass walls. The glass was thick and we couldn't be heard out there but they could certainly see in, and the way I had jumped up and started yelling had attracted some attention.

The ringing of the phone on my desk snapped both Myra and me out of the impromptu staring contest we were in.

"Blake Alexander's Office," said Myra crisply into the phone. "He's right here Mr. Burns." she handed me the phone. "Hey, boss I'm on your side. I believe you. Don't shoot the messenger," she whispered as she walked out of the office.

"What took you so God damned long to get back to me," I asked.

"I do occasionally take a vacation," laughed Monty Burns. "Besides, what were my final instructions to you last week before I left?"

"Ha ha fucking ha," I said, remembering that he'd told me not into get into any trouble while he was gone.

"Alright so far, all I've had time to do is put a couple of investigators on her. I may cut it down to one though to save some money," he said.

"Since I'm paying for it don't spare any fucking money," I snapped. "Put as many men as you need on the job, I'm not exactly broke."

"I'm not trying to save you any money," he snapped right back. "It's just that I've tried out a new agency, Arturo Rios Investigations. The girl, Sarah Price, that they put on the case is really good. She got back to me in a matter of minutes with more information than my regular guy was able to come up with over 24 hours. I'm thinking of sending her and her husband to Florida to do more research."

"Why are we sending people to fucking Florida? And why does her husband need to go with her?" I asked.

"Well, her husband is actually not an investigator but he helps out on some of her cases now and then. But since they just got married she won't go anywhere without him. Arturo warned me about that when he gave me her results. They also may not take the case. According to Arturo, Sarah is the best PI he's ever seen, but she's picky about the cases she takes. Arturo said that once she met her husband Chris, there are just some things and some types of cases she simply won't take. They make enough money from her husband's job as an engineer or auto marketing guy to live comfortably so they do the investigations things on a pick and choose basis," he said.

"Okay your super spy girl has weird quirks," I said. "Why do they need to go to Florida?"

"Because Billie Jean lives in Florida," he said. "If we're going to find out anything about her, that's where we need to have boots on the ground. There's some really funny shit going on here. Like Sarah found out that Billie Jean has no fucking money. The bitch has like twelve dollars in her checking account and no savings account. So how the fuck did she manage to fly all the way to California and get dolled up like she did for your party? Obviously she has help and there's something going on. If we want to find out the who's and the what's we need people in Florida."

"Okay send them already," I said.

"We can't," he said. "I already told you, she's picky about the cases she takes. She wants to meet you first."

An hour later I was headed out of town to a quiet little restaurant just outside of L.A. There was very little traffic and I was listening to the Eagles' One of these Nights CD as I drove. By now you've probably realized a lot about my personality so you know what I did when a car flew by me. His fucking exhaust system was as loud as mine and the exhaust note was so sweet, that I couldn't believe it.

As I looked up to see what it was, I wasn't shocked. It was another Mustang. It was a GT but the car was nowhere near stock. Whoever the guy was he was making tracks. Nobody went past me, Mustang or not, so I shifted up a gear and put the pedal on the floor. My Shelby woke up and as the supercharger started to whine I was narrowing the gap. There were curves up ahead and I was sure that my car's handling package would allow me to easily over take him.

Unfortunately, the bastard hugged the corners like his car was on rails. That car was definitely not stock. As we came out of the last corner, I quickly shifted and stomped the pedal. Five hundred and fifty horses quickly nosed their way towards the front. I pulled ahead of him. But it was very gradual. He was smiling from ear to ear and gave me the thumbs up sign as I passed. I really wish I had friends like that guy. He was a class act. And obviously we shared a liking for the pony cars.

I slowly pulled away from him but I wasn't leaving him in the dust like I expected to. Just so you know it, this experience was why I bought the newer Shelby GT 500 KR, this year. The GT 500 that I was driving last year only had five hundred and fifty horses. The new KRs put out almost eight hundred horsepower.

Before too long and luckily before any cops saw me it was time for me to leave the freeway. I checked my GPS and saw that the restaurant I was going to was only a couple of blocks away from the freeway exit.

I pulled into the parking lot and was under whelmed. This wasn't the type of place I was used to. It was a small out of the way Mexican place, very understated and very authentic in its decor.

I walked in and noticed that there was no hostess by the door. A fat woman in a greasy apron waved at me from behind the bar and told me to sit wherever I liked. There were a few seedy looking characters scattered around so I decided to sit at a table near the window along the side of the restaurant where I could watch my car.

After I'd been sitting there for a few minutes a couple came in. She looked around and examined everyone in the restaurant before her eyes settled on me. She also never let go of his hand. She was tall for a woman with a lot of honey blond hair. She was fit and trim with larger than average breasts that told me from the way they moved under her light sweater that they were real. Her well rounded yet trim ass perched on top of long thin legs. She was a hell of a package.

The best part was her face. If she'd put any time at all into make-up or styling she'd be beautiful. Hell she already was beautiful but she didn't have so much as lipstick on and in California, raw bare naked beauty just didn't stand a chance. Out here even the maids and the waitresses wore more facial enhancement than this woman did.

The man with her was tall and well built. He was muscular without being hulking. He also moved like nothing I'd ever seen before. Maybe it was some kind of martial arts training or something. His disposition and the open and easy way that he smiled, worried me. He looked like he was lost. He was just too fucking friendly. The wolves out here would tear him apart. He could probably handle himself in a fight, but the con men would eat him for lunch without ever lifting a finger.

She was obviously the brains here. He wasn't an idiot or anything, he was probably very book smart, but she had the street smarts. At any rate you could tell by the way they fiercely held each other's hands that they were a team. There was also something very familiar about him. Maybe he was an actor or something that I had worked with.

Surprisingly enough she looked at me and then led them over to my table. "Mr. Alexander?" she asked as she stood in front of me.

"Hey," he said. "We Roy Orbisoned you on the way here, didn't we?"

"You what?" I asked smiling. "His easy going disposition was infectious. I liked the guy already.

"Roy Orbison, we blew by you," he said excitedly. "I knew I couldn't beat your Shelby. You've got a supercharger and my car has no power adders. It's naturally aspirated so that gave you a big advantage. I just wanted to see how long it would take for you to crush us."

"There's no way your car is stock," I said shocked. If it was I'd spent way too fucking much money, for way too little bump in performance.

"It's been tweaked," he smiled at me nodding.

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