Chapter Twenty-Two
Ethan
I'd never been happier. I was at the top of my industry with Speed Motorcycles ranked as the number one motorcycle company in the country. People from all around the world were now clamoring to buy one of my bikes, and the orders for the new All American were already breaking industry records.
I had a great house in Beverly Hills, California that I loved to come home to every night. When you spent your childhood wondering if you were going to have a roof over your head some nights, nothing meant more than that kind of security. I had bought my parents a house so they'd never have to know that worry again, too, especially my dad. I had a vacation property in Hawaii and another in Colorado. My garage was filled with more cars than I could possibly drive, especially when I had a collection of motorcycles that I loved even more. I could go anywhere I wanted, any time I wanted, just because I fucking felt like it, and nobody could stop me.
Best of all, I had found a woman who fulfilled my every need. I had thought being successful meant being able to go down to the hottest club and hook up with any chick I wanted to. I thought being free was going out with a different hot model every Friday night. I thought being in a committed relationship would kill my soul and ruin all the things in my life that made me who I was. I thought all the poor suckers out there that were tied down to one woman had sacrificed the best parts of themselves; that if I did the same thing, I would lose my creativity, spontaneity, and the essence of my manhood.
It's how I viewed what happened to my father when my mother left him and he tried to drown himself in depression and alcohol. I never understood why he yearned for her the way he did and why he took her back so willingly when she returned, telling him it had been a mistake and she wanted the two of them to help each other get well. I never understood that kind of unconditional love.
Now, with Kayla, I finally did.
It was too big a step for me to say I loved Kayla, but she was the first woman that made me ask that question. From the moment I saw her at that audition, looking like a shy fawn, and then when her top fell off and the adorable way she reacted, I was fascinated by her.
Then, when I spent the entire day with her, teaching her how to ride, that fascination turned to inspiration. She was so daring and persistent. No matter much something scared her, or how many times she failed at it, she wouldn't give up. She just kept trying until she got it, and even then, she wouldn't quit until she got it right. She was a perfectionist, and a daredevil, and still completely sweet. Her patience was unending, and her willingness to keep going was inspiring.
I gained a respect for her that day. It made me want to open up to her when we were sitting under that oak tree and share my story with her, and when she shared her story with me, what started out as fascination and then inspiration turned to compassion.
I yearned to protect her, provide for her, and take care of her. She suddenly meant something to me, far more than just some dumb, sexy model I wanted to fuck and then toss aside. She was being used by that asshole boyfriend of hers and needed someone like me to show her how she deserved to be treated.
It felt good taking care of somebody — really good. I loved seeing the way her face her lit up, watching her eyes sparkle, noticing how that beautiful smile spread until she was glowing. Once I had taste of making her smile, I wanted more of it. It was addictive, like a drug, and all I could think about from that moment was making her smile — that and kissing those perfect lips.
I had kissed a lot of women over the years. I'd slept with more gorgeous models and sexy socialites than I could even remember, but there was something about Kayla Brandt that I knew I would never forget.
The way her skin felt to my touch, the way her lips tasted, the way her body responded to mine in just that right way; it was intoxicating. I could hardly believe it when she told me that she'd never played bondage sex games before, except I knew nothing about Kayla was dishonest. She was authentic in every way, from her unenhanced breasts to every word she said, Kayla was always genuine.
I guess that's what made the sex with her so incredible. I knew she wasn't faking it or trying to act like she thought I'd want her to. The reactions she gave to every touch were her true sexual responses, and that was erotic as hell. When her skin shivered and her mouth sighed, I knew I had truly affected her on a deeper level, and when she clutched at the sheets and screamed out in passion, I knew I was really giving her the best orgasm of her life.
It seemed oddly selfish to think of it these terms, but making Kayla come was the greatest pleasure I'd ever known. It made me feel gratified in a way I'd never experienced before. I had always been an over-achiever, getting top grades in school, working my ass off for Krueger, and then working even harder to create Speed Motorcycles and turn it into what it was today, but all that hard work and been selfishly motivated. I was serving myself with the ultimate goal of achieving wealth, and I'd succeeded. I was now outrageously rich with no one in my life to share it with or enjoy it alongside me.
When I was Kayla, however, making her writhe on the bed with delirious pleasure as I fucked her all night long, I was giving something to someone who truly deserved it. Kayla Brandt had felt unloved and unappreciated most of her life; she was craving male attention and acceptance. I wanted to be the one to give that to her and reward her with pleasures unlike anything she'd ever known. I wanted to be the one to make her light up in that way and to say that I was her man.
She had the kind of body I knew I would never get tired of, and the kind of personality I could just sit and talk with for hours. Nothing about her was boring, fake, or annoying. She was just terrific all the way around, and I never wanted to be without her.
I guess that said it all. I wanted to be in a relationship with Kayla Brandt. I wanted to be with her alone and no one else, and I wanted her to commit to the same with me. I was ready for this next stage in my life.
It felt good to come to this realization and I felt invigorated. Just moments ago, she and I had been fucking wildly on my dining room table. Now, I was in the shower, having this amazing catharsis while she was in my bedroom rubbing lotion on her perfectly round ass.
I turned off the hot water and reached for a towel as I stepped out of the shower. I couldn't wait to tell her I was ready to commit to her, and see what she said. A flash of fear washed over me as I wondered if she would reject me, but I had to shake it off. Every instinct I had told me that she felt the same way as I did. I just had to go for it.
I could hear the television blaring in the bedroom and realized she must have turned it on. I strained my ears, trying to figure out what she was watching when I became aware of the sound of my cell phone ringing. I found it on the bathroom counter and answered it.
"Hey, buddy. It's me again." The voice sounded drunk, or maybe high.
"Charles Dorsey?" I asked, placing the voice with the asshole junkie I'd had to throw out of my office that morning. "It's late. Why are you calling me at home at this hour?"
"I thought we were friends. We used to be friends. Remember?"
"Yeah, I remember." He was definitely high. All I wanted to do was end this conversation quickly so I could get back to a much more important one with Kayla.
"All those nights at the frat house: you, me, Vick, Bradley, Mike, and what was the name of that other dude?"
"I don't remember. I have to go. It was nice talking to you, Charles." I started to hang up, but he stopped me.
"Oh, yeah, Speedy. Remember, Speedy? How good it felt when you got that first buzz? How it made us feel like we could do anything."
Shit. That part of my life was behind me. The last thing I wanted to do was take a stroll down memory lane with a fucked-up friend of mine from my fraternity days who never learned how to stop partying and get off that shit.
Charles was talking a mile a minute into the phone. "I remember this one time we were all fucking loaded as shit. You shouted out, ‘I can move at the speed of sound,’ and you climbed on the banister of our fucking stairs, straddling the railing. Then I said, ‘You look like you're riding a motorcycle.’ And then you said, ‘A motorcycle that runs on fucking speed.’ Then I said, ‘Yeah, a speed motorcycle.’
“You laughed your fucking ass off, and then you said, ‘If I ever start my own company, I'm going to call it Speed Motorcycles,’ and I said, ‘Yeah, you should totally fucking do that, only I want half because it was my idea.’
“Well, guess what buddy? It's time to pay up my fucking half."
"You're out of your fucking mind. Good night, Charles," I said, feeling annoyed.
"No, I went to see a lawyer today after you threw me out of your office. He agrees, I've got a claim. We came up with the idea together. You owe me half the money from your company, but I'm willing to settle out of court. Give me a million even, and we'll call it fair."
"That's bullshit. You might have a lawyer, but that claim will never make it to court. Any judge will throw it out as being ridiculous, and if you can find one who will listen to you, I've got a team of lawyers that will bury you under 50 tons of paper. Forget the whole thing. Sober up, Charles. Get yourself into rehab."
"Fine. You might be able to keep a judge from hearing my story, but someone else will listen to it. I've got an appointment with Becky Wilson tomorrow."
"What are you talking about?" I tried to sound like I didn't give a shit, but suddenly, this asshole had my attention. Becky Wilson was a primetime anchor, well respected by the media. Any story she reported on went global.
"I've seen how they've been pushing you in interviews, trying to get you to say how you came up with the name of the company, and I know why you don't want to say. Now that you're a billionaire and the owner of this fancy company, you think you’re too good for us. You don't want the public to know you used to take speed for breakfast and that you were flying high that entire first year you built the company. You don't want anyone knowing what I know."
"Now hang on just a minute, Charles." My voice was stern as I struggled to hold in my anger.
"No, you hang on. I was the one who gave you your first hit. I've seen you when you were so fucking high, you didn't even know what planet you were on. I was there when you were so fucking low, you'd have done anything to score more speed."
"I'm not that guy anymore. I stopped using that shit a long time ago. When Gwyneth dumped me, it was a wake-up call. I went into rehab, and I haven't touched the stuff since. I've been clean 20 years."
"That will make an inspirational story for the newspapers then, won't it? I'll tell them all about how doped up you were taking huge doses of speed just to get high. Gwyneth can back me up, confirming the story for the reporters. I bet the rehab center has records of your stay, too. The papers will pay me top dollar for dirt like that. I'll bet I can get six figures out of them, unless you'd like to top it."
"You're blackmailing me to keep this quiet? Fuck you." Now, I was really pissed.
"What do you think your investors at your company will think of the Ethan Colson the cokehead? How many advertisers will you lose? How many buyers will go someplace else? Once the story gets out, everyone will associate Speed Motorcycles with doing speed, and you know it. It will become a joke. You'll never be able to shake the stigma once it starts. You'll be laughed right out of business."
I knew he was right. All those motorcycles all across the country with my logo Speed emblazoned across the chassis will be mocked. No amount of P.R. will be able to fix it. My brand will be ruined and everything I'd worked my entire life for will be lost.
"Shit! Are you out of your fucking mind? You're trying to ruin me. Well, I won't let it happen. I'll destroy you first," I shouted into the phone. I was gripping it so hard, my hand hurt and I had to force myself to put it down. On the other end of line, I could hear Charles laughing.
"Meet me tomorrow outside my lawyer’s office. Give me a check for one million dollars, or I go inside and make up a contract to sell my story to the papers. Either they'll pay me, or you will. It makes no difference to me; either way, I'm getting what's mine."
The line went dead, and I slammed my phone down onto the counter so hard it shattered.
"Shit," I shouted out. That's when I saw Kayla standing in the doorway looking sexy as ever in nothing but a towel.
"Is everything okay?" she asked, putting her arms around me and kissing me tenderly. God, she tasted so good.
"It's just a problem at work I have to take care of tomorrow." It wasn't exactly a lie; it just wasn't exactly the truth.
"Well, let's go to bed then. You'll feel better with a good night's sleep," she said, running her manicured fingers through my hair soothingly. It made my dick hard and I grabbed her ass, squeezing her close to me.
"Actually, I think I need something else to make me feel better." I grinned at her with a horny leer.
"Ready so soon?" Her face brightened and I nodded.
"I'm always ready for you," I said. Holding Kayla in my arms, I kissed her passionately. The towel she was wrapped in fell to the floor, and her naked breasts pressed against my bare chest. In that moment, everything else was forgotten. I was no longer thinking about Charles Dorsey and his bullshit lawsuit or worried about if I should just pay him the blackmail bribe. Nothing else mattered when I was Kayla, except how good I wanted to make her feel.