“A riot is ahead.” The driver attempted to turn the corner from Rue Pasteur onto La Promenade de la Croisette but failed. “Monsieur, we are stuck.”

“What the hell…?” Warner sat straight up in the limo’s backseat.

Moments before, he’d flown in to Aéroport Nice Côte d’Azur from a Tokyo business trip. Even on his private plane, the eleven-hour flight had left him crippled with jetlag.

Star-fuckers in the street blocked cars from going anywhere; they seemed to be chasing a celebrity.

“What’s going on?” Warner asked the chauffeur, who’d released the steering wheel. People had come from all over Cannes to stand at Hôtel de France’s entrance. He slid a piece of sugarless gum into his mouth and chewed, hoping it would wake him. I smell trouble.

Before the season started, he’d instructed management to book production crew for the film festival, no party animals. Truman Enterprises’ strategy for making money during the summer in Cannes came from remaining off the celebrity radar. Hôtel de France catered to behind-the-scenes industry folks. If they were to host any starlets, they would be the low-drama Julia Roberts or George Clooney types. Not the young partying Lindsey or Mischa, troublemakers who’d alert paparazzi to their every move prior to making one. He rolled the car’s window down as the driver inched closer.

“Gimme your meat, baby!” a woman’s voice screamed from the balcony above his car. “Oui, Oui, Oui, Manuel. Fuck me harder.”

Manuel?

“You magnifique slut, Caramel!” a man shouted huskily.

Caramel?

Warner stuck his head out the window, glaring up at where the voices came from, at what everyone else in the street gawked over.

Against the sun’s bright rays, two famous porn stars, who he’d seen in several movies, fucked on his presidential suite balcony. Their names? Manuel Coq de la Grande and Caramel Swallows.

Caramel Swallows, who’d been nicknamed the Porn Queen, had a number-one-selling online video. It translated in English as Cream Caramel over the Causeway, and had grossed over thirty-five million dollars in digital downloads. With her own reality show titled Her Porn Life, cameras tracked Caramel for months, catching her every move. And at the Cannes Film Festival, it appeared to be Manuel.

“You want me, Caramel?” Manuel stabbed his stiff rod in her ass. He held onto her hips as the woman’s face twisted with erotic pleasure.

Her breasts jiggled so fast Warner couldn’t tell one nipple from the other. Caramel’s long, black hair flew wild in the humid Mediterranean air, and her body shook as Manuel’s thrusts increased.

“FUCK CARAMEL. FUCK CARAMEL.” The crowd howled, egging them on.

Manuel’s nuts rammed her like a sandbag. Sweat came off him, his face focused and possessed, pounding her so hard she’d become quiet.

Panicked, Warner jumped out of the car. “Move! Get out of my way.” He pushed through the crowd when they didn’t pay any attention to him. Everyone was too busy staring.

“FUCK MANUEL. FUCK MANUEL,” tourists chanted. Cameras flashed and video recorders streamed. TV film crews had run over from another event to capture the footage.

“What the hell is going on?” Warner snagged Hôtel de France’s valet manager’s attention before he could drive off to park a hotel guest’s regal blue Bugatti.

Slouched down in the car’s white leather interior, with no place to escape, the attendant’s lips twitched, trying to speak. He hesitated, not knowing how to respond.

“Answer me,” Warner demanded.

“Prix du Cinéma Pour Adultes…”

“No?”

“Oui.”

Prix du Cinéma Pour Adultes was the largest adult film convention in the world. Held annually alongside the Cannes Film Festival, it wasn’t anything like the other award programs taking place that season. Instead, pornography actors received Oscar-style awards at lavish dinners. The extravaganza was always oversold and booked months in advance at a competing hotel, not a Truman Enterprises property.

“Mr. Kip Van Scott booked rooms this week for the adult film awards?” Over the winter, he’d promoted Kip to this property from Secrète de St. Barth.

“Correct.”

This explained Kip’s success, his record-breaking ability to sell rooms. But he never expected this from Kip. The unofficial spin-off of the Cannes Film Festival where adult actors celebrated their work ran as a two-week-long extravaganza, which apparently had hosted itself at Hôtel de France.

He stepped back to see the crowd cheering the male actor on as he slid in and out of Caramel’s ass.

“I’M COMING!” Caramel’s body rocked against Manuel’s, ready to shoot off.

“Manuel! Manuel! Manuel!” the crowd repeated as he drove in harder. They loved him.

Pulling out from Caramel, Manuel stepped close to the balcony’s edge. He ripped the condom off, throwing it out into the audience.

Oh, no, Manuel…

He jacked his donkey dick. Manuel’s hairy bag hung low. His skin glistened in the sun. The porn star shouted down to the onlookers below and asked, “You want it?”

“Oui, Oui, Oui,” the mob cried.

Manuel wouldn’t dare…

Spreading his legs wide, he stood on the guardrail.

With cameras flashing, the crowd pressed under the balcony. Even if they wanted to escape, they couldn’t.

He spit. He tugged. He twisted his dick.

Chanting, the crowd raised their arms. Manuel became a demigod.

Manuel’s erection reached his belly button.

A gasp came from the crowd as the front group realized they were going to get it. How could they not have understood that before?

He yanked once—twice—three times.

“He’s going to come on us,” warned one woman who ate an ice cream cone with one hand and held a Galeries Lafayette shopping bag with the other. Panicked, people squished in one direction then another.

“Yeeeah, bébé!” His gravy shot, misting the onlookers below.

“Merde! You shit!” one person shouted back. The cheers shrilled into screams. Horror. Did they think it was just for theatrics? Manuel had ejaculated for his fans. He didn’t know any better. They’d only gotten what they’d asked for.

People threw their wine and beer bottles at the balcony. They screamed in anger at the porn stars. Ducking for cover, Manuel and Caramel fled inside the hotel room. They closed the balcony’s doors as bottles smashed the glass.

Warner took the fire escape two stairs at a time. He hurried up the hotel’s east wing and made it to the top step, catching the Cannes Police in the process of breaking the door in.

“Officer, my name is Kiki. Please don’t arrest me. I wasn’t doing anything wrong.” A petite busty blonde girl, not a day over eighteen, pleaded.

“Pardon, your name is what?” The officer grabbed both of her hands behind her back.

Who calls themselves Kiki?

“Ouch! It’s Kelly Izatt. I’m from New York. Please don’t—”

The task force pushed her aside.

Warner stepped around the Kiki girl, looking for whoever was in charge. “I’m Warner Truman, owner of this hotel.” He handed his card to the uniformed officer, who was taking control of the situation.

“Man of the hour.” The detective greeted him with sarcasm. “Any idea what you have going in here, Mr. Truman?”

“This room is the VIP suite held for Air Euro Airways executives. Hôtel de France contracts a standing reservation with their team yearly. I don’t understand—”

“Monsieur Truman. We’re charging your airline friends with public indecency.”

“Add drug possession.” Another officer came out with a Ziploc bag filled with white powder.

Inside the room, there were a few people handcuffed.

“They’re shooting a porno.” The officer pointed at the camera equipment.

He turned to see the short blonde he’d passed standing in the corner. Her eyes had filled with tears. Warner approached. “Are you with Air Euro?”

“Not exactly,” Kiki replied with a shaky voice. “I work for Brill, Inc.”

“What’s that?”

“A media firm.”

“What’s your airline connection?”

“Monsieur Jérôme du Tautou lent us the room. I didn’t know it’d get so crazy.” She started to sob, but managed to say she was truly sorry.

“If she’s not on the reservation, we can charge her with trespassing,” encouraged the officer whose badge read ‘Gaston’.

Warner confirmed with a nod and stepped to the side, witnessing the American pressed against the doorway.

“Dejon! Please don’t let them do this to us!” Kiki shouted to a tall man against the wall. She started to cry so hard a female officer came over to help cuff her. She was then carted off with the actors, camera crew, and the tall guy named Dejon.

Princess Lolly costume fitting? Check. Candy Land Ball was all set.

Lipstick & Lead Rifle Range? Check. Two rounds had been fired.

Dominatrix sling class? Double Check. Whipped and then beaten.

Feet soaked in eucalyptus? Working on it.

Taddy had followed Kiki’s suggestion, spending early Saturday afternoon at Exhale Bliss Day Retreat on Fifth Avenue. The Neve Adele account could wait until Sunday. Taddy had selected the perfect bright red shade in a translucent crimson base with a top glitter coat.

“Mr. Kim Lee, let’s do my toes in this Baden Cosmetics color called Stilettos Slamming.”

In agreement, he took the nail polish bottle from Taddy and went to work on her feet. A favorite of Vive’s and Lex’s, Mr. Lee had been voted by Harper’s Bazaar as the best pedicurist in town.

Flipping through an expired Debauchery magazine copy, she sipped her jasmine tea with an artificial sweetener. The hot beverage soothed her tender throat, which felt raw from smoking the entire Nat Sherman pack the night before.

The pedicure chair vibrated under her ass and stimulated her hard nub. She positioned the pleasure zone in the seat just right. Why didn’t I do this sooner? She made an effort to escape to Candy Land. Months had passed since she’d played Princess Lolly. But who would she fantasize about with Brayden Brooks, Gilad, Dr. Fassenbender, José, and Díma all crossed out? Big Daddy slipped into her conscious. As much as she wanted to avoid thinking of him, she couldn’t help it.

Mr. Lee scrubbed her soles. It felt euphorically good.

I need this. I deserve this. Please. She grabbed the seat’s remote, set the vibration speed at five and moaned in a low voice, “Ooooh…Mr. Lee, you want some.” Imagining gumdrops, she attempted to get into Candy Land. She couldn’t.

Determined to get off, she upped the chair’s speed to ten—ass rocking, legs swinging, and vulva buzzing. Suddenly, Taddy recalled taking Asian language studies back in college with Blake, who during their freshman year had experienced a major rice queen fetish. Figuring Mr. Lee was Vietnamese, she muttered, “Du, du.”

“Huh?” Mr. Lee stopped scrubbing her feet.

Taddy rested against the seatback and sang to her own tune in her head, a Waris Sugar song titled “Pinky Licking.”

Mr. Lee resumed his foot-cleansing duties.

Irritated she couldn’t make herself pleasure trip, Taddy grabbed the remote, increasing the chair’s speed to fifteen. Teeth chattering, breasts jiggling, her crotch hummed. Now we’re talking. Her honey hive about to wet, she figured Mr. Lee must be Chinese, not Vietnamese. She pushed her back muscles into the chair and over her Easton Essentials blouse, twisting her left nipple with her right hand. She panted, “Mīmī, mīmī.”

“Please.” Mr. Lee smacked her calf muscle with a foot file, perhaps intending to be kinky.

She took his paddle whack as an invitation to go further. She’d learned this technique from Dominatrix Queen-Dick Dupree hours earlier in the day while taking her BDSM class. Upright in the chair, she jolted the speed to twenty, figuring he mustn’t be Vietnamese or Chinese. Mr. Lee was from Korea! Resting the fashion magazine against her stomach, as to be inconspicuous, she slipped her right hand down her cashmere sweatpants. She sang the Waris Sugar lyrics to the track out loud.

I’ll smack your back.

Now lick my crack.

Fuck my twat ‘til it’s whack.

Mr. Lee’s eyes widened.

“You want some Taddy-lic-icous kitty?” She moaned in Korean, “Segseu, segseu.” Taddy’s fingers played with her clit’s hood, getting close to going to Candy Land.

“You are freakin’ me out, lady. I’m gay. Knock it off!” Mr. Lee shouted at her in an accent that wasn’t Vietnamese, Chinese, or Korean. Hell, he didn’t sound Thai, Japanese, or Filipino either. He poured cold water on her feet, probably wishing she’d cool her jets.

“Mr. Lee, where are you from?” She tried to stick her toe in his face for ruining her brief pedi-ecstasy. Can’t a girl have some fun? Men grope female massage therapists all the time. Lighten the flip up, Kimmie.

“Chattanooga, Tennessee. Please do not masturbate while I do your feet. I cannot take another moaning, horny white woman this week,” he sassed dryly.

“Sorry, it’s this spa chair. It gets me hot and bothered.”

Mr. Lee unplugged her seat from the back wall and painted her toes at a rapid speed.

Her cell phone chimed an unfamiliar number. Acquainted with the area code for Cannes, France, she assumed Kiki was calling. For a second, she imagined Kiki’s second day in the French Riviera. Eager to see if she’d reveal some romantic tidbits from the night she’d shared with DJ Dejon, she answered.

“Kiki, darling, are you dancing at Nikki Beach with your lover?”

“Nooo,” Kiki whimpered.

“You’d be proud. I’m not at the office. I’m getting—”

“Miss Brill?” Kiki interrupted with an edge in her voice Taddy hadn’t heard from her before. “I’ve been…arrested.”

“ARRESTED?” she screamed. Kiki had to be kidding. But her assistant had never had much of a sense of humor.

“I’m serious! Please, bail me out…Can you come get me?”

“Are you hurt? Are you okay?” Her pulse raced, undoing the last two hours of relaxation. Setting the tea mug on the table next to her, she leaned forward, lost.

Mr. Lee continued painting her toes furiously.

For a second, she tried to fill in the blanks with what went on. How? Why?

“I’m not hurt, just shaken up. Officers here grip people’s shoulders better than you do.” She sounded as if she was trying to laugh, but cried, “A Cannes’ policeman is telling me to hang up now. I’m at the Grasse Avenue station. Please come.”

“I’ll be on the next flight—”

Click.

Taddy called Pierre de Vergès, a Parisian lawyer she had retained to navigate her company through their global expansion. Pierre offered to contact the authorities and ring her with answers. Drying her feet, she cancelled the remaining treatments, paid the bill, ran home, and packed. After leaving a message for Blake’s assistant, Duckie Capri, she was off to France. The Neve Adele account and Candy Land Ball planning was in his hands from that point on.

No flights were available to France. She could only fly standby, so Taddy offered an older gentleman two thousand dollars to give up his seat on an overnight flight going to Antibes. It was a resort town nearby. He’d accepted the bribe and took a later flight.

As the Air France jet’s door closed and flight attendants made final announcements for passengers to turn off their electronic devices, she received the much-anticipated call from Pierre. Leaning forward in her middle seat in coach, back by the bathroom, she ducked her head between the three hundred-plus passengers and answered the call.

Pierre said Taddy could have a European bail bondsman post funds to release Kiki, but Taddy’s appearance and signature were required due to her name being the primary holder of the credit card processed to pay the hotel room’s incidentals. According to the Commissaire de Police de Cannes, Kiki was hanging out at a casino inside Hôtel de France. She’d recognized Manuel Coq de la Grande from a porno taken from Taddy’s apartment. When she’d introduced herself, Manuel Coq de la Grande had asked if they could use her hotel room to shoot a live-stream porn feed while at the Cannes Film Festival.

Kiki, being curious, had granted them access to her room.

It didn’t look good for Kiki.

The wheels on the Boeing 767 went up, and they jetted down the runway. Squashed in economy, Taddy gazed out over the other people’s heads. She caught Manhattan’s skyline out the right window. Seeing the Empire State Building, which always gave her peace, she reflected on what had gone wrong.

She reminded herself how impressionable Kiki was and, as her boss and friend, she’d failed her. Taddy wondered if this was karma biting her in the ass for blackmailing Monsieur Jérôme. Her intention was to see Kiki fall in love with DJ Dejon, but that had backfired.

Why did women always go to the ends of the Earth for love?

With 1.6 million residents on the island of Manhattan and a total of 8.2 million including the boroughs, why would someone as wonderful as Kiki have to go four thousand miles to find love? Or any woman for that matter?