Bang Bang Bang 2

For the next 60 days we will be sharing a chapter a day of Ainsley's first POP EROTICA novel. Bang Bang Bang, A summer of sin in Brooklyn.

Chapter Two

Brenton is a fast talker. In another incarnation he could have been a pimp. Well at some level you can say he is a pimp. He prides himself on being able to speak for his living. He is from the Caribbean, but you would not be able to tell unless he wanted you to.

He went to Syracuse University on a full soccer scholarship; he studied marketing, and after school he went into business booking up-and-coming artists. It’s been about 10 years since college and he was developing a slight belly. But his powers were still stronger than ever.

He has this thing he does, that he learned from his cousin Trace, it has never failed him. He had been doing it since he was in college. The way it worked was like this; he could point at a woman, any woman and for a period of 24 hours she would be fully under his spell if he chose. Because of this gift, he hung out at Habana Outpost all summer. It was kind of like shooting fish in a barrel.

“Yow, what’s up?” he answered. His phone was always ringing; one moment, Hong Kong; the next moment London, or Philly or Miami, or Austin or Seattle or some random place in west bubble fuck USA. Every call was either money or pussy. “Yeah, yeah, I got that for you. I’ll send it over now.” He clicked on an app on his phone, opened an email, hit forward and typed in an email address. He hit send. “Just sent it.” He paused and took the phone away from his ear and hit speaker. The voice droned out. “Can you do any better than this mate?” “Listen man, this is a fuckin’ giveaway right now. Just got a call from LA who wants to book him that same week for ninety five; this is KEV we’re talking about, Young Kevlar. I know you may just be trying to squeeze something off the back end for yourself, but right now this is the best we can do.” All said in about five seconds. The voice on the phone was doubtful. “Nothing you can do mate?” This was Stuart, an old talent buyer from London. Stuart changed gears.

“Look Brenton, if you can get him to me at 70, I can get you at least 5 dates,” he turned on the old English charm. “Don’t fall for it Brent,” Brenton said to himself. He took a deep breath then went into crisis mode. “Ok, check this out; when you’re ready to do business, give me a call back –OK mate,” Brenton said in his best English accent and hung up.

He then sat his phone down on the table in front of him and took a sip from his coffee. He eyed a redhead sitting by herself on the other side of the courtyard. She smiled at him. He pointed at his phone and mouthed something to her. She squinted trying to read his lips. He had already decided she was his. She just didn’t know it yet. She had Hamptons hair and was a little nerdy; not totally off the deep end nerd, kind of nerd chic. She was probably writing a screenplay or a sitcom about New York socialites or something. His phone rang. He smiled, it was Stuart. He knew his work for the day was done. He picked up and hit speaker. The voice on the other side of the Atlantic screeched. “We’ll do it mate.” “Bet, I’ll send the contract over. I need it signed as soon as possible. This guy is hot right now and offers are coming in all the time. And since you are only offering seventy five...” This was too easy. The voice jumped back in. “I’ll have the contract signed and back to you by 5pm my time.” Brenton checked his watch and smiled again, he knew that by 12 noon he would have the contract and a down payment. Stuart was that kind of guy. Brenton was a fast talker. In another life he could have been a politician or an auctioneer.

He turned back to his present target; the redhead. He pointed his finger at her and Bang. Something happened. Sometimes he did not even know how it happened. She shifted in her seat and exposed her neck and gently slid her fingers through her hair. He saw the subtle exposure. He took a final sip from his coffee. “Waiter,” he called out and a young man scurried toward his table. “How much?” “$2.50.” Brenton already knew but he asked anyway, how else was he going to make his point?

“Cool.” He slapped a twenty down on the table and moved toward the white girl. “I’m Brenton.” They shook hands and within five minutes they were both laughing and talking like old friends. Then the obvious questions came. “You live around here?” “Yes.” “Get out, really, where?” he said with incredulity. “Yeah, I live right on Lafayette in number 99. It’s right on the corner, the big building…” He interrupted her with a smile. “I know; I’ve been in that building a few times.”

Maybe it was the way he said it, maybe it was the way she heard it, maybe it was the fact that it was 10:15 in the morning, maybe it was the gentle summer wind and the birds chirping. Whatever it was, somehow, her eyes dilated. And Bang; he had her deep in the back of number 99 on the 7th floor, Apt 7F. Her screenplay paused midsentence, her summer dress flung up over her tender ass as he pounded out the rest of their introduction. “Oh-my-fuh-cking-god, I-can’t-be-lieve-this-is-ha-ppen-ning, I- fuh-kin-love-your cock!” she said in her best nerd voice, her freckled breast pressed against the back window.

Brenton was knee deep in her. “Hold on, hold on, hold on,” she begged, “I can’t come like this.” She reached back and eased his dick out of her slowly, turned around and looked at it with glee before devouring it. The slurping sound was like music to Brenton’s ears. She looked up at him, he held her hair back. She shoved him onto a single seat leather chair which was next to her bed and rode him to the sound of the city outside of her window.

About an hour later they both laid spent on her Ikea sheets, they had fucked three times. Her body was beautiful, soft and toned, all a nice summer copper except for her breast and bikini area. Brenton laughed to himself. Her hair was everywhere. A thin film of sweat covered them both, their chests still heaving.

Brenton thought to himself. “Shit, what was her name again?”

He went back to the moment they shook hands. He had said, “I’m Brenton,” and she had said, nothing, just a, “hey how are you?” Not that he was sad about it, but he had just nutted in this girl’s mouth and he did not even know her name. His phone rang. He reached over her into the pocket of his pants on the floor. It was his boy Max. He decided not to take the call because what’s her name seemed like she needed a little more of his attention.