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Sighing, Pax shrugged out of his robe. He wore it only as long as it took to receive his morning breakfast delivery. He much preferred to lounge in the buff, and the privacy to do so while still enjoying the view of the strip was one of the many luxuries his penthouse suite afforded him.
He downed his wheatgrass shake in one gulp, shuddering as it went down. He had never gotten used to the texture, but he was very picky about what went into his body. Spreading the paper out flat on the table in front of him, he pulled his plate into his lap, so he could read and eat at the same time. Today’s headline read New Details Emerge About Crash that Killed America’s Sweetheart.
America’s sweetheart, being of course, the illustrious Elizabeth Barret. Four years had passed, you would think America would have a new sweetheart by now, he thought as he began to read. He wasn’t cynical, just realistic. The show business industry was a fickle one.
A snapshot in the corner caught his eye, and he did a double take. At first glance, it had appeared to be a headshot, but upon closer inspection, he saw that it was something else entirely. What he was looking at, to his stomach’s horror, was a snapshot of Elizabeth Barret’s head lying in the road, completely unattached to her body, which, according to the story, was still strapped into her Lamborghini convertible.
In gruesome detail, the article went on to recount that her daughter, who had been celebrating her twenty-first birthday by shopping and doing lunch with her mother, had been in the accident with her—a detail that until today, had been unknown to the public.
Diamond Barrett, he read, was ejected from the vehicle on impact, and suffered only minor injuries. She was found unconscious, minutes after the accident in the bushes on the side of the road. Beside her on the pavement, was her mother’s severed head.
“Damn.” Pax whistled aloud to the empty room. “That chick’s going to have some serious issues.”
There was a picture of the daughter, which he found especially interesting. Elizabeth Barret had three daughters and she had always done a stellar job of keeping them out of the lime-light and away from the public knowledge. The snapshot was a fuzzy one, and he knew by looking at it, that someone had gotten lucky and made a lot of money selling this story. It was obviously a picture taken at the scene of the accident. Her pupils were dilated, making it obvious that she was still in shock. She probably didn’t even notice the creep with the camera. She had pale blonde hair, the lightest blue eyes he had seen, and high cheekbones. Those features combined with her mother’s famous heart-shaped pout, made her a knock-out.
He frowned. He didn’t think he had ever seen a picture of Elizabeth Barret’s daughter before, it wasn’t the sort of thing he kept up with, but there was something about her eyes. She looked oddly familiar, and he couldn’t shake the niggling feeling that he knew her, or that their paths had crossed before.
The phone rang, and he pulled himself away from the haunting face.
“Talk to me.” He knew before he answered that it was Jason.
“Pax, there is nothing on the schedule for tomorrow night.”
“What are you talking about? It’s Vanilla Night.” Vanilla Night was his brain child, one of the things thing that set Rojo apart from other BDSM clubs. The other thing was that, while it was categorized as a BDSM club, it was pretty tame. They mostly specialized in spanking. They had special demonstrations sometimes, but spanking was what they were known for. On Vanilla Night, they dialed it down even further and opened the club to beginners. People new to the lifestyle, or interested in experimenting, could come and observe with no pressure. They gave mild demonstrations, but the punishments doled out on Vanilla Night were always real. Pax kept his showgirls, Pax’s girls, as they were known, on a short leash. He had high expectations of them, but he treated them well. He gave them generous salaries, and comped their suites and meals, even allotting them each a small allowance to use within the shops that were housed within both Aubergine and Rojo.
Jason grunted. “I know it’s Vanilla Night. I’m saying, none of your girls have broken any rules. According to the ledger, they’ve all been perfect angels.”
His jaw dropped. “That can’t be right. That never happens! There is always something. Hell, we have a dozen girls! You’re telling me, not one of them did a single thing wrong this week? Nobody showed up late or overspent their allowance, or anything?”
“That’s what I’m saying. Must be the full moon or something.”
Pax grunted. He’d never bought into the full moon nonsense, and he wasn’t about to start now.
“So, what do you want to do about tomorrow? There has to be a demonstration. Want me to call in one of the headliners?” The headliners, were the ones who did the harder core stuff. They were experts in things Pax wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. They were usually brought in as special entertainment and advertised weeks in advance. They drew in a huge crowd from the more hardcore scene. Bringing them in for Vanilla Night would be a disaster.
“No, that won’t work. Let me think on it. I’ll come up with something. Maybe something will happen tonight. We still have twenty-four hours for somebody to mess up.”
He could hear Jason’s smirk through the phone. “Okay, you’re the boss.”
Pax hung up without responding and paced the room. His day was already packed, and he did not have extra time or energy to devote to this problem, but he would have to. Vanilla Night was just as big of a crowd pleaser as the headliners were. He had to have entertainment. All of his current girls had been with him five years or more, maybe that was the problem. His rules had become second nature to them. They didn’t mess up like rookies would. “I need some fresh meat,” he muttered to himself as he headed for the shower.
* * *
Diamond woke up on the floor hours later with another empty bottle beside her. Her eyes were bloodshot, her face was tear-stained, and her throat was hoarse from crying. To top it off, she was angry as hell.
“It’s my birthday, dammit,” she yelled to the empty room. “Fucking vultures.” Standing up, and grabbing a fresh bottle from her nightstand, she stumbled into the bathroom.
“Happy fucking birthday,” she told her reflection, as she took a swig straight from the bottle. And then to her horror, she started to cry again.
“No. No. No.” She was done hiding, finished letting them get to her. She could change her name, her looks, move away and hide in the busiest city in the US, but she couldn’t change her birthday. It was supposed to be a happy occasion, a day to be celebrated. Four years ago, a drunk driver in a semi had taken that from her, and today, a money hungry paparazzi and a bunch of detail starved media mongers had driven in the final nail.
Living well is the best revenge. The well-known and oft uttered quote popped into her head and she smiled. It was something her mother had often said when the media would publish lies and unflattering stories about her.
Diamond had thought that she was living well. The life of an Aubergine showgirl was a glamorous one most days, and she was having fun. Las Vegas was a city full of life—there was always something to see, and something to do. But, if she was really honest with herself, she wasn’t really living. Not the way she should be. She had ended up here as a way to lick her wounds away from her well-meaning family and friends in California. So far, that was all she had done.
That, she vowed, ends now. She was taking back her birthday, and the rest of her life with it.
Running a brush haphazardly through her pale hair, and heaping her mascara generously, she added her favorite red lipstick to polish off her look. She squinted at her blurry reflection in the mirror. “Look out Las Vegas, Here I come.” She said it aloud, then frowned when she realized she was talking to herself again.
Two minutes later, she was on the elevator dressed to the nines in her favorite white dress that was usually reserved as part of her costume, and four-inch diamond studded heels that had been her mother’s. She had a flask full of liquor tucked into her garter belt, and she was ready to party.
