Best Laid Plans - Robyn Kelly (red white and royal blue hardcover .txt) 📗

The best part of working for yourself is never having to take a job you don’t want—unless it’s the only job you can get. Which is why I’m the event planner for Lois Amsford’s fiftieth birthday party. The theme is “Fifty Shades of Anything but Grey,” and whenever anyone within two hundred miles of San Francisco wants a Fifty Shades party, I am the person they call.

It’s not what I dreamed of when I started JW Events (JW are my initials—Jillian Whitkins). I imagined doing weddings, art openings, charity balls, fashion shows, and elegant, sophisticated soirees. But in 2011, Shelly Mitchell wanted a bachelorette party with a Fifty Shades of Grey theme.

At that time, I didn’t know the difference between a flogger and a cat o’ nine tails, so I spent a weekend reading all three of the books. I found male bartenders slash strippers who could pass for deeply disturbed billionaires, scoured every thrift store for gray neckties, and turned a corner of the Starlight Room into the Red Room of Pain.

I had a makeup artist create little plastic burn scars, and we glued them on our shirtless staff. They walked through the party with trays of hors d’oeuvres, stopped at groups of women, and with smoldering eyes barked, “Eat!” We ran out of food within the first hour.

My guys loved it. If they didn’t want to be touched, they could grab the offending hand and say, “Don’t. It’s the way I am.” And if they wanted to be touched, all they had to say was, “You’re biting your lip. You know what that does to me.”

Everyone had a great time and by midnight, Facebook was flooded with selfies of drunk women and shirtless Christian impersonators. Shelly thoughtfully tagged all the pictures to my business, and the next three years were a blur of whips and chains and a healthy bank balance.

I make it very clear to clients that I do not do sex parties. My events are fantasies. The birthday girl may get a spanking, the bachelorette may be blindfolded, there may even be a gentle flogging demonstration, but nudity and sex are not allowed.

Despite my rules (someone actually called me a prude!), no one wanted to hire me for the high-end events I wanted to do. Blushing brides didn’t want to look into the eyes of the woman who saw them do Jell-O shots off the belly button of three different men at their bachelorette party. In fact, I was about to fold the business entirely when the movie came out and we had a brief revival.

That has come to an end. Tonight is the only event I have on the books. It’s time to move on, but I feel bad having to let go of my only employee, Robert. He’s been with me from the start. He provided the “servers” (which is what we call them because it sounds more professional than “hot shirtless guys”) at my first party. When he found out what we were doing, he had so many good ideas and valuable contacts that I started using him at all my events. He’s great at organizing, planning, and general herding—and I couldn’t have done it without him. When he hinted he was looking for work, I hired him on the spot. I’m surprised he didn’t leave me years ago, but he’s a free spirit and wouldn’t do well in a nine-to-five environment, which makes me feel worse about letting him go. People think we’re a couple, but we’re more like brother and sister. And, unlike me, Robert has a husband.

By ten, the party is in full swing. The theme of her fiftieth birthday is “Anything But Grey,” so Lois has insisted that no gray hair is allowed. We have a selection of wigs at the coat check for those with the offending color (including the men), but anyone who wants a secret identity for the night is free to wear one (including the men—and a surprising number of them are).

The downside of a secret identity is that some of the guests are getting a little bold. Our servers started to complain about being accosted and now Robert and I are on guard duty, monitoring the room to protect the virtue of our shirtless staff. I wonder whether it’s a full moon tonight.

“I don’t remember buying a Cher wig,” Robert says under his breath.

I turn to look in his direction. “I think that’s her real hair,” I mutter, trying to keep the jealousy out of my voice. My hair has always been a mess of curls. It’s a burnt copper color and I like how it looks when I straighten it, but that takes more time and patience than I have these days. I’ve always wanted long, straight hair and that’s what this woman has.

She’s young. Mid-twenties maybe, and short, even in those four-inch heels. But it’s the hair you have to notice. Black, straight, and hangs past her dress (granted, it’s a very short dress). It surrounds her, frames her face, and she wears it like a cape. It’s both a thing of beauty and kind of creepy. “She looks like Cousin It from the Addams Family.”

One of my assets is a sense of humor, and one of my character defects is a sarcastic sense of humor. I normally keep it in check, but when I’m nervous or tired, my mouth overrides my social filters.

Robert laughs. “Yes, she does! Ms. It!”

She is texting on her phone, completely oblivious of the party around her, or our stares. Luke, who’s probably the most stunningly handsome of our servers (and he would be the first to agree), approaches her with a tray of champagne flutes.

Robert nudges me. “I think Luke is going to make a move.”

Ms. It looks up from her phone, revealing her face. Her complexion is a pale white, almost vampire white, with bangs cut just above her eyebrows. Her makeup is very deliberate and dramatic, with bright red lipstick and enough eyeliner and shadow to give her raccoon eyes. She takes a glass from