Green Tea Won't Help You Now!
Read Green Tea Won't Help You Now! Online
Authors: Dasha G. Logan
Tags: #dpgroup.org, #Fluffer Nutter
EXCERPT FROM BILLIONAIRE ON BOARD
GREEN TEA WON'T HELP YOU NOW!
By Dasha G. Logan
© 2014 by Dasha G. Logan
All rights reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters, other than historical persons, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Also by Dasha G. Logan:
Billionaire on Board
PLACES OF RELEVANCE
Antigua and Barbuda:
A twin-island state situated between the Atlantic Ocean and the eastern Caribbean Sea.
Berlin:
The capital city of Germany. With 3,5 million inhabitants also the country's largest city. It is famous for its history, its cheap restaurants and its liberal attitudes.
Hamburg:
An extremely wealthy and elegant merchant city state in the north of Germany, the country's second largest after Berlin.
Kitzbühel:
A jet set ski resort in the Austrian Alps. Best known for its World Cup race on the notoriously steep and fast "Streif".
Together with a few other towns it offers one of the world's largest ski arenas.
Lake Tahoe:
A large freshwater lake in the Sierra Nevada mountains, in the United States of America, situated on the border between Nevada and California. Its stunning blue colour is its best asset. A tourist attraction in both summer and winter.
Los Angeles
,
CA:
Right. You know what Los Angeles is.
Venice, Los Angeles:
A beachfront neighbourhood in the Westside district of the city of Los Angeles, California. Its beach promenade attracts artists and tourists from all over the world. The name is derived from its Italian counterpart because in the Californian Venice, there are canals, too.
Other well-known places of interest:
Buenos Aires, London, Mallorca, Monte Carlo, New York City, Shanghai.
(Images of all locations can be found online)
Dear Readers,
I would like to take a moment to give you a heads up before you start reading this book.
Unlike my sister-in-law, whose story, "Billionaire on Board", you might have read. I'm not a trained writer, forgive me therefore if I don't stick to the literary rules all the time. I'm not the most disciplined of characters.
Also, I'm quite challenged by the fact that I'm an English girl living in America. I have decided to write my story in British English, just because it's easier for me, but I may use some American words and phrases from time to time. Please don't hold it against me.
Yours,
Titia
One
He was a Viking god. He was tall and his shoulders were broad, his hair was pure gold and his eyes were as blue as the arctic sea. His face was chiselled perfection. At any given moment I expected him to draw a longsword and wordlessly decapitate the man next to him, licking the blood off his blade and brutally taking me on this heavy oak table in the great hall of his... his... his... lawyer's office.
"Now, Ray, would you kindly explain what exactly your client is asking of mine?" My own lawyer, Latoya, asked of the stocky, grey haired man sitting next to the god, jeering unpleasantly. He was one of those lawyers who usually live in cable sitcoms and obstruct the protagonist's meteoric career.
"She has to change the name of her studio, take down the sign above the door and destroy the merchandise."
"Merchandise?" I huffed, outraged.
"Hush, Trixie, don't let him provoke you. I believe you're talking about the personalised cups and t-shirts my client's students can order for a ten dollar donation to charity?"
"We don't care where it goes, it has to go away. Ms. Beaumont can count herself lucky we don't take her up for industrial espionage."
"Espionage?" I huffed again, even more outraged, but I remembered my training, breathed deeply and produced an inner smile. It helped significantly.
"The similarity to my client's product is too close to be coincidental, wouldn't you agree?" He unceremoniously threw a folder at us. "These were copyrighted three years ago."
Latoya opened the folder and we both stared in disbelief at the documents in front of us. More precisely, we stared at the depiction of a logo. It was the word "InspYre" written in flowing letters of bright magenta. It was an almost exact copy of the one hanging above the door to my studio.
Latoya's mouth shifted dubiously. "Will you excuse us for a minute?"
"Sure. Come on, Alex."
The god nodded and pursed his lips, then he stood up to his full height of 6'6'' ( I googled it) and displayed his Olympian physique, which was enhanced by a perfectly tailored designer suit. He winked at us as if we were two children in the sand-box. "Don't be too long, ladies. We all want to go back to work."
I do not exaggerate when I say Olympian, because that is exactly the term one must use for a five-time gold medallist. In his day, Alexander Silverston had been the world's most acclaimed downhill ski superstar, at a time when I had been busy hating my mother and giving blow jobs to the local rugby team for various stimulants of the illegal sort. I had never taken much notice of him since, in my opinion, the winter games had lost their appeal since the ice skating contestants had ceased to mutilate each other with steel bars. In that distant past, to me, skiing had been a synonym for drinking vodka and shagging a handsome, but intellectually limited instructor in the cable car.
Forgive my vocabulary, but I am what one might call
totally fucked up
. I have my reasons, too.
But back to Alexander Silverston. In 2009 he had suffered a knee injury, which had forced him to retire. Since then, he had founded a sports equipment company and had turned into a successful businessman, (who, from the look of him, at the age of thirty-six, still made ample use of his equipment.)
A few days earlier, on the 21
st
of September, I received a letter from Brighton, Brighton & Yokoshiro, Attorneys of Law, asking me to come to their offices in downtown Los Angeles with legal counsel of my own, regarding a copyright breach to the detriment of the Hard Pack Sports Group. At first I had giggled madly at the image of a group of men sporting their "hard packs" to me, until I remembered how that the term may also refer to a certain type of snow. Fortunately, I
did
have legal counsel of my own in Latoya Deron, who was a regular in my, "Start The Day", class. I told her about my predicament and she promised to accompany me to the mysterious meeting.
Now she looked at me with eyes wide open. "Have you seen this logo before?"
"No. Well, I saw it before my inner eye when I meditated in Nepal."
"They registered this name for a clothing line three years ago."
"But there's no such clothing line. I would know it if there was!"
"No, but they still hold all the rights. If this goes to court you don't stand a chance. You only put up your sign last year. We must hope they won't have any financial demands. It would be the ruin of you. That's our aim. We'll agree to take it down, remove the shirts and the cups, and pray to hear no more of it."
It would not be the ruin of me, but Latoya did not need know that, nor did anybody else for that matter. I was definitely going to agree. Trial was not an option. It would be the end of my life as I currently knew it.
"Yes, alright. But I want it pointed out that it was a coincidence, no matter what they think."
Latoya frowned but nodded. "I'll try."
The unpleasant Ray and the very pleasant Alex observed us through the glass wall separating Ray's office from the main corridor. Finally, Latoya gave them a nod and they walked in again.
"My client has agreed to change the name of her studio and remove both the sign and the merchandise. You see, gentlemen, you can rest your case."
"Ho, ho, not so fast," Ray raised his arms. "We must calculate her monetary benefits and—"
"Fine with me," Alex Silverston interrupted and granted us a radiant smile. "As long as it's done ASAP. I don't want to waste any more time with this. I have a lot on my plate."
I got up and straightened the dark green tunic I had deemed a proper attire for the occasion. "Certainly. I, of course, being just a humble yoga instructor, have nothing on my plate whatsoever."
He looked me up and down. "Yeah, you don't look like you overeat."
"How charming of you to say so."
He laughed. "I'm sorry. I thought you British were famous for your sense of humour."
"Well, Mr. Silverston, I don't eat and I don't laugh," I reciprocated and I walked out of the office.
"You should try yoga!" he called but I pretended not to hear.
Latoya came rushing after me.
Once the lift doors, sorry, the elevator doors - this is America after all - had closed, I sighed in exasperation.
"Hey," Latoya took my hand. "I know you put a lot of work into your studio, but we're going to ask the other students for help and you'll be just fine. You'll find a new name in no time and I'm sure you'll find a few strong men to help you take the sign down. I know one in particular who'd be totally pleased to help you out."
"If you can call
him
a strong man."
We both had to laugh. Latoya was referring to Drake Siriakis, who was my most loyal admirer. For over twenty-five years Drake had been an actor on America's most infamous daily soap, "Rich and Ruthless", embodying the handsome Dr. Logan Moore, who usually showed up to certify a sudden death, heal cancer, detect anorexia, prevent a heart attack or a brain tumour, or whatever these soap opera characters tend to suffer from on a regular basis. He loved me. I did not love him back, but he kept trying anyway. I did not mind. Drake was completely harmless.
Something else lingered on my mind though. "Do you think I'm too skinny?"
Latoya gaped at me. "Wha— wait. Is this about Thor's stupid joke? No, you're not, I can't believe you of all people are saying this to me. I pay you a hundred bucks a month to make me look like you. You're tall and slender but you're not too thin. To say that, in LA of all places... One might even call you fat by industry standards."
"Oh, do shut up. Even I may have some body issues from time to time. I'm a woman after all. — But
he
's not very much like Thor. I think, he's more like the other guy, the TV show guy. Whatever his name is."
"I know who you mean. Ragnulf Longthorn or something."
"Longthorn? No, that was not it. But yes, I presume our Blondie may have a really long thorn."
"Shut up!" Latoya shrieked.
"That explains why he was so fast on skis. He has a magic weapon that pulled him down the hill so much faster than the other contestants. Maybe he's like Thor after all. With a mighty hammer."
We hooted.
But in truth, I was not quite in my equilibrium and I tried to cover it up by joking about it.
Alexander Silverston was very much my type. Very, very, very much.
I like them tall and blond. Kyle, my last boyfriend, or whatever you may call the bastard, had been tall and blond and handsome too. And a faithless, violent coke-head. And a thief. He had put me off men for all eternity, or so I had believed. I
did
have ample opportunity to test my chastity. Venice Beach is crowded with beautiful species of the male human variety. Yet, I had not met a single one who had been able to arouse my physical interest. I had seriously believed that part of my life was over. Until I met Alex Silverston. He annulled my theory within thirty seconds of our meeting.
When I sat in the passenger seat of Latoya's car on our way out of the city, those icy blue eyes did not want to fade from my mind and I was repeatedly attacked by memories of how the man's shoulder blades had moved beneath the fine cloth of his suit. Blame it on the boogie or blame it on Hugo Boss.
My mind kept tracing along his jaw, his slightly square chin and along those subtly smiling lips. He had a lot of inner strength, so I believed myself to have detected, a natural force or some sort of gravitational field... he was a very powerful man in more than one sense. He was a man of some wealth, too, so I had discovered on the internet. His fortune was estimated to be close to seventy million dollars.