Innocent 3: Brandy: The League of Worldly Wise Innocents, #3

By L. A. Zoe

Brandy craves a dramatic, overwhelming, world-shaking, burning-hot romance, not a bank teller.

She likes co-worker Derron, but can't see him as a serious romantic partner until she discovers he has a secret life as a poet. 

Yet he refuses to trade his boring job for the exciting life of a poet. He wants a comfortable lifestyle, and to support his daughter. He enjoys being boringly responsible and hard-working. 

Brandy's friend Melinda wants to initiate Brandy into her world of wild orgies.

Brandy and Derron can't deny their passion for each other. 

So Brandy discovers passion can burn as well as exhilarate.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Love Conquers All Press
• Release date: Mar 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386220718

Book preview

Prologue to the Entire League of Worldly-Wise Innocents Series

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The long table covered with a white, Italian damask tablecloth seated nine gorgeous young ladies wearing glamorous, cocktail party dresses.

Ten, gorgeous young ladies counting herself—Veronica Orlando.

She allowed her heart a few moments to savor the pride of bringing the ten of them together. She deserved it.

The grandfather clock in the Cromwell Deluxe Hotel’s Presidential Suite’s front room chimed 10:00 P.M.

A waiter in white pants and a red suede jacket wheeled a rattling, clanking room service cart containing the last of the dinner dishes and silverware over the threshold, then shut the door behind him.

The air was still redolent with the odors of the filet mignon, asparagus in a white cream sauce topped with sliced roasted almonds, herb salad with vinaigrette dressing, baked potato, and mince pie topped with whipped cream.

Time to begin.

Before the others began drifting off, or drank too many glasses of the incredible Moet & Chandon champagne. Several bottles of it sat in aluminum ice buckets.

Veronica Orlando used the remote to shut off the background music of Brahms’s Piano Concerto No 1, and tapped the bowl of a shining spoon against the rim of her fine crystal water glass.

Ladies, ladies, she called out in a loud but still sweet voice, then clapped her hands to get their attention.

To Veronica’s immediate left, Simone Beverly sat up straight, hands in her lap, prepared to listen to Veronica as attentively as she did all her college professors. She wore bright emerald to set off her green eyes, milk-pale skin, and long auburn hair. Her dress was more conservative than the others, close to a formal gown. It went below her knees, and, between her neck and waist, left no inch of skin uncovered except her forearms and hands. However, the glowing scarlet of her lipstick hinted at repressed passion, despite the sharp aristocratic features of her face.

Veronica continued: In one week, next Saturday afternoon, we will all graduate from Miss Irene’s Finishing College of Fine Arts for Girls.

They chuckled, and Veronica paused to let them digest her wording. Of course they recognized the original name of their school. Though both school and name had long since been upgraded and modernized and, since a National Organization for Women (NOW) lawsuit filed in 1995, young men also attended The Cromwell School of Fine Arts.

Seated to Simone Beverly’s left, Elena Morales smiled broadly at the joke. Besides her incredible beauty, her relaxed good humor made her welcome at every social event. She had the gift of not only enjoying life, but helping others to see the joke. Her light-yellow dress accented her brown skin. As well as native-level English and Spanish, she spoke fluent French and passable Mandarin. Yet she cut her hair in some complex, weird hood-style. With her broad, curved figure and high, large breasts, Veronica preferred to call her the more romantic and sexy ‘Latina’ rather than the more politically correct ‘Hispanic.’

We are different in many ways, but in many, more important ones, we are a lot alike, and therefore different from the ordinary female college students, at CSFA, or anywhere.

Next to Elena Morales, Brandy Ewing. In contrast to Elena, Brandy was the skinniest of the ten. The chiffon dress hanging by straps from her shoulders should have clung to her figure, but instead hung loosely, emphasizing how little bone structure Brandy had. The dress’s dark blue color blended in with her dark brown skin, so Brandy seemed almost to blend in with the background. Yet she stood tall and proud, and her features were as long as noble as Simone’s. Her basic shyness was often mistaken for standoffishness.

A stranger looking at us all right now would not guess it, but we all come from humble backgrounds. Only a few of us got any financial help from our families to attend this school. We made do on grants, scholarships, part-time jobs, and student loans. To have come this far is, for all of us, something we can always be proud of.

Alicia Wu sat next to Brandy Ewing. Except for her clothes, she was a classical Chinese beauty with almond black eyes right out of a Ming Dynasty painting. Shiny black hair that reached nearly to the small of her back, held in place by a shiny gold clasp. She wore a little black dress of shiny bangles. No shoulders at all. It began just above her breasts and went to just below the middle of her sleek thighs. Nearly as small around as Brandy, Alicia did not look skinny only because she was much shorter, and her thin body curved. Not large curves, but definitely feminine.

We all want more out of life. We’re not going to be satisfied with just working our way up to an ordinary standard of living. Our meeting here at the luxurious Ritz-Carleton, wearing clothes we had to stretch to rent, symbolizes our commitment to the best in life.

Janeesia Williams sat at the other end of the table, across from Veronica, swigging down champagne. She was the largest of them all. Not the tallest, but certainly the largest. What personal ads described as full-figured. Although she didn’t look like Oprah, people kept comparing them, because of her size, and because Janeesia radiated so much charm. Elena made everyone part of the party, Janeesia made everyone her personal friend. She wore a strapless glitter dress down to her ankles, making her look like a torch singer out of an old movie, such as Lady Day.

And, of course, more out of life. Including the best men. Not ordinary men, no matter how good they are. We demand extraordinary men. The best available. As part of the good life. And, perhaps, though we aren’t golddiggers, as our ticket to the good life.

To Janeesia’s left, the first woman seated on Veronica’s right side, Cynthia Desperes was trying to keep her brave face on, Veronica could tell. Trying to keep her insecurity under control. In her brown dress, so ordinary she could wear it shopping or to church, Cynthia was the one Veronica had to work the hardest to convince to attend. With her brown hair and hazel eyes, and her mid-sized figure, she had trouble believing men could find her beautiful. Yet her very modesty, plus her fresh Grade A whole milk, American girl next door, look attracted many boys.

We are all beautiful. We are all smart. We are all sophisticated. We are all ambitious. We are all hardworking and diligent. We are the crème de la crème of young American women.

Here! Here! Sarah Khampone shouted as she banged her spoon against her glass.

As though to compensate for her grandparents escaping a country few Americans had ever heard of—Laos—Sarah seemed determined to make certain nobody could overlook her. She wore a skimpy, dazzling bright red dress. It set off the streaks of red she dyed into her short black hair. Sarah drank more than the rest of them, or seemed to, because she was often the noisiest and loudest at mixers and keggers. Yet her final essay on Mark Twain earned her the first A grade Professor Kelly awarded in the past five years.

As proud as we are, we are prouder still of what we’ll accomplish with our lives. We are living at the best time ever, to be young and alive, and ready to seek our fortune.

Beside Sarah Khampone, Katrina Manchester sat in her sky blue dress, smiling at some private joke. Nothing and nobody could stop her inner wheels from turning. Although she majored in the classical languages—Latin, ancient Greek, and ancient Hebrew—she was their class’s summa cum laude. When in class, she wore thick glasses in unstylish frames, without seeming to care what they looked like on her. But without them, her broad, smooth face had a healthy, friendly beauty. Tall and somewhat thin, she intimidated boys without trying. The man who saw past her tough style and glasses would be greatly rewarded.

Veronica continued: So I propose a friendly contest between us. In five years’ time we return to this room. Each will tell her story, and we will decide who has won. Who has won the heart of the best man?

Seated on Veronica’s right hand was Valentina Perez. She wore a delicious pink dress, and looked years younger than twenty-one. The figure of a Latina Barbie doll. With her sweet smile, she seemed the most sheltered and immature of them all, despite the solemn beauty her fingers called forth from the fingers of a violin. Yet her childlike mask hid a core strong as solid granite. She enjoys parties, but the boys who thought they could easily lead her outside soon learned otherwise.

What are our criteria for the best man? Simple. Seven. He must be obedient, faithful, rich, in good health, handsome, available, and good company. Love? That seems to me overrated. If he’s obedient and faithful out of love, that fulfills my requirement. The rest of you will order your priorities as you see fit.

And, herself, of course: Veronica Orlando. Wearing a rich, royal purple gown. Tall and slender, with blonde hair and blue eyes. The original Barbie Doll, if somebody wanted to be rude and insulting. But ready to take on the world.

And, of course, Veronica continued. We have one other trait in common, one not held in much esteem by our society. Unlike most other undergrad college women, we did not casually give boys access to our bodies. Not that we are boring and repressed, obeying old-fashioned religious proscriptions. Or naive and innocent. Not at all. We are modern women who recognize our worth. We place a high value on our beauty, the better to attract the highest quality men, who prefer fresh ladies.

They all applauded, then began filling up their crystal glasses with champagne from the bottles left on ice.

Veronica held up her glass full of sparkling red. Ladies, here’s to the League of Worldly Wise Innocents!

Chapter One

First Day at Work

Steel shutters barred the Bank of America, Chariton Square branch, front door like a prison gate.

Brandy Ewing sat in her car, waiting. Her first real job, and it felt like reporting to a federal penitentiary as one of the inmates.

For the millionth time she checked herself in the rearview mirror.

Hair gathered on top of her head, with curls cascading to outline her face and shoulders. She fluffed them out to fall in a more symmetrical order.

Her face powder and rosy mascara on her cheeks immaculate. She reapplied the Honolulu Honey nude lipstick, and pressed her lips together.

She could no longer smell the Calvin Klein Eternity perfume she applied before leaving, but knew it added to her image of femininity.

The bright, early morning sun cast a brilliant glow, making the neighborhood shine.

Brandy took that as a sign of hope. 

She reviewed her wardrobe. She wore a long, loose but not baggy nylon dress with a bright blue and purple floral pattern. The cool colors complemented and highlighted her dark skin.

It left her shoulders bare except for two straps, but didn’t plunge in front or behind, remaining businesslike, so the bank shouldn’t object. Besides, in the cold air conditioning she would have to wear the white woolen sweater.

The dress fell to her knees, and showed off her figure well despite not clinging. Dresses didn’t cling to her, and she liked it that way.

Not all men did, but then not all men met her high standards, either. Not by a long shot. The kind of men who wanted to see big bumps in front and behind could just go on chasing tail, as they put it. She had a higher opinion of herself than that.

She looked good in her own way, and knew it. Several professors at Cromwell School of Fine Arts told her she could be a model, but she never took them seriously.

Finally, another car pulled into the bank’s small parking lot.  An aging green Dodge Neon. The pounding rap bass louder than a space shuttle launch died with the engine. A handsome young man got out, glanced over at her, then strode to the front door while digging a hand in his pants pocket.

As Brandy got out of her ancient Toyota Tercel, the old man talking on the payphone at the BP gas station next door stared at her.

Ugly old coot. He looked like she feared her brother would in another ten or twenty years. Worn. Rough. Burnt out before his time by booze, and—probably—crack and other drugs.

Despite the heat, he wore an old mustard colored corduroy jacket a size too big for him. It probably fit when he bought it, twenty years ago, but since then he’d lost an unhealthy amount of weight. Who would he want to call so early in the morning?

That zipped through Brandy’s mind in an instant only because of how intently the man glared at her, as though she stole his youth and health.

In her shiniest brown pumps, Brandy walked to the front door. The young man was still fishing in his pocket for the key.

You must be the new teller, he said with a broad smile.

She returned the smile, though not so broad. I’m Brandy Ewing.

He was stocky, with broad shoulders, solid abdomen, and thick thighs. Not fat, but he could easily go that way if, like so many men, he cut back on the sports, but increased the soda and beer.

He wore khaki Dockers and a tan dress shirt with a tie but no jacket. A short haircut.

Simple. Clean cut. No earrings, piercings, or visible tattoos.

He carried himself with a confident, relaxed ease that appealed to Brandy.

I’m Derron Berryman, he said, and shook her hand firmly and politely. I’m a Personal Banker.

Nice to meet you, she said.

You showing off? he asked her, laughing. Arriving before everyone else. Already trying to brown nose your way to the top?

I just like to make a good first impression, she said.

Derron smiled good-naturedly as his eyes widened, and he quickly looked her over. You’re doing just fine.

Could he be the man she wanted? The love of her life? Not likely, despite his pleasant personality. He worked at the bank too, and Brandy hated the idea of dating any man she had to see on the job day to day. Besides, although he looked nice, he also looked—what was the best way to put it?—ordinary.

Just another guy. And a bank employee, yet. Of course, she was now one too, but that wasn’t who she really was. Not really. Just a daytime disguise to earn the money she needed to live on her own.

If Derron was the man meant to fall madly in love with her, shouldn’t they be meeting some other way? At a riot? In Paris? Something more dramatic than this small, quiet parking lot.

The quick clomps of hard shoes striking the asphalt. The old-timer from the payphone walked quickly toward Brandy and Derron, his left hand outstretched, palm up.

She hated being panhandled, and this guy seemed determined. He approached in a rush, practically running up to them.

Derron began to back up, but just as Brandy sensed danger, the hardcore dude was already in front of them, in their faces. Close enough to touch—and smell. Like he spent the night sleeping with dead fish, moldy raw eggs, and his own wine-vomit.

He held his right hand in his jacket pocket. Something in there poked the cloth in their direction.

Oh my God, Brandy said, heart stammering. Don’t hurt us.

Derron slowly began raising his hands. Hey, I can’t get into the bank vault. That’s on a timer, and—

Don’t be an idiot. That’s a federal rap. Both of you, give me all your money before I kill you.

Despite the fluttering in her brain, Brandy realized the robber probably didn’t have a gun in that pocket. Probably just using his finger to point at them.

Probably.

But she couldn’t be certain. Rush hour traffic choked the street just sixty feet away. If one person spotted a gun, they might call 911.

Still, she hated the idea of giving the robber any of her money. By herself, she could probably run away. But she couldn’t leave Derron there by himself. Though, if the robber didn’t have a gun, he could certainly fight the guy.

Do what he says, Derron told Brandy as though reading her mind. Don’t fight back. That’s the bank’s policy.

Come on, come on, hand it over, the man said.

Derron pulled out his wallet, pulled out some bills, and gave them to the guy.

You next, bitch. Come on, I don’t got all day.

Hands shaking, Brandy opened her purse and extracted the three ones she brought to buy lunch from the vending machines in the bank’s break room.

Three fucking dollars? the man screamed. That all you got?

Take it and go, Derron said. You’ve got our money. We don’t want any trouble.

Derron’s appeasing, reasonable tone of voice enraged the robber. His face turned blacker, with a dark orange undertone. His eyes shone with a disturbingly neon light, flickering like a welding torch.

Those weren’t normal eyes. The dude might be whacked out, or maybe even smoked bath salts.

Run, baby. Hard and fast and long—away!

But she couldn’t leave Derron.

He was a man he could protect himself. She just met him a minute ago, didn’t owe him her life ...

The robber pulled his hand out of his jacket pocket, and showed off a bright bluish steel gun that looked so big and wicked evil—

Run! No, she couldn’t escape fast enough, she wasn’t no Jackie Joyner-Kersee.

The robber pointed the barrel straight at her.

Brandy froze, blinded. Her legs quivered, but she couldn’t run.

Give me the rest, bitch or I’ll—

Derron tackled him. They both fell to the asphalt.

The gun went off, exploding loud enough to make her ears hurt, and ring with a lonesome echo. A small cloud of black smoke hung in the air, smelling of gunpowder.

She felt no pain and saw no blood, so the bullet must have missed her.

The two men lay on the ground, arms around each other, struggling for control of the gun.

Brandy jumped to the side to stay away from the front of the gun, then remembered her cellphone. With fumbling hands, she pulled it out of her purse ...

Just as, siren blaring and lights flaring, a police car pulled into the bank’s parking lot at high speed and stopped just in front of the two men.

In a few moments the police, and the two others in cars that followed, had the robber under control. Handcuffed, and stashed into the back seat.

With the danger passed, Brandy began hyperventilating out of control. It hit her she came close to dying, and the panic hormones flooded her arteries. She couldn’t calm down, just get saying, Oh my God, oh my God, when she wasn’t keening/half-screaming.

Her heart beat an