Fluff Read online

  She peers up at me and simply asks, “Why are you here?”

  “Supporting my team or playing muscle, pick your poison. My boy Raniero is here, got to keep his pretty face whole for the lens.”

  Immediately, she stops sniffling as her stance shifts. “He’s here?”

  “Ya, he’s over at Kylie Asher’s table, supporting her new release.”

  “I haven’t seen him in years,” she gushes as her expression widens with hope and memories. The boy matters to her in some deep capacity which I totally understand. “Oh, my gosh!”

  Offering my arm, I hope she will allow me to escort her back into the fray.

  AMBER

  THE LAST THING I wanted to do was go back into the den of rowdy women. Shooting a smile at Stanis, I point at the double doors into the reception hall. Walking in his normal intense focused way, he rushes over and greets the hero with a firm handshake and a nod of approval.

  “One of my old friends is in here,” I whisper, pointing to the ominous double wooden doors. “I need to go say hi.”

  My body language fights eagerly with my words as I intentionally don’t say want, but need. I need to go meet with the boy. Sounding almost urgent, I will go into the reception hall alone if necessary. There will be no stopping my powerhouse will.

  “With the both of us flanking you, no one will mess with you,” the huge hero replies with a smile. The sturdy looking man with red curled hair and bright green eyes oozes the charm of a gentleman, the ruggedness of a biker, and the protective quality of a former Navy SEAL. The thought of his guard stirs my insides in a way I hadn’t experienced in a very long time.

  I ignore my body’s protests as we bound through the double doors. Quite the sight, my sex kitten sashaying in with the two big hired guns, catching everyone’s attention.

  Meeting Kylie at a conference, I ended up sipping cocktails with her until dawn, discussing the indie publishing industry. The second time at a fun mingle in Vegas by accident, where I ended up in her suite and between her thighs. Rebels in the business, we made misfit seem the way to a hefty bank account. While glad to see Kylie again, my real excitement pertains to none other than the raven tasseled sex machine by her side.

  Her legion of fans surrounds the table bedecked in bondage gear. She’s busy, signing paperbacks, posters, and bodies. With a broad smile, I sneak through the crowd to the pair of old friends. Autographing a scrapbook someone made, Kylie laughs as the fans depart. Coming into view, Sal Raniero is at the table in nothing but jeans and a shining perfect smile.

  “Sally!” I squeal, unable to contain my excitement as I run towards him. He stands up fast, picking me up and squeezing my body tight. He kisses my cheeks and smells divine. It feels good to be in his arms again, and I quietly wish for one more night with this man. Surprisingly, he plants a solid kiss on my lips like old lovers as Kylie touches my back. If we aren’t careful, the three of us will end up doing far more than just this brief reunion.

  “Hello gorgeous girl!” Sal whispers in my hair. I can tell by the low rumble that he’s glad I came to see him. “How have you been?”

  “I am really, really good. How are you? Still hanging out in Sugargrove?”

  With a wink, he pulls me into his lap and says, “Always!”

  “I need to get up there and see Anna soon,” I confess, safe within his arms.

  “You should, you should,” Sal encourages, “She is as beautiful as ever.”

  “So are you…” I tease, playing with his curls as he scribbles another autograph. “I should have never let you go. I am surprised to see you here.”

  “I am only here because it is close to home.”

  “Still doing cover work?”

  “Only for Kylie, she’s a great friend,” he mentions with a spark in his eye.

  I know Sal Raniero well enough to know if she is his friend and female, odds were he fucked her, too. His gorgeous face and body led to his lucrative career as a model, but his real notoriety came more from his sexual deviance. Known worldwide as the submissive alpha male, his Golden Boy titular held true for his fame and fortune.

  With his brazen forearms braced firmly around my waist, I accept that he isn’t letting me go just yet. I am ok with this. His head tilts against mine as he closes his incredible green eyes and inhales my soft peony scent. “We are headed to the bar after this, you want to join us?”

  I glance over at two bulldogs, chatting and assessing the scene. “I would love to come!”

  “Well, if it isn’t Dale Archer!” Sal shouts with a friendly grin.

  And in that exact moment, my world changes.

  DALE

  MAKING IDLE CONVERSATION with Stanis, I stood, flipping through memories of Amber. She hadn’t yet realized we knew each other. Fifteen years ago, I worked the sex industry for all it was worth, modeling and delving into porn videos. I hit the market at the exact right moment, hustling the internet and providing pay-per-view videos. I sucked it up and lined my pockets in dollar bills.

  The truth few realized was the real money in the business resided not in performing, but hosting. After five years of serving in the military, I went to college, studying business. I worked my ass off, making a name as Cyclone Blonde and investing all of my money into building a massive infrastructure to run the sex video industry. The people held the demand, always wanting a new location, new story, new way. And Cyclone Indies very successfully supplied.

  In Atlanta, I would film for eight weeks of the year. The long days and grueling schedule prohibited little personal time. Those eight weeks were the worst—roll out of bed, work out, get hard, and get off. Rinsing and repeating, day after day to the same humdrum routine. The first few days, the sex acts like a divine getaway into heaven. By the fourth day, I grew bored, and my dick sore. My patience tapered with the floozy girls, but my bank account expanded with every roll of the tape as I didn’t quit.

  Besides, the other forty-four weeks in the year, I loved the work. The editing, implementation, and sales were enjoyable facets, but the real pleasure came in meeting fans. Women flocked to signings and appearances – all with a hope that I would choose to settle down with one of them, and they would be the one to save Cyclone Blonde.

  I stayed in front of the camera because I enjoyed – the fans, fame, and fortune. Maintaining a focused diligence to perform his best, I brought the energy necessary to blow-up sales numbers. With long blonde hair, my glorified Adonis shimmers under the spotlights, I growl raspy, furthering to intensify the magic as blue eyes perk with a dangerous, seductive zing. I was a hit. The primal male animal, and the women bought it all.

  Amber Rosen just turned eighteen a few weeks prior when she walked into the studio. Hired to be a fluffer, she knew me by another name at another time and place in the world. No one knew—Dale L. Archer—signed their paychecks.

  As I watched Amber giddily writhing on Sal Raniero’s lap, she had no idea I was the one who moved her out of video and into dancing. After leaving acting, I ascertained not all the girls would be as well taken care of as I would like, but of course, I didn’t care about all of them like I did Amber either. I called up my old friend in New Orleans who offered her a permanent place, stripping at her bar – Gina’s – on Bourbon Street.

  But now, as Amber salivates all over Raniero, she doesn’t remember. She doesn’t recall being new and nervous as fuck and stroking some mammoth guy’s dick. She doesn’t remember the nights after long days on the set when she was the only one who could make me come.

  No, Amber doesn’t know any of this.

  My formerly straight shoulder length blonde hair replaced by natural bright red curly top. Ivory skin and pristine white smile covered by a reddened beard. After spending every summer out on the pontoon fishing, the sun aged my face, giving distinguishable wrinkles around my eyes.

  Her laughter fills the air as she pulls Raniero close, looking better than she did back then. Life has been good to her, and I needed to believe I had a hand in th
at. I didn’t want her to end up some used up porn queen with lines in her arms and blow caked around her cute little nose. She was too good, too sweet.

  It wasn’t all about sex those few weeks. Spending hours talking at the late night diner and in the back of my muddy truck, we found a peace in one another. She just wanted to survive, not caring where the money came from as long as she had a roof over her head and food in her belly. Remembering her mentioning not ending up like her mom, I put some insurance on that by sending her away.

  I broke her heart.

  And she doesn’t know it’s me.

  AMBER

  AGAINST MY BETTER judgment, I feel lured by Sal’s invitation to the bar. The quiet party – Kylie, Sal, the two bodyguards, and me – select a large booth in the back and pile in before the hoards of women show up. Sal dove in first to the middle, with Kylie and myself flanking him, while the two brutes round us on the outside.

  I only went to catch up with Sal, not hook up. A good five years have passed since we spent any time together, and he has changed, growing from a rambunctious boy into a seductive man.

  Sitting and chatting, I focus my attentions on Sal, but overhear Kylie flirting with Stanis. And he with her, but ends up paying little notice to it as Sal serves up the best charm in town. Remaining silent against my back, Archer sips his Jack & Coke, trying to ignore the fact that I am here and occasionally, bumping his thigh—by accident.

  I try not to fret over the past indiscretions with the man who knows me inside and out. The history is there. But I was such a small hiccup in his big player world, I doubt he remembers me.

  The night progresses with Sal making eyes at a fangirl, sitting alone at the bar. Her voluptuous curves, cute smile, and dark blue hair insures his attention. I smirk, knowing by the end of night he will have her number after curling his finger for her to come over to the booth.

  After we down two bottles of wine like water, Sal orders a round of tequila shots. Knowing better than to mix booze, I surge ahead with the party-like atmosphere, having so much fun laughing and enjoying the company, especially after the miserable comments earlier in the bathroom.

  I never set out to be the bitch. All I did was my own thing. I spent over ten years stripping in New Orleans, and I was the good time girl. The closer I got to thirty, the less I enjoyed the nightly madness. When you’re twenty-one – out-drinking guys in the bar and taking them upstairs to let them suck lines off your body – it is a thrill. Maybe a dumb one, but still. There wasn’t a guy that walked into that bar, that I couldn’t have had my legs wrapped around. There was a perverse pleasure in that notion of conquests. I was the queen of the bar, and any other dancer, a mere imitation.

  Flattery comes in all forms.

  After my performance on stages, tables, and laps, I just stopped going upstairs one night and never turned back. I would sit and write. And think. And write some more. I got clean, drank tea, and discovered what I thought it meant to be whole.

  I didn’t plan on American Girl doing as well as it did, and those bitches, they don’t care about my story. Sure, they’ll give me a hug, all the while aiming their knife at my back. Not all of them, but enough to cause me to question my intentions. Turns out, the sweet ones – the tried and true – stay in the shadows, away from the fray. Those are the ones you want on your team.

  I look over to Kylie, jamming out on the dance floor with Stanis. They’re cute together. Maybe too cute. She’s a chunky little thing with great hair, and Stanis is a forthright Russian man. His words, not mine. I asked my agent to find me a bodyguard. They sent a slew for me to interview. Hunky, good looking guys. Boxers. Athletes. Muscle-ripped steroid buffs.

  Wearing a suit with his tight, blonde crew cut, Stanis walks into the bar, during lunchtime. He sits down at my table and says, “I am Stanis. I am Russian. I am bodyguard.”

  That’s it.

  But there was something about the way he said it. Like I could trust his body – which I assumed was hidden under the distinguished suit – and his mind. He was one of the best decisions I ever made. I helped him with the finer points of English, and he provided me safe passage. I never wanted to screw him though. I liked Raniero, possessing his dangerous kink. I loved Cyclone Blonde, crushing my heart with his, tougher than steel.

  Ignoring my inner wise goddess, I down four more shots with the others, and soon after, Stanis and Kylie make their way to the exit. Sal grabs blue-haired fangirl’s hand, and then mine escorting us out to the dance floor. Sal’s gyrations up and down Chenille turn me on as I wrestle between their bodies to the industrial synth pop pulse. The music and the night right as I avoid the dire gaze of the man in the booth.

  Drunk and carrying on, we cajole without a care in the world. The waitress passes us and Sal grabs us another round of drinks from her serving tray. His shirt is undone and sweat is pouring off his body. Between the eyes of these two men – Sal and Dale – I am caught, unable to move. The thought makes my toes curl. Back and forth, I glance to one and to the other. When I least expect it, Chenille gently tucks her hands behind my neck and pulls to kiss me.

  Her kiss enraptures me in a way I don’t anticipate, transporting me from being the rope in the quiet tug-of-war to standing on the platform with the blue ribbon already around my neck. Silly boys can battle all you want, I am going to lip lock with the carefree queen.

  Holy. This is unexpected.

  With the sweet hint of her cherry lipgloss on my tongue, I wonder if she’s a fangirl of Sal or me. Either is possible. Maybe she’s doing it to get a rise out of him. Maybe she’s doing it to get the wetness easing from my slit. I flick my eyes open just in time to catch Dale-Fucking-Archer walking out the goddamned door, and suddenly, I am a pissed off eighteen-year-old.

  Fuck. Him.

  DALE

  MY JAW TWITCHES as my fists clench, striding through the lobby and riding the elevator to my suite. Immediately, I go to the bar. Screw the Coke. Just give me the Jack. I rip my clothes off and put on some workout gear. Damn bitch is going to kill me before I even get a chance to talk to her. Maybe I really just came to check on her, but I doubt it. I wanted to apologize for before.

  Before.

  Before – fifteen years ago – yeah, more like eons ago. I should have made good on this – on her – long before now. Truth is I am not sure she needs a man like me in her life. I am neither nice nor kind. I do things to benefit one—me. When the money is right, there is no job I won’t do. That makes me ruthless and unscrupulous, sure. It also makes me believe I am some way better than most. Arrogant, cocky, asshole, bastard, I have been called them all. Usually right before my blade garrotes their neck.

  I guess I failed with Amber.

  I didn’t understand back then that pushing her away wasn’t keeping her safe in any kind of way. She would have always been better off under my wing, on the back of my ride, or latched onto my dick. I was young and dumb. Mistakes were made.

  Grabbing my gear, I head down to the gym. They’ll unlock it for me. The cash I palm into their hand assures that. I get on the treadmill and run hard as I try and forget about Amber’s lips kissing the girl. I ignore the throb in my junk and crank up the pace. The really weird part is I wouldn’t care if she went with Raniero. He’s a decent guy—certifiably crazed like myself. But I know with him, she would be safe. I have that guarantee. I don’t know blue-haired girl. And I have gone toe-to-toe with some damn menacing pussy. I hit the stop and send a quick text to Raniero cause I damn sure ain’t asking Amber.

  “Is she with you, Kid?”

  Pacing around the gym, I punch the bag a few times while I wait. My breathing intense and focus heavy, I notice my phone flash alive. I told you Raniero was a good kid, he won’t disappoint me.

  “Ya, Hoss.”

  I smirk and grab a water, remembering the first time he called me, “Boss Man.” I beat the crap out of him that day in training as my knuckles enforced the idea that I was not the boss. At the end, with his pretty face c
ut open and black and blue, I realized he wasn’t a lightweight as he smirked and mumbled, “Thanks, Hoss.” He had already been beat down and put through hell, I was just trying to pull him back up from the demons chasing his ass—and I did.

  I own that one.

  I wish I could say the same for Amber Rosen.

  Heading back through the lobby, I grab a salad at the small kitchen when I notice Stanis and Kylie, walking across the parking lot. Something about that doesn’t make sense as I toss a twenty at the young lady and discreetly walk to the window. They went to fuck, but aren’t holding hands out for a stroll as they hunker down into the back of a black sedan.

  I pull my phone from my pocket and snap several shots of the plates. I know it probably won’t do any good as the car is likely a rental. Maybe they met with some of her author friends. But my gut says otherwise.

  I crank it up the stairwell to my room on the fourteenth floor and chunk the salad on the coffee table. I open my laptop and run the plates. I don’t get anything, but I know someone who has a broader scope than me. I gaze at the 3:11 glowing on the clock as I head to the shower.

  With the warm water dousing my skin, my thoughts return to the smell of her auburn curls, blue eyes, and lush smile. My fist pumps my cock rapid as I spew down the drain. “God dammit… Amber.”

  After I dry off, I have another Jack instead of the salad. Laying in bed, I tick through the screens on my computer, thinking about everything—Amber, Raniero, Stanis, and Kylie. I shut the lid, no closer to a solution. In the darkness, I miss her the most. Hearing her breathing against my skin, I feel my chest tighten with an unimaginable pain—so deep—as my phone flickers with a message from none other than Raniero.

  “Some things never change.”

  Chuckling loud, I snarl, knowing full well he had a turn with my girl. He’ll pay for it next time we go knock some rounds. He is also keenly aware of this. I quickly type in a response, which undoubtedly would make no sense to anyone other than a brother of mine. “Keep her with you.”