Pleasure Island (3 page)

M
iami was hot
. Smokin' hot, in fact. At least it was when Billie-Jo Simmons was in residence. As far as she was concerned she turned the heat up to a hundred degrees wherever she went.

‘What's the face for?' she addressed her husband accusingly as she clicked-clacked across the marbled floor towards him on the balcony of their penthouse suite, straddling him with her long, tanned legs, the Asian-inspired, raffia sunlounger creaking in objection with their dual weight.

Nate peered at her from underneath his Ray-Bans, his heart dropping like a brick in a pond. She had disturbed what had been a rare peaceful moment of solitary reflection.

‘The face?' he replied, with a forced smile. He didn't want to set her off. Not this early. ‘Sorry, Bee, it's the only one I got.'

Billie-Jo sniffed loudly, the remnants of her nostrils audibly making their way down her oesophagus. Depressingly, her coke habit was squaring up to rival her shopping one; and her desire for fame and attention weren't too tardy up the rear either.

‘I haven't got long.' She bit her lip, running her small, manicured hands up her husband's tanned, toned chest, her long, pointed fingernails leaving imprints on his oily skin. ‘That photographer is bang on my case – minute I slip off for a marlie light he's right up my arse.'

Billie-Jo had spent the morning shooting her first-ever swimwear calendar on Miami Beach, and was buzzing from all the excitement and attention, not to mention the Grade-A powder the kooky stylist chick had supplied.

‘Mmm, I'll bet he is.' Nate raised an amused eyebrow as he squeezed his wife's firm buttocks with both hands, but there were no pangs of jealousy. He only wished there were.

Billie-Jo: gold-digger; fame-hunter; wannabe model; coke-head.
His wife
. Whatever she was, Nate couldn't deny that she was a sight for sore eyes; he only had to look at her sometimes and he was hard. If only the inside matched the outside then he'd be onto a winner. He glanced past her at the spacious, private balcony of the Delano South Beach penthouse suite and surveyed the oasis of calm before him. The view was unparalleled: the sun-dappled ocean stretched out before him like Persian blue carpet, still and tranquil. He felt a sense of discomfort as she mounted him without emotion or affection, mesmerised by the rays dancing upon it like scatter crystal decorations, the silence he had been enjoying shattered by her amplified vocals.

‘You're such a prude,' she mocked him, sensing his discomfort. ‘Who cares if anyone hears us?' She tossed her hair back from her neck, the idea obviously turning her on. ‘Perhaps the paparazzi are spying on us!'

Nate could think of nothing worse but his fixed smile remained as his wife continued to bounce on top of him. It's what was required of him and he knew it. Keeping Billie-Jo happy was a full-time career in itself. Still, he only had himself to blame for that one. Nate had assumed that the night they had met at Nikki Beach in Marbella some five years previously, sampling Billie-Jo's charms – and admittedly there were plenty – would simply be a one-time occurrence – a hi-and-goodbye fuck – something he had made a depressing habit of since his premiership-footballing days. But he had quickly learned that Billie-Jo had had bigger plans for the pair of them...colossal, in fact.

Billie-Jo King, or Bee as he called her, was from humble beginnings, though she would rather be seen without make-up than ever confess as much. She had completely re-written her history to suit the persona she had created and make herself sound more interesting, when in truth her provenance made his own look like he'd been brought up in Buckingham fucking Palace. Despite growing up on a rough sink estate without educational or fiscal advantage, the ambitious Billie-Jo had soon discovered how to use her best assets to her advantage. Nate supposed he admired her for it in a small way; after all, he understood what it was to drag yourself from the gutter, a place that was far easier to fall into than it was to pull yourself from. He knew she was damaged; he was sucker for that, wanting to fill up the spaces she lacked. Yet still he wasn't sure exactly how he'd ended up marrying a girl like Billie-Jo. She had a knack of making everything feel like a good idea at the time, and could be persuasive to the point of manipulative while simultaneously making you believe it was all your own idea. The girl had skills.

Nate supposed he had been flattered by her relentless pursuit of him in the beginning Her attentiveness had been intoxicating; what man's ego could resist? She certainly wasn't lacking in charm either, especially when she wanted something, i.e. him. As an unrepentant hedonist, Billie-Jo had brought out the less serious side of his naturally sedate nature, something he was grateful for he supposed, and she could be loving, even sweet when the mood took her. Yet Billie-Jo was the proverbial paradox – sunshine and showers – and as a result you were never quite sure whether you were going to get soaked or sunburned.

‘So, do you think you could marry me, Nate Simmons?' she had probed one night, following one of their marathon sex sessions.

‘Keep doing what you're doing, and I'll marry you tomorrow,' he'd said, high on post-coital endorphins. Billie-Jo, however, had taken this brief discussion just three months into their relationship as a solid declaration of intent. The pressure she had subsequently gone on to methodically apply had been, in hindsight, subtle but solid, especially once she had begun to inform family and friends of her suspicions that he was about to propose to her. What was he supposed to do? As pathetic as Nate now felt about it, he realised he'd been backed into a corner, obligated, his conscience unable to let him speak up. And so he supposed he'd just gone along with it, telling himself that perhaps they would've ended up marrying at some point anyway, and that he could do a hell of a lot worse. This way at least he could make her happy, even if he wasn't one hundred per cent happy himself. As it was, though, somewhere deep inside of him he knew that Billie-Jo King was not great marriage material and that it was a mistake to tie himself to her for better or worse, the latter of which he suspected would usurp the former. But what Billie-Jo wanted she inevitably got. She was nothing if not single-mindedly ambitious.

‘Have you thought any more about the invitation, sweetie?' Billie-Jo grinned down at him, forcing him to squint up at her in the unforgiving Miami sun. Martin McKenzie's invitation to this luxury island had been playing on her mind incessantly to the point of obsession ever since it had arrived, not least because of Nate's outright rejection of it.

‘I don't like that unscrupulous fucker,' he'd said, and had discarded the gold-leaf embossed envelope in the bin where she had promptly retrieved it, horrified. ‘There's something dodgy about him. He gives me the willies.'

Yeah, well, McKenzie could give
her
the willies any day of the week.
Martin fucking McKenzie
,
no less – the don of the celebrity world, a multi-multi-billionaire business man who made careers at the click of his manicured fingers – had invited them as guests on his private island and that lamp she was married to was dismissing it! Was he off his fucking cake? This was a dude who took nobodies off the streets and turned them into serious A-listers overnight. He made millionaires like other people made a mess. But Billie-Jo understood her husband well enough to know that an argument was unwise at that point. Nate could be a stubborn, bloody-minded little fucker when he dug his heels in, but she would get her way eventually.
Hells, would she
. The fact that McKenzie had chosen them,
them
, as guests on this new paradise island of his gave her an even bigger buzz than a mountain of that shit she stuck up her hooter like Columbia had gone out of business.

Her husband may well have been content to retreat into obscurity since the accident that had cut his glittering career short but she sure as shit wasn't.
Nut-ah
! The Golden Bolt, as Nate was referred to in the press, was her Golden Goose and she wasn't about to let him rest on his laurels any longer than necessary.

Recently she'd won a small victory by managing to cajole him into starring in a reality TV show called ‘Couples', a truly dire concept that had sat somewhere between
Take Me Out
and
Wife Swap,
highlighting the very best of neither. The whole experience had been nothing but a humiliating nightmare for Nate, one which he'd sooner forget, but Billie-Jo was convinced that as a result McKenzie had spotted her star potential and was about to make her his next protégée.

As such there was not a chance on God's green earth that she was going to let such an opportunity slip past her nail extensions. Still, she wasn't unduly concerned yet. She could be very persuasive when the stakes were this high. By the time she'd worked her magic on her husband he'd promise her a sex change if she asked for one.

‘Jesus, Bee,' Nate moaned as she slid off of him and worked her way down his taught belly with her tongue, saliva trails glistening on his skin.

Billie-Jo could tell her husband was getting close and calculatingly climbed back on top of him. Perhaps it was time she got herself up the stick anyway, and secure her future just in case he royally fucked it all up for them both with his recent reclusive leanings. Besides, a kid had the potential to bring in all manner of opportunities: magazine spreads; product endorsements; maybe even her own little range of baby accessories. She could always have lipo afterwards, and follow it up with a fitness video. Then she'd hire an ugly nanny to take care of the sprog while she concentrated on her career. Job done and quids in. She had it all figured out.

Nate could feel his mechanical orgasm rushing to the surface and did nothing to will it back. It was best to let his wife do what she wanted, get it over with.

‘
Bay-beeee
, I really want us to go to Pleasure Island … to McKenzie's place. Please say that you'll think about it some more …
please
…' she begged between mouthfuls of him, running her hands through her hair as she arched her back. The camera crew could be heard re-grouping on the beach below them now and the exhibitionist within her hoped they might catch a glimpse of them, give them all something to think about while they were screwing their ugly wives and girlfriends when they got home.

‘C'mon baby … this is
Martin McKenzie
we're talking about. That man makes Elton John look like he shops at Primark. Say yes, baby … for me,
pleeease
…'

Nate willed her to shut up. She was totally killing his hard-on.

‘And think about the press interest … it'll be good for me … it'll be good for
us
.'

Nate closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on the task at hand. She was right about one thing, though: McKenzie was known as an unparalleled host who was a big fan of the very grand gesture.

But there was something about the whole thing that had given him a nagging sense of unease from the off. Why them, for starters? These days he was practically a nobody: an aging, former pro-footballer, injured out of the game; and Bee was little more than a fame-hungry, glamour model who would go to the opening of a packet of crisps if there was a photographer present. Besides, he was hardly on good terms with the press, and he wanted to avoid dealing with those bastards at any cost, especially in light of recent events.

Thanks to them, six weeks ago Nate had discovered very publically – very painfully – that he'd been adopted. Those bastards hadn't even afforded him the usual twenty-four hour notification period, which was protocol in such sensational stories. Instead it had been splashed across the headlines without warning, causing his phone to buzz like a porn star's dildo until he'd been forced to buy a copy of the filthy rag and discover the truth, or lack thereof, for himself.

Those unscrupulous fuckers didn't care how it decimated his whole life – how he had learned so brutally that the man he had called ‘Dad' his entire life until his death the previous year was not his true blood. And his ‘mother' – a woman who had died when he was just two years old and had no recollection of – was nothing more than a virtual stranger.

The shock of it alone had sent him spiralling into a black abyss of depression that so far no amount of expensive therapy had been able to drag him from.

And Billie-Jo? Well, she seemed tickled pink. Viewed the whole feeding frenzy as nothing less than a photo opportunity, a chance to promote herself off the back of his misfortune, impervious to his shattered emotions.

Nate had always been suspicious of the press; even at the pinnacle of his career he had somehow felt they were out to get him, waiting for him to screw up. They had practically destroyed him following the accident, almost relished the fact that it had put paid to his glittering career.

Now, however, he loathed them with an intensity that was not entirely healthy, or so his therapist seemed to think. Easy for her to say, Nate had thought bitterly; she wasn't the one who had discovered her entire life had been a lie, leaving him with a catalogue of unanswered questions, the most critical being,
who the fuck am I
?

Billie-Jo had planted herself on top of him again and her ecstatic caterwauling was reaching a crescendo. He could never be sure she wasn't faking it for the invisible cameras she seemed to believe were following her every move.

‘Ohh,
bay-beee
, yes … fuck me baby … ah, ah, yesss, that's it, yeah, ooh, yeah, you bad boy!' She looked down at him and his blue eyes met with her dark, heavily made-up pair. ‘Say yes, baby … say we can go to Pleasure Island … oh, please, baby … please say yes … ah, ahh, oooh yeah …'

Nate inwardly cringed at his wife's theatrics. Sex with Billie-Jo was akin to starring in a third-rate skin flick that no one wanted to watch. It was all so … contrived, the opposite of intimate.