King's Pleasure

Jeremy laughed, and then when he was ready, shared a fist-bump with the baller.

“All right!” Jeremy laughed, grabbing a microphone. “It sounds like y’all are ready to par-tay!”

The volume cranked up a few more decibels as Jeremy slapped his favorite pro basketball player on his back and waited for the cheering to die down. “Well, my man. You know how this works…since it’s our third time hosting a bachelor party for you at The Dollhouse in two years.”

His friends laughed.

Hoopstar let the jab roll off him like water. “Hey. What can I say? I’m determined to get this marriage thang right.”

“Well, you know what they say, ‘If at first you don’t succeed…’” Jeremy cheesed and shook his head. It seemed to him that the brother could cut down on the alimony payments if his boy didn’t try to put a ring on every hot groupie he met. “With that in mind,” Jeremy continued, “we at The Dollhouse will be happy to keep throwing you the best bachelor parties until you do get this love thang right.”

“Bet!” The men exchanged fist-bumps before Hoopstar gave the crowd the thumbs-up signal for another round of cheers.

“All right, my man. You know I believe in bringing nothing but the best to the stage. I want you to know I found just the right flavor for all of you to enjoy tonight.”

The room roared with excitement.

“A’ight, man. A’ight.” Hoopstar clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “I know you ain’t gonna let a brotha down.”

“You know this, maaaaan.” Jeremy slapped his boy hard on the back. “Y’all brothers ready for this?”

“Hell yeah!”

Joking, Jeremy stuck a finger in his ear and wiggled it around. “Then without further ado, you boys get ready to make it rain for the lovely—and the incredibly sexy—Caramel Swirl!”

The thunderous applause that followed as the Brazilian goddess took the stage penetrated the club’s walls and probably echoed through the streets of downtown Los Angeles. Meanwhile, inside the VIP room, gigantic ballplayers grabbed their money clips as Jeremy exited the stage and Caramel Swirl gyrated her oil-slicked body onto the stage.

Forget what you heard, absolutely everybody in the business knew that nobody made it rain harder than overpaid pro athletes. They were like grown children with impulse-control issues and more testosterone and money than they knew what to do with.

All in all, they were Jeremy’s favorite customers.

In less than a minute, Caramel Swirl shook her money-maker in a green globe of Benjamins while the club’s hostesses strutted in with their angelic wings and buckets of chilled Cristal.

Money, money, money, mon-nay! Jeremy grinned while the sound of cash registers filled his head.

“Looks like the boys love her,” Delilah grudgingly admitted.

Jeremy whipped his head around and saw his head hostess. “Disappointed?”

Delilah brushed off his smug I-told-you-so tone with an eye roll. “I never said the girl didn’t have talent. I just said that she carries a lot of baggage.”

“Name one dancer up in here that doesn’t have baggage. Scratch that—name me one woman who doesn’t have baggage—and that includes Emilio behind the fourth-station bar,” Jeremy said as he laughed. “Frankly, I’ll be happy when he’s off those hormone pills. His mood swings are driving me crazy.” He turned and started to leave the VIP bar.

“That’s a very sexist thing to say,” Delilah said, trailing behind him.

“But true.”

“Jeremy Jorell King, you take that B.S. back.”

His smile exploded across his face. “Not until you prove me wrong.”

“Like you don’t have baggage.”

“Actually, I don’t,” he said with a lazy shrug as they headed down the stairs and through the main room of the club. The regulars immediately started competing to get his attention. Most of them knew that if Jeremy stopped by their table, it meant a round of free drinks and maybe a free lap dance with one of the club’s hottest girls. “Yo, Jeremy!”

“Jeremy, my man!”

“Dr. J!”

He ignored them all because he didn’t have time to play the game tonight. The Dollhouse’s side business, Bachelor Adventures, was pulling double duty. If he timed this right, he had only forty minutes to get from the club to Malibu for the second bachelor party.

His staff pretty much had the parties down to a science, so that everything ran like a well-oiled machine. His main role was to show up as the face of The Dollhouse, make a speech and introduce the first performer of the night. After that, it was usually time for him to get his party on.

Jeremy checked his watch and then picked up his pace. Undoubtedly he and Delilah would resume their pointless conversation about who had the most baggage another time. It just wasn’t in Delilah to let something go.

Weaving through the crowd then out the front door, he hopped into his bright red Porsche Boxster S. He loved his car. It was his baby girl—his heart. Every time he slid behind the leather seat, it was like sliding in behind a good woman. It coasted and cornered like a dream. And when he got her on an open stretch of road, the power under the hood gave him a natural high that was second only to sex.

No surprise, he made it to the ten-million-dollar Malibu beach house with twelve minutes to spare. The music was already bumping and the house looked like it was nearing capacity. Malibu parties were always the best because there were always neighbors who crashed along with just about anyone who happened to be hanging out at the time—usually women in teeny-weeny bikinis.

Jeremy checked himself in the rearview mirror, and then smiled at his flawless reflection. “I got a feeling that this is going to be a good night.” He winked and then hopped out of the car. As he strolled toward the modern glass-front beach house, he mentally raced through his nightly checklist.

Condoms? He touched his back pocket. Check.

Breath? He cupped his mouth, puffed out a pocket of air and sniffed. Check.

Swagger? Definitely check.

By the time he breezed into the house, Jeremy was seriously ready to get his party on. In his initial survey of the room, he saw that the women outnumbered the men by a ratio of three-to-one. Perfect. Most ménages à trois happened at bachelor parties—usually involving the groom. But you needed to have the right ratio for that fantasy to be fulfilled.

“Heeey, Jeremy,” his first fan of the evening cooed, sashaying her way up to him and looping her arm around his neck. “Long time no see,” she said, poking out her bottom lip, and walking her fingers up the center of his chest.

“Hey, Keya.” He lowered his gaze and caressed her petite figure. “I’ve been meaning to call you.”

“Yeah, right.” She playfully rolled her eyes at the lie, but continued to smile at him. “Tell you what, since we’re both here, you can save yourself the hassle of trying to find my number and we can just hook up tonight.”

“Tonight?” Jeremy glanced around, uncomfortable making plans before he had the chance to check out all the goodies this party had to offer. “Well, you know I’m working tonight.”

“After work,” she insisted, pressing her body against his.

He smiled. “After work, I may be tired.”

“In that case,” Keya said as she reached down and grabbed his crotch, “I have just the remedy to help you get your second wind.”

Jeremy’s white smile stretched around his face. “In that case, I’ll keep an eye out for you at the end of the night.” He tossed her a wink, carefully extracted his balls from her firm grip and then strolled into the party.

“There’s my boy,” Dylan Freedman shouted, strolling over to Jeremy with his hand held up for a high-five.

“Aw. The man of the hour,” Jeremy proclaimed before slapping palms and engaging in a one-arm shoulder-hug.