Dane (A Foster Family Saga #1) Read online

  Dane, Book 1

  A Foster Family Saga

  Avery Phillips

  Copyright © 2015 Avery Phillips

  All rights reserved.

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  This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, actual events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters and names are products of the authors imagination and used fictitiously.

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  Damaged

  Picture this: I’m on a balcony of a mansion along a parade route in New Orleans, screaming at the top of my lungs with a handful of glass beads and a bottle of champagne. The cork blasts from the bottle and a cascade of beige bubbles spews into the air and spills into the crowd. I look down and there is a mass of people filling the streets.

  Breasts out of bras, chicks yelling, “Throw me sum’n, mista!” in that sexy Southern drawl. I got beads falling out of my hands and a bitch on my back, biting my neck, leaving a festive red smudge of lipstick. I’m wasted, shitfaced, pushing toward good for nothing. There’s a couple fucking right there out in the open next to me, and the sky above is a blank voyeur. This is my damaged life.

  I take the back-climber inside, where the atmosphere is pandemonium. There’s booze, drugs, a crowd of party guests upward of a thousand. I’m yelling expletives and kicking couples out of the bed; I throw the blonde stranger on the mattress where she rolls with laughter. I’m laughing, too, and unbuckling my pants; she’s kicking off her panties—I can’t believe women still wear panties.

  She finally gets ass naked. I kneel between her deliciously parted legs and I lean in to ram my cock home. Her pussy is tighter than handcuffs. I know, because I wore some just after getting arrested the other night. Thank God for knowing somebody that knows somebody with power. I was booked and out with nothing on my record before the sun shone the next, wanting to join.

  She’s wearing nothing but Mardi Gras beads and a thong, and for some reason she’s blowing up a balloon. Fuck it, who cares. She climbs atop the woman I’m fucking and kisses me deep with her tongue. There’s a balloon bobbing about in my face, and me and the new one are making eye contact. I mean, we’re really sharing a moment, me and this Mardi Gras queen. A smile is on her face, and of course I grin.

  The blonde’s probably thinking I’m amazing. That I fuck like a porn star and look like a million bucks, suited in something that could pay her mortgage three times over, with a body like I live in the gym and a movie-star face to boot. I know how to party, and I can show her the world. So what if I’m fucking her before I know her name. It’s New Orleans, the city of lights and sin. I’m just doing my part.

  My cock expands in the grip of strange pussy. It feels so good. I’m about to lose my shit with a mouthful of Mardi Gras queen’s pink nipple. I’m yanking out my cock cause I’m about to blow, when the girl with the Mardi Gras beads hops up and kneels beneath my dick.

  My jizz explodes from the head of my quivering cock, as my balls are milked by someone’s eager, stroking hands. The blonde grabs my cock and drops to her knees. Her bouncy breasts are wiggling, and the light hits her hair like a halo. She opens her sultry lips, swallows my still-hard dick to the hilt, pulls back, quirks a brow, and says, “Thanks for making a deposit.” I couldn’t believe the experience.

  CHAPTER 1

  I woke up in the Ritz-Carlton, New Orleans, next to an exotic woman with an amber complexion and a wavy-haired brunette sprawled across the king-sized bed. The room smelled like booze, pussy, and cheap perfume. I stumbled out of the snowy tangle of Egyptian cotton sheets on a zigzag traipse across a wasteland of tumbled furniture and empty liquor bottles to a marble-tiled bathroom.

  I was wondering who the fuck were the bitches in the bed, and what the hell happened last night, as I rested my hands on the cobalt bathroom countertop and splashed water on my face. “What have you been up to, Dane?” I asked my red-eyed reflection. Humming a catchy tune to myself, I assessed the damage. I still had all my teeth, all my black, wavy hair, no broken bones. My cock still stood up, in good working condition. Colorful Mardi Gras beads hung from my neck, and I held them up to my bleary-eyed gaze.

  Oh yeah, I remembered. An old friend had invited me to the South for a night of debauchery and excess. Now it was back to business. I stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in a plush bath sheet. The first thing I had to do was clear the room.

  “Ladies, ladies, ladies.” I clapped loudly to wake them. Two startled faces popped from the covers. I threw open the opaque blinds and watched them cringe away from the light like the cum-sucking night creatures they were.

  A tangled-up yellow silk dress on the back of a chair and a lone high heel in the window ledge were collected and dumped unceremoniously on the bed with them. “Get your things,” I ordered. There was a purse I found under the loveseat. When I picked it up, several vials of white powder fell out and rolled across the floor. I made a tsking sound through my teeth and deposited the drugs back in the bag. I shoved it at one of them. “It’s time,” I said with a not-so-patient smile.

  “Time for what?” the golden beauty asked. I held up a silencing hand while I placed my smart phone to my ear and spoke quietly into the receiver. Within minutes, there was a discreet knock at the door.

  “Time for you to leave,” I informed the clueless pair. “Party’s over.” I let in Rodger, the newly hired head of my personal security, and a barrage of his guys followed. The women were hurriedly escorted out, leaving me to the privacy of getting ready for the morning. While I did, the security personnel swept the suite for anything of legal embarrassment, like more drugs, and they had already checked their phones—I couldn't have a salacious video finding its way to TMZ. When they were satisfied the area was clean, Rodger reported back to me with the all-clear.

  “Send in my assistant,” I requested.

  Cedric Gervais materialized. He was a medium-height man with curly black hair and a mustache. He wore oversized tortoiseshell glasses and a perpetually flat affect, very New York, very hipster. He made a show of looking at his timepiece and said, “It’s 6 a.m., sir. You’re already late to take over the world…did I say that right?”

  “Good morning to you, too, Gervais. Excellent delivery—exactly as I taught you,” I replied brightly.

  “I have got to get used to your odd sense of decorum. All right, we’ve got two hours till our flight to Dubai, but there’s heavy traffic. We need to make our way to the airport.” He got straight to work. He was new, too.

  I exited the sumptuous hotel suite flanked by my security and my right-hand man. I lit a cigar and smoked while we talked.

  Gervais said, “I’ve communicated with Phyllis about the paperwork for the sheik. He’s looking to purchase a handful of hotels along the Atlantic Coast. And, while I’ve got you, take a look at the new marketing strategy.” He showed me his electronic tablet. The two of us stepped i
nto the elevator, and I held up a hand to Rodger to let him know we needed privacy. The security detail could descend behind us.

  I took a look at the screen and said, “No, this is too traditional. The Foster name is iconic, so we’ll capitalize on that trustworthiness. But I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth, and my determination and drive is what we want to push. Foster Capital Ventures is old money, and we’re infusing it with new blood, fresh life. That’s not complicated. Tell him to get his thumb out his ass and gimme something I can use.”

  “Very good, sir,” said Gervais.

  My benevolent, negligent father, Cornelius, handed me the reins to the East Coast division as a weak attempt at reconciliation. I was dubiously entrusted with the New York office, Excelsis. I figured he expected me to flop. I intended to excel.

  We stepped out of the hotel to our waiting car. The rest of the security detail piled into a black SUV. Gervais lounged next to me on the roomy backseat of the limousine. I continued, “Excelsis—I looked it up. It roughly translates from Latin as ‘to go beyond,’ to exceed. Excess isn’t just a noun, it’s a state of being, Gervais. Penthouse suites, impulsive international flights—these are my birthright, and I’m gonna do whatever it takes to live the lifestyle I deserve. That means nobody better fuck this presentation up today, all right?”

  “Everything is in place, sir,” Gervais said.

  “Get used to me, Gervais. This is who I am. I’ve been ambitious ever since I was a kid. None of this was handed to me on a silver platter. I worked my ass off for this. Excelsis is my proving ground.”

  I had moved back to New York City and now rode around in fancy cars wearing suits that cost thousands, with an efficient staff behind me to keep the gears of progress well oiled. I looked out the tinted windows at the New Orleans cityscape as we neared Louis Armstrong International Airport. Five-hundred-dollar sunglasses rested on the crown of my head, and my shoes were worth a small fortune. The suit was tailor-made, a conservative dark blue piece by a designer from France.

  When I inhaled, it was the aroma of a limited edition Luxe cologne that assailed my nostrils. I took a good long whiff of the smell of money and settled comfortably into the cushy leather seats. In my new life, there was none of the inconvenience of second best. I was an alpha, a wealthy, powerful man, and there wasn’t anything that could curb my appetites.

  “Your brother is on the line,” Gervais informed me, covering the mouthpiece of the phone.

  “Fuck Simon,” I replied laconically. The son of a bitch was getting married in a few months, and I should have been congratulating him. The only problem was his fiancée was my ex, and the love of my life, Lynora Minnelli. Lynn was a fresh-faced twenty-two-year-old from sunny California with a body like a swimsuit model. She was the only woman who could keep my fickle interest.

  It wasn’t (just) that I wanted her to do as I willed in my bed, with a fistful of her ash-blond hair while pounding out my lascivious frustrations on her nubile young body. No, it was the fact I could stare in her face for days and not have to tune her out as she rambled on about her myriad interests. Yet my older brother Simon had taken her from me in a move that put more tension on a relationship that never got a chance to start properly.

  Simon ranted on the phone about whatever had him calling at this ungodly hour of dawn, and I heard Gervais smoothly placate him with promises he’d tell me to return the call. Gervais hung up and flashed a wry smile in my direction. “Sibling rivalry,” I said. Simon was thirty-one years old and my elder by two years.

  After me, he was the second youngest senior officer of Foster Capital Ventures, and handled investments in the west at the San Francisco office, but I was discovering that even if I was a continent away it would do little to keep him out of my hair.

  ***

  Within two months, my effort to rebrand Excelsis propelled the company into the industry spotlight. Our stock tripled in value. From new marketing to targeting new clientele, the company was being molded to my design, and the industry was taking note. The economy was erratic, but Excelsis represented stability, and we were prospering.

  I sat in my office suite with my feet kicked up on the teak desk, reviewing spreadsheets while wrapping up a proposal bid. Mellow sunlight slanted across my shoes, and the laptop resting on my lap hummed warmly. I glanced out the window at a breathtaking view of the afternoon skyline. As I popped my knuckles, my weary gaze swept the office that was starting to feel a lot like home. I was here so often.

  Across the room were a set of umber-colored chairs and a matching couch, chrome feet digging into an olive-green rug. A hidden bar with granite countertops lined half the wall across from me, while the wall behind me was all windows.

  There was a bathroom behind a false wall to my right. Past the heavy oak doors in front of me, there was a lounge area where leather seating and angular end tables projected my masculine tastes. Beyond was Gervais’ office, although he currently sat across from me fiddling with his damn notebook. The front desk in the lobby was manned by an attractive administrative assistant. The suite took up much of the top floor.

  I stretched and took a break from the eye-straining work to forage in my personal fridge for an energy drink. I had about three more hours in me before it’d be time to head to my penthouse apartment. In the quest to impress my father, I was working sunup to sundown to show I could handle being in charge. Only my nights were my own. Prior to the engagement announcement, my life was relatively tame.

  Since returning to New York, I was spending nights at every club, party, and hotspot I could find. I was fucking women from every corner of the globe. If I seemed heartless, I had reason. Now I had a hole in my chest big as a woman’s small fist—Lynn’s, to be exact—and there was nothing like using hedonism to heal me.

  “Sir? Did you hear me, sir?” Gervais cut into my thoughts.

  “What?” I answered moodily.

  “I asked whether you want me to find a suitable wedding gift or would you like to do it?”

  I grunted noncommittally, mumbled, “There’s one thing I’ve learned in life, Gervais. A happy relationship is about as real as a damn three-dollar bill. Simon can have his fucking fairytale. Give him a gift-wrapped box of love so he can open it and realize it’s full of shit.”

  “Okay, then. Gift box full of shit,” Gervais dutifully notated.

  There were still good women out there. Women like Lillian, whom I met on a trip to London, Shelby from Toronto or Annaliese in Lyon. I even fucked a sophisticated enchantress named Saanvi while we were in India. There were women who enjoyed the frivolities of a life unfettered by romanticism. That was my type, the sexy secretary willing to give me a blowjob in the bathroom for a thrill. The point of it all was:

  “I’m over Lynn,” I thought aloud.

  “Sure, yeah, absolutely,” Gervais responded, unconvinced. He had been filled in earlier on the love triangle.

  I ignored him and went on: “I’ve got more women than money can buy and more money than I have women. I’m a fucking god, man. My cock is like, like a rod of debauchery. Oh, I like that word, de—”

  “Speaking of which,” Gervais said, interrupting my self-congratulatory speech, “I took the liberty of pulling up the society pages for your entertainment.”

  I arched a brow. “Why on earth would I be interested in reading a tabloid?” He wordlessly handed me his tablet, and I glanced at it with disinterest. Then, I noticed the headline. “‘Is Millionaire Mogul Partying Away Foster Fortunes?’” I read aloud, amused.

  “By the way, your brother requests a conference at your earliest convenience to discuss your father’s, shall we say, latest displeasure with you. Also, Annabeth called.”

  Annabeth was my on again/off again girlfriend. We had linked back up when I moved back to New York, despite the fact she was pissed that I had almost left her for Lynn. I navigated the website to the story and found photographs of my face splashed across the page. Some sneaky paparazzi had caught candi
d shots of me with various women at various events.

  Even more invasively, the article listed estimates of the costs of my “courtship expenses”—their wording. The whole mess was a loosely assembled crock of shit. Not only could I easily afford to dine where I dined, it was nobody’s business. I knew Annabeth wouldn’t be too pleased with the news, either. “Have you read this? They’ve written this entire lie up like I’m funneling money from my father’s pockets. It’s hilarious!” I couldn’t help laughing.

  “Of course it is.”

  My amusement quickly ran to ire as I read on. “Shit! I bet Simon is getting a kick out of this. It gets worse. Listen to this:

  “Dane Foster, the extramarital love child of wealthy businessman Cornelius Foster, was recently given co-management of the Foster Capital Ventures throne. Ex-girlfriend, supermodel Olivia Brunner, is quoted as stating Dane lives “like the nouveau riche.” While that might be the scathing critique of a scorned lover, the handsome new CEO obviously has money to blow. With a constantly changing bevy of women on his arms, the rakish young Foster is quickly making a name for himself as the most scandalous bachelor in New York City.

  “Nouveau riche,” I spat. “Olivia Brunner doesn’t even know what that means. As I recall, she was fine as fuck but dumb as—”

  “Be generous,” Gervais interjected, mustache twitching.

  “And where the fuck does she get off saying she was my girlfriend? We fucked a few times at her ratty little condo. You call that a relationship?” I growled.

  “You’ll be happy to know I cleared your social calendar for the next month until the bad press dies down,” Gervais said.

  I chortled, again amused. “If you think I’m about to let some second-rate tabloid reporter slow me down, you must’ve forgotten who you work for.”