Charlize Benett - Fifty Shades of Lies

“Is everything okay here, Robin?” He eyed her like she was a piece of candy.

“Yes, I am trying to get our visitor to go to the thirteenth floor before she is late for her two o’clock with Mr. Maximillion,” she pursed her lips, frustration lingered on her face. Dang was I in trouble now?

“I see. Listen Ms,” he eyed at me up and down. “You will be fine going to the thirteenth floor. We do it all the time. It is a breeze; it’s not like your going to—hel—lo—hold on.” The phone attached to his belt simultaneously began to ring. “I have to take this.” He snatched out his cell and made a speedily getting away down the hall.

“What? Did he say it’s not like I am going to hell …?” I hesitantly asked Robin, the receptionists if what I thought I heard him say was correct.

“No,” she giggled. “He said something about the bell—I think,” she gleefully smiled.

“I could swear… he said,” My voice trailed off.

“Go ahead and swear if you like, we all do it around here,” she sighed.

“No, I thought he said—never mind—what bell?” I asked, scanning the lobby.

“The one that is ringing, announcing that the elevators are coming down.” Her eyes rolled upward as she pointed her index finger into the air. “Do you hear them?”

Just then I heard a succession of bells—then the sound of elevator doors opening. They echoed in the stark lobby.

The reception sprang to her feet and yelled loudly, “Hold the doors.”

Without further thought, I swiftly ran to the elevator doors… three very beautiful blondes piled out. They were all blushing, giggling and sharing rhetoric about how handsome some guy was. They hardly noticed me and almost knocked me over.

“Excuse me,” I inwardly sighed, passing the girls by and stepped into the elevator.

Out of nowhere, another security guard, who was far more smartly dressed than me in a well-cut black suit leaped into the elevator. It felt like a cheesy scene in a movie that played out perfectly, all in the nick of time.

“I heard you needed an escort.” His face was very rugged, yet emotionally kind in some way.

“Oh dear, well, if you don’t mind,” I squealed.

My eyes flashed on the elevator floor keypad. Sure enough, the number 13 glowed the brightest. The guard nodded, pressing the button to the thirteenth floor and never said another word to me the entire way up. This made for a very awkward forty-five seconds. However, I didn’t mind gawking over his firm buns, in the meantime.

I am definitely an ass-woman, that doesn’t sound right— rephrase —I love a man with a tight ass. There is nothing sexier, than seeing a naked man from the rear; it is a sight that leaves me breathless. I love powerful—manly muscles, broad shoulders tapering into narrow hips that curve into a hard athletic ass. Don’t get me wrong. I like the front side of a man, as well. I also find it attractive when a man can carry on a conversation. In the least one that talks. Is this asking too much?

What was wrong with this guy? Was he a mute? I wished he had uttered something about the weather. A little small talk would not have hurt. The silence was painstaking. What was the point of him escorting me if he wasn’t going to try to soothe my nerves? What if I screamed, would that make him react? Speak? Blink? At the end of the ride, I concluded he was the strong silent type.

The elevator stalled a few times on the way up. I felt a pang of panic in the center of my chest. Finally, the elevator stopped on the thirteenth floor. The doors silently flew open and I nearly jumped out. Always being polite, I turned to wave good-bye to the elevator security guard. His face was deadpan, he nodded, I smiled and the doors closed.

I stood in another large foyer; again it was lined with floor-to-ceiling glass windows, with black and red walls, painted in a checkerboard pattern. In front of me was another desk made of black marble. Another young woman dressed all in black, go figure. She was uncannily similar to Robin the receptionist downstairs. This pale-blond haired beauty had even more breast cleavage spilling over her outfit. She rose to greet me. At closer observation, I guessed that she was not much older than me. She looked like a pudgy, petite playboy bunny that was stuffed into a Cabbage Patch doll dress.

“Miss Ridame, could you wait here, please?” The blond pointed to a seating area of red leather chairs.

On the wall behind me hung large pictures of previous contestants; they were all extremely beautiful women. I recognized a few familiar faces from prior seasons. The women displayed were the show’s successes. There were quite a few, a dozen or more. According, to the tabloids these women were all happily married to rich, well groomed older men, and younger wealthy men too. All of them were model-material and gorgeous.

Beyond, the receptionist’s desk was a large window with a view of the Santa Monica Pier in the distance. I could see the Pacific Ocean; it was a stunning vista. I stood, admiring it, momentarily distracted before I took a seat.

I fished out of my tiny Chanel the sheet of paper with Bleu-Rae’s answers to why she wanted to be on the show. I went through them, inwardly, cursing Bleu-Rae for not making her notes legible. My eyes scanned the ludicrous chicken scratch.

I want a man that can take me to Paris once a year. I want to get my hair done at the most expensive places. My husband must take me to dinner five times a week, and buy me Botox and lip injections every six weeks. I want a housekeeper, who cooks and cleans. “A must have” is a manny nanny (who is hot) to watch over my rich little babies. Our children will be adopted. I can’t risk becoming a lard ass from having brats.

The list went on and on. What the fuck was my sister thinking? I would be embarrassed to use these answers. I crumpled up the sheet of paper and stuffed it between the arm and cushion of the chair. There was no way I would use them.

I knew nothing about the man who was about to interview me. My nerves began to kick in. I am uncomfortable with this one-on-one stuff. I am much better in a group scenario… preferably when someone is not asking any questions to me—kind of like an orgy, but not. My eyes scanned the lobby, well, judging by the decor—he’s probably in his thirties… fit, tanned, and blond, to match the rest of the personnel. God, I hoped he didn’t don those artificial highlights that some men are getting. Yuck. This look is too metro-man for me.

Another elegant, flawlessly dressed blond came out of a large door to the right. What is it with all the immaculate blonds? It was like the Stepford wives with large implants here. I took a deep breath and stood up.

“Miss Ridame,” the latest blond asked. “Mr. Maximillion will see you in just a moment. May I take your sweater and umbrella?” She reached out to retrieve my things.

“Oh please.” I handed her the umbrella. “I thought it was going to rain today.”

“Rain…” She stared at me dumbfounded and her movements were robotic, as her eyes darted oddly toward the window. “It never rains in southern California.” She giggled.

This blond was making me feel stupid, how ironic. I am not a blond racist. I had nothing against blond females. Most of my girlfriends have blond hair. I don’t tell blond jokes. Bleu-Rae and I were born blond. But, in some cases, if their behaviors fit the stereotype quips, I will not take pity on them. It is not my fault for judging someone who is acting like a bimbo; whether they are black—brunette, or a redhead haired woman. This was not a case of redhead vs. blondes. These girls were acting— acting —the word pierced my intuition.

She fumbled with my umbrella and it popped open. I almost laughed out loud.