Hello Sexy Reader!

I’m over the moon that you’ve agreed to read and review Love, Lex and Yours Truly, Taddy. I’ve listed below the links to your man candy, naughty New Adult quote cards, and celebrity dream cast for both books. They’ll totally enhance your reading experience. *wink* Have fun.

book 2

book 2

Yours Truly, Taddy (The Undergrad Years #2)

1. Book blurb, jacket cover, buying, and stalking links
2. Celebrity dream cast
3. Man candy
4. Naughty quote cards

book 1

book 1

Love, Lex (The Undergrad Years #1)

1. Book blurb, jacket cover, buying, and stalking links
2. Celebrity dream cast
3. Man candy
4. Adorable quote cards


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New Adult – NetGalley Romance Titles

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The Undergrad Years is now on NetGalley. But only for one month! If you have a NetGalley membership please log-in and grab both free ARCs. No blog required! If you get declined, let me know and I’ll send you a widget.

Love, Lex 

Yours Truly, Taddy

All reviews posted to Amazon/Goodreads/BN by May 30th will be entered in a $20.00 Amazon gift card raffle. One lucky winner will be picked at random. Good luck!

Hugs, Avery
PS, Free reader ARCs for Undressed are on Edelweiss. Grab the link. 

YOURS TRULY, TADDY (The Undergrad Years) (Invitation to Eden) Blurb, Buying/Stalking Links, Reader Response

**to download this image simply click on it, it’ll blow up nice and big, then right click your mouse (or hold down your finger) and it’ll save.

Book Cover Yours Truly, Taddy (The Undergrad Years) (Invitation to Eden)
**to download this image simply click on it, it’ll blow up nice and big, then right click your mouse (or hold down your finger) and it’ll save.

Yours Truly, Taddy  (The Undergrad Years) (Invitation to Eden)
Contemporary New Adult Romance/Coming Of Age
Cover Design by Frauke Spanuth
Interior Page Design by IRONHORSE Formatting
eBook List Price $2.99
Paperback List Price: $7.09
192 Pages

Jetting to Martinique for a modeling assignment with three of Europe’s hottest magazine photographers—Gustave, Fabian, and Leon—should’ve been easy, breezy beautiful. Never did I expect to look up and see a hole in the ceiling of our plane that was bigger in size than my Birkin bag.

Shit! We’re nose-diving toward Eden Island. I pictured how my New York Times obituary might read when I’m gone, “Taddy Brill, Manhattanite, dethroned descendant of the Austrian House of Brillford royalty, dies at age eighteen, penniless, unloved, and a virgin.” I swear this crap only happens to me. Suddenly, Leon pulls me with Fabian and Gustave. Adrenaline racing through me, our bodies clung as one. We prepared to…crash.

The Undergrad Years is a New Adult contemporary miniseries about first loves, independence, and everlasting friendships. Interact with Avery while reading Love, Lex on Instagram and Twitter @AveryAster using the hashtags #UndergradYears #NewAdult. Swag and reader contests can be found on Avery’s blog at:

Join The Undergrad Years cast as Taddy, Lex, Blake, and Vive welcome you to Invitation to Eden, a series from 27 of the biggest names in romance…an island where anything…and everything can happen. We hope you’ll enjoy your stay! Eden is located just a two hour plane ride from Miami, Florida, in the mysterious Bermuda Triangle. Once it was wild and untouched, but now is inhabited by the Master and his staff. The Master wanted to share the magic of the island with others who needed it, so he had a European castle reconstructed on the small outcropping of land in the southern Atlantic ocean. Log on to the Smutketeers’ Invitation to Eden Book Club!



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Paperback Cover Yours Truly, Taddy (The Undergrad Years) (Invitation to Eden) **to download this image simply click on it, it’ll blow up nice and big, then right click your mouse (or hold down your finger) and it’ll save.

Paperback Cover
Yours Truly, Taddy (The Undergrad Years) (Invitation to Eden)
**to download this image simply click on it, it’ll blow up nice and big, then right click your mouse (or hold down your finger) and it’ll save.

Reader Response Pre-release

This book is great escape that’s sexy, funny, and totally entertaining! It was great to read about the beginning of Taddy, Lex, Vive and Blake’s early years. –Maggie

I couldn’t put Yours Truly, Taddy down. It’s delicious! A true five star, in a, I-got-sucked-out-of-a-plane-with-a-very-hot-guy-and-SWAM-to-a-deserted-island-with-a-sex-resort-on-it, kind of way.  –Jean

I’m completely blown away with how amazing this series is turning out to be. Getting a glimpse into how they started out to be is a true journey. At times it’s raucous, hilarious, completely over the top but then we are shown what’s truly deep down. We see the hearts of the Manhattanites, the true essence of what brought them together and what holds them together. –Kim

Avery Aster keeps us laughing and rooting for the characters. The Fab Four are amazing and so much fun to read. –Jennifer

This was better than the first Undergrad novel and I enjoyed it very much! –Janna

Incredible story with the plane crash and then Leon and Fabian, wow! I’m looking forward to Blake’s story. –Sandra

YOURS TRULY, TADDY Celebrity Dream Cast

**to download this image simply click on it, it’ll blow up nice and big, then right click your mouse (or hold down your finger) and it’ll save.

**to download this image simply click on it, it’ll blow up nice and big, then right click your mouse (or hold down your finger) and it’ll save.

Tabitha Adelaide “Taddy Brill” Brillford (18): Broke but determined, Taddy accepts a job as a fashion model to pay for her college tuition.

Alexandra “Lex” Easton (18): Daughter to famed rockers Eddie & Birdie Easton, Lex and Taddy have known one another their entire lives.

Blake Morgan III (18): Prada fanatic and out of the closet since the day puberty struck, Blake is the clique’s gay bestie.

Viveca “Vive” Farnworth (18): Lhaso Apso lover and heiress to Farnworth Firewater Liquor Company, Vive is a party girl who met Lex, Taddy, and Blake while in boarding school.

Gustave Le Cartier (21): France’s leading fashion photographer. He’s a dominant alpha in bed. His famed celebrity photographs are praised by the world.

Fabian Henri: (20) Flirtatious and alluring he works as Taddy’s stylist helping her get dressed.

Leon Lartique (19): Set and lighting designer Leon works with Gustave and Fabian trying to get Taddy to loosen up a bit for the camera.


Yours Truly, Taddy (Undergrad Years #2) (Invitation To Eden)

taddy book image two

Readers! If you’re doing the Yours Truly Taddy review GET READY FOR YOUR JAW TO DROP! The fabulous Giselle has sent you everything needed to read and have fun. I’ve also listed the man candy, quote cards, dream cast, etc. below. Enjoy, thank you for the support, and be sure to Tweet me while you’re reading at @AveryAster and let me know what ‘ya think. *smile*

1.) Blurb, Buying/Stalking Links, Reader Response

2.) Celebrity Dream Cast

3.) Naughty Quote Cards

4.) Man Candy

5.) Pinterest Board for Yours Truly, Taddy



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LOVE, LEX (The Undergrad Years #1) Released in Paperback

I’d forgotten how fabulous a paperback can feel in your hands till Love, Lex came in the mail. I was fortunate enough to work with Cover It! Designs on my book jacket. Ari does amazing work.

My interior pages for both the ebook and paper edition were formatted by IRONHORSE Formatting. Lee went above and beyond for my book. If you’re an indie author or self-pubbing your writings, I highly recommend both companies.

You can order a copy of Love, Lex (The Undergrad Years #1) from CreateSpace and Amazon.

Happy reading! xo, Avery

Love Lex onepaperback twoLove Lex Threepaperback fourlove lex fivepaperback six


Love, Lex (The Undergrad Years #1) by Avery Aster

This summer, I’d planned to celebrate my eighteenth birthday in Europe with my fellow Manhattanites—Taddy Brill, Blake Morgan, and Vive Farnworth—until I caught my boyfriend screwing my mother. According to the police report, this vomit-inducing incident happened around the same time I’d supposedly blown-up my mother’s penthouse. Like I’m walking around Soho with a stick of dynamite in my Louis Vuitton purse—not! Now, my besties and I are in jail.

Officer Ford Gotti, the Harley-wheelin’ biker cop who arrested us, keeps sticking his perfectly-sculpted nose into my case. His inked body is jacked like a superhero, and he says I can trust him. He wants me to fess up. I won’t. Not again. Why should I? My friends and I had a previous stint in juvie that nearly destroyed us. I gotta protect them and keep my mouth shut. Right?

—Lex Easton, women’s studies major, motorcycle enthusiast, and virgin.

The Undergrad Years is a New Adult contemporary miniseries about first loves, independence, and everlasting friendships.

Reader warning: Contains mature content intended for readers 17 and up.

Swag and reader contests can be found on Avery’s blog at: Interact with Avery while reading Love, Lex on Instagram and Twitter @AveryAster using the hashtags #UndergradYears #NewAdult


Cast of Characters: Major Players

Alexandra “Lex” Easton: (17) Motorcycle enthusiast and daughter to famed rockers Eddie & Birdie Easton, Lex intends to party the week away in Paris, France by giving her boyfriend, Kelle Sterling Dolley her virginity.

Tabitha Adelaide “Taddy Brill” Brillford: (18) Emancipated from her parents, Taddy is Lex’s best friend forever and lives with Vive at her apartment on the Upper East Side.

Blake Morgan: (17) Prada fanatic and ‘out’ of the closet since the day puberty struck, Blake is the clique’s gay bestie. He’s also very close to Lex’s mother, Birdie.

Viveca “Vive” Farnworth: (18) Lhaso Apso lover and heiress to Farnworth Firewater Liquor Company, Vive is a party girl who met Lex, Taddy and Blake while in boarding school.

Officer Ford Alessandro-Vollero-Gotti: (21) NYPD motor-cop Ford is inked, jacked like a super hero and eager to make Lex tell the truth about her wrongdoings.

Birdie Easton: (39) Lex’s pill-popping, addicted mother, she suffers from sexual compulsive disorder, is an ‘80’s Playmate and heavy metal icon.

Kelle Sterling Dolley: (18) Lex’s high school sweetheart who’s promised Lex they’d make love just as soon as she lost a little bit of weight.



Part One

Riding a motorbike is just like sex, right?


“Lex rode her Suzuki scooter with a helmet. Her Chanel fashions were always pressed. After graduating from Avon Porter she got into an Ivy League university and was still a virgin. She didn’t do drugs or get drunk. So how could my very best friend (VBF) be the daughter to two of the world’s most infamously eff’d-up partying icons and not be an utter mess? The answer is obvious, you ninny. It’s because of us. We’re her besties.” —Vive Farnworth, wealthiest teenager in New York, socialite and aspiring gossip columnist.




From the Desk of Manhattan School for Girls


October, 14, 1988

Dearest Mr. & Mrs. Easton,

I am a huge fan of your music and films. We are honored to have your only daughter, Alexandra, at our school. However, it has come to our attention, that she eats gummy bears and drinks chocolate soda for breakfast. This may be the cause for her outbursts in class which disturb other students. Enclosed is a high-protein, low sugar nutritional handout for a kindergartener of her age and….size.

Yours fondly,

Principle Rooney Belding


March, 10, 1993

Dear Mr. & Mrs. Easton,

Today your daughter rode a motorcycle to school, all by herself. While we applaud her independence, a 5-speed Yamaha dirt bike is not permitted. Since Alexandra is ten and not sixteen, she broke the law. Authorities have impounded her wheels. Child services will be in touch.

Take Care,

Principle Rooney Belding


June 1, 1996

Mr. & Mrs. Easton,

Alexandra ‘Lex’ is articulate and reading at the college level—outstanding for a thirteen-year-old. Regardless, after the recent physical altercation where she punched another student who admittedly called her fat, coupled by your continued failure to work with Lex on her behavioral issues and the ongoing paparazzi trespassing on our grounds in an attempt to take her picture, she poses a threat to our entire student body. We simply cannot invite her back for the fall term.

I’ve attached a recommendation for Lex to board at the Avon Porter Academy in Connecticut where she’ll be out of the spotlight and protected. Her humor and wittiness in class will be missed.


Principle Rooney Belding


Chapter One

Thanks, Mom, aka Birdie Easton

August, 2002

Soho, New York

“Fuck me!”


Loud, perverse words came from Mom’s bedroom as I stepped off the penthouse elevator into the foyer.

Carrying my Louis Vuitton over my arm, I hooked my motorcycle helmet, a purply fiberglass, biker-chick, must-have accessory, on the wall near the entryway.

“Come to mama, lover boy.” Mom’s words echoed throughout the ten-thousand square-foot floor.

Looking out the window at the sunny, blue skies, I couldn’t believe my mother, Birdie Easton, hooked up again, and so fast. Only gone an hour, I was at the pharmacy stocking up on nicotine gum. Three different Duane Read and two Walgreens later and I’d finally bought some at a bodega. And here I thought I looked over eighteen, so why they’d kept asking me for my ID was infuriating.

Did I, Lex Easton, smoke? Heck no! This gum suppressed my appetite. Only ten or so more pounds to go till my BF and me would be making l’amour in Paris for my eighteenth birthday party with my BFF, VBF, and GBF. Wait let me clarify. Only my BF and I are doing it together. My BFF, VBF and GBF are staying in separate rooms down the hall. Gross.

I sure hope I can shed the weight in twelve-hours before we go. I have to. Losing my virginity, more commonly known amongst my friends as Lady V, depends on it.

While removing my riding gloves, I tried to think back to whether Birdie had a dude stay over last night or not. The piney, ammonia stench of marijuana in the air hinted at her dealer, Don Juan Escobar, as today’s possible “lover boy.”

My father, Eddie Easton, didn’t give a flip who or what Birdie spread for. He was in Asia touring for his new album. Think Elvis Presley meets Gene Simmons, that’s Daddy. Their marriage had been “open” long before they’d had me. But did I have to hear her?

The Prince Street penthouse was more Mom’s place than mine. I’d moved in with her after graduating from the Avon Porter Academy back in June. Although up until a few weeks ago, I’d called boarding school more my home than here. I’m sure Taddy Brill, best friends forever (BFF), Vive Farnworth, very best friend (VBF), and Blake Morgan, gay best friend (GBF), would agree with me.

I’d only been here a few weeks, and already I’d caught her lighting the cashmere sofa on fire while trying to clean out her pipe. Then she’d entertained the New York Fire Department after they’d put her mess out.

Well, the mess was still here, people. Hello!

One might say I’d forgotten about Birdie’s insatiable appetite for the company of men, sometimes women, and yes, many inanimate objects.

Maybe I was in denial. Alright, I was in complete and utter denial about what a reckless, sexually compulsive, whacked-out celebrity Mom had turned into.

Her last album had dropped when I was like twelve. So she has too much free time on her hands to get into trouble. Come to think of it, there was no “turned into” anything. She’d pretty much always been this way. Uh-huh, I’m growing up, seeing things for how they’ve always been. It’s sad.

Thankfully my Daddy had turned down MTV’s offer last year for a reality show. If a camera crew had filmed what went on in this place, my life would’ve been o-v-e-r. Last I’d heard, the network had asked my Father’s music bud Ozzy to do it with his family, the Osbournes.

Rolling my eyes, I pulled my cell out of my stretchy-jeans pocket and noticed the time.

12:10 pm on Saturday.

My boyfriend, Kelle Sterling Dolley should be here soon. Today we are going back-to-school shopping in his new Ferrari. He lives down in the Financial District and claims since we’re going to be starting college up in Morningside Heights, he needs wheels.

Kelle thinks he is too good for a yellow cab, let alone the subway. Pretentious as white trash winning the lottery or my parents once their albums had struck platinum, I told Kelle I wouldn’t be caught dead in his tacky-ass racer. But he got himself one anyways.

He should’ve invested his father’s money wisely—on a motorcycle. That’s how us Easton’s rolled. I wouldn’t have minded if Kelle’s wheels had been new or an antique. It could’ve been a Harley, Ducati or even a freakin’ Honda, just no pussy sports cars.

Vamp is what I named her, my Suzuki scooter. Mechanically speaking, Vamp is not a motorcycle. She’s a single-cylinder, sporty thing with a seat that fits my bum and painted in my favorite color, think dried blood meets dark purple. She coordinates with my short nails.

Whenever I’d beg Daddy to buy me a motorcycle for my eighteenth birthday, he’d reply, “Baby girl your mother and I will get you a new set of wheels after we see your first semester’s grades at Columbia. ‘B’ or higher on all subjects. We clear?”

Please let my first semester go well.

Pretty cray-cray considering how messed up my folks were to be projecting academic righteousness. I’m not their Pollyanna Voodoo Doll, although I’d grown used to it. Those who can’t do, preach.

After Vamp, my dream bike was the Honda VFR400. Birdie had hers custom made in Japan and nicknamed it after her vibrator, The Pocket Rocket. I rode her as often as I could. I’m talking about the bike, not my mom. Ugh, totally gross!

Oh…that throttled feel, such a heady mix of power and diesel fuel pumping through the engine, between my legs, purring at my innocence. After I’ve lost my virginity, Lady V, I imagine future sex with Kelle will be similar to riding The Pocket Rocket. Hopefully minus the constant stop and go between traffic lights.

Back to Kelle—I admit that, when one looks as yummy as him, he could peddle a pink Huffy bike along the West Side Highway and get away with it. So I’m sure he’ll be fine in his Ferrari.

Vive always jokes, “Lex, your Kelle is total gorgeousness! Give ‘em your Lady V already. Or Blake will snatch Kelle’s juicy booty from behind and I’ll take his ding-a-ling from the front.”

And according to The Manhattanite Times, Kelle was the hottest teenager to have hailed from an American political family. Granted, most of the boys I’d met over the years, who’d been born into politics had not…been attractive.

I’ve dreamt of, lusted after, kissed on, and doted over Kelle Sterling Dolley since I was like fourteen.

Wouldn’t it be nice if Kelle felt the same way about me? He didn’t. I was working hard to change that. Take this gum, for example. The more I chew, the more I lose, and then the more I’ll win at l’amour with Kelle.

“That’s it. Right there. Tap it hard. Ah-huh. Harder,” Birdie shouted in her drunk or high voice.

Usually, I could tell the difference. Today? Not so much. That meant she was probably a mix of both.

Unzipping my bag I took out a piece of that gum, popped it in my mouth and rolled the wrapper between my fingers. The directions had clearly stated not to chomp all day. So I’d spit it out in a few.

Aside from the excess salivating, that made me appear to be Cujo, the rabid dog, followed by bloating—which I corrected with Gas-X and a spritz of Diorama perfume—the gum wasn’t half bad. Shhh. I didn’t read the second half of the warning label where it had listed the other flu-like symptoms. Seriously, I can’t freak myself out about chewing this stuff. It’s mind over matter and right now my mind was focused on getting skinny and getting laid.

Plus what I jonesed for wasn’t cigarettes. I wanted sweets.

Clothing designer Ralph Lauren’s daughter, Dylan, had opened up a candy shop on the Upper East Side near Vive’s apartment called Dylan’s Candy Bar.

The world’s largest sugar shop served over 5,000 goodies. You go gurl! I effin’ double-hearted that place. Hungry for gummy bears and Sour Patch Kids, I craved a sugary zing like twenty-four-seven. Probably the same way Mom did her cocaine.

Please universe, make my apple fall far away from Birdie’s tree.

“My, my, my.” Birdie moaned, “Now I know what my daughter sees in you, Kelle.”


Un-frickin’-believable! Did Mom just say his name from her bedroom? I nearly peed. True story, I crossed my legs while standing, to brace myself from the utter horrid shock.

“Such a hot MILF.” He grunted like a pig.

A soon to be dead pig—FYI.

In a huff, I tossed my purse to the foyer table. With a thud, it smacked the white marble floor—echoing a boom.

Crap on a yard stick. I’d missed.

Frozen, I stood still and listened to see if Birdie and Kelle had heard me.

“No hands.” Mother bossed.

“Whatever you say, Mrs. Easton.”

Squeaky noises started. Then skin-smacking sounds. All of it picked up speed, getting louder and faster. Dirty talk too. And then came what must’ve been spanking.


A lump swelled in my throat, and it wasn’t from the gum. I wanted to call 911. What would I say?

“Operator, this is Lex Easton. I live at 245 Spring Street. My famous mother is screwing my hawt boyfriend. Can you send a policeman to make them stop?”


I bet the operator’s first response wouldn’t be to see if I was okay. Oh no. It’d be all, “I love Birdie Easton’s music. Her song “Lucifer’s Mistress” has a special place in my heart.” That’s what she’d probably say.

I hated that song. The lyrics were about doing the nasty with the devil.

Ready to bust it up, I marched across the penthouse, pulling my blonde hair into a ponytail. The gold buckles on my motorcycle boots clanged, bringing to my attention that this was gonna be a smack down. Easton style!

I thought about what I’d say, who I’d tell off first. Birdie was one heck of a fighter. She has the restraining orders to prove it. And Kelle, he stood at six-foot-three and has the body of an NBA Knicks player. Weighing over two hundred pounds, he’d often bragged he could do a thirty-five inch vertical jump and a three-cone drill in 6.5 seconds.

Either way, I’d already lost.

At the end of the brocade wallpapered hall, I spotted the door with its brassy handle wide open, and their ass’s wide out. I stepped closer and watched. I know! Shoot me now.

Magnetic and forceful, their sex pulled me in as some kind of touristy street brawl. One normally witnessed in the Meat Packing District around 3 am on Thursday nights.

You know, with the teens that come in from New Jersey acting all cool-n-craptastic till a Manhattanite bops ‘em on the back of their head with a champagne bottle to remind them to get the heck off our island. Posers!

I must observe this ridiculousness for myself.

Of course Birdie Easton, my Grammy Award-winning, Grey Goose drinking, Oxycodone-popping mother was riding Kelle Sterling Dolley like an Arabian horse charging out of the stables.

Yes, sprawled out on her California King was my boyfriend, the only guy I’d ever given a BJ. Which was the furthest we’d gotten, and that had been his choice, not mine. Clearly, today his body loved banging Mom.

Why wouldn’t he? Identical to Catherine Zeta Jones, Birdie appeared hot-to-trot for her age. I’d always been jelly of Mom’s beauty. It was her substance abuse that was fugly here, people. Not her leather and lace meets diamonds and pearls exterior.

In my almost eighteen years, I’d seen Mom do this, many times before. Totally! Although, not with my boyfriend. That was a new low, even for her.

Normally it was her friend’s husbands. Or sometimes my Daddy’s friend’s wives, my teachers and their spouses, the dentist, our neighbors, the doorman, her limo driver, personal trainer, recording manager, and let’s not forget her fans.

Birdie Easton’s fan club was freakishly ginormous. Sold out years in advance, her annual Madison Square Gardens’ Appreciation Weekend wasn’t coined Gang Bang Birdie for nothing.

But to have Mom screw Kelle, the dude who’d gone to the Connecticut Military Academy down the street from my boarding school—who Taddy, Vive, Blake and me had planned, plotted, and OCD talked about as my first—not to mention the son of Senator Dolley who was on the fast track for the White House, was way worse than crap-flying monkeys.

Uber Devastation….

The stress of this suddenly caused me to see itsy bitsy spots while I stood there. Resembling candy dots on strips of paper, their bright blue and pink tones suddenly faded to yellow and then white. I chewed the gum faster and prayed Mom, Kelle and the spots would all stop.

They didn’t.

Foaming at the mouth, not from what I’d watched but from what I’d chewed, I wiped my lip, and reached into my pocket for another piece.

I’d been going out with Kelle since the tenth grade. He’d reserved my vagina ages ago, like the first week Blake had told me in gym class to shave it. Blake and I had talked a lot about our pubic hair and whether we should trim it short or grow it out and dye it magenta. Bordering on cliché, pubic hair had been a normal go-to gym topic for us.

Kelle’s commitment to my cherry-popping had come with one uber-cray condition. I had to lose a few pounds. Alright, some might say a lot of weight. Friggin-A, I was so close. And our first time was gonna be in Paris. You know, for my birthday.

Avoir France!

Like Elle Woods in the movie Legally Blonde who’d studied her kitty off and passed the LSAT to get into Harvard Law School in hopes her boyfriend would married her—so had I!

Mind you, it was for a Bachelor of Arts in Women’s Studies at Columbia University and Kelle Sterling Dolley was no Warner Huntington III.

Kelle was flippin’ cuter. Waaay cuter. Think Josh Harnett in the movie Pearl Harbor. Holy Hershey Kisses I loved, luved, loooved, loved that movie.

And I wasn’t hoping to get married like Elle Woods neither. I’d merely wanted to get rid of my Lady V. So yes, I’d stalked Kelle from our private schools in Connecticut and had learned he was moving to Manhattan for college. I’d rallied my BFF, VBF and GBF to come along. I’d bribed. I’d begged. We all got in. Some of us were on academic probation with remedial studies, I might add. That would be moi, for math. Don’t wanna talk about it.

Okay, maybe the Legally Blonde analogy was a slight reach.

“Pull my hair. There you go lover boy. Get rough with mama,” Birdie sassed.

A feverish chill swept through me. I stood. I watched. I checked myself.

Sad? Meh!

Angry? A tad. Trust me I’d been through, oh my Godiva, so much worse.

Hurt? I’m sickened over this. No, like literally.

Knowing Mom would never ever do this to me if she’d been sober made it almost easier to swallow. Almost!

Her reply later, when she’d be all crashing down or buzzing back up, would be something to the effect of, “Kitten, its only sex. Grow up.” That’s what she’d say. I know.

And later, when she’d be sober, dryer than a saltine cracker, Birdie always stuck with her tried-and-true, “I have no idea what you are talking about. I did not raise my Alexandra Easton to be a liar. My heart hurts when you tell tall-tales, young lady.”

Notice how Mom had never referred to herself as “Mom” like ever. I was only allowed to call her the M-word when inside this penthouse. Her reasoning had been that it caused premature aging to hear it when out in public. Clearly Birdie’s rule applied to Kelle calling her ‘Mama’ in bed. WTF!

Birdie was so phobic about aging she’d stocked up the entire penthouse with oxygen tanks. She’d nearly given herself an O2 facial mist every day that I’d been here. When Mom wasn’t applying the oxygen to her skin, she was inhaling it, claiming the vapors made her inner body more beautiful.

I was surprised with all of her bong smoking and nitrous oxide tanks lying around she hadn’t blown the roof off this place yet.

Blake was right. I should have never moved back in with my folks while going to school. We should’ve enrolled at Pepperdine University in California. That’s what Taddy had wanted us to do all along and had suggested, “Sweet sorority Jesus. Forget this East Coast shizzicane. I want easy, breezy, beautiful. Darling, let’s go to Malibu…not Manhattan. No one knows us out west.”

Once my Ivy League training wheels to get laid by Kelle Sterling Dolling were rolling, I’d started to pump the brakes. I didn’t want to face those tabloids, chasing me between classes for dirt on my parents or Kelle and his family, again. At Avon Porter we were behind a huge brick wall which had prevented such harassments.

I’d toyed with the idea of registering under an alias so no one knew I was Easton’s daughter. I’d even met with the head of admissions and given them the name Wanda Maximoff, inspired by my favorite Avengers character, Scarlet Witch.

My Dad had approved of the alias, so did his publicist, the president of his record label, and the head of admissions even bought into Wanda Maximoff.

Leave it to my lovely Mom to veto such geniusness. She’d melodramatically argued, “Coming from someone who was robbed of finishing their GED, let alone never having the luxury to attend college, I pray that my only daughter will be proud to walk on campus and show her face.”

Proud? Never Ever!

And Birdie wasn’t robbed of squat. She’d dropped out of high school with the hopes of working as Bo Derrick’s body double in the movie, Bolero.

“Fuuuck. That’s good. So wet. Deeper,” Birdie squealed.

Was it wrong, that after several minutes of witnessing Kelle’s cock jut in and out of Birdie’s mouth, vagina, and anus…I still stood there in horrid disbelief and watched them?

He’d pretty much plugged every hole. WTF! They didn’t even use a condom.

In my overly active mind, I waited for some imaginary teleprompter to light up from the chandelier hanging above her bed and instruct, “Applause!”

They weren’t worthy of a clap. No siree. Now the clap which medical experts referred to as Gonorrhea was a whole other story. Hands down, they both merited that one.

Rolling over onto his side, Kelle submitted to Mom’s diva ways.

Her perfectly sculpted silicone breasts, the ones which had a lingerie brand named after them called Caged Birdie, sold in discount superstores, nearly hypnotized Kelle into titty-land.

“Mrs. Easton, I’m in love with you,” Kelle professed, and suckled on her rosy nipples as if he hadn’t eaten a breast implant in years.

Say whaa!

I-N L-O-V-E?

Poof! My insides dried up. Right there, in that doorway. Someone had taken a Dyson vacuum cleaner, hooked the tube up to my sex, and flipped the dry-vac carpet button.

Was I supposed to witness this?

Maybe the universe brought these two together to remind me to focus on my grades this fall, and not on the boys.

At Avon Porter, all my energy had gone to helping Taddy, Vive, and Blake get through their cray-cray days. Not on my academics, hence my remedial math studies.

From Blake’s coming out about being a cock sucker, his words not mine, to Taddy’s abandonment and emancipation issues with her folks, I’d been rather busy.

Just when I’d thought we were good to study, Vive had gotten herself knocked-up. And then the accidental death of her boyfriend, Sanderloo Konjik, had happened. I know!

All four of us had been arrested, charged in the murder of Sanderloo, and had stood trial. After spending an entire semester at the Fairfield County Juvenile Detention Center where Vive had given birth to her baby, we’d been found innocent of all wrongdoing.

Point being, my swinging parent’s party drama luckily hadn’t compared to any of the above. Vive had won the sash and tiara in that category. Taddy had reigned in second place, and Blake could have third. I’m so fine with Miss Congeniality.

Hmmm I wonder. Now that I’m here in the city if Birdie’s actions will hold me back from pursuing my Ivy League degree? I guess only if I let them. Right?

PS, don’t wanna talk about juvie. You’ll never see me wear the color orange or eat mashed potatoes.

“Suck it, woman. No, I didn’t say you could come yet.” Kelle got his man-game on when Birdie didn’t say she loved him back. Instead, Mom laughed and came everywhere.

If I was under his fifty-something-inch chest and held on to his twenty-something inch waist, while his foot-long dick penetrated me that way, (and not Mother), I’d probably would’ve orgasmed too.

Humping along, they didn’t even notice me. Typical!

The longer they went at it, the sadder it became to watch—two gorgeous people, past their luster, bang one another.

Kelle had peaked our senior year. The kid still wore Abercrombie for Christ’s sake. I imagine he’ll never take that darn military academy class ring off his finger. Not once this summer, had he talked about our future at Columbia University together. His mouth had jabbered on and on about his past Lacrosse games.

The worst was last week. He’d revealed he’d been stealing Viagra from his father’s medicine cabinet to endure what he’d coined “mega-masturbation-marathons.”

That’s like so seventh grade. Forreals!

Standing there, I talked myself out of loving him. Wasn’t that what I was doing?

Taddy had once profoundly stated all adult-like, “You can talk your mind into making your heart feel something. It’s true, darling. If you want to love, you will. And if you want to hate, you shall. But don’t let either of those two emotions get the best of you.”

That’s how she’d healed from her parents disowning her. Her ability to move on had all been a matter of Taddy’s mind, and not a matter of the facts. We were like fourteen!

When you think about it “facts” flub everything up. Regardless, I still felt nauseous.

Sick with the reality of what was before me, this whole—Mom and my boyfriend naked in bed together, having sex, and him telling her he was in love—thing started to sink-in.

The white spots I’d seen went from snowflakes to snowballs. My head pounded as if my heart had moved into my brain. And my stomach, ohhh, ached with abdominal pains. I felt worse than after eating Chinese food from that place down on Canal Street which has a dry cleaning and gold fish shop inside. All I needed next was for my hair to fall out and my arms and legs to snap off.

I backtracked through the penthouse to my wing and shut the door. The anxiety didn’t quit, even with Mom and Kelle out of sight. My hands went numb. Dang, I started having hiccups. Excuse me.

Shoving two more pieces of nicotine gum in my mouth, I wiped the saliva from my chin. The drool was out of control.

I had to do something drastic…murder Kelle, ask Senator Dolley out on a date, race my Vamp scooter off the Brooklyn Bridge and into the Hudson River while wearing an “Eddie Easton’s #1 Fan” concert t-shirt, or…I could sell my Lady V on eBay. So many choices to pick from, how could I decide?

Withdrawing my cell from my pocket, I called the only girl in town that might help me.

My BFF, Taddy Brill.

Review Opportunity: Yours Truly, Taddy by Avery Aster



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Chapter Two

Mister Softee

“Lex-a-licious!” Taddy picked up on the first ring.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“Vive and I are at Bergdorf’s. They have that angora sweater Christina Ricci wore in Teen Vogue. I fricking L-U-V it. There are no dark colors in your size. Want me to ask the sales guy if they can custom order you one? I’m buying it in red, for myself. Oh my Lord & Taylor, we are having a fabu day getting our clothes for school. Before the BG, we shared a Nicoise salad at Le Bernardin. Vive ordered a Cosmo and got her dumb butt carded. Vive woulda been fine too, if she hadn’t acted all Farnworth-liquor-heiress righteous and proceeded to tell the waiter how to train the bartender on the specific way to shake her Cosmo. Can you believe her?”

“Yes,” I muttered, trying to get into this conversation.

“I wanted to crawl under the table and die. Instead we drank Diet Cherry Pepsi. So embarrassing! Let’s be serious, girl. We need to buy fake ID’s for going out to bars and stuff. Yesterday in spin class, Blake told me where he got the driver’s license he uses to get into those gay clubs in Chelsea. I told him to get you and Kelle an ID too. Be warned, if Blake Morgan’s sex life is better than ours I will totally wig the Fendi out on all of you. Whatcha doin’?”


Taddy inhaled deeply and waited for me to yap right back.

I chewed my gum. Salads, shopping, underage drinking, and the idea of sex had put Taddy Brill into serious overdrive. “Mmm.”

There was something comforting about Taddy’s shopping silliness. She’d thought about me.

“Lex love, you want an angora Ricci sweater and a fake ID or not?”

“No. Taddy….” I paused. Errr. A few minutes ago I was doing so good trying to make light of what happened. Never did I imagine I’d get this upset. Or be shaking. Dropping to the floor, I curled up in a ball. The tears fell.

Does anyone ever get used to this crap? There was no shield of protection between me and my parent’s cruddy actions. I wanted to call Carrie Fisher, you know Princess Leia from Star Wars and tell her that I’d relived her semi-autobiographical Postcards from the Edge novel about her childhood with her mother, Debbie Reynolds, but I didn’t have her number.

“Darling, we can skip over to Barney’s and see if they have it in your favorite color, bloody, black, burgundy, whatever the hellaballo you call it. We’ll get ya one. It’s nothing to get upset over.”

I felt my frown invert. Then I laughed, and knew neither Bergdorf’s nor Barney’s has ever carried my size. That was the funniest thing I’d heard all day. “Try Saks or Bloomies women’s department. And my favorite color is called vamp.”

“Get your gorgeous self on your two-wheeler and come uptown. Let’s hang at Bloomies. Oooh, and order that Forty Carrots yogurt you luuuv so much.” Taddy suggested.

See, again, she thought about me. That was love, right there.

“Not today. I gotta—move.” The idea came out so naturally. I knew moving out was the right thing to do.


Before Taddy could rapid-fire questions, I inquired calmly, “Do you think Vive would let me stay with you girls for a bit. Till school starts?”

Taddy had roomed with Vive at the Sherry Netherland, for free btw. Her parents weren’t helping her with college. They hadn’t paid for her Avon Porter education either. Birdie had covered her tuition for the last few years without Taddy knowing who paid what. Sober Mom wasn’t all bad. Money to her was like vodka, in one hole and out the other. The only thing Mom wanted credit for was her beauty and songs.

“Ummm. Dah!  Of course. Want me to talk to Miss Vive? She’s standin’ right here.”

“No. I merely wanted your thoughts, is all.” I wasn’t comfortable asking for help.

“Ah, huh. You don’t sound too good.”

Yuk. I flung a wad of saliva off on my sleeve, swallowed, and replied, “I’ll live.”

“Is Birdie being her usual self?” Taddy’s voice became serious, “Lex, are you okay? Did something happen?”

“Daddy is in Tokyo. Jack Daniels has been Mom’s only source of nutrition since I’ve moved in. And Kelle came over today and celebrated with her.”

“Nooo.” Taddy screamed so loud that I thought she’d blown-up my phone.

“Yup. They’re on her bed going at it.”

“Holy Mommy Dearest on a wire hanger! That is fugged up.” She muffled the phone for a few seconds and shouted some more.

In the background, I heard Bergdorf’s security team asking her to leave their store if she didn’t calm herself down. Taddy was always getting herself kicked out of there.

The phone sounded as if it had changed hands.

“Lex! Hey girlie, it’s Vive.”


“Taddy went to go pay for her fuzzy sweater.” Vive giggled. “Honey, I’m sorry to hear about your Mom and Kelle.”

“Me too.” I closed my eyes wishing I’d blend into the carpeting.

“Let me call my driver to haul your wardrobe. We’ll be in Soho within an hour.”

“Really?” I sat up from the floor. “You’re serious?”

“Honey, you wear Chanel. I don’t kid about couture.” Vive cackled.

Farnworth Firewater liquor heiress Viveca Farnworth was the only Avon Porter student who’d talked to me and Taddy when we’d started going there. Labeled “tabloid girls” from the start, everyone had avoided us, except for Vive.

A few years later, the school had gone co-ed, admitting Blake on a scholarship. No one had talked to him either. That’s pretty much how the Fab Four had started.

“Pack up your life. We’ll load it into the limo. There’s a street-bike parking space on Fifth Avenue and Fifty-Ninth Street for Vamp. The doorman stands in it all day long, scratching himself. No one uses it.”

“Why not?”

“Honey, who on the Upper East Side rides a friggin’ motorbike?” Vive snorted louder and longer than before. “The spot is all yours. Stay the entire semester. Hedda Hopper will be so happy to have you with us.”

Hedda was a Lhasa Apso that Taddy and I had bought for Vive after our stint in juvie. It was the week her parents had forced her to give up the baby. The pooch didn’t fill the hole in Vive’s heart for the love of her child, but it gave her something to care for. We were like fifteen.

I wiped my eyes. “Thanks, Vive. You and Taddy are the best.”

“Oh and Lex, before I forget—”

“Yes.” I sniveled.

“You’re gonna get through this. Birdie cares for you. She’s just sick. Kelle, on the other hand will be gettin’ a piece of my mind when I see him in my journalism class in a few weeks. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

I hung up and started packing. From YSL to Gucci, I shoved and stuffed anything and everything that would fit. All the while, I chomped on my gum and highlighted in my head the top ten fears and worst moments of my life. In chronological order, they were:

  1. Puberty advice to pad my bra, or not wear one at all. I was nine then.
  2. A locked refrigerator. No parent should starve their child. Birdie had called it food monitoring.
  3. Paparazzi which has tormented and snapped photos of me (usually when I was at my worst) my entire life. Such as…when I’d eaten a chocolate and vanilla twist cone, dipped in a raspberry hard shell and dusted with rainbow sprinkles. Purchased from a Mister Softee truck, parked on Madison Avenue—while standing outside in one hundred degree weather with one hundred percent humidity, in a horizontal-striped-sheer-stretchy poly-blend sun dress—which had ridden itself almost entirely up my bum. How I knew it had ridden up my bum? See number 5.
  4. A Vicodin, given to me by Dad to stop my hysteria, instead of a band-aid or a hug, after I’d fallen and scratched my knee on Madison Avenue while running from the Paparazzi. I was like eleven.
  5. The photos of my backside, at the ice cream truck, appearing on the cover of The Manhattanite Times the very next day. The headline had read, “Alexandra the Great Swallows for Mr. Softee.”
  6. A mother who has and forever will have a hotter body, prettier face, and better hair than I do. Even when I’m seventy years old and she’s like dead.
  7. A father who was never around. Years have passed without him walking through our front door. I’m not sure he even knows Birdie sold the Central Park West mansion and moved to Soho last year. I should probably give him the new address.
  8. The fear I’ll never meet or exceed my parent’s financial or professional success, regardless of what industry I work in. According to the economics class Vive and I took our senior year, I have less than a five percent chance to make it as an adult without riding my folk’s coattails to maintain this lifestyle. Poor Vive, her family is the second richest in North America. She has less than half a percent.
  9. Infamy! I’ll forever be associated with the Easton’s.
  10. Birdie and her full-on, balls-to-the wall sex with my high school sweet-heart. I had loved Kelle Sterling Dolley. Or at least, I thought I had.

Fifty minutes later, my toiletries, shoes, and day-evening-school wear were all thrown into nine Louis Vuitton wardrobe trunks. One garment wasn’t going to see the Upper East Side, my striped-stretchy dress, circa childhood from hell. I found that effer in the back of my closet. Birdie must’ve packed it when we’d moved downtown.

“I cannot believe I didn’t burn you ages ago.” Alone, I shouted out loud to the dress as if I were a mad woman, because I was. I carted that rag of bad memories to the bathroom and threw it in the tub.

“Ah-ha!” In the medicine cabinet, I found an aerosol can of StrawberryNet’s Ultra Mega Super-duper Hold Extreme Hairspray. I doused that dress and lit a match. “Burn, baby, burn!”

On my way out, I dumped a shoebox of photos into the inferno too. “I bid you adieu.” They were of Kelle and me from prom, homecoming dance, and our winter formal. It was all there.

Peaceful and quiet, the penthouse seemed unoccupied. Birdie had probably passed out.

I jammed two more nicotine gum pieces in my mouth. Jaw tensing, teeth snapping, I chewed up one mofo of a wad, I imagine no one had ever chewed before or has since.

The elevator doors opened.

Onto the lift I pushed one case in, then two, and so on. I turned back to get my purse and my helmet when “lover boy” approached.

He acted as if he’d arrived mere moments ago.

“Lex.” Puffy lipped and woman-handled, Kelle’s red eyes didn’t make contact with mine. His attempt to kiss me on the cheek failed when I pushed him away from me.

“Get lost Kelle.”

“Whaa?” He played innocent.

“I saw what you and Mom did. For crying out loud, residents as far away as Staten Island could probably hear you two with all that moaning and groaning.”

“Ugh.” He raked his fingers through his light brown hair. Flipping his part from left to right, Kelle stood there, speechless.

“Say something for yourself!” I so wanted to fight. Growing up Easton had taught me to throw punches and kicks.

“Sweets.” He air-pumped his hands in a “let’s calm down, I’m stoned” kinda way. “I came to get you. You were out. Mrs. Easton gave me blow. I got too high. We smoked to chill. The end.”

“Now you’re doing cocaine?” In two short hours he’d gone from gorgeous to hideous, right before my eyes.

“Just a few lines. One thing led to another. Mrs. Easton’s clothes popped off. Mine did too.”

“Popped off?” I repeated his malarkey. Rolling off my tongue, it tasted as if I’d licked Hedda Hopper’s curvy tail, complete and utter dog-do. On instinct, my right foot jetted out. “Hmmm.” I gauged the distance. Kelle needed a kick in the head. I owed him at least that. Dang, he was too darn tall for me to give him one.

“Whaddya want me to say.” He grimaced annoyingly, and in his mind and in his world, I bet he walked on some kind of mythical water, making him impervious to any repercussions.

The urge to hold him under his own Kool-Aid, till every ounce of air had left his lungs, tore at me with temptations ten times stronger than my usual cravings to go to Dylan’s Candy Bar.

Now I understood why women on the TV show “Oh Snapped” had whacked their hubbies in acts of rage and passionate revenge. Their victims had earned it. Regardless, there wasn’t a swimming pool in this Soho high-rise for me to even try drowning his sorry ass.

“Well?” he asked again.

Where would I start with the inventory of things this moron could say to me?

“How ‘bout, I’m sorry?” I suggested. My eyes finally locked with his.

Not only did we both know that “us dating, him taking my Lady V,” was way over, but he wasn’t sorry.

“Lex, no matter what happened, I came for you. Come. Be with me.” In a thick manipulative tone, he beckoned me.

“Go f—”

“Babe, come to Kelle.” With kahunas bigger than coconuts, Kelle caressed his gym-toned chest. Ever so slightly, he lifted up the front edge of his shirt, a smidge, enough to lower my focus from his soon-to-be-busted face onto his cheating body’s six-pack, navel, and happy trail patch.

The blankety-blank knew right there that what he just did always made my scalp tingle, insides flip-n-spark, eyelashes flutter, and Victoria Secret’s oh so wet.

Well, not anymore, sistah!

Sheepishly I held a breath and flashed my teeth giving him a bit of Geri Halliwell’s sexy persona, Ginger Spice from the Spice Girls.

All fake, of course. Oh there’d be more. I still had to get through Baby, Scary, Sporty, and Posh Spice. Trust me, Sporty was my favorite.

Walking over to him, I got all Baby Spice first. I traced my pointer finger over the horse emblem on his Polo shirt. One of the many gifts I’d bought him, months ago, when he’d turned eighteen.

He flexed his pecs when I glided a thumb over the navy blue cotton. Inhaling Mother’s signature perfume, Dirty Birdie on him, more commonly referred to by the fragrance industry as an instant hit. I gave his nips a teasing pinch. He winked. And in those flat green eyes, I saw something fuglier than I’d ever thought possible, narcissism.

Maybe he thought I’d forgive and forget.

What a pigtard.

Good Lord, I wanted to get all Scary Spice and stab him with my vampy nails. But they weren’t acrylic like Taddy’s or jewel-tipped like Vive’s. They weren’t even buffed like Blake’s to scratch up Kelle’s soon-to-be-f’d-up face. Instead, I’d asked him the dreaded question, the one that would either confirm or dismiss my own foolishness.

“Was today your first time screwing my mother?”

His mouth, which had kissed my neck and whispered in my ears—the one I had dreamt one day would go down on me, nibbling slightly on my clit, saying goodbye to Lady V hung wide open.

A thick, pinkish tongue, the one I had fantasized would flick my nipples while in our hotel room overlooking the Champs-Élysées as he thrust his fat cock deep inside me, twitched.

Nothing came out.


Kelle had already said enough. But I still had to hear the answer. Birdie sure as fudge wouldn’t tell me what’s what in a gazillion years.

I grabbed onto his shoulders. I shook. I demanded. I screamed. “Tell me the truth!”

“No. It’s not.” His forehead wrinkled. Amazed by his admission of guilt, I guess.

“Pathetic. That’s what you are.” Drawing my nicotine lips close to Kelle’s wide, hanging-open mouth, I spit my gum and all the Cujo-ish saliva I had built up all afternoon down his silicone-sucking throat.

“You—fat, dumb cunt!” He yelled, gagging and wiping himself.

Hearing those words was worse than any bullet to my heart. More painful than watching Kelle share himself with Mother, and never once with me.

In a flash, I got all Sporty Spice and kneed him in the balls—once, twice.

Bent over with the wind knocked out of him, Kelle grabbed at his nuts. He shouted more of the same mean ugliness at me.

“I want an apology!” Cupping my hands together into one fist, I used all my might, stood on my tippy toes, and down-punched the back of his head.

He dropped to his knees. And then I had my shot.

Bam! I kicked in his once-beautiful face. The buckles on my knee-high biker boots jingled and then ripped his skin worse than any acrylic, jeweled, or buff nail ever could.

Dang that felt good.

Violence was never the answer. However, when used in moderation, it was nothing shy of total fabulousness.

“Fuck Lex.” Up on his feet, he stood taller than I’d ever seen. He charged me.

Feet planted firmly, I stood my ground and kept my blue eyes on his crazy ones.

He slapped the right side of my face then punched my left.

Shit. I flew a foot or two back but managed not to fall. Jeeeez, I thought I’d see stars. And I’d figured those white snowballs might return perhaps, in blizzard form. Candy dots with vibrant colors too. Or at the least, my cheeks would’ve felt stung by a bumble bee.

I felt nothing. No pain. Not the loss off him. Not the stab in my soul from Mom. Why? I guess because after all of this was said and done, I still had me! Tomorrow I’d be eighteen. Life was so much better than this. It had to be.

“Sorry.” Covering his mouth in regret, he muttered that I had every right to hit him and he had never intended to hurt me.

“Whatever.” It was what it was, and what it was, was ugly. He never loved me.

“You and I didn’t have to be like this, Lex. We’d been together for a while. We weren’t having sex.” He buried his fists into his jean pockets.

Why was it that whenever a boy wasn’t getting laid by his girl, he’d use any excuse to destroy her?

“That was your choice. Not mine.” My back straightened.

I hated this subject. I’d tried too many times to seduce him. In the process, I’d lost myself and the love I once had for who I was.

“Lex, look at you. I’m not. I can’t—”

“Shut up, Kelle. We’re over!” Swallowing a scream, I grabbed my purse, riding gloves, and helmet.

“You promised…you’d lose the weight.” Pathetically he defended his right to treat me less than human.

I stepped into the elevator, pushed the button, and said, “My size isn’t of concern to you anymore.”

His arms came wide blocking the doors from closing. He slammed the hold button.

“Stop, I’m done with you.” Ready to ride Vamp out of here, I put my biker gloves on.

But I had to look at Kelle one last time. Not for who I thought he was, but for what he really was. Could someone you’d grown up with, who you’d loved so much been that blinded by Birdie’s fame? I tried to sense if he had any remorse that I might’ve overlooked.

Catching his image in the mirrored interior of the elevator car, he posed and seemed not at all regretful for today, but rather proud of sleeping with her and not me.

While the Queen of Rock must’ve been a huge notch on his belt, he’d given new meaning to her song, “Lucifer’s Mistress.” He truly was the devil in disguise.

Vive had one said, “I wished I had a penis—I’d whip it out and take a leak on him.” She was a little less tactful than Taddy with her words of wisdom.

Anyways, we’d been eating dark chocolate mousse, overhearing some cocky boy trash-talk his girl at The Black Tea Room after she’d asked us what we’d been devouring. The girl had recognized me from before at the women’s department at Saks trying to buy something to wear.

Her face had reddened with humiliation from the way her boyfriend had treated her in front of us. I had been taken aback that she didn’t get up and leave his boney butt. Instead, she’d sat with her guy, had ordered nothing, and watched him eat. All the while he’d lectured her on what she should and should not put in her mouth.

Then and there, I’d promised myself I’d never date a douche bag like him. Little had I realized I’d been desperately dating him all along.

Looking at Kelle in the elevator, loving on himself, I realized even if I were to lose this weight he probably still wouldn’t love me. I finally understood what Vive had meant. Men who use woman do it because it makes them feel better about themselves. They will always treat women as they please but only if we let them. I didn’t get that till now.

“Where are you going?” He noticed my trunks of clothes.

“Some place where I’m loved.” Nudging my helmet against him, I pried his hands off the door.

“Later Easton.” He acted too cool for me and released the hold button.

The panel lights flashed.

“Tell Mom, I said, thank you, for this favor.”

“Huh?” Arms crossed, he stood in the foyer.

“Today, I saw many things go on in that bedroom but protection wasn’t one of them.” My grip on the helmet tightened. I clenched my thighs, ready to unleash the nastiest revenge of all. Yes, worse than anything I’d seen on “Oh Snapped.”

“Mrs. Easton’s eggs are already scrambled and fried.” Kelle laughed.

“Spare me.”

“Rubbers don’t fit right. I hate the way they feel.” Without a care in the world, he walked back into the main room all smug. Goading me, he glanced and pointed at the hallway to Birdie’s room, then back to me and invited, “Join in the fun. Mama’ll show you how it’s done.”

I’d sworn I’d never tell. After today, all bets were off.

“Oh Mister Dolley, it ain’t Mama’s eggs or your lover boy comforts, I’m talking about.” Pushing the ground floor button, I finished, “it’s Birdie’s herpes that’ll get ya.”

The Abercrombie wannabe, Senator’s son, peace of Lhaso Apso crap-on-a-stick, pussy car driving, voluptuous-woman hating, coke-sniffing, MILF’s lover boy, otherwise known as Kelle Sterling Dolley, who’d probably just gotten himself an incurable STD gaped.

“Buh-bye now!” I waved, getting all Posh Spice.

The doors closed and so did this chapter of my life.

Or so I’d hoped….

PS, Don’t wanna talk about the flammability of StrawberryNet’s Ultra Mega Super-duper Hold Extreme Hairspray when burned with a poly-blend fabric and photo paper.

Two words: Ka Boom!