Bombshell - Riverside Origins Pt. 03

Before

(ten years earlier)

"...Alright you pervs and degenerates," the DJ crooned oily-smooth, as the last song faded out. "Let's hear it for Ca-andy!" The crowd applauded, a few hoots and hollers. The young naked blonde was still gathering up the rest of the bills they'd thrown on stage as the DJ gave a rundown of prices for private dances. "Alright, now get your sexy ass off that stage girl, cuz it's time... gentlemen get your drool cups ready... it's time for the smooth the sexy the cooool Velvet Ice..." Miranda hurried off stage as the lights went down and a deep R&B bass throbbed through the club.

"How's the crowd?" asked a sexy brunette with blonde and caramel highlights. She was on her way to the stage, and Miranda slapped her ass as they passed.

"Always good for you!"

Miranda was straightening and counting her bills as she walked into the dressing room. It had been a decent set, a ton of ones mostly, some fives, one twenty, and -she did a double take- five hundreds?

Hundreds weren't that unusual, plenty of guys, dealers mostly, came into the club acting like high rollers, but she hadn't seen any of them. And on a Wednesday, it did turn a decent set into a great set. She remembered the two guys wearing suits and ties.

"Fucken yuppies," she chuckled appreciatively.

The dressing room was a blare of yellow light, and the air was thick with glitter and the sickeningly mingled scent of cocoa butter and a thousand perfumes. There was a row of vanities along one of the walls, the rest were lined with lockers. She rolled the bills and hid them in hers, then put on a silk robe.

"How'd it go?" The girl who called herself Jetta was sitting at one of the mirrors. She had rich, dark skin and the phatest ass in the club.

"Good for a Wednesday," Miranda replied, sinking into the seat next to her. "Couple white boys in the corner throwin' big cash."

"Mm, I heard that," Jetta said. "One o' them boys is super foyne! I take him in back?" She gave Miranda a devious wink. "There will be some sex in the champagne room!" She cackled and continued applying her makeup.

"Yeah, I know what you mean," Miranda lied, but for just a moment, the thought of a pair of intense blue eyes blazed through her head.

"Candy!" shouted the manager from the doorway. "You got one on the hook so slut up!" He guffawed at his own wordplay.

She glanced over her shoulder. "It's not that old guy is it? He's clearly drunk, and I just don't-"

"Girl, you better make that money," Jetta elbowed her, laughing.

"Nah, it's the American psycho from table eight," the manager said. "Waitin' for you in room 3."

Miranda nodded. "Be there in five."

"He's part of a matched set y'know," the manager waggled his bushy eyebrows. "Hook 'em both, play it a little loose and I bet you wrangle up some big tips."

"I know how to do my job," she replied, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice.

"Just saying, sweetness," he shrugged and headed off.

Miranda went back to her locker and started digging through her lingerie. "What do you think he'll be into, Jet?"

The dark-skinned girl thought about it for a moment. "You got that frilly pink number? You know them yuppy boys like you cuz you got that real-life Stepford thing goin', give 'em the fantasy."

"Maybe, but my ass looks better in these," she replied, sliding a silky pair of crimson cheekies up her long legs. She tucked her perky breasts into a sheer red demibra, then slung her robe back on.

"Keep him busy, doll," Jetta said as Miranda headed for the door. "I'm a go shake my ass at the other one, we'll clean 'em out tonight!"

Room 3 was Miranda's favorite for private dances. It was decorated in navy blue and a cool gray. She tended to be energetic on stage, loving the excitement of performing, but for something more personal and intimate, she preferred the feel of the darker colors. She knocked on the door, then slipped inside.

The young man was already reclined in a large plush chair with big arms. There was another smaller chair as well, with no arms and velvet cushions. A wooden dresser, mostly for aesthetics, held up the single lamp in the room.

"Hi, I'm Candy," she said in her tinkly work voice.

"Yeah, you look like it," he replied with a wink. "I'm Donovan."

He was handsome. Angular features and dark eyes, with sleek dark brown hair. He'd laid his suit jacket and tie over the smaller chair, wearing just a pair of black slacks, and a silver button-up with the top three buttons open. He looked like he belonged in that room.

"Hi, Donovan, did my manager explain the rules?"

"No standing, no cumming, you can touch me but I can't touch you, tray tables in their upright and locked positions," he repeated smoothly. "That about sum it up?"

"About," she giggled, mentally rolling her eyes. "How many songs do you want?"

"Let's start with one," he held out a thin roll of bills. "See what you got."

She trotted forward and took the money. "You mean like an audition? I always get the call back."

"I bet you do."

"There a particular song you want?"

Donovan shook his head. "Nah, you're the pro, I trust your judgement."

She moved to the back of the room where they kept an iPod plugged into the sound system. She began scrolling through the thousands of options.

"Oh, I know just the one," she purred.

A synth screech set his teeth on edge, but then a slow rhythmic throb flowed through the room. Miranda moved into the rhythm as she stepped back in front of the chair.

Donovan groaned. "I dunno, I fucken hate Marilyn Manson..."

He trailed off as Miranda peeled open the front of her robe, revealing the crimson lingerie and her curvaceous hips rolling back and forth in perfect sync to the beat. Her flirty smile dissolved into a sultry stare, one elegant eyebrow arched sharply. She glided up to him, letting the robe slip off her shoulders. She leaned onto the arms of the chair, thrusting her tits in his face, her petite nipples were just visible through the crimson lace, then she rocked back and turned away. Her hips continued to move, a whispy tattoo crawled and curled across her low back, underlined by the scarlet silk of her panties, her perfect ass swaying back and forth hypnotically. She sank onto his lap, grinding, as her spine unfurled up his chest, until her blonde head curled over his shoulder.

"Should I change it?" she asked, her lips close enough to his ear that the warmth of her breath sent goosebumps down his arm.

"Fuck no," he said quickly. "I fuckin' love Marilyn Manson."

Miranda smiled, letting her body writhe on top of his, every movement cued by a beat or guitar squall. She could feel him getting hard and rolled her ass against that bulge, teasing and grinding.

Then she slid forward off his lap. Moving slowly, deliberately, she hooked her thumbs into her panties then slid them all the way down her long, smooth legs, bending forward, giving him the full view of her heart-shaped ass and the tight pink slit tucked between her thighs. She heard him clear his throat, and a knowing pride tickled up her spine.

Miranda stepped her legs apart, swaying her hips and ass as she slid one manicured finger through her soft petals. Then she spread her pussy lips wide, letting him see every carnal part of her.

Donovan shifted in his seat.

Miranda turned around, locking his dark eyes with her vixen gaze and slipped those fingers in her mouth, licking them, sucking them slowly, and then reached back down to play with herself, biting her lip as she moaned softly. She could see him trying so hard to play it cool.

She grinned seductively and kneeled down. Gliding her hands up his thighs, he flinched when she brushed near where his hips creased. Then she pulled back and pushed his knees apart. She leaned forward, putting her face in his crotch and letting him feel the fullness of her breasts between his thighs. She draped her hair over his lap, moving closer and closer, until he could practically feel her breath through his expensive slacks, and she could sense the tension hitch through his entire body.

"Will a, uh, big tip get me a blowie?" he asked.

Hidden behind a curtain of blonde tresses, Miranda rolled her eyes. Of course he would ask that. She looked up, a vixen smile on her face and shook her head as if it were part of the dance.

Then she crawled up on his lap, straddling his hips. She leaned forward, putting her breasts in his face, felt him clench the arms of the chair. She leaned back, reached around and unclipped her bra, unveiling her perky round breasts tipped with delicious strawberry nipples. The steady throb of the music rolled through her body as she gyrated on his lap, her naked tits bobbed tantalizingly, her soft naked pussy grinding against the bulge straining his pants.

His hands crept onto her hips as they bucked and swiveled to the heated throb of the bass. She let him touch, for a moment. When they started to creep up her hourglass curves, she grabbed his wrists and moved his hands back to the armrests. She gave him a stern look.

"Right, sorry," he said. "Force of habit."

She grinned and leaned forward to kiss him, but didn't, brought her lips so close to his he could taste her. She moved to his ear, his neck, her breasts pressing into his chest, her soft breath, almost moans, driving him wild.

Miranda slid her delicate fingers into his meticulously styled brown hair. Donovan bit his lip as tingles rushed over his scalp. She pulled him forward, burying his face between her plump breasts. She squeezed them against his cheeks, shimmied around him. Felt him groan into her sternum. She pulled back, rubbing the firm orbs over his face, teasing her soft pink nipples over his quivering lips. She could see him actively resisting the urge to lick or suck or bite or...anything at that point.

His hardon was straining, pulsing between her legs. She could almost hear his heart beating. Finally, she pushed him back in the seat and settled on his lap as the song began to wind down.

"So, Donovan," she moaned, licking her lips and pretending to catch her breath. "Would you like another song or should I go find another star for my dope show?"

He smirked, swallowed, and shook his head as if to clear it. "How big of a tip does it take to get more than a show?"

Her shoulders slumped, she sighed and nodded towards the camera in the corner of the ceiling. "Against the rules I'm afraid."

"Aren't rules made to be broken?" Donovan reached into his pocket and took out a folded stack of bills, he began leafing through them. Miranda could see they were all hundreds. "Tell me when to stop..."

She groaned and slid back off his lap. "I don't do that," she grabbed her robe, slinging it on quickly. "There are girls here that will, but I'm not one of them, so I guess we're done here."

"Alright, wait!" he stood quickly, and reached for her as she turned towards the door.

"Don't!" Miranda snatched her arm away.

"Wait, please," he said again. "Look I'm sorry, I don't really want to pay you for sex."

Miranda arched an eyebrow and tilted her head doubtfully.

"C'mon, look at me," he shrugged and flashed her a truly debonair smile. "And I'm rich? I don't pay for sex. Like...ever."

"So, what then," she pursed her lips. "You just get off on seeing what a desperate trashy stripper will do for your cash?"

"Please," he scoffed. "I could tell right away you weren't either of those things. The truth is," he retrieved his jacket and tie. "I wanted to make sure you wouldn't take advantage my brother."

"Your brother?"

"Yeah, the other handsome rich guy in a suit," Donovan chuckled as if it were obvious. "Stuffed about five hundred bucks in your panties already...?"

She blushed slightly. "The one with the blue eyes..."

"Yeah," Donovan grinned. "It's not that he's naïve or stupid or anything, it's just...well, he doesn't do this kind of thing often - ever, and well, you know..."

"Some of us can be shady as fuck," she admitted.

"No offense," he shrugged. "But if I'm gonna make him come back here for a dance with you, I had to make for sure for sure you weren't shady as fuck."

"Why me?"

"Because I've never seen him look at a girl, or anyone, the way he was looking at you when you were on stage," Donovan went on. "Called you a 'bombshell'? He's younger than me but kind of an old soul, y'know?"

Miranda smiled. "That's kinda cute."

"If you say so," Donovan was counting out his stack of hundreds but then shrugged and handed her the bundle. "He thinks I was back here with one of the other girls, so let's keep it that way."

Miranda was wide eyed leafing through the role of bills. "I can do that..."

"As many songs as he wants," Donovan added. "Whatever that doesn't cover, let me know and I'll take care of it."

"I think this could cover me for a week," she blurted, then blushed. "I mean-"

"I know what you meant," he chuckled. "Just blow his mind for me, pretty pretty one?"

"You got it," Miranda looked up at him. "What's his name?"

"Warren."

Chapter 8

Miranda was sitting as close to the limo door as possible. Her legs were tucked as close together as she could since her ruined zebra skirt afforded zero modesty. Her face ached. Every breath felt like she was being stabbed in the side. She was filthy, covered in the kind of grime you only find under a trap house in the ghetto. And she was literally dressed like a prostitute. It was not the most out of place she'd ever felt in an Ashton limo...but very close.

"Are you okay?" Donovan asked her.

Neither of them could quite figure out why the question took so long to ask, as if every word were a labor in itself. And then it hung in the air between them, heavy and bloated with the weight of all the things neither of them were going to say just then.

"YesI'mfine." she replied as quickly and softly possible.

"Okay. Good."

Donovan was sitting opposite her, his back to the driver. He was still wearing that immaculate dark blue suit, although he had removed the tie and undone the top three button now.

He gestured towards the small bar. "Would you like a-"

"No."

"-drink...okay. Do you mind if I...?"

She rolled her eyes at him as if the answer should be obvious. "It's your car."

He shook his head, more than a little bewildered, and began to fix a drink. He dumped some ice in a glass and then popped the cork out of a bottle with a blue label. An aroma that was rich and smokey and earthy and entirely familiar whispered across the cabin as he poured.

"Scotch and soda," she murmured, eyeing the glass. "Still?"

"On the rocks," Donovan replied, giving the glass a ringing shake. "I'm an adult now."

Miranda licked her lips thinly and held out her hand, not quite able to bring herself to look at him. Donovan said nothing but didn't hesitate to put the glass on her palm.

She clutched it, drained it, dumped the ice in her hand and held it against the aching side of her face.

"That's good," she said, ignoring the flood of memories that came with the familiar taste. "Sweet and smokey, burns just enough."

"Glen McKenna 35," Donovan said, making another glass for himself. "It was-"

"I know."

He pressed his lips together, nodded. "Right, sorry." He held out the bottle. "Another?" Miranda leaned forward, holding up the empty glass. He filled it almost halfway, then set the bottle down and reached for more ice. "Rocks?"

Her glass was already empty again. Miranda leaned back, licking her lips and stared out the window. She snugged one arm around her scantily covered breasts, while the other was still holding ice to her cheek.

Donovan took a long, deep drink of his scotch. "You know... I'm going to have to ask...right?"

She didn't look at him. "You know... I'm going to have to...not answer, right?"

He smiled, taking another drink and let a few more moments pass in silence.

"I probably shouldn't have ambushed you at the shelter today, I'm sorry."

"It doesn't matter," she sighed. "Not like there's a polite way to invade someone's privacy."

"Well, if you would have returned any of my messages..."

"Well, if you would have realized I wasn't because I didn't want to see you..."

"I know, but.."

"Like ever..."

Donovan took a drink.

"...Again."

"More?" he offered, reaching for the bottle.

Now Miranda turned to look at him, one dirt smudged eyebrow arched. "There's not enough alcohol in this limo to make me forgive you."

"I know that."

"Long as we're on the same page," she said, picking up her glass and holding it out.

This time Donovan nearly filled it, so she took a big gulp and savored it a moment. The burn and the taste brought a rush of memories filled with cool nights and lazy jazz and Warren's scotch flavored lips.

"I know you hate me and the rest of the family," Donovan said, freshening his own glass. "I know we deserve it, but you have to understand it wasn't supposed to be personal."

Miranda took another drink, said nothing.

"I know it seems cold, and I guess it is," he went on. "We were all hurting, and some of us just fell back on what we knew. If you guys had worked out a prenup with the family legal team-"

"You motherfucker," Miranda sighed. "Warren didn't want a prenup because he loved me. And he knew that I loved him-"

"It's not about love, prenups are just like a wedding registry in our world, just another part of it," Donovan said. "You didn't work out a prenup because you two eloped."

"Yes, because the family already hated me!"

"That's a bit overstated..."

"Is it?" Miranda snorted. "You know why we eloped, hell you came with us, Donovan."

"I know, look that's not-" he broke off, draining his glass and pouring more. "I mean, I understand why you felt attacked, I'm trying to say it wasn't intended to be that way. Since there was no preexisting agreement, it was just meant to protect family assets."

"You really want to do this now?" Miranda heaved a sigh, gesturing towards her filthy and barely covered body.

"Since you don't want to tell me about now," he gestured to her filthy and barely covered body. "And since I've got you in front of me, yeah, might as well say what I came to Riverside to say."

Miranda glared at him, lowering the ice from her face. "Fine. Say it."

"I'm trying," he said quickly. "My point is, it wasn't supposed to be an attack. We were going to take care of you, the rest of the family just needed...parameters, for that. It's not like we were trying to run you out of the family."

"Are you fucking joking me?" Miranda asked, her voice flat. "They had barely rolled out the sod on my husband's grave when the family legal team served me papers." She drained her glass. "I hadn't even heard his will yet and they were already contesting it." Her green eyes blazed as tears flooded them. "And they didn't just want the money or the house or the cars or any of those things I didn't give two shits about...they tried to take his name away from me, Donovan, did you know that?"

He swallowed nothing and shook his head.

Miranda nodded grimly, a hot rush of tears spilling down her cheeks. "They wanted me to change my name back, the only thing I ever wanted, and not for the status, or the clout, or the wealth, not for sake of being an Ashton." She felt on the verge of hysterics, barely holding it together and did not care one bit. "But because it was his and all I ever wanted was to be his. Warren's. And he was barely cold in the ground, Donovan, when your family tried to take that away from me."

Donovan sat, sinking into his seat and looking about two feet tall. Miranda stared at him with all the hurt and hate and sadness and betrayal she felt for him.

And he knew there was no reply, nothing he could say.

"Stop the car," Miranda whispered. "Let me out."