Stella

I toss my gym bag in the corner and peel off my sweaty top and sports bra in one. Time to get into character. Countess BeeBee never breaks a sweat, any more than the pampered maltipoo she’s named for.

We dreamt up a whole life for her—me and Jen and Asha—over lattes and tiramisu, the day I came up with Countess BeeBee’s Bee-Lieve It Or Not. She’s up at the crack of noon, downing mimosas in the bath till one. Two to five is champagne brunch; five to seven’s mani-pedi time. Then, it’s party, party, party, till dawn sweeps the glitterati away. She drinks like a fish, eats nothing but chocolate and foie gras, and somehow weighs ninety-five pounds. Thinks food stamps are edible postage. Dyes her dog to match her outfit. Owns a Segway. She’s Marie Antoinette, New York edition.

I can’t afford the arsenal of lotions and gels the Countess would use, or spare an entire hour for a bath, but I spice up my shower with a foamy, bougainvillea-scented body wash that reminds me of home. Afterwards, I slip into my other indulgence: a sinfully fluffy robe that cost me a month’s coffee money. A glass of sparkling water, BeeBee’s Favorites on my iPod, and it’s time.

My browser’s already open to Wordpress. I open a new entry and hesitate, fingers hovering over the keys.

Romance of the Three Kingdoms

I sip my water, frown, and backspace over that. BeeBee’s a dirty girl. She’d say something more like...more like—

The Three Booty-aires: Good Things Cum in Threes?

Yeah. Straight to the point.

I keep typing. It’s getting downright easy to slide into the zone.

Klara Dunston. Shazia Khatri. Anne Sherman. What do these three wannabe socialites have in common, besides tragic hair, man-hands, and, ahem...problems walking in heels?

Picture time: I drag in a photo of Shazia stumbling on the red carpet during Fashion Week, arms flailing, chunky necklace smacking her in the face. Caption: Have a nice trip! See ya next fall!

I hit up Facebook next, in search of dumb middle names, wardrobe disasters—anything I can mock without stooping too low. And there it is, under “home town”—

Well, they all burst onto the scene out of literally NOWHERE (Medicine Hat, Anne? Is that even a place?), they’ve all been spotted clutching limited edition Birkins (like, what!?!?!?!? HOW!?!?!?!?), and they’ve all banged the same three billionaires.

And this isn’t the first time Erik Moss, Magnus Gunnarsson, and Jack Brightman have made their love lives a team effort. Before Klara, Shazia, and Anne, there were Rita, Valentina, and Jane. Fiona, Maria, and Kate. Nine women in nine years, cycling between billionaires in groups of three. Uh, guys? They’re vaginas, not timeshares in Aruba.

I highlight the last two sentences and hit delete. There are limits!

Now, Countess BeeBee’s all in for swinging (and sex swings!), but this takes it to a whole new level! I mean, a year’s, like, an entire relationship. What happens if one of them falls in love? Or two of them can’t stand each other? How do they FIND each other? Is there a secret, super-exclusive swingers club I’m somehow not a member of? Some kind of...Tinder Groupon? Do they hold auditions? So many questions!

I pull in an animated gif of a dog scratching its head. Caption: WTF?

Erik, Magnus, and Jack share more than their taste in women. All three grew up in the Bronx, went to the same summer camp, and began their rise to riches with their surprise takeover of private military contractor Blakemoor, nearly a decade ago. All three served our country (thanks, boys!), Erik and Magnus taking to the skies with the US Air Force, while Jack was a big, bad Marine.

I grab another photo. Jack’s definitely the most photogenic of the three, six-plus feet of sculpted Greek god. I take a moment to drink him in, shirtless in a GQ spread, black-and-red Cerberus tattoo snarling its way over one bulging bicep. Its three snake-tails wind down his forearm to whip around his wrist. He’s let his hair grow out since his military days, and it sweeps low over his brow, giving his eyes a mean, shadowed look. His upper lip’s quirked into something that might be a smile or a snarl. Caption? Hoo-ah!

Magnus is more the Nordic prince type: burly, blond, blue-eyed. Erik’s the most military of the three, stone-faced, close-shorn, standing in his corporate portrait like a general surveying his troops. I add their pictures below Jack’s. Holy billionaire beefcake, Batgirls!

What do you think, sweethearts? Would YOU sign up for three years of high-society hanky-panky with these hunks? Countess BeeBee says “Sirs, yes SIRS!”

Vote below, and don’t forget to like, share, and comment! <3 <3 <3

I add a poll: Where do I enlist? / This is totally Section 8! / Only if I get a Birkin bag out of the deal! ;-)

I’m excited about this one. Tempted to drop it right away. But I click on Save Draft, instead, scheduling the post for tomorrow at noon. Because Countess BeeBee’s a total bathtub blogger. And because predictable update schedules equal better reader retention.

There’s more to this story. I can feel it. All kinds of intrigue, bubbling under the surface. Kink, maybe—or what if there is a network, a club, some kind of...underground sex-swap empire? Dozens of people could be doing it. Hundreds, even. These three only pinged my radar ‘cause they’re hot and famous. But there could be others: bankers, judges, doctors, professors—a who’s who of the nation’s rich and boring.

There could be enough for a followup, even a series. A book, if I play my cards right.

The sun’s going down. I should at least try to push on with my actual book, the one I’ve been working on since I quit my nine-to-five. I switch BeeBee’s Favorites for Nostalgia, Wordpress for Microsoft Word, and dash off a couple of lines.

I didn’t mean to look back, but halfway across the Ponte Regina Margherita, my eye lit on the rearview mirror. There it was, the sword of the Archangel, and the tip of his wing, intruding on the sky.

I replace “lit” with “caught,” and “intruding on the sky” with “piercing the blue,” but none of it sounds right. None of it captures the moment. I delete it all, type My mother, and sit watching the cursor blink for a good five minutes.

Well, shit.

* * *

My alarm goes off at six. I fumble for the snooze, miss, and send it clattering to the floor. Well, now I’m up. I drape my quilt over my shoulders and head for the kitchen. Countess BeeBee would be doing her nightly walk of shame right about now, stumbling one-stockinged down Park Avenue, Jimmy Choos swinging from her pinky. She’d be falling out of some drapey Valentino thing with a high price and a low neckline. Pushing last night’s artful ringlets—this morning’s wilted rat-tails—out of her face. Still half-drunk, and already half-asleep.

I set some water boiling and plop in an egg. Barefoot on the linoleum, watching the bubbles rise and burst, I plan my day. Got a tip about a gallery opening both Katya and Kylie Lederer are set to attend. Neither knows the other’s coming. Could be some juicy drama there. Later, there’s Gerome Heriot’s birthday bash. Everyone’ll be there—myself included. I didn’t expect an invite, after that one awkward date last summer, but looks like I’m on the list. No need to slip in as someone’s plus-one.

When my egg-timer’s half done, I pop a slice of sourdough in the toaster. The smell of burning crumbs permeates the air. Just enough time for....

Countess BeeBee @grandcountess * just now

Heyyyyy, party people! <3 Little BeeBee's caught wind of three FILTHY rich piglets dipping their snouts into TRIPLE trouble! I know you're DYING for the deets, but first, your Countess needs her beauty rest! Catch up soon...usual time, usual place! ;-)

And there’s my toast. I cut it into strips, fish out my egg before it goes from soft- to hard-boiled, and settle down to eat.

* * *

I emerge at ten on the dot, freshly showered and primped. It’s a nice day, perfect for a walk. Figure I’ll hit the gallery around eleven, check out the...paintings? Photos? Contemplative installation-based explorations of natural pareidolia?...before the guests of dishonor arrive. Then....

There’s a limo parked out front, midnight blue, tinted windows. A custom paintjob—someone’s private ride. Weird, for this part of Brooklyn. Whoever he is, he’s blocking in my Honda. Good thing I’m walking.

I make it halfway down the block before I notice the limo keeping pace with me. Creepy, but it could be a coincidence. Maybe he’s lost. Or a real-estate developer, scouting the neighborhood. I slow down. So does he. He’s crowding me, hugging the curb so close he ought to buy it dinner. I stop and crouch down, pretending to shake a stone out of my shoe. He stops as well. I can hear his engine running.

I don’t have any enemies. Haven’t even humiliated anyone online this week—not under my own name, anyway. Whatever this is, I doubt it’s a threat. Kids, probably, joyriding in Daddy’s limo, taking advantage of his tinted windows to fuck with pedestrians. They’ll chase me till I panic and run. I’ll end up in a viral video compilation: Women Running Stupidly in Heels, volume VI.

I step up to the rear window and slap both palms to the glass. Someone jerks away: a shadow that’s there, and then not. A mean satisfaction blooms in my gut. “Yeah. That’s right. Grow up, in there!”

The limo pulls ahead at the end of the block. Finally. Well, that was certainly—

“Shitballs!”

The driver hangs a sharp right, cutting me off. The back door cracks open. I take a step back, and another. “Okay. Joke’s over. Whoever you are, you can—“

“Stella Rossi?”

I freeze in place. That’s not a voice I know. “Who is that? Show your face!”

The door swings wide, and a man steps out. He’s tall, gray, and built like a brick wall. Everything about him screams career military.

“Mr. Brightman sent me to collect you.” Even his voice is scary, hard and clipped. This guy’s used to being obeyed.

“I don’t know a Mr....” Wait. “Jack Brightman?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He holds the door open, gesturing at the back seat. “He’s waiting at the Tower.”

The Tower? What is this, Lord of the Rings? The interior of the limo does have kind of a...Gollum’s cave vibe. It’s dark as hell in there. Cold, too: I can feel the chill of the air conditioning from here. Nothing about getting in there strikes me as a good idea. “Yeah, uh...I’ve got places to be. Tell your boss I—”

“He knows your name.”

Duh. Clearly.

Oh. “You’re blackmailing me?”

“Countess Stella ’BeeBee’ Rossi. Has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t!”

“Wouldn’t I?” He taps the roof of the limo, twice, open-palmed. “Come on, Your Ladyship. Unless you want to make Her Majesty’s honors list?”

I glance over my shoulder. I could still walk away. But he’s right. Being outed would fuck my chances of being taken seriously some day. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen? It’s a blog about swinging, not the Watergate papers. I’ll make a joke of it, swear I’ll keep mum, and be out in time for the party.

“Well, Countess?”

“Fine. Carry on, Jeeves.” My heels scrape on the sidewalk as I step around him. He doesn’t move aside all the way, forcing me to bend at an awkward angle to avoid brushing crotches. My ankle turns, and I barely avoid a tumble. Asshole.

The limo pulls away from the curb. I melt into the plush leather seats like I haven’t a care in the world. Today’s not the day I cower before bullies.