The Mysterious Cover Girl
The Mysterious Cover Girl
“Who is she?”
“Who what?” Milton, my best friend and chief marketing officer of The Lynch Group, tears away from morning news to the cover of Rolling Stone. “That my friend is someone you wouldn’t get to date, much less end up on your bed,” he chortles before retreating to his morning news.
“Are you saying I can’t get someone like her, a DJ? You can’t be serious, Milt,” I look at him with contempt, as I recall my infamous score sheet of actresses and models. Unlike Milton, who’s (happily) married at 35, I’m far from it. Marriage, kids and relationship with women (no matter how beautiful they are) are a taboo. And women, I just wanted to own them, like money and power.
“You heard me, bro,” Milton smirks. “She doesn’t need a man like you or no man for that matter! She’s out of your league, man....wait, you haven’t heard about Ana Fontaine?” he laughs.
“Where have you been, bro...she’s all over the news! Oh yes, busy in-between the legs of....I lost count now...never mind.”
Ignoring Milt, Eric turned to the pages of the exclusive cover story, and it was then that he realised that the enigmatic woman in question was the hottest, wealthiest music producer & DJ, making it to the rich list of Forbes – on her own – at US$10.5-billion, and ranked No.1 in DJ Mag’s Top 100 DJ list.
She’s also a talented visual artist with two paintings that went under the hammer at Sotheby’s last autumn for US$2.5 million. The article didn’t say much about Ana’s life except her music, art and love for nature, preferring to perform at hippy psytrance festivals in the forest, or derelict warehouses and airplane hangers.
Why hasn’t any of my clubs booked her?
Eric’s eyes were drawn to the her exotic face on the magazine spread...part French, part Armenian...her pale freckled skin, light grey-green eyes framed by long lashes, full (pouty) lips.
Oh how I want those lips around my hardness.
Eric could feel his eight-incher swell and tightening in his pants. “Are you still mind-raping her?” Milt interrupts his thoughts, giving a side look. “By the way, you should know that she’s not exactly legal.”
Always the moral compass, Milton Thomas. “What do you mean...legal?”
“She’s only 18, mate,” Milt says with exasperation. “A very rich and successful teenager..whom you probably can’t handle,” he mocks.
“She’ll be 19 next month,” Eric smiles, upon reading a paragraph.
“Jay, get a booking for Ana Fontaine,” he dials his clubs’ general manager.
“But Mr Lynch...she’s a festival DJ... doesn’t play at nightclubs. And she’s always fully-booked,” he explains, with exasperation.
Eric was getting impatient as the seconds went by. He wanted to see Ana desperately and the only way was getting her to play at one of his nightclubs. “If you can’t get her by in two days, find yourself another job,” he cuts the call. “Imbecile.”
Eric was out of focus the whole afternoon. He couldn’t stop thinking about Ana. She has invaded his mind – and fuelled his inner desires to touch her and fuck her.
I needed to know more. Who is she? Why is she such an enigma?
“Find out everything about Ana Fontaine,” he leaves a voice message on his attorney’s phone. “Sergio, I mean everything," texting an image of the cover of Rolling Stone.
Madison Square Park Tower
“Fuck! That’s it!” Eric grasped her hair, thrusting his cock back and forth into her mouth. “Deeper!” She was gagging at the speed, taking him balls-deep into her throat on each thrust. “Fuck! Ahh..good girl.” He loaded into her mouth and watched her clean up every bit of cum from her lips, looking at him from below.
“We didn’t make love,” she whimpers, standing stark naked and flaunting her firm B-cup tits on her athletic body. Eric was unmoved.
“You may go now, I have work to do.” She left in a huff, cursing under her breath. Eric couldn’t remember the brunette’s name...and he didn’t care. She was one of the many who came and went...over time, over many visits to my joints. All looking for love and money, but he’s always made one thing clear – Everyone comes under his terms. Soon, Ana would too.
Eric answered the door at 10pm. He was happy to see Serg, who came bearing news of his fantasy woman – Ana.
“Evening, sir,” the silver-haired lawyer and (ex) private investigator greets his boss in a thick English accent.
“What have you got?” Eric asks.
Serg showed him pictures of Ana behind the deck playing to thousands of people in the forest of Russia. A picture of her commanding the revellers, one hand in the air and another on the CDJ, with her waist-length hair floating against the wind. Another of Ana that Eric couldn’t take my eyes away: her eyes closed, mouth seductively parted as she looked raptured in pure ecstasy, in an underground dance party in Romania.
The look I’d give her when she’s in my bed.
“She’s beautiful,” Serg observes. “Mysterious.. I understand your attraction... wouldn’t be easy getting to her.”
“That’s not for you to say, Mr Esposito," Eric glares at him.
“Ana Giselle Fontaine,” Serg begins. “Born in New York to French architect Anthony Fontaine and Albanian model Vanessa Luis. Ana ran away from home at 13 to Paris (to join her mother) and never came back to her father’s home until this day. Parents divorced when she was 10, and she has two older brothers, Evan and Oliver who live in LA. She spends most of her time in Russia producing music, and owns houses in New York, LA and Romania.”
“She ran away at 13...to Paris?!” Baby girl has balls.
“She started playing at underground gigs in Paris at 14 and became popular as a drum&bass, psytrance DJ, making friends with the street kids. With her mother’s help, she started modelling at 14 for Helmut Lang and many fashion houses, and developed her artistic talent..painting.”
“That’s it? I need more, Serg.”
“Here’s the thing,” Serg pauses. “According to some, she isn’t easy to work with...rebellious, difficult to get close to...keeps mostly to herself and close friends like childhood friend Jasmine Boulay, fashion stylist Lafayette, her brothers and some DJs.”
“I need to see her,” as soon as Eric finds out that she would be in LA for a recording in the studio with his friend, rapper Denny Lamar before heading to New York.
“One more thing,” says Serg, closing his file. “She was kissing a woman and the picture went viral on social media last month...you may not want to waste...”
“That’s for me to find out, Serg. Update on any new information,” he demands.
That night, Eric scrolled through Ana’s Instagram account and smiled at the sight of her playing at gigs, with her friends at the beach, advocating her love for the environment, and doing charity work in Uganda for the United Nations.
And that rock solid body..fuck!
And it dawned upon Eric that Ana’s a lot smarter than her years. She knows the game of marketing too well, creating her own brand as an underground DJ and music producer and artist, to stand out from the rest. Hell, she has 200-million followers. A superstar..an elusive one.
Sergio’s files showed that she has an investment portfolio, making some smart choices that contributed to her wealth, on top of her music earnings in the last four years. She’s beyond talented, probably as shrewd like her father.
I will own her.