According to the dossier Fang created, Broussard was born in New Orleans to a lower middle-class family. Through his savvy business dealings, he rose through the ranks of society until he reached the upper echelons. But I’ve encountered men like him before. The specter of their past is always lurking over their shoulders. I’m counting on that to help me make this deal.
“How much money do you need to move? I’m assuming it will only be the excess that you can’t handle within your businesses.”
“Correct. It’s still seven figures.”
“Low or high?”
The stage lights dim dramatically. The first notes of a song drift from behind the velvet curtain. The singer’s voice, a seductive, velvety contralto, weaves through the air.
“You had plenty money in 1922…”
“Let’s call it mid…dle…” My voice fails me as the singer steps onto the stage.“Holy shit.”
The sultry singer poses in the center of the stage, bathed in a soft spotlight. She exudes an aura of timeless elegance and allure, dressed in an iconic, glittering red gown reminiscent of Jessica Rabbit from the movie Who Framed Roger Rabbit. The dress is form-fitting with a deep, plunging neckline and a high slit that reveals her leg, adding to her captivating presence.
Her hair is styled in long, wavy, coppery red locks that cascade over her shoulders. Her makeup includes classic red lipstick and smoky eyes, accentuating her striking features.
She holds a vintage microphone with one hand, her fingers adorned with delicate rings that catch the light. Her other hand rests gently on the microphone stand, her polished nails glinting.
Behind her, a jazz band plays softly, the saxophone’s mellow notes intertwining with the smooth rhythms of the double bass and the gentle brush of the snare drum.
“My fiancée,” Broussard says, puffing his chest.
“You let other women make a fool of you…” She practically moans the words, sending blood rushing straight to my dick.
I’m struck speechless, which is something that never happens to me.
“Why don’t you do right… like some other men do…” She draws out the last note until I’m so hard I’m afraid I’ll bust through my zipper.
“I think we can do business together,” Broussard says.
“Great,” I murmur, my gaze still firmly fixed on his woman. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know I should look away, but I can’t. I’m literally mesmerized.
“Get out of here…” Her eyes meet mine. Blood throbs through the artery in my neck.“Give me some money… too…”
“Would you like to meet her?” he asks.
“Sure,” my voice cracks. I clear my throat.“Yeah.”
Broussard signals for her to come over. She’s still singing. Other than her voice, it’s so silent in the club I swear I can hear the ubiquitous NOLA cockroaches skittering across the floor in the kitchen.
“She’s going to make a great wife,” Broussard says, as if he’s simply adding her to his collection of possessions.
“You’re a lucky man,” I say, trying to get control of myself. I pride myself on never showing emotion during negotiations, but this woman. Those legs. Jesus, the way she moves should be illegal.
Her performance is mesmerizing, each note dripping with emotion and sensuality, painting a vivid picture of love and longing. I wonder what she yearns for and what she sees in Broussard. It’s obvious why he wants her, but what’s his appeal. Money?
She whispers the last note of the song, letting it linger long enough to send shivers down the spine of every man in the room. Or maybe it’s just mine. Somehow, I doubt that.
As she saunters toward us, her voluptuous breasts sway, straining against the dress. I’d give my left nut to peel it off her and bend her over the nearest table.
“Blue, darling, I’d like to you to meet Mr. Vapor. He’s the president of a local motorcycle club.”
“How do you do?” she asks in a soft, melodic tone.
“Pleasure’s mine.”
“Beautiful name for a beautiful woman. Sit,” Broussard commands, patting the seat beside him. My hackles raise at his tone. She’s not a fucking dog, but he’s talking to her like she’s one.
