“Don’t you want to go and talk to them?” Tara asked.
“Not really. Let them settle in and loosen up a bit first. Me too, for that matter.”
Clem glanced around at the growing number of costumed guests entering the lounge as the strains of the Fab Four singing harmonies on
I Wanna Hold Your Hand
kicked up the noise level seeping in to the large room.
“Well, no one seems particularly interested in talking to the three of us,” Tara remarked ruefully.
“I think you’re scaring everyone off in that highly provocative leather outfit, honey,” Clem joked, eyeing his hot wife up and down again. “Let’s go home and….you know.”
Justine looked horrified. “Awww, no! Don’t go. You’ve only just got here. This is going to be a fun night.”
“I feel stupid. Why am I at an event where I know I’m going to be publicly humiliated? And in front of the entire agency and clients.”
“Our crew are all over at the bar,” Justine motioned. “Chuck Svensen was looking for you earlier. Wanna go find him?”
“Yeah, I owe him a big drink.”
The song ended and The Beatles started up again immediately with the opening stains of
Come Together.
Justine squealed
.
“I love this song! Let’s go dance! Tara, can I borrow Clem?” she pleaded.
“Knock yourself out! Assuming you can get him to stop being so grumpy
.
I’m gonna finish my Fuzzy Cosmo then I’ll join you guys later,” Tara said, her eyes darting around the VIP lounge.
“Really? You sure?”
“Absolutely. You two go and do your thing.”
“Okay, see you later, honey!” Clem yelled to his wife as Justine pulled him away towards the dancing throng in the main room.
On the other side of the VIP lounge, Frank ‘Superman’ Bergenson introduced the priestly James Molinaire to his Indian squaw wife. Tara noted the alter boys looking over and checking her out as she stood at the bar sipping her cocktail. She figured that most of the other guests in the lounge were agency clients mingling with senior Bergenson management and a smattering of wives. Some of their costuming was rather more conservative for fear of making themselves look foolish though it simply revealed who was out of their comfort zone. Tara was impressed that James Molinaire had made the effort to dress up in such a manner. But then, that was probably how he saw himself. Though following that train of thought, did Tara really see herself as a sex vixen? From her vantage point, she could see Frank and Molinaire through enough heads to still stay pretty much out of sight and that’s just how she wanted it.
“See all those cameras outside?” a male voice behind her asked. Tara quickly turned around to see that one of the alter boys had broken rank and slipped over to join her at the bar. Maybe it wasn’t the best place to stand after all.
“Guess the paparazzi knew I was coming,” Tara purred. The alter boy leaned in closer.
“Wouldn’t surprise me. You’ve gotta be the hottest chick in here tonight.”
“Thanks,” Tara said to her admirer. His youthful appearance was enhanced by his black cassock and white choir dress though he seemed to be brimming with the confidence of an ambitious middle manager without a religious bone in his body.
“Love the whip. Nice touch. Makes that dominatrix thing all the more authentic.”
“Right,” Tara answered flatly.
“I’m Ricky.” The alter boy held out his hand to shake. Tara held onto her drink with no intention of shaking it as she looked him up and down.
“The pleasure’s all yours,” she quipped at the annoying pest. She already looked the part but now she was feeling ready to reveal a flash of her alter ego.
“Not that those dominatrix women look anything like as sexed up as you.”
“Really?” Tara raised an eyebrow.
“No way. They’re usually all fat, old sluts.”
“And how would you know?”
“Ha! You’re funny! Hey, do you ever do private parties….?” He grinned cheekily, oblivious to the fact that he was starting to annoy the crap out of Tara. He was ruining her modus operandi. She really didn’t need this distraction and he wouldn’t stop bugging her. Tara suddenly morphed into Mistress Krystal.
“Sure, I do private parties but you couldn’t afford me, you little jerk.” Mistress Angel spat venomously at the clueless alter boy.
“Man, that’s great. You so fucking cool. Let’s hit the little girl’s room. I’ve got some blow.”
“Really?”
“Damn right.”
Tara grabbed the back of his hair and yanked hard, snapping his head back so he faced the ceiling.
“Owww!”
“How about I march you back over to Mr. Molinaire and tell him one of his junior executives has a serious fucking drug habit?”
“Shit. Okay, I get it. You’re not interested.”
She released her grip and watched him scurry back to the rest of his alter boy crew.
In the middle of the VIP lounge, Superman Frank was now getting considerable attention as more clients and senior agency executives arrived. He was encircled by well-wishers and ass-kissers.
Tara stood alone by the bar sipping the last dribbles of her drink, shielded by an impressively costumed Hulk. She was waiting for her moment and now that Clem had been whisked away by Justine, it was just a matter of time before Kurt ‘Elvis’ Fitzgerald made an appearance. He was the prey she was laying in wait for and Mistress Angel didn’t have long to wait.
“I’m a hunka hunka burning love!” Fitz boomed as he entered the lounge sounding and looking every bit like a bad Las Vegas Elvis impersonator wearing a white rhinestone studded suit with its collar pulled up high. He spread his arms wide to embrace his new flock of clients.
“The king is in the building!”
Tara watched Fitz high-five everyone as he sauntered over to Frank and Molinaire. All the alter boys laughed, except Ricky who was still rubbing the back of his head.
“Funny. I thought I was still the king,” Frank jabbed.
Fitz looked at Frank’s blue and red outfit with a giant ‘S’ on his chest. “Come on, Frank! Everyone knows you’re Superman,” he joked. “You didn’t need to wear a costume for us all to know that.”
More laughter. Fitz was pumped. This night was not so much about Frank retiring but more about
his
ascendency.
“Maybe Elvis will go and sing with the Beatles,” suggested Earl Chambliss, dressed as a rather overweight Count Dracula.
“Later gator! Yeah, I’m all shook up to be here,” Fitz drawled in a southern accent and striking a karate pose. James Molinaire patted Fitz on the back affectionately.
“Hey, you can do what you want but don’t step on my Rebakor shoes,” zinged Molinaire. More hilarity ensued as every one started doing bad Elvis impersonations. Tara watched from a safe distance. Everything about cocky Kurt Fitzgerald annoyed her but now it was just a matter of timing to make her move.
“Congratulations, Kurt on your impending inheritance,” James Molinaire said loudly, taking Fitz to one side.
“Thanks, James. I’m digging the priest thing you got going on there.”
“Glad I didn’t come dressed as the Pope as I was intending. If I’d know it was going to be so damn hot in here I would’ve worn something skimpier.”
Frank Bergenson wandered over to join them. “Channel 5 is coming tonight, boys. They’re gonna to do a live broadcast on the ten o’clock news. Probably want to get you two on camera. Hope they tape my speech because it’s as funny as shit.”
The VIP lounge was filling up. Frank looked around the now jam-packed room. “Jesus, who are all these people? I don’t recognize anyone in these stupid fucking costumes. Whose dumb idea was it to make it fancy dress?” Frank wandered off to find his Cherokee wife. It was getting rowdier by the minute and the alter boys seemed in a rambunctious mood now. Molinaire gave them disapproving looks as any priest would as he took a swig of his club soda.
“I’m not really a party person,” Molinaire announced to no one’s surprise. “Alcohol turns people into morons.” He looked at his own marketing guys when he said it.
“Hey! Check that out over at the bar!” one of them joked as he got a clear shot of Mistress Angel staring over at them.
“Damn,” another alter boy shouted. “I’m gonna hit that.”
“Good luck, buddy. You don’t ‘hit’ on a dominatrix. She hits on you,” said Ricky.
“Watch me.”
“Seriously, dude. Don’t do it. I think she just might be the real fucking deal.”
“Bullshit. How’d she get an invite then?”
“Who gives a rat’s ass? She’s freaky hot.”
All eyes turned to the woman in black with the whip. The wave of people who’d kept her hidden had parted like the Red Sea and now she was exposed. A gun-slinging cowboy turned to a plump Mr. Spock. “Beam me up, Spocky.”
“Under the circumstances that would be illogical. You might want to stick around,” Spock replied, enjoying the same view. Fitz was too engrossed in telling an Elvis joke to see what everyone else was looking at. Realizing he’d lost his audience he glanced over to see what the fuss was all about. He stopped in mid-sentence.
“Oh, fuck. No. Not here,” Fitz spluttered under his breath.
“Friend of yours, Mr. Presley?” Frank asked, seeing the stunned expression on Fitz’s face.
Mistress Angel looked directly at Fitz and beckoned him over with one finger.
“She wants you, Elvis!” the gunslinger laughed loudly.
Two of the alter boys nudged each other seeing that Fitz seemed at a loss what to do. His mind was racing. What
should
he do? If he didn’t obey Mistress Angel’s command then she might approach his entourage. This woman could seriously embarrass him in front of everybody. He was dumbstruck. His jaw fell slack as he broke into a cold sweat.
“Maybe she wants to spank us all,” a voice suggested to much merriment but Fitz didn’t see the joke.
James Molinaire looked even more pious than usual looking curiously at his gobsmacked ad agency point man.
“Go on, Elvis,” the cowboy urged. “A little less conversation and a lot more action, please!”
A roar of laughter filled the lounge. This was Tara’s moment. She walked slowly towards the assembled executives. Her right arm raised her leather bullwhip as the crowd stepped back.
“Shit. This is about to get really fucking interesting,” said Ricky, the admonished alter boy.
An army Sargent standing close by joined in the fun. “Look out, gentlemen. Incoming! This is not a drill. Repeat. This is not a drill!”
Tara walked slowly and seductively towards the group of leering men surrounding Fitz. Her thigh-high black latex boots shimmered in with every step. Just then Frank returned with his wife and saw Fitz standing motionless more like a statue of Elvis.
“You okay, Fitz? Look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Tara stopped in front of the frozen Fitz.
“What the fuck’s got into Fitzy?” said an axe wielding Viking. “Shame Clem isn’t here to see this.”
“So we meet again, Sissy Boy. Fancy seeing you here,” Mistress Angel announced loudly so everyone could hear. The group roared with laughter and applause. Fitz laughed too but in nervous panic. “Remember me?”
“No, I don’t,” Fitz mumbled, hoping to sound convincing but looking distinctly uncomfortable. Mistress Angel smiled, drew back her whip and slapped the long leather lash into her gloved hand, close enough to Fitz to make him flinch.
A collective “Wooooooo…!” filled the room as the VIP lounge was now noticeably more crowded and less exclusive. The audience encircled Fitz and Mistress Angel. They seemed equally fascinated by this brazen display of female sexuality and Fitz’s expression of abject horror. No one knew if this was some little rehearsed sideshow but whatever it was it was holding everyone’s attention.
“Sure you remember, Sissy Boy! You know exactly who I am.”
Frank Bergenson had seen enough. “What in the devil is this all about, Fitz? You rent this woman for some parlor act? Is this meant to be funny?”
Fitz didn’t answer. The crowd was like a pack of hungry hounds as Mistress Angel circled the statuesque Fitz like a prowling cat.
“Remember my boots and how much you enjoyed licking them last Friday?” Everyone laughed, some even applauded.
“Who put you up to this?” Fitz mumbled to the circling vixen. “Clem Drew? Did
he
put you up to this?”
The gunslinger frowned. “Hey, man. What’s with the Sissy Boy moniker?”
“Well, he answers to it so that tells you something,” pointed out The Lone Ranger.
“Hey, Fitz. D’you actually know this hot babe? Man, you lucky bastard,” a tattooed Hell’s Angel shouted as Fitz’s face started to turn beet red.
The crowd could sense Fitz’s uneasiness and their mood was quickly changing from jocular to voyeuristic. Fitz glanced across at the disapproving expression on the face of James Molinaire and a visibly concerned Frank Bergenson.
“This woman’s nuts,” Fitz announced to the crowd.
“Am I?” Mistress Angel smiled.
Fitz looked for a gap in the crowd to make an exit but this was now a compelling show. He had to do something.
Anything.
He and Mistress Angel were center stage with an enthusiastic audience that wasn’t going anywhere.
“Remember how we first met, Sissy Boy?” she smiled wickedly.
Kurt Fitzgerald looked scared to death and decidedly un-CEO like. Frank Bergenson’s heir apparent was being made to look a complete fool in front of senior agency personnel and all their clients, most notably, the Rebakor chief.
Why was Fitz so terrified and how was this woman wielding so much power over him?
The usually overly confident alpha male seemed to be under this woman’s control. It was too late now to try and bluff his way out of it. The shock of seeing Mistress Angel had really fucked with his mojo. He tried the only option he had left in his repertoire of bullshit. He started to applaud.
“Okay. Joke over. Run along, honey. Good gag,” Fitz bluffed loudly, trying to gather some sort of control of his predicament but the beads of sweat on his forehead betrayed his bogus bravado. No one was buying it.
This was Tara’s moment.
“
Okay, Sissy Boy. Let’s show everyone how we met, shall we?”