Billie Jean


The next morning I woke up and unwrapped Mary Beth's arms from me. I showered and stumbled into my Mustang. Fortunately it was a Saturday, so it really didn't matter that it was nearly 10 a.m. when I got on the road. I noticed a few people staring at me as I went into my favorite Dunkin Donuts for coffee. I was sure it was the car. How did Michael Keaton say it in that Batman movie? "Chicks dig the car."

As I pulled into the parking lot behind our building, there was a group of reporters gathered. I figured that one of our advertising clients was making their shoes with slave labor in some third world country again. Or someone we represented has destroyed some tree in the rain forest. While I'm sure they were tragic, they were neither my job nor my concern.

I was working on landing a huge new client. They owned several hundred hotels all over Europe. Their advertising budget alone was worth over 10 million dollars a year. If I could land them, I'd already be one of the top five in terms of sales for next year already.

I'd been doing conference calls and video conferencing with them for the past few days. They were open to my advances but their responses were lukewarm at best. I was avoiding the inevitable trip to Europe to meet with them until I could arrange to take Mary Beth with me.

As I stepped into my office, things got weird. Normally the office would be deserted on a Saturday. But the few people that were there would greet me. I guess I expected some type of congratulations for the award I won last night. There was nothing. I did notice a few people staring at me and talking, but not much else.

My longtime secretary Myra grabbed me by my arm and yanked me into the office. "What the he'll were you thinking?" she asked.

"Well, I was thinking that I'd have coffee and call our new French client to see how the deal is going," I replied.

Myra looked at me as if I'd arrived at work on a short yellow bus instead of a $70,000 Mustang.

"Not that, you idiot," she said. "I may not like your wife much. She seems too uptight for you. It's like she has a stick permanently up her ass. But you married her. How could you cheat on her?"

"Myra what the hell have you been smoking?" I asked her.

"Didn't you read the paper this morning?" she asked. "What about this Billie Jean thing?" She looked at me closely. It was as if she expected me to confess to some terrible crime. But I was as cool as a cucumber. I just shrugged my shoulders.

"Blake, aren't you going to say something? It's not every day that your lover comes out of the woodwork and..." I had to stop her before she got too wound up with this, so I interrupted her.

"Billie Jean is not my lover," I told her. "To tell you the truth, last night was the first time I ever saw her."

Myra was still looking at me, intensely. Finally she nodded her head.

"I believe you," she said. "I've known you long enough to be able to look into your purple peepers and tell when you're being truthful." I laughed a bit. Because of a weird genetic melding in my family's gene pool, some of the kids were born with red eyes. My uncle Stanley had them. He wore brown colored contacts to disguise them. The trait was supposedly dominant. But my mother's side of the family all had very deep brown eyes. When you matched her with my father it got messy. I guess I should have been born with red eyes but when you mixed my mom's brown with the red I'd been born with very striking purple eyes. From a distance they looked brownish. But anyone who got close to me could see their purple shade.

My purple eyes were one of the reasons that I'd been so successful with women throughout my life. I really like to think that the fact that I'm a nice guy didn't hurt either.

Myra held up a copy of the morning paper. The headline read, "Blake's in trouble!" The article went on to give the usual background crap I'd become used to. I was described alternately as both an advertising genius and a ruthless business man. It talked about the award last night, some of the highlights of my career and all of my failures and setbacks. Then it talked about last night's fiasco.

A second article had the banner headline, "Who is Billie Jean?" I didn't read more than the first two lines of that one before I discovered that Billie Jean was talking to everyone she could. She was scheduled to appear on television, radio and many more magazine and newspaper articles. Apparently my nightmare was just beginning.

I called my lawyer, Montgomery Burns. He was a ruthless old bastard. I wanted him to jump on this whole Billie Jean thing and find out what she wanted and what it would take to get rid of her. Barring that I wanted him to start the proceedings to sue her for Libel.

I called home to see if my blushing bride was awake yet. She eerily answered the phone and yelled for our maid to bring her some "fucking," coffee.

"Mary Beth, you probably won't want to read the papers this morning," I warned her. "They're all full of the Billie Jean shit."

"Oh my God, you're kidding," she laughed. "It must be a really slow news day. Why else would they be interested in some woman you slept with back in college?"

"Mary Beth, would you please listen to me," I said seriously. "I don't remember that woman. I don't remember having sex with her period. I don't even remember talking to her or seeing her."

"You were probably bombed out of your mind," she said.

"I don't think I've ever been so drunk that I couldn't remember having sex with someone," I said seriously. Mary Beth in the way that people who have been together for a long time can, sensed that my mood had shifted.

"Blake, don't worry about this. It's nothing. I believe you. I'm on your side no matter what. For better and for worse, remember? I love you, stupid," she started making little kissing noises over the phone. I started laughing and felt better instantly. Naturally she wasn't done sticking it to me though. "Blake did you notice the way every guy in the place couldn't take their eyes off of that Heifer's Tata's though? I think I'm going to have to insist on breast implants for my birthday. I think I'll move up to like a quadruple Z cup," she laughed.

"Oh yeah, I can see it now," I laughed. "We'll have to get you a wheelbarrow to carry them around in."

"And I'll terrify our kids when they breast feed," she said.

"What kids?" I asked. "How are we going to have any kids?"

"We can have kids any time we want," she said. "I come from damn good breeding stock. All I have to do is stop taking my pill and I'll start spitting out little Alexander's like there's no limit."

"I don't see it," I said.

"Why not?" she smirked. I could already imagine her at home on our huge bed completely naked with her head tilted to the side. It was the way she always reacted when someone told her she couldn't do something.

"Well," I said, with mock seriousness. "In order for us to procreate...You do understand the term procreation don't you? I'm not being too technical here am I."

"I know what procreation is, you idiot," she said.

"Well, in order for us to procreate, I'd have to shoot my stuff into your Hoo hah," I said. Mary Beth erupted with laughter.

"I thought this was a serious technical talk," she said. "You and I have more sex than anyone I know. And you can shoot your stuff anywhere you want, but your stuff is my stuff. No one else gets a fucking drop of it. Especially not Billie Jean." she was still laughing as she hung up the phone.

For the rest of the weekend, Mary Beth and I just relaxed and enjoyed each other. We took the boat out on Sunday morning and just lazily sailed around the bay. We stopped off at several secluded coves and did what came natural. We even moored just off of an island where we could make out picnickers with our naked eyes. We took off all of our clothes and had sex right in front of them to act out one of Mary Beth's fantasies about having sex in front of other people. The people on the beach did start pointing at our boat, though.

It was lucky that we did it then because if we'd waited a couple of days, there'd have been reporters all over us.

While Mary Beth and I were relaxing Billie Jean had been telling her story. Monday morning it was all over the papers again. As much as I hoped it would die down and go away, the story seemed to have legs.

When I went into the office Monday morning I was told to appear at a special meeting of the board of directors. This was what I'd been waiting for. I assumed that they were going to offer me a partnership as a reward for all of my bard work.

When I walked into the meeting, it was the same as it always was. A group of old men, who had all, at one time or another been in my shoes.

Each and every one of them had been the company hotshot at some point. Each generation's hotshot had to rewrite the record books until they were so important to the company that they had to be offered a part of it.

First I was asked about the new account I was working on. I told them that we hadn't actually landed it yet, but things looked promising.

Then the moment I dreamed of came. I knew that once the discussion of money was over we'd move to discuss me personally.

"On a more personal note," said Arthur Harris. I was trying very hard not to smile. I needed to remain professional and in control. I couldn't let them see how much this would mean to me to become a partner before turning forty. I'd also become the first to make partner before turning thirty.

"What are we to make of this Billie Jean situation," continued Harris. I sucked in a breath, and remained silent for a few ticks.

"This adverse publicity could possibly affect our bottom line if allowed to run unchecked," he said.

"I guarantee you that it is being handled as we speak," I said flatly. I kept my voice as free of emotion as I was able to manage. Inside I was seething. I was beyond pissed but I managed to hold onto my cool.

I returned to my office and sat down behind my spacious desk. What I'd thought was an annoyance was becoming a true problem. It was obvious that Billie Jean would need to be dealt with. The problem was that I didn't know what she wanted or what it would take to get rid of her. I was smart enough to realize that I needed to handle it all through my attorney. Any direct contact between the two of us would simply lend credence to her claims.

Myra burst into the office unannounced and looked at me. "How did Mary Beth take the latest news?" she asked.

"What latest news?" I asked back. I was so pissed that I could care less. The thing that had me the most upset was the fact that this whole Billie Jean thing might allow those old bastards to delay me getting my partnership for a while longer.

"Billie Jean claims that your affair with her was four years ago," said Myra, looking at me suspiciously.

"That's pure bullshit," I yelled. "I was out of college and already married to Mary Beth by then."

My outburst caused several heads in the outer office to turn and look towards us. My office had floor to ceiling glass walls. The glass was thick and we couldn't be heard out there but they could certainly see in, and the way I had jumped up and started yelling had attracted some attention.

The ringing of the phone on my desk snapped both Myra and me out of the impromptu staring contest we were in.

"Blake Alexander's Office," said Myra crisply into the phone. "He's right here Mr. Burns." she handed me the phone. "Hey, boss I'm on your side. I believe you. Don't shoot the messenger," she whispered as she walked out of the office.

"What took you so God damned long to get back to me," I asked.

"I do occasionally take a vacation," laughed Monty Burns. "Besides, what were my final instructions to you last week before I left?"

"Ha ha fucking ha," I said, remembering that he'd told me not into get into any trouble while he was gone.

"Alright so far, all I've had time to do is put a couple of investigators on her. I may cut it down to one though to save some money," he said.

"Since I'm paying for it don't spare any fucking money," I snapped. "Put as many men as you need on the job, I'm not exactly broke."

"I'm not trying to save you any money," he snapped right back. "It's just that I've tried out a new agency, Arturo Rios Investigations. The girl, Sarah Price, that they put on the case is really good. She got back to me in a matter of minutes with more information than my regular guy was able to come up with over 24 hours. I'm thinking of sending her and her husband to Florida to do more research."

"Why are we sending people to fucking Florida? And why does her husband need to go with her?" I asked.

"Well, her husband is actually not an investigator but he helps out on some of her cases now and then. But since they just got married she won't go anywhere without him. Arturo warned me about that when he gave me her results. They also may not take the case. According to Arturo, Sarah is the best PI he's ever seen, but she's picky about the cases she takes. Arturo said that once she met her husband Chris, there are just some things and some types of cases she simply won't take. They make enough money from her husband's job as an engineer or auto marketing guy to live comfortably so they do the investigations things on a pick and choose basis," he said.

"Okay your super spy girl has weird quirks," I said. "Why do they need to go to Florida?"

"Because Billie Jean lives in Florida," he said. "If we're going to find out anything about her, that's where we need to have boots on the ground. There's some really funny shit going on here. Like Sarah found out that Billie Jean has no fucking money. The bitch has like twelve dollars in her checking account and no savings account. So how the fuck did she manage to fly all the way to California and get dolled up like she did for your party? Obviously she has help and there's something going on. If we want to find out the who's and the what's we need people in Florida."

"Okay send them already," I said.

"We can't," he said. "I already told you, she's picky about the cases she takes. She wants to meet you first."

An hour later I was headed out of town to a quiet little restaurant just outside of L.A. There was very little traffic and I was listening to the Eagles' One of these Nights CD as I drove. By now you've probably realized a lot about my personality so you know what I did when a car flew by me. His fucking exhaust system was as loud as mine and the exhaust note was so sweet, that I couldn't believe it.

As I looked up to see what it was, I wasn't shocked. It was another Mustang. It was a GT but the car was nowhere near stock. Whoever the guy was he was making tracks. Nobody went past me, Mustang or not, so I shifted up a gear and put the pedal on the floor. My Shelby woke up and as the supercharger started to whine I was narrowing the gap. There were curves up ahead and I was sure that my car's handling package would allow me to easily over take him.

Unfortunately, the bastard hugged the corners like his car was on rails. That car was definitely not stock. As we came out of the last corner, I quickly shifted and stomped the pedal. Five hundred and fifty horses quickly nosed their way towards the front. I pulled ahead of him. But it was very gradual. He was smiling from ear to ear and gave me the thumbs up sign as I passed. I really wish I had friends like that guy. He was a class act. And obviously we shared a liking for the pony cars.

I slowly pulled away from him but I wasn't leaving him in the dust like I expected to. Just so you know it, this experience was why I bought the newer Shelby GT 500 KR, this year. The GT 500 that I was driving last year only had five hundred and fifty horses. The new KRs put out almost eight hundred horsepower.

Before too long and luckily before any cops saw me it was time for me to leave the freeway. I checked my GPS and saw that the restaurant I was going to was only a couple of blocks away from the freeway exit.

I pulled into the parking lot and was under whelmed. This wasn't the type of place I was used to. It was a small out of the way Mexican place, very understated and very authentic in its decor.

I walked in and noticed that there was no hostess by the door. A fat woman in a greasy apron waved at me from behind the bar and told me to sit wherever I liked. There were a few seedy looking characters scattered around so I decided to sit at a table near the window along the side of the restaurant where I could watch my car.

After I'd been sitting there for a few minutes a couple came in. She looked around and examined everyone in the restaurant before her eyes settled on me. She also never let go of his hand. She was tall for a woman with a lot of honey blond hair. She was fit and trim with larger than average breasts that told me from the way they moved under her light sweater that they were real. Her well rounded yet trim ass perched on top of long thin legs. She was a hell of a package.

The best part was her face. If she'd put any time at all into make-up or styling she'd be beautiful. Hell she already was beautiful but she didn't have so much as lipstick on and in California, raw bare naked beauty just didn't stand a chance. Out here even the maids and the waitresses wore more facial enhancement than this woman did.

The man with her was tall and well built. He was muscular without being hulking. He also moved like nothing I'd ever seen before. Maybe it was some kind of martial arts training or something. His disposition and the open and easy way that he smiled, worried me. He looked like he was lost. He was just too fucking friendly. The wolves out here would tear him apart. He could probably handle himself in a fight, but the con men would eat him for lunch without ever lifting a finger.

She was obviously the brains here. He wasn't an idiot or anything, he was probably very book smart, but she had the street smarts. At any rate you could tell by the way they fiercely held each other's hands that they were a team. There was also something very familiar about him. Maybe he was an actor or something that I had worked with.

Surprisingly enough she looked at me and then led them over to my table. "Mr. Alexander?" she asked as she stood in front of me.

"Hey," he said. "We Roy Orbisoned you on the way here, didn't we?"

"You what?" I asked smiling. "His easy going disposition was infectious. I liked the guy already.

"Roy Orbison, we blew by you," he said excitedly. "I knew I couldn't beat your Shelby. You've got a supercharger and my car has no power adders. It's naturally aspirated so that gave you a big advantage. I just wanted to see how long it would take for you to crush us."

"There's no way your car is stock," I said shocked. If it was I'd spent way too fucking much money, for way too little bump in performance.

"It's been tweaked," he smiled at me nodding.

"Mr. Alexander, we haven't much time and I've several questions for you," she said pulling me back to earth. "May we sit down?"

"Of course, please do," I said. I called the fat woman over and got a Corona for myself. I asked Sarah what she'd like and got her a glass of white wine. Her husband looked over the drink menu and eyed my beer.

"I don't often drink beer," he started, bringing a smile to my lips.

"But when I do, "I said joining him. "I drin..."

"Bring him a Pepsi, he's driving," snapped Sarah, killing our fun.

"Hey that was one of my best advertising campaigns," I said.

"Mr. Alexander, let's get to it," said Sarah all business. "What's the truth about this thing with this woman Billie Jean?"

"The truth is too the best of my memory, I've never met her before I saw her the other night at my party. I don't know what she wants or why she wants it from me. I've never cheated on my wife once, since we got married. I was wild before I met Mary Beth but once we got together I've been faithful ever since," I said. The whole time that I was talking Sarah Price was looking into my eyes.

Report Story

byStangStar06© 213 comments/ 233390 views/ 202 favorites

Share the love

Report a Bug

12 Pages:1234

Forgot your password?

Please wait

Change picture

Your current user avatar, all sizes:

Default size User Picture  Medium size User Picture  Small size User Picture  Tiny size User Picture

You have a new user avatar waiting for moderation.

Select new user avatar: