And then, almost before she realized it, she found herself thinking of Suzie, wishing that Suzie were here, right now, in this very bed, and that it was Suzie’s experienced tongue down there, licking at her, sucking at her clit.
Her breathing began to pick up and soon a powerful orgasm washed over her as she contemplated this image.
She slept quite well that night.
Chapter 2: On the Beach
Venice, California
July 15, 1994
The office of Hopple and Hopple, Certified Public Accountants LLC, was in a nondescript mid-rise office building on South Venice Boulevard near the canals. The window of the fifth-floor office looked out toward the beach five blocks to the west. A steady stream of colorful characters heading to or from that beach made their way past on the sidewalks below. Matt Tisdale did not notice any of them unless a particularly attractive and/or scantily clad female made an appearance. Right now, the majority of his attention was focused on the thirty-four-year-old CPA sitting on the other side of an oak desk.
Andrew Hopple II was that CPA. He looked like a CPA, dressed in a dark power suit with a red tie, his hair cut short and neatly trimmed, his face clean shaven. Matt did not like him much. Andy, as he insisted on being called, was a grinner, which reminded Matt of Greg Gahn, the hypocritical Mormon tour manager. Aside from the grinning, Andy was full of phony ingratiation while simultaneously coming across as insultingly condescending. He would talk down to Matt about his investments and his net-worth and where his income stream was being directed and stored one minute and then start showing him pictures of the strippers in the adult club he (Hopple) had an interest in the next, thinking, quite mistakenly, that Matt would be impressed by them.
Matt had been a client of Hopple and Hopple since 1987, when Pauline Kingsley, who had been his manager at the time, had insisted that he find an accounting firm to take care of his suddenly blooming income from the new Intemperance contract. He had picked the firm pretty much at random back then and had set up his account with Andrew Hopple the Original, Andy’s father, a boring-as-fuck suit-wearing motherfucker who was about as square as the day was long and had no detectible sense of humor. Still, Andrew (one did not call him ‘Andy’, not even his most lucrative client) had been honest, competent, and was able to explain things to Matt (like how he had arrived at the previous quarter’s tax payments) in way that Matt understood. Though Matt had never had the desire to sit down and have a beer with Andrew, he’d trusted the man and appreciated his dedication and loyalty. Alas, the square motherfucker had gone and had himself a major heart attack last year and had decided to retire to Florida or some fucked-up place like that. Though his name was still up on the wall, he had put control of the family firm in the hands of Andy, his first-born child and namesake.
Matt had always disliked Andy and had gone out of his way to avoid the grinning freak when Andrew had been the boss, but now Andy was the one in charge of the Matt Tisdale account. Matt had wanted to sever his relationship with the firm ever since hearing that Andrew the Original was retiring, but he had been out on the road at the time and unable to facilitate the severance of the relationship. And now, though he was home, having returned from the wildly successful solo tour and with an assload of fresh album royalties, tour profits, and endorsement income that needed to be accounted, he still didn’t have the energy to call it quits. It was undoubtedly a pain in the ass to change accounting firms. Files would have to be transferred; a new firm would have to be found. He decided he would at least listen to what this freak had to say before making a major decision like that. True, he was an untrustworthy scumbag, but he did know Matt’s situation better than a new accountant would.
“This one is Electra,” Andy said, showing Matt a couple of polaroid pictures of a skanky bleach-blonde stripper. In the first picture she was naked, standing next to the pole on the stage. The second picture was a close-up of her face. In this shot, her mouth was open and she had a large clump of semen on her tongue, more of it dripping down her face. “We just hired her last month and she packs the house whenever she’s on the bill.”
“Uh huh,” Matt grunted, hardly even looking at the shots.
“Tight fuckin’ body, I’m here to tell you,” the CPA told him. “And in the face shot ... well ... I took that one in my office, right after she got done giving me my weekly commission on her earnings, you know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Matt said, pushing the photos back across the desk. “Anyway, about my account with you motherfuckers...”
“You should come down to the club with me one of these nights, Matt,” Andy told him, giving him a particularly large, particularly phony grin. “You’ll be my special guest. You can have your pick of the girls for a private lap dance back in one of the rooms. And when you’re my guest at my club, it goes without saying that the lap dance will be very thorough, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Matt said impatiently. “Afraid I’m gonna have to take a pass on that shit though. You see, if there’s one thing I do not have trouble doing, it’s scoring myself some fuckin’ pussy. I don’t need to be in no disgusting, germ-ridden back room with some slut who wasn’t hot enough to make it in legitimate porn.” He paused for a moment, as if considering. “I do appreciate the offer though.”
“Uh ... sure,” Andy said, seemingly hurt by Matt’s refusal. “Keep it in mind though. Our girls are very...”
“Keeping it in mind,” Matt interrupted. “Just don’t hold your fuckin’ breath until I get there. Now, can we talk some business here?”
“Of course,” Andy said. “I just finished up your second quarter report the other night and I double checked everything this morning before you got here.” He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a file folder that had Matt’s name on it. “You’ve done very well for yourself these past two quarters.”
“I know,” Matt said. “My album sold like a motherfucker, still is selling like a motherfucker.”
“You’re not talking out of your ass,” Andy said. “Nine hundred and eighteen thousand copies in the second quarter of 1994, one point four million in the first quarter. My guess is that you will reach triple Platinum before the end of the year.”
“That ain’t no shit,” Matt agreed. “So, what’s the bottom line for the first two quarters here? How much did I pull in and how much am I going to have to give to those fucks at the IRS and the franchise tax board?”
“You pulled in a little more than two point five million in sales royalties for Hard Time, the album, over the first half of the year. You also pulled in around six hundred and eighteen thousand in tour revenue. That includes all revenue contractually paid to you by National Records, which is primarily your share of the ticket sales and the merchandising receipts. That does not include the endorsement income you get from Fender for playing your Strat onstage, or the endorsement you get from Brogan for playing their guitars in the studio.”
“Yes,” Matt said, irritated at his condescending tone. “I understand the fuckin’ endorsement income is separate from royalty and tour income. How much we talking?”
“One point seven million dollars in endorsement income for the first half,” Andy said. “Not bad.”
“Fuck no,” Matt agreed. “They paid me that shit just for doing what I was going to do anyway.”
“The best way to do business,” Andy told him. “In any case, that wraps up revenue from the new album. Revenue from your first album of the contract period—Next Phase—was ... well ... negligible.”