From Riches to Rags.

By Mairsile.

Acknowledgements.

This is the first in the Riches to Rags series. There will be plenty more adventures for the two new lovers. Visit me on Facebook or Twitter for the latest, or you can find me on www.Mairsile.com.

Again and again, a million thanks to Joyce, my best friend and supporter extraordinaire.

As always, a million more thanks to L.Fox, my best friend who came to my rescue allowing me to keep doing what I love. G.o.d bless you!.

And last, but never least, may the glory go to G.o.d.

Mairsile.

Prologue.

The place was chaos. Packed so tight that I could barely move between tables. Everyone was talking at once, forks clanked against plates, the juke box blared an Elvis song that had to compete with cellphones that had every ringtone imaginable, and me with a pounding headache.

"Waitress, we are still waiting on our coffee."

I rushed over to the counter, grabbed the carafe of coffee and two cups, then I rushed back to the two people sitting at table number twelve.

"Im so sorry about that, maam," I told her as I filled their cups with coffee, "a tourist bus pulled in here from Graceland, and weve been swamped."

"Thats no excuse for bad service."

I glanced at the impatient patron who was already pushing all my b.u.t.tons. She was obviously rich, obviously impertinent, and obviously hung over. It felt like I was looking at myself, just ten months ago. "Your breakfast will be right up, maam." Her companion, a distinguished looking man, smiled at me appreciatively.

I hurried over to the cook, who had just completed number twelves order and I brought them their eggs, pancakes, bacon, and hash browns, with biscuits and preserves. They seemed satisfied until the rude rich b.i.t.c.h pointed at her eggs with her fork.

"Theres snot on my eggs!"

What the h.e.l.l is she talking about? I was new at being a waitress, so not yet schooled in the etiquette of fast-food cuisine. "Im sorry, maam, I dont understand?"

She took her fork and scooped up the viscous, sticky, glutinous, egg whites from her sunny side up eggs and threw them at me, leaving no doubt whatsoever that my a.s.sumption of her being a b.i.t.c.h was a correct one.

"Blackie Blackstone does not eat snot." She declared as if saying her name was supposed to have impressed me. It certainly seemed to have impressed her.

"And Chris Dolores Livingston does not appreciate having your snot thrown on her ap.r.o.n."

Her mouth hung open like she was surprised someone dared mock her. I loved it.

She threw her napkin down on her eggs and stood up, towering over me.

"Do you know who I am, b.i.t.c.h?"

"Yes, you just told me who you are. Youre Blackie Blackstone, and you order your eggs sunny side up, so you can throw snot at hard working waitresses like me."

Now I was pushing her b.u.t.tons and although I was pretty sure it would get me fired, I couldnt help myself. I knew who she was, and I knew where once I had been worth millions, she was worth billions. I was jealous.

"Ill have your job for this."

She gritted her teeth so hard I almost couldnt understand what she was saying... almost.

I took off my ap.r.o.n with the egg snot on it and shoved it at her.

"Thats sweet of you. Ill have two eggs, over hard, and a cup of coffee, please."

Oh my dear Lord, the look on her face alone was worth being fired for.

Chapter One.

Who is Melinda aka Blackie Blackstone.

My name is Melinda Blackstone, and I am heir to the Blackstone fortune. My friends call me Blackie, probably because of my short, jet black hair and onyx eyes. Some consider me a celebrity, a member of the rich and famous, and to others I am a deviant to the chaste and moralistic. Ask me if I care and I will tell you that I dont. Life is too d.a.m.n short not to live it up by getting drunk and s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g anything in a skirt. Or in this case, getting drunk and buying a ridiculously expensive car so I can screw in it, while driving over two hundred miles an hour.

I was in Phoenix for one of my parents latest acquisitions. I met this girl... I forget her name, not that it matters, and I decided that I wanted to hang around the desert for a day or two. Of course, in order to do that, I would need a car.

But this d.i.c.khead of a salesman standing in front of me thinks Im drunk, most likely because I am, but thats beside the point, and he wont let me test drive that gorgeous, golden Lamborghini on his showroom floor. I am unaccustomed to being told no. In all my twenty-six, soon to be twenty-seven years, I have never been told no without my money instantly changing their minds. My parents raised me to believe that people who tell me no, are beneath me, and I shouldnt waste my time with them. The last person who challenged me learned quick enough what weight my last name carries, even in Memphis. And yet you feel guilt for getting her fired. Why is that? You never have before. Shaking off the annoying little voice in my head, I straighten my shoulders and scowl at the salesman.

"Do you know who I am?"

"No, maam, I mean, yes, maam, I know who you are, Ms. Blackstone. Your face is on every magazine cover on the newsstands these days."

I smiled, flattered by his compliment, and then I remembered that he wasnt giving me what I wanted, "Then give me the keys to this f.u.c.king car."

"Im sorry, but I cant do that, maam."

"I thought this was supposed to be an exclusive car dealership. I flew in all the way from Vegas, just to buy a car from this backwoods watering hole, and youre saying no? Get your f.u.c.king boss out here, NOW!"

I have no patience for pipsqueaks like him, but at least he jumped when I told him to. And yeah, I totally lied to him, but it worked. I can see him in the next room talking with the manager now, and Ill bet a thousand bucks that the manager is about to fire his a.s.s for not letting me test drive that car. Ah, the smell of a fried salesmans a.s.s always gets my juices to flowing. Especially when they dont know that I can hear every word theyre saying. If you want privacy, dont build a gla.s.s house, or in this case, a gla.s.s dealership. I guess they think it will bring people in to look at the cars, as it did with me. Even the offices were made of gla.s.s, as if they want me to see that theyre busy selling cars, but in fact it only proves that they are not.

"Dont you know who she is?" I heard the manager yell.

"Yes, Uncle Jim." The pipsqueak said.

Uncle Jim, is it? Well, Uncle Jim, get your a.s.s out here, already.

"Apparently you dont, because thats Melinda Blackstone, the richest woman in America, and she can make or break this dealership with a wave of her billion dollar hand. For G.o.ds sake man, what were you thinking? If you werent my nephew Id fire your a.s.s right now."

At least Uncle Jim knows enough to be worried. And here comes the potbellied red faced manager now to try and make amends.

"Ms. Blackstone, its an honor to meet you, my name is..."

"I dont care what your name is," its not like Im ever going to socialize with him, besides; Im getting bored with this whole thing, "Look, I own more expensive cars than I know what to do with, and they sit in my warehouse gathering dust. Id like to add this one to my collection. So are you going to treat me with the respect my money deserves or not?"

"Of course, your money has my utmost respect."

I was about to say something snide like it d.a.m.n sure better, when I noticed the grin on the pipsqueaks face. Was that an insult? Did he say that I dont have his respect?

Oh, my head is spinning again. I must be sobering up which is not what I want, and I always get what I want. I turned away from the manager and took the flask out of my leather jacket, tossing back a big swig of the finest, most expensive bourbon on earth. Aw, thats so much better. As I was drinking I spotted out of the corner of my eye, a disheveled looking woman coming out of the bathroom, stumbling over her own two feet, toilet paper trailing behind her. G.o.d, thats too funny, what a loser. Then I remembered I had picked her up from a bar, and she was with me for one thing only.

"You know what, lets cut to the chase. Ill buy the d.a.m.n thing if I can drive it out of here within the next ten minutes. Otherwise, Ill go down the street and buy from them.

"Of course, Ms. Blackstone. Just sign the release of responsibility form that I have right here and the car is yours. Um, with a certified check, that is."

"Fine." I scribbled my name on a blank check and handed it to him, "Heres your check, you can fill in the amount." and then I signed his stupid release form, "Ill have my people finish up with you."

In the short time it had taken me to sign my check and hand it to him, my inebriated friend had plopped down on the floor and pa.s.sed out. She wasnt going to be of much use to me if she was out cold, so I picked her up and lean her against the pa.s.sengers side of the car. I was suddenly hungry for those full lips and the tongue that lay behind them, so I kissed her bawdily, right in front of the grinning manager holding my check in his sweaty hands.

I opened the door and let the girl fall into the leather bucket seats. Then I walked around the Lamborghini to the drivers side and got in, revving up the 700 CV at 8,250 RPM, fully intending to drive my new roadster off of the showroom floor. I plugged in my playlist and surfed over to Chers song, I Walk Alone, cranking up the volume until the seats vibrated, while I waited for the manager to scurry around getting the large gla.s.s doors opened. If it hadnt been for my companion, whose name I still cant remember, I would have driven right through the gla.s.s in another second or two.

"Blackie, lets f.u.c.k in this car."

"Sure, why not," I said to her, and then smoked the tires and peeled out of the showroom and onto the street.

Each time she squeezed on one of my b.r.e.a.s.t.s I hit the accelerator, dodging cars and pedestrians alike, but when she went down on me, I stood up on the brake, almost causing the car behind us to rear end me. I wasnt so drunk as to not know that would keep me from my o.r.g.a.s.m, so reluctantly, I pulled up to the first four-star hotel I could find, and tossed the car keys over to the pimply faced valet coming my way. I tipped him a hundred dollar bill and promised four hundred more when I check out, if he swore not to scratch my car or take it for a joy ride. He eagerly agreed. Personally, if it were me, I would have taken it for a joy ride.

I like my women rough and my s.e.x hard and fast. A woman once told me that the reason I liked it fast and rough was so that she couldnt get to know me or what lay behind my heart. I thought that was pretty profound and exactly right. If you let someone know your heart, they will only rip it to shreds. Im much too smart to give them that chance again.

Of course, your money has my utmost respect. My little voice was awake again, Im Chris Louise Livingston and I dont appreciate you... Shut the f.u.c.k up!

Paying it Backwards, Blackie Blackstone - George Kirk From my private files on Melinda Kay Blackstone, also known as Blackie George Kirk, Biographer Demographics: age twenty-six, long bone, slim, muscular, short black hair and black eyes, tan, lesbian Melinda, for all intense and purposes, is a lonely soul, looking for something to fill that void in her heart, but she doesnt know what it is that she needs. I think perhaps she is about to use up her soul trying to find it. Born an introvert, or so her parents tell me, when she hit p.u.b.erty, she came out in more ways than most would consider the norm. While writing the first of many biographies on the Blackstones, I began chronicling Melindas life, to include in her parents biography, and perhaps, someday, in her own autobiography.

Melinda, or Blackie, as she prefers to be called, is an only child, raised in front of the public eye, as the princess of high society. Her parents come from a heritage of wealth, first realized in colonial days, when their ancestor made his fortune as a land speculator. Through the decades, each generation added to their wealth through different ventures. Although the family always withheld some of the land, of which they owned acres upon acres, some generations actually worked the land for profit as well.

Before the Civil War, when the demand for cotton was at its peak worldwide, the Blackstone family added to their fortune by growing and exporting cotton from their plantation to the highest bidder. But with the emanc.i.p.ation of the slaves, the family got out of cotton production, and returned to land speculation. After the Oklahoma land rush of 1889, and four more such land runs after that, the territory of Oklahoma was homesteaded in a matter of a few years. This troubled the Blackstones because the land was practically given away. They began buying up land in California and Nevada, and when there was talk of gold in Alaska, they secured land there as well. Today the Blackstones have several mansions in several states and a chteau in Switzerland, but their home base is their mansion in the Napa Valley of California, where they own a vineyard.

Throughout the years, the familys investments have paid off well for them, and now they and their descendants are set for life. Provided someone like Melinda doesnt come along and throw it all away. She is the sole remaining beneficiary, and her parents fear for their future, not only because she burns through thousands of dollars a day, but because shes also a lesbian who has vowed never to have children, children that would carry on the name and legacy of the Blackstones. What I find peculiar is that although they fear these things, they do nothing about it.

I have befriended Melinda, as much to write about her as to understand her. We were meeting in a crowded restaurant where I could barely carry on a conversation with her, when she lost her patience and took it out on an unsuspecting waitress. After she got that young woman fired, I thought I saw a twinge of regret in her black eyes. I tried to encourage that regret, to what purpose Im not sure yet, but it worked. Melinda said she was sorry, she didnt mean to get her fired, it was just that she had made her angry. I knew, without Melinda saying so, that it was because for the first time in her life, Melindas name and net worth didnt seem to matter. The waitress had put her in her place in spite of it. Melinda asked me not to add that to my book, and of course I agreed. Whether it was because she truly was sorry, or because she didnt want anyone knowing that someone had stood up to her, I cannot say. But when I asked her why she had allowed the girl to get to her like that, she couldnt provide an answer.

Who is Christine Livingston My name is Chris Livingston and next Tuesday I will be twenty-six-years-old with nothing to show for it. Once upon a time, I was rich, filthy rich as they say, and I wanted for nothing. Now I sit in a dingy, flea invested apartment, where the kitchen is a sink next to the toilet, and the window is a fire escape in case the kitchen catches fire. That last part is no joke. My stove is a hot plate sitting in the sink when I cook, that is when I have food enough to cook. I also have the worlds smallest microwave that I think was here before the building was, but still, Im grateful that it works. Money is extremely tight so I have to be very careful with how I pinch my pennies, something I never dreamed of having to do. Why I let myself get into this predicament, Ill never know.

My parents are self-made millionaires, well known and well liked in the fortune five-hundred club even though they werent old money. My father was a genius at investments, although he would say it was all just luck. Maybe so, but he made us rich. In Memphis, where we live, well, where they lived, my parents were generous benefactors to several charities, and when they held a fundraiser, something my mother was a genius at, people from all over the country would attend, promising millions to the cause.

In my defense, we came into the money when I was a pre-teen, just hitting p.u.b.erty. One day I was sitting talking with my best friend, Bonnie, on the school bus, happily on my way to the public school, and the next day I was in a limousine being driven to an exclusive all girl school where the teachers never said no to the students. It didnt take long for me to realize that if I wanted to fit in, Id have to act like the other spoiled rotten rich kids. Surprisingly, that was very easy to do.

After years of over-indulging myself, I guess my parents had become fed up with having to bail me out of jail for public drunkenness, or throwing thousands of dollars out the car window and causing a five car pileup. Maybe it was that photo published on the cover of a magazine of me naked, at a lesbian orgy. Oh yeah, that one was fun.

It has been nine months since they disinherited me and kicked me to the curb. For the first few months I thought they were just trying to teach me a lesson. Always before, when they had imprisoned me in a rehab, they would bail me out after I promised to clean up my act. But this time, I almost killed someone while driving drunk and I guess that was the last straw for them. Even as I cried like a baby at their doorstep, they stood steadfast and closed the door in my face. Oh my G.o.d, that one hurts my soul so much, even now.

The first three months, I spent what little cash I had on liquor, but the money dried up fast, along with my rich friends, and I had a decision to make. Either I prost.i.tute myself for booze, or I sober up and get a job. Finally, after waking up in the gutter beside a drunkard who reeked of feces, I decided to sober up and get a job.

Although I went to college, I dropped out every other year, and never got my diploma. The sober, disgusting part is that I only needed a few more credits to go for my degree. Because I didnt have it to fall back on, I was turned away from jobs that actually paid something. So I got a job as a waitress at a restaurant. It didnt even pay minimum wage, and I was so horrible at it that the tips were practically non-existent. But at least I could take home the leftover food at the end of the day. Until I got myself fired, that is. Tomorrow I will go down to Beale Street and look for a job. I hear theyre always looking for help down there.

Anyway, sitting in my tiny apartment, stone cold sober for six months, I realized that I wanted to do more than just exist. My first compelling thought was that I needed to make amends for almost killing someone when I was drunk a few years back. That realization has begun to eat away at my heart. Even though I was jailed, and my parents were sued, I still need to, at the very least, apologize to the victim. I didnt have to serve time because my parents settled out of court for a cool two million and the charges were dropped. If I had been the victim, I would have asked for a h.e.l.l of a lot more than that.

They tell me that it was only by the grace of G.o.d that he lived. Perhaps it is G.o.ds grace now that compels me to do something to make amends? I dont know. All I know is that having had a taste of debauchery, I am now ready for a taste of benevolence, with the understanding that I am the one who will have to be benevolent if I am too make up for my past misdeeds.

Im not sure how I can make amends with the man I ran over when I was drunk. I never bothered to learn his name or where he lives, and now, with my parents not taking my phone calls or writing back to me, I will not be able to find him. In the meantime, I want to pay it forward wherever I can, with what little I have. My parents taught me at a very young age, that a kindness produces a kindness, but cruelty only produces sadness. I dont want to be sad anymore, and I so desperately dont want to be alone anymore.

Paying it Forwards, Christine Livingston - Meg b.u.mgartner Written report on Christine Dolores Livingston Client is her father, Carl Livingston Meg b.u.mgartner, Private Investigator Case #210, Christine Dolores Livingston Subject is a twenty-five-year-old lesbian, long sandy blond hair, green eyes, medium height, very thin.

Ms. Livingston was a spoiled debutant who threw one too many tantrums and her parents kicked her out on her b.u.t.t. But in my conversations with the Livingstons, I find that they are not cruel people, they just didnt know how to help their daughter any longer. This seemed like the last desperate alternative to having her committed to a psych ward. However, they did retain my services exclusively for a year, to keep an eye on their daughter, including protecting her, should the need arise. But their specification is that I am not to let her know this, because they are trying to teach her a lesson. That might seem harsh now, but hopefully, it will bring her back to her senses.

Chris grew up in Collierville, Tennessee, which is just a few miles East of Memphis, and had the normal, small town adventures, and friendships. But when her father, Carl Livingston, made some good investments for himself, they paid off, and overnight he was rich. He took his expertise a step further and began investing for the Memphis Investment Funds, an international firm known for its return percentage. Once his finances were secured, he moved the family to a mansion in Memphis, and put Chris in an expensive private school.

Her teen years are when her troubles began. Mr. Livingston was forthcoming about his daughter; his wife, however, was not. I got the feeling it was too embarra.s.sing for her, and also to painful.

When Chris was sixteen, she came out, literally, at the debutante ball, where the young southern women are formally introduced to society as adults. Chris got drunk, announced to the world that she was a lesbian, and left the ball with three other debutants. The next morning her picture was on the cover of the Memphis social magazine. So began her wanton ways, as her mother tells it.

I got the feeling, although he didnt come right out and say it, that Mr. Livingston blamed himself for his daughters sudden change. The Livingstons were thrust into the high society life. In an effort to be sociable and fit into the perceived rich circle of important people, they drank, partied and encouraged their guests to do the same, when they hosted parties in their own mansion. Livingston believes it was because he let Chris attend those parties, she learned that drinking was acceptable and expected. He didnt see what it was doing to her until it was too late.

As I said, they are good parents who only want their daughter whole again. They are not above public ridicule because of their daughters actions, and as a consequence, must also rebuild their reputation, which was somewhat tainted after the drunken car accident, but not irreparably. I believe that Mr. Livingston was shrewd in paying off the victim quickly, before his case could go to court. In doing so, it was just a blurb on the back page of the newspapers, where it was whispered around the water coolers, and forgotten quickly.

In observance of Chris since the night she was turned away from her parents home, I have seen a complete three-sixty change in her behavior. The Livingstons hired me the day before they showed Chris their tough love and kicked her out, so I have been, for lack of a better word, spying on her since that dramatic day when she begged them for forgiveness.

The first night she checked into a hotel and drank until she pa.s.sed out. She continued that behavior over the next three months of exile. Quite frankly, the way Chris drank, I was sure she would be dead or raped by now, although I made sure I was nearby to try and prevent both. The fact that her parents had kicked her out and cut her off from their money had only encouraged her to drink more. I believe it was due to a mixture of heartache and stubbornness that drove her to drink. I dont believe she is an alcoholic.

She had money of her own and burned through as if it grew on trees. And when the hotel where she was staying, cut up her credit card right in front of her, because her father had stopped credit on it, she didnt bat an eye. She kept drinking.

I watched her that morning, when she woke up in the gutter, lying next to an unconscious drunk. She was broke. She was terrified. She was sober.

Her mother called me daily the first couple of months. The woman was distraught, but hopeful that she was doing the right thing. It wouldnt have taken much for her to have changed her mind and demand that I bring her daughter home. But each time she got close to doing just that, her husband talked her out of it. It was he who asked me to give only positive reports to Mrs. Livingston, telling her what she wanted to hear, to shield her from the depths their daughter had sunk to. But he wanted the complete details, including my a.n.a.lyses that I thought Chris was acting out in order to punish them. He agreed with me and said that with all things considered, it seemed the normal thing for her to do.