CHAPTER FOUR
Day one of my sex diet—I’ve got this.
New Orleans is a city with a small-town vibe to it. Everyone always seems to know everyone, and when you work in the boutique hotel business, you keep your fellow hotel owners close. Yes, they are my competition, but the real competition is the big chain hotels. The rest of us have to stick together.
And the other owners tend to feel the same way. But they also know I will crush them if they screw with my business, so it stings a little that Tawny is performing at the bar of a competing hotel, The Brittany. That’s not entirely true. There’s no competition because there’s really no comparison. The owner is old and in poor health, and the place reflects that. I haven’t been inside in years, but I’m sure it’s not gotten any better. Truthfully, I’ve had my eye on the building. It could be a good opportunity to expand my business.
Tonight, I don’t enter the hotel through the main lobby; instead, I go into the bar entrance off the street, and am surprised to find it packed and totally updated. A shiny wood bar, leather sofas and chairs, some great mood lighting. The old-time jazz bar has been given new life. The place is a decent size. Not so big you’d get lost like some of the clubs in New York, but not so small that you’re stepping all over everyone else. I see Annie stand up, waving to me from a table in the middle of the room.
But it’s not her wave that’s getting my attention. She has on a tight black catsuit-looking thing with a low V-neck. She never dresses like this, at least not since we were kids. I keep my eyes focused on Annie as I walk over, avoiding the eye candy situated around the room, tempting me to cheat on my new diet. “New clothes?”
Her whole face lights up. “Yeah, you like it?”
I don’t know how to tell her she needs to cover up. Usually, I’m very direct, but I want to be careful here. Annie’s special to me. I can’t just tell her that her clothes are so tight she has a camel toe. “You look very pretty,” I say, and she smiles a little. Why a compliment from a man means so damn much, I’ll never know. “So who is he?”
“Who?”
“The guy you’re all dressed up for? I’m assuming you have some hot date meeting you.”
“Just trying something new,” Annie says and motions to a cute redhead sitting next to her. “Pierce, this is Tawny’s teacher, Mrs. . .”
“Just Dylan,” she says, holding her hand out to me. “We met at the recital a few months ago.”
“I remember,” I say, only last time I saw her she was very pregnant. “So I hear you set this all up. I’m sure you don’t do that for all your students. Thank you.”
“Tawny’s special,” she says. “Even if she doesn’t know it.”
And she’s right. Tawny can play almost any instrument at least a little bit, and is a whiz on guitar and piano, but her voice is her true gift. Unfortunately, she’s the shyest person I’ve ever met. Actually, I can’t believe she even agreed to do this. Her love of music must be what’s driving her, finally forcing her to face her fears. That’s a big deal for a fifteen-year-old girl.
“My friend Sutton is the manager here, so it was a pretty easy sell,” Dylan says, shaking her head a little bit. “God, you and Tawny look so much alike. I can’t get over it.”
“Not sure how I feel about that,” I say. Aside from the fact she’s a girl, a teenager, and blonde, I know what she means.
Annie glances at me, saying, “It’s the blue eyes. They’re exactly the same.”
A sweet voice rings out, “In a few minutes, we have a very special performer.”
I turn toward the stage and find the bearer of the sweet voice—a long legged brunette in a little white dress. Everyone else working here is dressed in black, which is a practical choice. Black hides spills that are bound to happen when you cram a bunch of people in a small space—a good number of whom are drunk. But this woman is all in white—pure, spotless, untouched.
And she is a beautiful—her long hair pulled up in a sleek ponytail showing off her pale skin with pink cheeks and bright blue eyes. People cheat on their diets all the time, right?
She steps off the stage, and Dylan waves her over, making a few quick introductions. “Sutton, I’d like you to meet Tawny’s brother, Pierce, and his friend, Annie.”
Annie stands up, pulling Sutton into a hug. “Thank you for doing this for Tawny.” I can’t help but smile. Annie loves Tawny as much as I do. Sutton smiles, not at all uncomfortable with Annie’s embrace. Something tells me if I tried that, I’d get a knee to the groin.
“She’s thrilled to be here,” I say, extending my hand to Sutton. “Thank you.”
Annie moves to my side as Sutton’s fingers glide into my hand—smooth, soft, warm. “Sutton Presley,” she says, holding my eyes. “You own The Kingston, right?”
“Yeah, I . . .”
“No work talk,” Dylan says, grabbing Sutton and twirling her around, giving her friend a little whistle. “You can’t talk shop in that dress.”
Even in the dim lighting, I see the pink rise to Sutton’s cheeks. “I’m working in a bar. I have to . . .”
“That’s not a work dress,” Dylan says. “That’s a husband dress.”
“A what?” Sutton asks, laughing.
“A dress to catch a husband in. I mean, if you can’t snag a man in that dress, there’s no hope,” Dylan says.
“You have to tell me where you got it,” Annie chimes in, glancing up at me. “I could use a husband dress.”
Dylan and Sutton both bust out laughing. And just like that, I know Annie’s found new friends. Women are funny like that. They form instant bonds, and five minutes later they’re comparing menstrual cycles.
“Sutton, maybe you need a boyfriend dress first,” Dylan jokes. “You have a bad habit of not dating a guy more than a month.”
Sutton’s eyes dart to me, looking completely horrified that piece of information is now burned in my brain. She clears her throat. “Tawny should be starting any second. Can I get you anything?”
Your lips around my cock would be a good start, I think to myself. Hearing her sweet voice makes my dick push against my pants. I’m not a dominant. I don’t demand submission, but I am always in control in the bedroom, in my life. I fuck the way I want. My women always have a good time. I see to that, but I control their pleasure and mine.
Annie asks for a glass of wine, and I order water. I don’t drink. Some people have a beer to unwind at the end of the day. I have a woman. Some people drown their sorrows in drink. I do it in pussy. At least I used to. Damn diet.
Sutton flashes a smile, walking away. “I’ll send it right over.”
I locate my sister as she heads toward the stage, her guitar around her, and the audience starts to clap. Annie abandons clapping in favor of screaming Tawny’s name, and I can see Tawny blushing before she misses the step in front of her and stumbles on her way up to the stage.
Instinctively, I jerk out of my seat a little. It’s built into my DNA to rescue women, especially Tawny, but Annie slips her hand over mine. Tawny makes it to the microphone, chewing on her bottom lip. She’s clearly nervous, and it kills me a little inside.
“Come on, Tawny,” her teacher whispers.
“You got this, baby girl,” Annie says quietly, clawing my hand.
Tawny glances up at the crowd, and I know she’s choking. I can see her hands trembling. No way will she be able to play. There’s some muttering amongst the crowd; they’re getting restless. New Orleans is a friendly place, but the people here are serious about their music—even if it’s a teenager on stage.
And she’s in good company. Famed musicians Louis Armstrong and Harry Connick, Jr. both got their starts playing clubs in New Orleans when they were teenagers.
As soon as Tawny finds me in the crowd, her eyes well up. I’m suddenly on my feet and on the stage before I even know it. No way Annie could hold me back this time. Tawny’s head hangs, and I reach to take the guitar off her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“Why?” I ask, throwing the guitar over my neck. “You know I love to play in public as much as you do.” She smiles up at me as I stroke a few chords.
“Together?” she asks.
“Just like we’re back in my living room,” I say.
I step to the side. She steps to the mic.
*
By the time we get to the third song, she takes the guitar back from me, and I take my seat in the crowd. Annie kisses my cheek, leans her head on my shoulder, and we watch Tawny kill the rest of her set.
To thundering applause, Tawny walks off the stage, heads straight to me, and gives me a huge hug. I hand her a glass of water. “You did great.”
“You, too,” she says, placing her glass down next to mine on the table to receive hugs from Annie and Dylan.
“Do you perform often?” Dylan asks me.
“Only with his little sis,” Tawny says, hugging me again.
My eyes land on Sutton, joining us. “Beautiful job,” she says to Tawny. “You’re welcome back anytime.”
“Oh, thank you, Miss Sutton,” Tawny says. “I’m sorry I froze a little and for almost falling.”
“The important thing about falling is that you get back up,” Annie says.
“She’s right,” Dylan says. “Sometimes greatness happens from falling.”
Tawny rolls her eyes. “Like scraped knees and concussions?”
“Like falling stars,” Dylan counters.
My eyes catch Sutton’s. “Or falling in love,” she says softly.
Annie’s hand slips into mine. “Pierce, we should make a toast.”
Releasing her hand, I grab my glass of water. Everyone picks up their glasses, lifting them in the air. Smiling, I glance at Sutton then Tawny. “To the fall!”
*
From my car, I see Tawny wave to me from her bedroom window. I always walk her to the door, but she knows I don’t leave until she gives me a wave from her room. I’m not sure how that tradition started, but it’s our thing.
Just as I’m pulling away, my phone rings, and I hit the Bluetooth function on my steering wheel. The only thing I can make out is music and chatter in the background. Looking down, I see the call is from Annie’s cell phone.
“Annie,” I say.
Nothing. I repeat her name a half dozen more times, but she doesn’t answer.
My foot presses down a little harder on the gas, but then I tell myself that I’m sure she’s fine. She’s probably still having a good time at the bar and couldn’t hear me. I’m sure that’s it.
I make a left toward my house and remember she was drinking. I know she doesn’t handle her liquor well. She’s made poor decisions before. Making an illegal U-turn, I head back toward the bar.
Navigating New Orleans on a busy Friday night isn’t the easiest thing, but even harder is trying to find a place to park on the narrow, cluttered streets. Not wanting to waste time, I park at my hotel and walk the few blocks, dialing Annie’s number several more times, but she never answers.
Opening the heavy doors to the bar, I see why. The place has really amped up in the hour since I left. This must be why Sutton insisted Tawny play the early set.
Scanning the crowd, it doesn’t take me long to spot Annie. She’s the one dancing like she’s having a seizure. Chuckling, I make my way over to her.
As soon as she sees me, she throws her arms around my neck. “Let’s dance,” she screams out over the music.
“You called me to dance?” I ask.
“I didn’t call you,” she says, continuing to move.
Pulling out my phone, I show her. “I came all the way back over here because you butt-dialed me?”
She reaches into her cleavage, pulling out her phone. “More like boob-dialed.”
Smiling and shaking my head, I lean over and ask, “So you’re alright?”
“Fine,” she says.
I put my hands on her small shoulders, looking into her eyes. “How much have you had to drink?”
“I’ve got her,” Dylan yells, tapping me on the shoulder. “I can’t drink too much because I’m nursing. I have to pump and dump.”
I could’ve lived my whole life without knowing that. I look over at Annie, who rolls her eyes at me. “I’ll hang around for a little bit. Just to make sure.”
Heading off the dance floor, I make my way toward the corner of the bar, where I’ve got a view of everything. Annie seems fine, but I know her. She can go from fine to totally fucked up pretty quickly. Granted, she doesn’t party like that too much anymore, but it’s better safe than sorry.
The music changes to a slow song. Annie and Dylan grab each other before the circling vultures get a chance and start swaying to the music together. Given the way the men in the room are staring at them, I’m thinking their fake lesbian routine may soon backfire.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sutton. I shouldn’t recognize her so easily. My eyes shouldn’t be tuned into where she is in the room, but they are. And it doesn’t take her long to spot me either, a little smile falling over her pink lips. There’s not a diet in this world that would make me miss this opportunity.
We seem to head for each other at the same time. Her full lips open to say something, but I slip my hand into hers. “Dance?”
“I’m working,” she says.
“You can take a little break,” I say.
“Do you stop and take dance breaks in the middle of your day?” she asks, smiling at me.
Oh, let’s play hard to get. I love this game. “No, but I might stop and have a drink.” I leave out that there are plenty of times I’ve stopped and fucked in the middle of the day.
“You don’t drink,” she says, cocking her head.
“You remembered,” I say, the grin on my face expanding.
Smiling, she motions between us. “Let’s just cut to the chase. Be honest. Where exactly do you think this is going?”
Holding her gaze, I say with confidence, “You’re coming home with me.”
She laughs so hard, a tear rolls down her cheek. I reach out and gently wipe it away. Her eyes meet mine, and she’s not laughing anymore. She quickly straightens her spine. “I don’t do one-night stands.”
“And you don’t date guys more than a month?” I reply.
“You remembered,” she teases, walking away from me.
*
It’s barely midnight on Friday night, and I’m home alone. For someone who always seems to have a woman around, you might think I’m bad at being alone, but that’s not the case. I’m good at alone. Being alone is a by-product of my past.
Besides, there always seems to be something that needs to be done. These older houses demand a lot of attention. Traditional in style, my house fits in perfectly in the Audubon neighborhood of New Orleans, where the only things bigger than the houses are the trees. Four bedrooms, a pool, and a music room for Tawny, it’s way too big for me. Half the rooms I don’t even use, but the investment was solid.
My favorite room has to be my bedroom, and not for sexual reasons. It’s huge with an en suite bathroom, and it even has its own fireplace, which I get to use twice a year, if I’m lucky. Winter is almost nonexistent in New Orleans, but that’s not what makes it my favorite room. It’s the feeling in here. It’s my domain, under my control.
Shutting and locking my bedroom door, I shed my clothes and get ready for bed, thinking about Sutton’s ass as she walked away from me. While she didn’t end up in my bed, at least I don’t have to walk into the good doctor’s office and tell her I failed. That I failed within a day. So here I am, naked in bed, tissues ready. If I do this now, hopefully I’ll fall right to sleep.
Now who should I think about? Definitely not my ex, Daphne.
Sutton? I could imagine her naked easily enough, but her love comment makes her more than a little dangerous.
I settle in on a bachelorette who had her shower at my hotel a few weeks ago. She was one hot woman, and the fact that she was about to get married and have sex with the same man for the rest of her life made her wild. She literally fucked me like I was her last ride.
I take hold of my hard dick trying to picture her face, but I can’t visualize her. Maybe her hair? What color was her hair? Damn, I can’t even remember that. I remember I thought she was sexy. I remember that I got off. That I thought it was great sex, but can’t focus on anything specific.
Okay, scratch her. Let’s try another.
How about that woman from my vacation in Nevis a few years ago? We fucked on the beach. What was her name? Crap, I can’t remember anything about her except that sand got everywhere. Beach sex isn’t at all what it’s cracked up to be. Except that it gets into every crack.
A dozen women later, and still nothing vivid enough to get off to. I’ve had more women than I can count, but not one decent beat off fantasy. How can that be? Was the old therapist right? Were these women just holdovers? Had I only been thinking I was having great sex? Had I been missing out on something?
I shake my head. The lack of sex is already messing with my head. I take hold of myself again. I guess I’ll just make something up. I suppose that’s what I always do. I never think about the women I’ve been with. It’s always a total fantasy—a wish, perhaps.