Prologue
Bobby
T he music from the nightclub pounded into my
brain and the lights that flashed here and there added to the dizziness. Man, was
this what getting wasted all about? Dizzy, nauseated, monster headache? Shit.
I would never drink again.
I suddenly
remembered all those times in high school when a few of the guys had tried to
get me to drink, tried to get me drunk… ‘Come on, Bobby, just one beer.’ ‘Hey,
Bobby, how about a shot of tequila?’
Back in the
States, I was still under the legal drinking age, and man did my mom constantly
remind me of that.
“If you want to
get into a good school, you better fly right, Bobby.”
So I did, until
last night when I arrived in Paris; legal drinking age eighteen, thank you very
much. I wasted no time getting wasted. What else is an eighteen year old guy
supposed to do?
But as I tried
to lift my head off the floor, a stinky, sticky floor, I tried to count the
number of drinks I’d had. I knew I’d started off with a few beers, threw in a
few shots of something sweet and strong, and topped it off with a snifter of
cognac.
While in Paris,
right?
Still, while I
knew it wasn’t a great idea to mix, all in all, I hadn’t really had that much
to drink. It was just enough to get me partying, get me dancing, and get me
talking some God awful French that I’m sure made no sense.
That didn’t keep
the girls from coming, though. No sir. I don’t know if it was my boyish good
looks, my cute American accent or my New York sense of style… oh, or maybe it
was that I’d shown off my abs. I remembered pulling my shirt up a few times,
giving the girls a peek. And then I simply took my shirt off entirely and
paraded around like some kind of egomaniacal peacock. Hell, I put enough work
to get my abs so tight and taut, I didn’t see the harm in showing off a bit?
Anyway these French dames just kept coming. Older ones, younger ones, hot
ones, hotter ones. The night had been a veritable smorgasbord of feminine
bodies; boobs, asses and even more boobs.
“ Ah, mais
regardez ce beau derriere ,” one older woman had called out as she’d swatted
my butt.
Women weren’t
really shy about reaching out and grabbing whatever appealed to them. If they
liked what they saw, they went after it. It’d been pretty cool at first, but
I’ll admit, it became a little intimidating after a while, like I had some kind
of standard to live up to, or something.
Then again, I
knew I was asking for it when I mentioned that I was Errol King’s kid brother.
“ Le chef
Errol King ?” one amazed young woman had asked.
Yes, hard to believe,
but the most baddest bad boy chef Errol King had been tamed by my own sister
Taryn. Who would’ve thought the celebrity chef would ever settle down. The man
was tied up and unavailable, while I was free and more than willing to taste a
variety of women.
That was until
my head had started pounding and my stomach had decided to start turning
somersaults.
I pried my face
off the floor and tried to stand, but the entire room started spinning and
everything came at me in sets of two. I leaned up against the wall as two cute
girls with flashy magenta hair held out two glasses of wine while each smiled
with their two bright red mouths. For a moment I thought I was going to get my
first taste of twins. The prospect was both thrilling and daunting. Two girls
at once. Was I up for it?
There was really
no point worrying about it. As it turned out, all I had to do was shake my
head to get rid of the slightly disturbing image and get my eyes to focus on
the one girl in front of me.
“ Vous allez
bien ?” the girl asked.
I shook my
head. “I’ve been better.” Then I remembered where I’d seen her before.
Earlier in the night; she’d insisted I come to this part of town, to this
club. The only word I’d been able to translate in her argument had been
‘party.’
Yep, I’d wanted
to
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