Glitz Kids - Episode 1 E-Book

Alexandria Emilia Rawa

• Herausgeber: Berlinable UG (haftungsbeschränkt)
• Kategorie: Erotik
• Serie: Glitz Kids
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Seitenzahl: 102

Beschreibung

Their lives are full of glitter and parties. They dash through the world cities with astonishing speed and style, spending nights in opulent hotels, drinking lavish cocktails, and getting the most out of their lives. But sometimes they cross the boundaries and tragic consequences ensue. When Rico, a successful soccer player, and a married man, meets Kamila for the first time he isn't sure what drastic change she will bring into his life. Determined to not reveal his sinful one-night experience to his loving wife, he isn't aware that life has its own plans for him and Kamila. Bumping into each other again and again, Rico and Kamila are fighting the demons of the past in a passionate adventure that has no chances to last. Or does it? Glitz Kids is a tasteful erotic novel in which passion, secrecy, love, and pain are closely intertwined. It reveals shameful but irresistible desires, that even the people who have it all sometimes cannot resist.

Leseprobe

GLITZ KIDS

1 / 7

Seduction

Alexandria Emilia Rawa

Cover: Giada Armani

Copyright: BERLINABLE UG

Berlinable invites you to leave all your fears behind and dive into a world where sex is a tool for self-empowerment.

Our mission is to change the world - one soul at a time.

When people accept their own sexuality, they build a more tolerant society.

Words to inspire, to encourage, to transform.

Open your mind and free your deepest desires.

All rights reserved. It is not permitted to copy, distribute or otherwise publish the content of this eBook without the express permission of the publisher. Subject to changes, typographical errors and spelling errors. The plot and the characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to dead or living people or public figures is not intended and are purely coincidental.

Warning of the author

Dear reader,

I have to warn you, you're about to meet an asshole. And I know what you're thinking now: “Jesus, not another one!"

You know what? I feel ya. We all know them, don't we? People who were born with a silver spoon in their mouth and yet can never seem to get enough. People who get everything they want – or just take it themselves. People who pretend to be everybody's darling on the outside, but in reality are arrogant, cunning... well, assholes.

Now I'm grinding my own teeth myself. If I were to write a book about what I have already done with such people in my fantasy, it would certainly not be a romance novel, you can believe me.

But I also tell you, nothing comes by chance. Nothing is forever. And no one is unbreakable.

I'm not referring to myself, by the way, but to my enchanting protagonist Kamila Palander, whose world you’re about to immerse yourself in.

Kamila is... different. To put it mildly. Maybe you'll love her, but maybe you'll hate her, too. I'd like to warn you about that.

No matter how you feel about her – the moment you feel anything while reading, I have already done a damn good job as an author. Don't stop reading at that point! Laugh, cry, hate, rage. You have every right to do so. But keep reading, and see what happens.

With this one asshole you have the opportunity to get a glimpse behind the facade. Take advantage of that. Give Kamila a chance. Allow her to suffer. And who knows – maybe, possibly, you’ll get to see her in a new light?

Yours truly,

Alexandria Emilia Rawa

Prologue

To the world, you're just somebody. For somebody, you're the world.

This phrase is the biggest piece of shit I’ve ever heard, and the person who first said it should have their dirty tongue chopped off.

Unless they already choked on it.

Hatred. That's the dominant emotion on this planet.

And love, because you can only hate when you've also loved.

Then there's the love-hate thing, when you've embraced your hatred so much that you start to love it. Because at some point it’s the only emotion that makes you feel alive.

And I wonder, what about hate-love? If you love, but hate it?

That's what the laminated note in my pocket says. Laminated so that the blood does not smear the ink later and the paper does not dissolve.

Maybe they'll use me as an example in philosophy class sometime for that? If not then at least I’ll be on the news, that's for sure.

"Stop here, please," I say to the taxi driver, spontaneously deciding to walk the last stretch.

I wanted to enjoy the last minutes of my life in the fresh air. Maybe smoke one more cig.

I tip the driver generously, pay with card and wish him a wonderful evening. He could enjoy the privilege of having experienced me as a nice person.

Then the surprise is all the greater afterwards, when he hears.

As I get out I can feel my Tokarev pressing against my ribs. It rests on my stomach, pleasantly warm from my skin, and makes me feel safe. Powerful. Almighty.

Smiling, I straighten my light blonde hair in the side-view mirror of a prolific Audi parked in front of the building. I want to look good when it all ends.

A woman walks past me, and stares. I look back without batting an eyelid, and realize she is unable to look away. She thinks I'm beautiful.

"Whore," I think to myself. I would love to embellish her meaningless face with a bullet to the forehead, right here on the spot, but I have to pull myself together. No, not yet. An electrifying shiver spreads down my neck. But soon.

My name is called at the reception, just like everybody else. I get a seat assigned, like everyone else. I don't attract attention. I'm just another random somebody. Today I wanted it that way. The gun under my clothes is pulsing from my accelerated heartbeat. My appearance in the spotlights will come, fuckers.

If I could give humanity a parting gift, it would be two things:

First, don't love. Or at least love nobody but yourself.

And secondly, consider carefully whether if you die, people will remember you for your deeds or for your failures.

Kamila // Düsseldorf // 05 January 2013

"One third gin, one third crème de cocoa, one third cream. Shaken. With ice," I dictate coolly, while my bored gaze does not leave the barmaid's left eye for a second.

You can only see into one eye at a time, not into both. If you jump back and forth between your eyes, it will be interpreted as insecurity. If you immediately decide on one, it will be seen as arrogance. Which of the two suits me better?

"We don't have any Crème de Cacao, I'm sorry." replies the woman behind the counter. She's lying. She's not sorry. She doesn't care whether I get my fucking cocktail or not. I do - and that's my weak spot, but I don't dream of letting her discover it.

"Then take Kahlúa instead," I pity myself, because they have what I really want, I know they do.

She nods. "So, you would like a White Russian, with gin instead of vodka?"

So a man is like a woman, just with a dick and no tits?

"Exactly," I say.

'No, bitch.' I think, but I won't let my feelings show, because I don't have to give up fighting this fight.

Forgive me for being indifferent, but in my life I have all too often had to explain to some stupefied bartender how to make an Alexander. The first time was a long time ago, and after the third time I stopped counting. Today I just don't feel like it anymore. It's the same excuses I hear from the counter staff every time, and I'm tired of wasting my energy getting upset about it. Especially since I don't give a shit if I have cocoa or coffee liqueur in that damn drink.

The first sip is divine. The cool sweetness runs down my throat, and although I drink very fast, the first sip has already warmed my core by the time I finish.

I put the empty glass back on the counter. Ah. An Alexander never disappoints. Every time I drink one I am pleasantly reminded of why my mouth craves this stuff so often.

The only drawback is its diuretic effect.

A few minutes later I stalked across the hall towards the toilets, glancing at my surroundings. Thank God for creating alcohol even though I don't believe in Him. The only way to endure this society at all is to drink until things seem better.

This gathering is called a film party, where a few hundred selfish C to F celebrities arrive looking for an occasion to celebrate their own existence.

Even where there's actually nothing to celebrate, the pants are thick. You were on the cover of Bunte last month.

I snort contemptuously.

The rich and the beautiful. I wish I were! In reality, they are the nouveau riche and the beautifully made. Those who live behind a façade of green smoothies, determined by boulevard media, plastic surgeons and prescription pills.

What about me? I'm the exception to the rule. Rich, smart, and born this way.

Some of my father's relatives had already gotten into the booming business of luxury hotels before it was popular, and they still do very well – with the nice side effect that I can live in almost every big city for free, and in the best suites. So here we are now. Rock stars, actors, Botox victims – they all celebrate themselves in what is essentially my living room, and I had no say in the matter.

I can't help my intelligence either. I can't fight my IQ of 128, which has been measured several times, but I can help with my looks. Every woman will agree with when I say that I always look good. However, I have less of everything, so I am by and large a victim of my genes.

I am predestined to be hated. And yet, I’m loved.

The moment I enter the bathroom is almost perfectly overlapping with an unmistakable sniff. I can immediately know what the sound is; I’ve heard it enough times by now.

"Hey, Ria." I greet the girl who was hunched over the sinks as I walk by.

"Hey, Kamila." I hear.

That's my name, and she uses it because she knows me. She is still there when I come out of one of the stalls, bladder now empty. She has nothing to fear from me, even with the remnants of white powder still clinging to her nose.

"Great party, huh?" I'm smiling.

She smiles back.

"Have you seen the soccer players?" she asks without looking at me.

I'm listening. I've definitely seen them, but since I basically avoid sports like the devil avoids holy water, it was impossible for me to identify anyone at this party as a footballer. I like athletes. They get a ridiculous amount of money blown up their asses, but they're crunchy too. Besides, they fucking know what physical labor is. For their success they had to work physically from childhood. They had to get up early, train on weekends, attain injuries, run around like idiots and not just keep their mouths shut in the limelight like most of the people here. Me, for instance.

"There are some here, I'll show you right now," promises Ria. She can often read my thoughts from my facial expression without me having to say anything. I allow her to do this.

Ria's alright. In this world completely devoid of morals, she is one of the few people who, for me, comes close to the term girlfriend. Not only because she is incredibly pretty, but because she is the exact opposite of me physically, so I do not consider her to be any real threat. She is five or six years my senior, but thanks to her Filipino genes you can't tell at all. She has a beautiful, symmetrical face with the typical flat nose, almost black eyes and caramel complexion. She's not very tall, but she has exactly what men would call "all the right curves in all the right places". I'm not familiar with it. My job is not to have curves, but to make sure that size-zero clothes fit perfectly onto my frame.

Ria's career is good, but so is mine, so we can be friends.

When we enter the party room again later, to my great relief I notice that the crowd has already cleared. The buffet at the side of the hall is almost empty. Hmm, the causality cannot be overlooked and sums up the spirit of this society: dozens of the pseudo-rich flock to these parties with their Cartier watches and Gucci handbags to fill their bellies and snatch some goodie bags for free. Fuck what's in it, as long as it's free.

Ria and I sit together at the bar. She orders water because she prefers nasal consumption of her substances, and I order another Alexander. I know that since I’m underweight and almost constantly have an empty stomach, I should be careful with alcohol. I just like to know what I should do, and to do the opposite.