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“Thank you,” I say. The girls run off shrieking about their celebrity sighting. I look over at Mr. Peak who appears to be rolling his eyes.
“Boy, you are really going to have a big head by the time this evening is over,” my boss remarks as he walks up to the Rolls-Royce. The driver opens the door for us while I bask in the afterglow of a great dinner, an unexpected orgasm and the adulation of a couple of fans.
We settle inside of the car. Just as everything seems to get perfect, I hear a smack on the door. Fuck! The paparazzi are out there taking photos. Mr. Peak shoots them a look. All of the photographers back off with the exception of one burly looking guy who slams his lens right up against the sedan’s right rear window. He flashes a photo, almost daring my boss to react. By the look on my boss’s face, that burly paprazzi looks like he has created a huge f**king problem. Mr. Peak barks at the driver, “Hold the car!”
My boss reaches for the door handle. I realize that my boss is about to detach that paparazzi’s head from his body. That is the last sort of publicity my boss needs. I gently place my hand over his arm and say, “Sir. Please allow me to handle the situation.”
My boss looks at me like a tiger poised to strike. “If that man takes another photo of me, I will paint the sidewalks with his intestines,” Mr. Peak fumes. I nervously nod because I know that my boss does not make empty threats.
I open the door and smile wide for the most aggressive photographer in the group.
“Hey babe. How long have you been f**king the rich guy?” the photographer asks.
“How much do you make a year?” I ask him.
“What?!” he says as he lowers the camera.
“Tell me. How much do you make a year.”
“I f**king make four hundred thousand a year taking photos of celebrities!” the photographer yells pridefully.
“How would you like to make twenty-five times that amount right now?” I ask him.
“Huh?” the photographer says.
I walk up to the man and put my arm around him. Then I pull his head close to my lips. “You see my boss right there? If you take another photo of him, he will be forced to pay you ten million dollars. Do you know why my boss will be forced to pay you ten million dollars? It’s because my boss will turn you into a quadriplegic. You will never walk again. You will never be able to use your arms again. You will have to piss and shit into a colostomy bag for the rest of your days. Your body will be dead from the neck down,” I explain in a cold monotone voice.
The paparazzi is frozen. He can’t even move right now. His eyes are trained directly at my boss who is looking through that man’s body. I calmly walk over to the Rolls-Royce. When I open the door, the burly photographer takes a step back and looks away. No one even comes close to taking another photo of Mr. Peak. Mission accomplished.
Mr. Peak seems rather impressed. He doesn’t say anything. However, I can tell by the look on his face that he is satisfied with the way I diffused the situation. As the Rolls-Royce speeds back to the townhouse, I rest my head on Mr. Peak’s shoulder and say, “Thank you for a wonderful evening, Sir.” He rewards me by putting his massive arm around me. As an added bonus, he gently squeezes my bre**asts.
***
I wake up to the sun hitting me in the face. My entire body feels refreshed. The room is flooded with light. I pick up my phone and check the time. It’s a little past 11 a.m. Wow. What time did we finally get to sleep last night? Mr. Peak got back at around midnight. We drank and f**ked around a little more. We probably didn’t shut our eyes until around 5 a.m. Naturally, the big boss is already back at the office.
As I get out of bed and put on a robe, I hear a knock at the door.
“Who is it?” I ask.
“Forgive me for intruding on you, Miss Sulamari,” the house butler announces through the bedroom door.
“That’s okay, Gabe. What’s up?”
“At around 10 a.m., I had received a call from the Juliette Agency.”
“Really?”
“They are quite anxious to have you return their phone call.”
I jump up and down. The Juliette Agency is the most exclusive modeling firm in the world! I can’t believe this is happening to me.
I quickly hop out of the robe and put on a silver dress with a white ruffled skirt. When I run out of the bedroom, Gabe says, “I have a car waiting for you outside, Miss Sulamari.”
“Thanks, Gabe!”
I take the elevator downstairs. My mind races with anticipation. I nearly trip twice while putting on my heels during my run to the townhome’s front door. I hurry outside to find the Rolls-Royce ready to send me on my way.
