Fifty Shades of Lies Page 2

  The more I thought about Bleu-Rae, the more inspired I became to help her get this gig. She deserved it. Rae’s has many positive attributes, more than likely these will outshine her few negative ones. If this doesn’t work out, perhaps, they will offer her a star role on the reality series Desperate Housewives of Orange County. Rae, would be the star.

  I frowned into the rearview mirror, and bit my lips. If I pull this stunt off, maybe, Rae would share some of the contestant’s signing bonus money and buy me some lip injections. She will certainly be able to afford it, even if she doesn’t get a hubby in the end. For the last few weeks, she was constantly bragging that each contestant receives a whopping 50k upon signing, and another 50k, subsequently, after the wrap party. The contestants also get tons of perks during the show, such as their own hairdresser, a make-up artist and stylist, plus a daily per diem for what-ever’s. If she scores, she gets a ring valued at 75k and a superrich husband in six weeks after the show airs. Not a bad deal, if that’s what you’re looking for. I had to do this, for my two-minute younger sister. All I knew was she owed me a day at the luxurious, Roberto’s of Italy spa for the epic favor I was doing for her. It was the least she could do.

  Shit. The traffic came to a shrieking halt. Welcome to Los Angeles. Staying calm. I was not far. My destination was hundred yards ahead of me, the headquarters of Mr. Maximillion’s International Enterprise. Wow, it looked like a huge twelve-story building, all black glass at the bottom and red steel that had a curved roof. It was very subliminal, resembling a huge penis. An erotic fantasy building. I was almost there, and feeling so damn lucky.

  I did a fast U-turn into an empty parking space right out front. One last peek in the mirror—mirror, mirror in this car whose the prettiest sister by far? You are of course Grey-Ana, the prettiest sister by far, my reflection answered, correctly. This built my confidence.

  * * *

  As I approached the building I could see Mr. Maximillion’s name was written discreetly in red steel over the glass front doors. I flashed at my watch. It was a quarter till two. I felt an immense sense of relief that I was not late, as I walked into the enormous, frankly intimidating, all glass building. In the ground lobby level steel grout lines encompassed the black marble tiles. Very impressive. My heels echoed, as I crossed the floor.

  Behind the solid black marble desk a very attractive blonde haired young woman smiled pleasantly at me. She was wearing the tiniest mini dress I have ever seen. I am talking—it was the equivalent to the size of a dinner napkin, at Red Lobster. Her breasts were bulging over the top of her blouse. They looked like a shelf, or two small café tables covered by her little napkin dress.

  “I’m here to see Mr. Maximillion. I am his two o’clock appointment.” So far, so good, I haven’t had to lie.

  “Excuse me. One moment, Miss Ridame.” She arched her eyebrow slightly as I stood self-consciously in front of her.

  I began to wish I had borrowed one of Bleu-Rae’s miniskirts rather than wearing my Sunday best. Instead, I wanted to look that part of a sweet wife. I had really made an effort and wore my one and only church dress. It was pink, a baby-doll mini dress, loosely worn with sensible four-inch black stilettos. I layered it with a pale green sweater that was tied around my neck; this added a country club preppy touch. For me… this was a smart look. I tucked one of the escaped tendrils of my hair behind my ear, pretending she didn’t intimidate me. She certainly did, I thought I saw a hint of her perky nipples gasping for sunlight.

  “They are expecting you, Miss Bleu-Rae. Please sign in here, first”—Don’t call me by that name, I cringed inwardly—“You will want to take the end elevator on the left, press the button for the thirteenth floor.” She smiled kindly at me, amused no doubt as I signed in. I signed using my surname, Miss Ridame.

  “The thirteenth floor?” I gasped. I had always thought high-rises beyond twelve stories banned the thirteenth floor. I counted twelve stories from the outside of this building. What the hell.

  “It’s the best,” she grinned wolfishly. “Hurry along. You don’t want to be late.”

  A strange energy ran through me and pooled in the pit of my stomach. My eyes flashed to a sign posted on a painted black door marked: STAIRS. I contemplated taking them for a microsecond.

  “You don’t want to go there,” the receptionist shook her head from side to side, reinforcing her suggestion.

  It felt like my lucky day had just taken a turn for the worst. This was a major dilemma for me. There was no way I would go to the thirteenth floor of any building, for anything, not even for Bleu-Rae. Panic rose in me. I felt a sudden onset of hot flashes, my hands shook fervently and the room began to spin out of control. The receptionist grabbed my hand. Good think, because two-seconds later, I would have been laid out on the floor.

  “Are you okay?” Her eyes widened oddly. Suddenly, they appeared a bit too large for her tiny pillow face.

  “Err… ah yeah. I think so, perhaps, I am just hungry,” I managed to smile, my legs wobbled like a ladder made of rubber. “It’s just, well, I am superstitious,” I admitted.

  She flashed me a watchful expression. “Oh here, it will pass—that happened to me when I started working here,” she giggled and bit the inside of her cheek. “Take a sip of this.” She opened a small glass container filled with a light colored liquid. It looked like the color of pee. Eww. I waved my hand to decline. “It’s apple juice, the boss insist that we drink one glass a day, or we substitute it with an apple… It helps keep the devil away,” she smarted.

  “Doctor,” I hesitantly corrected her, still trying to gain my equilibrium.

  “Yeah, whatever,” she retorted back. Apparently, I had offended her, but, jeez did she want to go around embarrassing herself. I mean holy shit. This is an old adage that everyone should know. Everyone. An apple a day keeps the doctor away. Dumb ass blond.

  “No thanks. I am feeling better,” I smiled, paused and glanced toward the entry door hoping that someone would walk in and ride up with me.

  “Well, suit yourself, scoot along now before you catch hell—o, gorgeous,” she whispered under her breath, as her eyes flashed to a handsome man that was approaching us, so did mine. It was obvious to me he was security. He was overwhelming gorgeous. Did everyone around here have to be a ten when it came to being attractive?

  She quickly pushed a security pass in my hand—it read “visitor” very firmly stamped on the front. It was apparent she wanted me out of there in a hurry so she could flirt with Mr. Steamy. I paused, staring down at the slip of paper. I thought it was obvious that I was a fucking visitor. I did not fit in here at all…

  “Is everything okay here, Robin?” He eyed her like she was a piece of candy.

  “Yes, I am trying to get our visitor to go to the thirteenth floor before she is late for her two o’clock with Mr. Maximillion,” she pursed her lips, frustration lingered on her face. Dang was I in trouble now?

  “I see. Listen Ms,” he eyed at me up and down. “You will be fine going to the thirteenth floor. We do it all the time. It is a breeze; it’s not like your going to—hel—lo—hold on.” The phone attached to his belt simultaneously began to ring. “I have to take this.” He snatched out his cell and made a speedily getting away down the hall.

  “What? Did he say it’s not like I am going to hell…?” I hesitantly asked Robin, the receptionists if what I thought I heard him say was correct.

  “No,” she giggled. “He said something about the bell—I think,” she gleefully smiled.

  “I could swear… he said,” My voice trailed off.

  “Go ahead and swear if you like, we all do it around here,” she sighed.

  “No, I thought he said—never mind—what bell?” I asked, scanning the lobby.

  “The one that is ringing, announcing that the elevators are coming down.” Her eyes rolled upward as she pointed her index finger into the air. “Do you hear them?”

  Just then I heard a succession of bells—then the s
ound of elevator doors opening. They echoed in the stark lobby.

  The reception sprang to her feet and yelled loudly, “Hold the doors.”

  Without further thought, I swiftly ran to the elevator doors… three very beautiful blondes piled out. They were all blushing, giggling and sharing rhetoric about how handsome some guy was. They hardly noticed me and almost knocked me over.

  “Excuse me,” I inwardly sighed, passing the girls by and stepped into the elevator.

  Out of nowhere, another security guard, who was far more smartly dressed than me in a well-cut black suit leaped into the elevator. It felt like a cheesy scene in a movie that played out perfectly, all in the nick of time.

  “I heard you needed an escort.” His face was very rugged, yet emotionally kind in some way.

  “Oh dear, well, if you don’t mind,” I squealed.

  My eyes flashed on the elevator floor keypad. Sure enough, the number 13 glowed the brightest. The guard nodded, pressing the button to the thirteenth floor and never said another word to me the entire way up. This made for a very awkward forty-five seconds. However, I didn’t mind gawking over his firm buns, in the meantime.

  I am definitely an ass-woman, that doesn’t sound right—rephrase—I love a man with a tight ass. There is nothing sexier, than seeing a naked man from the rear; it is a sight that leaves me breathless. I love powerful—manly muscles, broad shoulders tapering into narrow hips that curve into a hard athletic ass. Don’t get me wrong. I like the front side of a man, as well. I also find it attractive when a man can carry on a conversation. In the least one that talks. Is this asking too much?

  What was wrong with this guy? Was he a mute? I wished he had uttered something about the weather. A little small talk would not have hurt. The silence was painstaking. What was the point of him escorting me if he wasn’t going to try to soothe my nerves? What if I screamed, would that make him react? Speak? Blink? At the end of the ride, I concluded he was the strong silent type.

  The elevator stalled a few times on the way up. I felt a pang of panic in the center of my chest. Finally, the elevator stopped on the thirteenth floor. The doors silently flew open and I nearly jumped out. Always being polite, I turned to wave good-bye to the elevator security guard. His face was deadpan, he nodded, I smiled and the doors closed.

  I stood in another large foyer; again it was lined with floor-to-ceiling glass windows, with black and red walls, painted in a checkerboard pattern. In front of me was another desk made of black marble. Another young woman dressed all in black, go figure. She was uncannily similar to Robin the receptionist downstairs. This pale-blond haired beauty had even more breast cleavage spilling over her outfit. She rose to greet me. At closer observation, I guessed that she was not much older than me. She looked like a pudgy, petite playboy bunny that was stuffed into a Cabbage Patch doll dress.

  “Miss Ridame, could you wait here, please?” The blond pointed to a seating area of red leather chairs.

  On the wall behind me hung large pictures of previous contestants; they were all extremely beautiful women. I recognized a few familiar faces from prior seasons. The women displayed were the show’s successes. There were quite a few, a dozen or more. According, to the tabloids these women were all happily married to rich, well groomed older men, and younger wealthy men too. All of them were model-material and gorgeous.

  Beyond, the receptionist’s desk was a large window with a view of the Santa Monica Pier in the distance. I could see the Pacific Ocean; it was a stunning vista. I stood, admiring it, momentarily distracted before I took a seat.

  I fished out of my tiny Chanel the sheet of paper with Bleu-Rae’s answers to why she wanted to be on the show. I went through them, inwardly, cursing Bleu-Rae for not making her notes legible. My eyes scanned the ludicrous chicken scratch.

  I want a man that can take me to Paris once a year. I want to get my hair done at the most expensive places. My husband must take me to dinner five times a week, and buy me Botox and lip injections every six weeks. I want a housekeeper, who cooks and cleans. “A must have” is a manny nanny (who is hot) to watch over my rich little babies. Our children will be adopted. I can’t risk becoming a lard ass from having brats.

  The list went on and on. What the fuck was my sister thinking? I would be embarrassed to use these answers. I crumpled up the sheet of paper and stuffed it between the arm and cushion of the chair. There was no way I would use them.

  I knew nothing about the man who was about to interview me. My nerves began to kick in. I am uncomfortable with this one-on-one stuff. I am much better in a group scenario… preferably when someone is not asking any questions to me—kind of like an orgy, but not. My eyes scanned the lobby, well, judging by the decor—he’s probably in his thirties… fit, tanned, and blond, to match the rest of the personnel. God, I hoped he didn’t don those artificial highlights that some men are getting. Yuck. This look is too metro-man for me.

  Another elegant, flawlessly dressed blond came out of a large door to the right. What is it with all the immaculate blonds? It was like the Stepford wives with large implants here. I took a deep breath and stood up.

  “Miss Ridame,” the latest blond asked. “Mr. Maximillion will see you in just a moment. May I take your sweater and umbrella?” She reached out to retrieve my things.

  “Oh please.” I handed her the umbrella. “I thought it was going to rain today.”

  “Rain…” She stared at me dumbfounded and her movements were robotic, as her eyes darted oddly toward the window. “It never rains in southern California.” She giggled.

  This blond was making me feel stupid, how ironic. I am not a blond racist. I had nothing against blond females. Most of my girlfriends have blond hair. I don’t tell blond jokes. Bleu-Rae and I were born blond. But, in some cases, if their behaviors fit the stereotype quips, I will not take pity on them. It is not my fault for judging someone who is acting like a bimbo; whether they are black—brunette, or a redhead haired woman. This was not a case of redhead vs. blondes. These girls were acting—acting—the word pierced my intuition.

  She fumbled with my umbrella and it popped open. I almost laughed out loud.

  “I hope that is not a bad sign.” I tried to drown my laughter—she smiled at me—I bit my lower lip. “For me, I mean, a bad sign for me,” I repeated so she didn’t think I was jinxing her day.

  “Yes, I understand. I get it, it looked like rain today—and rain could kill a good hair day. Never hurts to be prepared.” She smiled politely, rapidly blinking her lashes. By her expressions, her brain seemed to be working overtime.

  “No, I meant bad luck with the interview.” I firmly said, somewhat annoyed with her giddy attitude.

  “Oh yes, of course.” She sheepishly said. I paid her back just a little for her previous it never rains in southern California dig.

  “Have you been offered any refreshment?”

  “Err—no.” I replied. She frowned and eyed the young woman at the desk. Oh dear, am I going to get Blond Number One into trouble?

  “Would you like tea, coffee, or some apple juice?”

  “A glass of water would be lovely, thank you.” I replied. Damn, I winced she didn’t even offer me water. They must think I am a real diva, or super contrary.

  “Jessica, please be so kind and get Miss Ridame a glass of water.” She sweetly asked the young woman at the desk. Jessica scooted up immediately and slid behind a door on the other side of the foyer. Her chubby thighs made a sound when she walked. Boy, Jessica, had a tiny waist, but what a caboose she was towing. It was kind of freakish.

  “My apologies Miss Ridame, Jessica is our new intern.” She whispered, lowly so Jessica could not hear. “Please be seated. Mr. Maximillion will probably be another two hours—I am just kidding.” She quickly added. I didn’t like her sense of humor. “He’s finishing up with the last girl, these things take a while, some girls take five minutes; others take much longer. Is there anything else I can do for you?” She asked so sweetly
as if honey was pouring off her lips.

  Her decorum was over the top, seething properness. She was a little too blond for me, but yet elegantly poised, even when I was behaving like a smartass, trying to knock her off her pedestal, she did not falter. Ms. Perfection stayed on task. She would make a great spy, or CSI agent. Damn. In my humble experience, most girls that look like her would have a good snide comeback. Conclusion, these weren’t girls, but trained blond angels, or worst yet, wolves in sheep’s clothing. On second thought bunny clothing. Silently, I admitted to myself I was very intimated with all the blond hair and huge boobs. Something was odd here, amiss.

  Jessica returned with a large glass of sparkling water. “Here you are Miss Ridame. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “No thanks,” I replied.

  “Thank you. Jessica.” Blond Number Two turned away and motioned Jessica to follow her back to the marble desk. I glanced at them periodically, as they both continued in their work. Their banter was very professional, not ditzy at all. This was very confusing, their blond giddy demeanors faded away.

  Perhaps, Mr. Maximillion insists on all his employees being blonde… is that legal? I wondered idly. When the office door opened, a tall elegantly dressed, rather beautiful black woman exited. I have definitely worn the wrong clothes. She was dressed in a tight pencil shirt and her damn knockers were bulging out of a crisp white button down.

  She turned and said through the space in the partially opened door, “Drinks, definitely, Steele Rod,” as she blew him a kiss.

  Her voice was deep, solid and smooth like slab of granite. She was laying it on heavy and thick. I didn’t hear his reply. She turned her eyes towards me and flashed me a fake smile. Jessica jumped up and called for the elevator.