How To Pleasure A Playboy

By: Talia Hunter

“Bad news,” said Ally. “I called the club’s manager to get you a press pass, and he hadn’t heard of Liaison. Can you believe it?”

“What? He doesn’t know who we are?” Lacey put on a mock-horrified tone. When Ally had published her insider stories about movie star Max Oberon, their blog had hit record readership numbers. They’d had an exciting year, but it was quietening down. Perfect time for a juicy story to pick things up again.

“He said you’ll have to dress nice and line up with everyone else.”

“Dress nice? I suppose he means sexy?”

“Well, you know what these clubs are like. So, yeah, it wouldn’t hurt.” Ally hesitated. “No offense, but do you own anything sexy?”

“Depends how hot you think jeans are. I have a pair that’s ripped high above the knee. Positively indecent.”

“I’ll loan you something.”

“Listen Ally, I’d like to write a series about Bronson Reyne and the Baxter. He’s an arrogant playboy throwing working folk out on the street, and I want to tell the story. What do you think?”

“You could give it a try and see how it goes over.”

Lacey let out her breath. Now Ally had agreed, she could make saving her home her full-time mission. “I’ll work it on social media too. Get some buzz going.”

“Okay. Push it hard and we can monitor how our readers respond.”

As soon as Lacey signed off, she opened Twitter and sent a tweet:

#PamperedPlayboy Bronson Reyne wants to destroy my home, but I won’t let him. #SaveTheBaxter

Then she pulled up the Liaison blog and started writing a new post.

I live in the Baxter, a lovely old building in desperate need of repair. My parents moved into the Baxter thirty years ago, and now my father’s coming to the end of his life. All he wants is to spend his last months in the home he loves.

She wrote a long article, filled with anecdotes about growing up in the apartment building, and signed it off with a final thought.

If we put enough pressure on Bronson Reyne, together we can save the Baxter. Join me on Twitter and help me prove that money won’t always triumph over heart.

After publishing the story, she sent another tweet. And by Friday evening, she’d started collecting dozens of replies and retweets each time.

Ally had promised to bring her something to wear to the nightclub, and turned up with a slinky red dress. “The lights in your hall keep flickering,” she complained when Lacey let her in. “With all the stains on the walls, and the broken elevator, it feels like a scene from The Shining.”

“It’s nicer in here.” Lacey led her into the living room. “I have the fire going.”

Ally draped the red dress over the back of the couch and held her hands up to the flames. “Thank goodness for the fireplace. It makes your place feel much cozier.”

“I’m lucky. Only four of the top floor apartments have them, and mine’s the only one that works.”

“Think you can convince the owner to fix the building up?”

Lacey picked up the red dress and held it against herself. Tossing her hair back, she struck a sexy pose and dropped her voice into a throaty purr. “One look at this dress and he’ll agree to anything.” Then she wrinkled her nose and switched to her normal voice. “At least now I might get close enough to ask.”

“As soon as my fingers defrost, I’ll do your hair and makeup. Shall I try straightening your curls?”

“Good luck.” Lacey lifted a hand to push at her mop. “You’ll need it.”

Sure enough, it took over an hour before Ally finally stepped back with a grunt of satisfaction. “There. What do you think?”

Lacey blinked at herself in the mirror. All that spraying, cursing, and straightening had forced her hair to hang in a glossy sheet, and Ally had done a great job with her makeup. Running her hands over the tight red dress, Lacey gave her friend a slow smile. “I feel like a juicy piece of bait on a very sharp hook.”

“Ready to catch a playboy?”

“Hope so. If they let me in the club.” Lacey adjusted the front of the low-cut dress, pulling it further up to cover her tattoo. At least the fact that Bronson Reyne was a sleazebag gave her a better chance of getting in. With his reputation as a womanizer, he probably told the doormen to admit anyone with boobs. The man was as shallow as a bird bath.

“Have you figured out what you’ll say to him?”

“That’s the easy part. Even if I can’t change his mind, at least he’ll know I won’t go quietly.”

“Put these on.” Ally handed her a pair of red high heels.

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