The Mix-Up Ch. 05

Best,

Neil

His lungs collapsed. Getting exiled from a clan was the single worst punishment a LARPer could endure. But this, this ended his way of life. His friendships. Who he was. His very identity. At 41 years old, Gary stood in the mailroom grasping the wall, genuinely debating if he'd should take another breath, to continue living in a world without his beloved clan.

The next two letters, from Dugan's and the pharmacy board, threw the word 'felony arrest' around liberally, terminating his employment and pharmacy license. Another envelope lay creased at the bottom.

What about being innocent until proven guilty? Just take everything from me before proving I did anything wrong. I haven't even gone to trial!

The crinkled warning from the state laid out the charges facing him. He scanned the list - trespassing, petty theft, criminal mischief, and lewd conduct. Of course. Laughter escaped his lips and spread to his belly. His rollercoaster of a life was just gaining speed - racing downward. What other things can go wrong?

"Let's see everybody! Gather round!" One of his neighbors, a pixie-haired girl in ripped jean shorts, eyed him from the sliver of her door, focusing on the smudged teardrop next to his eye.

He scratched his head by his empty car space. He wasn't behind on his payments. He shrugged and his mouth curved upward seeing his apartment door. Or where it had been. Fluttering yellow caution tape crisscrossed the void in half-assed fashion.

"That's great! Hey, look at this!" He waved at her and pointed to his smashed entry. The girl whipped her door shut, then snapped more deadbolts and locks into place than he knew existed.

"Bitch..."

Normally a man to abide by all of society's rules, he strode through the tape, which wrapped around his head and thin arms. Only a stream of fading afternoon light filtered into his studio. He burst into giggles. The steps down the fallen door into his apartment creaked with his every tape-wrapped movement. Beyond it, a pool of brackish rainwater collected, pieces of glass lining its edges.

He splashed through it, droplets landing on the shattered fragments of several de-walled picture frames, his smiling face in his LARP costume riddled with cracks. The remaining covers on the bed hung on for dear life, the majority ripped off and dumped in a heap. The mattress lay uncoupled from the bent bed frame. His gaming system that he'd daydreamed about during the long hours of prison life lay torn out of the wall. A dabbled KFC napkin rested on the counter by his fish tank.

Hello Gart Gary,

I sold your Car to get bail. Come see me to get the rest of Your Money.

I'm at The only RV by where You got busted.

lester

P.s. Feed your fish Real food.

In the pigsty of his apartment he couldn't find his phone charger. He punched the buttons of his stoic Yoda landline to call his friend Neil, who didn't pick up. I KNOW he's home working on the clan's banner. His fingers moved in quickening memorization, dialing the rest of his LARP clan. The line rang and rang. There really is no one left for me.

As he methodically scrubbed out his fish tank, a single thought crossed his mind.

I'm going to find Lester.

*****

In the dying hues of the afternoon light, a bonfire crackled within the circle of models on Miami's south beach. Its flickering orange cast their eyes and skin aglow. Digging her freshly painted red toenails into the sand, Taryn lay back in her chair, lazily lifting her sunglasses back and forth over her eyes, observing their dark tint over and over. She could have fallen asleep right there, but the laughter and buzz of the beautiful people around her rose higher and higher.

She couldn't remember being around so many attractive people. The 2020 group of Ford Agency models didn't disappoint.

The warm beach winds blew locks of her hair over her the wooden slats of her chair. It twisted and billowed behind her, catching in and around the planks, nearly reaching the ground. Her jean shorts lay low on her hips, hinting at her black bikini underneath. She picked at the frayed ends, occasionally looking up at the rest of the group.

For the first time in a long time, I can relax. Her toes dug further into the powdery sand.

A model stared at her, his cheekbones sharp enough to cut a shadow. He tousled his shoulder length hair, which blended into the darkening sky behind him. In any other setting, like in the mall with Amy, she'd have made eyes at him. In this crowd, he was ordinary. He sprung up, drops from his beer can spraying onto the outstretched tan legs of girls next to him. Their screeches went unheeded.

"So you're from Arkansas, huh? Definitely not what I was expecting."

Taryn lowered her shades at him. "Expected me to have a mullet?"

"Nah... it's just--" He kicked the sand. "The guys bet me to come over and talk to you, since we're all kinda afraid of you."

She sat up. My God, his fake humility was SO overplayed.

"Afraid? I didn't realize I was so terrifying."

His eyes inched up her body, hitching on the sheen of her oil slathered cleavage before meeting her eyes.

"You're - you're by far the hottest girl here. It's not even close."

"So what was the bet?"

"That you'd give me your number."

"Next time come up and talk to me about something besides my looks. Who knows, maybe you'd get to know me that way."

"Whatever your looks are your job... you're a model."

His veneer flickered, a scowl touching his face as he turned away. As he crushed the beer can and tossed it aside with every defeated step back to his boys, Taryn put her sunglasses back in position. How ironic, no that's overused. How BIZARRE it is I'm loving turning him away, a male model, a seriously gorgeous guy but... I did... unspeakable things with a man three times my age, four times my weight. The math hurt her head. But not as bad as the tinges of pain in her hips, remnants of when Lester slithered on top of her and crushed her deep into the crusty couches. Even Taryn's fitness had limits. A purple bruise the size of a quarter peeked from under the strap of her bikini bottom.

The blonde adjusted it upward. God, I fucking PRAY he didn't leave any other marks. A quick accounting didn't show any others, but the light was fading. She checked her phone. Where was Mr. Redding? He'd usually kept tabs on her every hour on trips. She'd have to start getting ready for the Cattarossi dinner in the next thirty minutes.

Two girls dropped flowery beach towels on the sand next to her and wiped their legs of beer droplets. The three paused and burst out laughing at the ridiculous male model, who cast a sneer their way. The next ten minutes the sun worked its way toward the horizon, casting its brilliance through rolling thunderheads.

A figure silhouetted by the setting sun ambled down the beach. His pant bottoms were rolled up, yet each wave wicked them, darkening them in higher and higher lines. Taryn squinted. The gait was familiar.

"Mr. Redding?"

He waved and carried on. She leaped to her feet and caught up to him.

"What are you doing? I didn't take you as the stroll on the beach type," she said with a giggle. "I thought you were more original than that."

"Oh don't mind me! I don't want to ruin your night. The last few days have been rubbish." He sighed and dropped heavily on the sand. "Do you ever get the feeling you're in the wrong place? That chasing another dream would've been better? I could've been a goat farmer on a Scottish hill."

He picked up a pink-hued shell and studied it. "That Cattarossi contract didn't do me any favors. The prats over in New York were ready to fire me for not getting you to sign it immediately. That delay ruffled a few feathers. Apparently I'm getting a little soft in my old age."

"What - I am SO sorry, Mr. Redding. That was my decision. Like I never wanted that to happen. Not because of me."

"That $200,000 bonus saved my job for now. But they're back at it. I'm just knackered, really. I'm afraid I'm going to be reassigned or worse soon, unless more money comes in. I'm talking to them tomorrow."

She looked away. What would I have to do to get that money?

She stopped as he continued plodding on. "Surely there's some way to make this right...?"

"So it may be good for me," he said, putting down the shell. "Leave the city life behind and get a little patch of dirt somewhere and raise those goats."

"You look terrible... I mean... like tired. I can handle this next meeting by myself so you can focus on them--"

"The twits, you mean. But I ought to be at every meeting between you and Cattarossi."

She leaned in for a hug. "The contract says that. I'm a big girl, I can handle myself. Go take care of yourself first. I'm about to go get ready."

His chin rested on the top of her soft hair. The waves washed against his ankles.

"You sure dear, he's been a real pain in my ass."

She pulled back and grinned. "Blimey Mr. Redding, go give those buggers a jolly good time."

He smiled. A tear caught in his eye.

"Careful now, I'm going to think you're a real Englishwoman."

*****

Her dress was liquid in its movement, its golden richness oozing sex through the blonde teen's curves. Reaching only halfway down her silken thighs, the metallic fabric cut a risky hem that drew stares from men and women alike. The elder Cattarossi had an eye for how his dresses fit the female form, snugly riding their curves and exposing their legs, and on a girl like Taryn, it was an exclamation point in the form of a cocktail dress.

Eyes moved with her. She'd known the feeling for years. In the darkened restaurant, mouths fell silent as her arched feet strode by, her high heels flaunting every speck of toned muscle in the former cheerleader's legs.

"That's a Cattarossi girl if I've ever seen one," Ernesto said, rising from his booth, blood already rushing to his slacks. "No Redding?"

She shook her long mane, her hair sweeping past her bare shoulders. "He's sitting this one out." Taking a menu, she called over a waiter for a water. The hunchback threw his hands up.

"Oh come on! We'll start with two daquiri's--"

She looked apologetically to the staff. "I'm nineteen."

The hunchback grimaced and flipped open his wallet. "You didn't hear that," he said, handing two hundreds to the waiter, who strode off.

"You know it's possible to relax and have fun sometimes. In this industry, to make it you've got to do more than wear clothes or have a good walk. You gotta play the game. My father would've slapped me for toasting a deal with water." He pulled out a leather-bound portfolio and raised it. "His last designs."

She repressed a scoff. They were rich words for a man whose sole reason for 'making it' was due to him being the son of the most influential Italian designer in the last 30 years.

She crossed her legs, the shimmering golden fabric easing further up her thighs. As much as his face made her want to gag, she remembered her mission. If only he wasn't so fucking hideous... this would be a piece of cake. His drooping eye flicked from the table to her body and back again.

She accepted a pink drink from the waiter. "So these are for the next show?"

He nodded, stirring his own.

"Oh that's just gorgeous," she said, leaning forward. The spray of Dior perfume on her neck earlier drifted over him. He stopped panting through his mouth and breathed deeply, savoring her rich feminine scent. His cock twitched at her cleavage, how the golden silk covered the point that her breasts grew heavy. There wasn't a millimeter of sag. The girl had been blessed with the best genetics he'd ever seen, with the grace not to flaunt it. She flipped another glossy page, this time to a champagne gown.

"I love it."

"Mhmm, can't wait to see you in it. We'll need to do a fitting in the next few weeks. Our seamstress says she's never worked on such a figure."

Taryn smiled. "My mom had a small waist."

"A toast," Ernesto said, raising his glass. "To my father's designs and the girl to wear them." Their glasses clinked in the shadows of the booth. Thirty minutes passed with the two drinking and discussing the upcoming Spring show. He contorted his body over the table so his drooping eye peered into hers. Its pupil dilated, expanding in hypnotic fashion, fixating and focusing on her smooth skin, undressing her of her dress's rich silk. His eye probed the curve of her neck, how every inch of Taryn spoke to her beauty. And she'd signed with him. His cock swelled on his inner leg, molding his pants to its twisted form.

He scooted closer on the leather seats, more aware of her floral perfume than ever. He waved at the waiter, and a couple minutes later two fresh drinks were delivered, this time without protest. Taryn looked away, twirling a lock of her hair around a finger. Looking anywhere but at the creep beside her. Their feet bumped, his in strappy shoes to support his club feet, hers in heels that bore the label of a Spanish designer.

An inch separated them in the booth when he coughed into his pocket square.

"You should've heard Redding last time when I added the $200,000. Or actually when you did."

She cringed. Stay the course. "You weren't exactly an angel."

"Well you're here, you signed. It couldn't have been that bad. What would you say if we discussed further incentives?"

Fuck, finally.

"I'm drunk and need to use the bathroom."

She stood, his eyes bulging as the swell of her ass flashed him before she smoothed her dress. Her heels clicked with every sauntering step in her golden dress.

He shoved his hand down his pants the second her blonde hair disappeared around the corner. He exhaled - being in the model's presence tightened his chest. Her perfume faded in her absence, and he breathed deeply. Almost gratefully. It took all his energy being around her.

"Holy fuck she's hot," he muttered, precum drooling down his clubbed hand. The leather seat squeaked as he leaned forward to wrap his fingers around his swollen girth. He grimaced. Just the idea of ramming his leaking cock in her perfect body shivered his spine. The milquetoast guys she's slept with are kicking themselves right now. All what, three of them? He froze when the waiter walked past with a smile. Probably some lame ass guys who busted the second she even looked at them.

Ernesto lay his free hand on the portfolio, tracing the cursive C of the Cattarossi logo which had been his father's signature.

~~~~~

She stood by the bathroom mirror and admired herself for a moment. She'd almost nixed the heels as she'd prepared in her hotel room for a more comfortable pair.

She shook her head, trying to repress all the filth she'd done. Her eyes rested on the tile floor, then on her feet. Her pretty feet that had descended into Lester's foul mouth, bathed in his spit, before bouncing over his shoulders with every frenzied union of their bodies. Jesus... I'm hopeless.

She turned her back to the mirror. The lush golden fabric adhered to her otherwise bare back and ass. Those butt workouts Amy sent me are really doing the trick. Her smile faded. Her last butt workout was of a different nature...

What would Amy think of her? Her best friend Taryn, the Ford Model girl who'd recently lost her anal virginity in a muddy puddle behind a trailer on her own doing. Even that sounded better than reality. She'd had a 61-year-old cock plunging in and out of her asshole like he belonged there. Like he expected to be there. She shuddered. That's what scares me.

Lester had been inside her where no one else had, been closer and more intimate with her true self than anyone. My true self. Who even is that?

No one in the restaurant suspected the flawless blonde of submitting to such depravity, giving herself to a muddy pig of a man, or had any idea why her ass still burned. But the posts have to keep coming... She forced a smile, her white teeth gleaming in the flash of her phone.

Several flashes later, she made her way out. She sat at the bar for a moment, waving down the bartender for two of the restaurant's coasters. They'd be perfect to go with her pictures. Her long legs hung from the barstool and within seconds, two vodka shots were in front of her, and a burly hand brushed against her waist. She slipped from his grasp, flicking her long hair over her bare shoulders.

Cattarossi's drooping eye ate up every inch of her delicious form as she sat and smoothed down the front of her dress. Even in a lifetime of being around stunning women, he could hardly believe she was sitting with him, her brilliant lashes blinking at him.

She forced a smile and swigged her newest drink, a rum and coke. "Where were we? I think you were talking about incentives." Her jaw flexed as warmth trailed down her throat. Get this over with... for Redding.

He took a quick breath. Heat flushed to his face just looking at the teen.

"Er - yes. I have a couple in mind."

She crossed her silken legs, exposing more of her thigh. Taryn was in control, as she was used to.

"$10,000 for your panties."

What a pig. Of course he'd ask for something dirty. She downed a shot to cover a scowl. The liquid burned this time, but still it was the only tonic and excuse that could explain what she was about to do.

"I thought you'd go back to that idea," she said, throwing back a third shot. "I'm sure you didn't make these offers when your dad was around." The ceiling lights blurred in her vision when she threw her head back for the shot. The two quick shots eased her deeper into the booth, her leg finally brushing his.

"It'll take a lot more than that," she said. "You've seen this pair before." God, this is disgusting. Get it over with. Goosebumps rose on her bare shoulders at the thought of his hideous paws on her underwear.

"What do you mean--" His hand in his pocket clutched the picture Redding had given him. The picture!

The onrushing booze loosened her crimson lips. She whispered in his ear, trying to ignore the grey hair overflowing out of them. She cooed each syllable in breathy seduction.

"How badly... do you want them?" She inched her thighs open. "How badly... do you want what every guy in here is dying to have?"

His mind froze. Her perfume washed over him in its clean and fresh way, coaxing him, urging the growing gristle in his pants.

"How badly... do you want my panties in your pocket instead of that picture? The real thing..."

He gulped. She cringed and pulled his club hand from his pocket, the smeared picture of her clad in sheer purple underwear slipping onto the seat between them. It lay there. Only his raspy breathing broke the silence.

His eye looked at the picture, how the panties just covered her. A thrill jumped up his spine. Only he knew what was under her dress...

His lips quivered. "$20,000."

She eased her legs back together. The sweat beaded on his brow as she grabbed her purse. God, she looked phenomenal... No, she can't just leave like that. The picture of her remained between them, between her exquisite thighs and his girthy tent in his pants. The number spilled from his lips.

"$150,000."

Her breath tickled his neck. "Double it or they'll end up in the bartender's pocket..."

Her nails drummed on the table. His cock pulsed upward in unrelenting jerks.

"...Not yours..."

The hunchback nodded. Taryn scanned around the table and quickly hooked her thumbs under the sides of her panties. With a quick pull, they slid down her legs under the table, dangling on her Manolo Blahnik heels.