Chapter 6

She read off the dollar amounts in the various accounts and Roger verified that she was correct. He also verified that the money in the accounts belonged to her. Not to him, to her, Brichelle Adams.

“So, I’m worth almost three million dollars?” Brichelle asked herself when she hung up the telephone.

After closing the shop for the day, she slowly drove past the other shops in the strip mall. Then, instead of turning left to go home, to the house she lived in with Stan and Michelle, she turned right and pulled into the parking lot of the Amhurst strip mall.

There was a dental office, an accounting office, and then a few retail establishments. One was a lingerie shop; Brichelle wondered why she’d never noticed it before.

The two sales girls ignored Brichelle; just kept texting on their cell phones. Brichelle looked around, mentally checking off a few items she’d like to try on, then walked to the counter.

“Manager here?” she politely asked.

“Not hiring,” one girl said in a condescending tone.

“I did not ask if you were hiring,” Brichelle snapped. “I asked if the manager was here.”

“She’s not, all right?’ the other girl snapped.

Brichelle snapped off a quick photograph of the two girls, turned and left.

The next morning, before she opened Valerie’s Notions, she stopped off at the lingerie shop.

“Hi; we’re not open yet,” an attractive woman waved through the door.

“Are you the manager?” Brichelle asked.

“Yes,” the woman agreed, unlocking the door.

Brichelle told the woman of her experience the previous evening, showing her the two girls, heads bent, fingers busy on their cell phones.

“I’m the new owner,” Brichelle said. “Well, I mean, I own this property, you’re leasing?”

“You… You’re the new, I mean, I heard Valerie had died, but…” the woman said.

“And I noticed, you do pay your rent,” Brichelle said. “But it’s always two, three, four days late. Last month, you were almost ten days late.”

“You’re not evicting me, are you?” the woman asked, green eyes fearful.

“No, no. That’s not why I’m here,” Brichelle assured the woman.

She patted the woman’s hand.

“No, I’m here, business owner to business owner, to tell you, you want to increase your sales? Get rid of any girl that thinks texting her friends is more important than helping your customers,” Brichelle said.

“Not hiring,” Brichelle told both girls when they came into Valerie’s Notions a few days later.

Both girls looked at Brichelle, both trying to remember if they’d seen her before.

“Well, I’m sure you’re not, but is the owner in?” one of the two asked in a very snotty tone.

“She is; I’m the owner,” Brichelle said.

“You’re Valerie?” the other girl asked, surprised.

“As far as you’re concerned, yes,” Brichelle agreed.

“Bitch,” they both muttered as they left the small shop.

Running a business six days a week, with very little break soon grew to be tedious. Going out, going drinking and smoking dope with her former high school friends did not appeal to Brichelle; she had inventory to check, bank balances to reconcile, insurance premiums to pay.

“But there’s got to be more than this,” she would often say to herself.

Jethro Brooke, the owner of Brooke’s Audio, decided that since Valerie was deceased, he did not need to pay his rent. Brichelle contacted Roger and had a certified letter sent to Mr. Brooke. Five days later, a second letter was delivered but still no rent.

Then Ms. Baker, who worked in the Clerk of Court’s office, fast-walked the order to vacate and Brichelle did not cow when Mr. Jethro Brooke came in and threatened her if she did not relent.

That small victory did buoy her spirits slightly. She’d withstood her first challenge as a business owner, and had done quite well.

Brichelle also made her first major purchase as a successful business woman. She bought a condominium in a very pretty, well-maintained complex. She lived in Unit 2 of Courtyard Condominium Association, shocking the real estate agent when she wrote out a check for the full amount of one hundred and forty nine thousand dollars.

The woman smiled what she hoped was a soothing, non-threatening smile; clearly Brichelle Adams was insane. No nineteen year old girl has that kind of money just laying around.

“I’ll get you the keys just as soon as this clears the bank, all right, Sweetie?” the woman said, backing toward the door.

With its clean neutral color scheme, Brichelle decided she would buy antique furniture for her new home. Over shopping for the furniture, Brichelle and Michelle were able to reconnect, grow closer as mother and daughter.

“Valerie said I should be grateful you took the first letters from Daddy’s name and the last from yours, instead of the first two from yours and the last two from Daddy’s,” Brichelle laughed. “Now, what do you think of this table for the dining room?”

“Mice, huh? Cute,” Michelle laughed. “And no, don’t know if you can see it from there, but there’s a horrible dip on the top of it.”

Even with her own place, Brichelle still stopped at Stan and Michelle’s, for dinner. Stan also felt that he and his step-daughter were growing closer; she asked his opinion on structures, on other locations for more strip malls.

But it seemed to Brichelle that all she did was work, go home to eat, then go to her place to sleep. Then get up and do it all over again.

Weekends were the worst. She understood why Valerie would sink into overwhelming depressions whenever it was Roger’s weekend with the girls.

Brichelle joined an Alternative Dating web site, but dropped out after a few weeks. The girls in her age group only seemed to want to party.

When she told one girl her favorite way of spending a lazy Sunday afternoon was to lay in bed, eating mint chocolate chip ice cream and thin mint cookies, the girl had responded with, “How old are you? Ninety?”

The one older woman that had not posted a mannish looking photograph had turned out to be a married woman, looking for a girl to join her and her husband in bed.

Brichelle toyed with the idea of taking a few night courses at Connelly College.

“When?” Michelle asked her daughter. “Good God, I mean, don’t get me wrong, college is important, but when would you have the time?”

“Mother’s right,” Stan agreed. “Oh, got the approval for the plans for Decatur Street.”

“See?” Michelle said. “Townhouses? Grocery store? And you think you’ll have time to go to school?”

Brichelle even toyed with the idea of having a baby. Cyndy, Roger’s receptionist, was expecting her first and the beautiful girl looked absolutely radiant.

“Only reason Roger hired her, she’s drop-dead gorgeous,” Wendy had hissed to Brichelle as the two women sat together at Cyndy’s baby shower.

“You don’t mind?” Brichelle had asked and Wendy smiled.

“Told him, he can look, he can look all day long, but the minute he touches, his ass is mine,” Wendy laughed.

“Besides that,” she confided. “Girl’s the daughter of Roger’s very first client; feels like he kind of owes it to her.”

When pressed for details about the father, Cyndy just smiled her empty headed smile and shrugged.

“You know how those frat parties can get,” she explained.

But, as much as Brichelle thought she’d love to have a baby, an adorable little blonde haired girl, she had to admit, she barely had time for herself. There was no way she’d be able to find time for a baby.

Brichelle looked up as the door chimed. A young brunette smiled a nervous smile and glanced around the small shop as she entered.

“Hi I uh, I’m looking for a job,” the girl admitted.

“Here, fill this out; need a pen?” Brichelle asked, tearing off a pre-fabricated employment application form.

She could actually feel her pussy get wet as she looked at the girl.

The girl had long brown hair that hung to the back of her upper thighs, a sweet round face, large brown eyes, and a pug nose above pouting, kissable lips.

Her chest appeared to be at least a 36 DD; the loose top made it hard to tell for sure, but loose or not, the top did not fully conceal the girl’s breasts. Her jeans were snug, showing off a luscious rear end.

“Got my own,” the girl said brightly, showing Brichelle her pen.

“Brichelle, you’re not going to believe this, but the idiot actually likes those lilac candles,” Ms. Baker called out as she entered the shop.

“Some people just don’t have the sense God gave them, I tell you,” Brichelle smiled and helped the woman pick out a large jar candle.

She rang up the birthday card and the candle and gift bag and wished her most frequent customer a good day.

Then she sat and watched as the young girl’s buttocks undulated and jiggled as the girl filled out the employment application.

“Finished?” Brichelle smiled.

“Uh, yeah, I mean, yes ma’am,” the girl said, handing Brichelle the employment application.

“Lisette; a lovely name, suits you,” Brichelle said, reading the girl’s name.

“Thank you,” Lisette smiled.

“Graduated from high school, good, good,” Brichelle said. “So you are eighteen?”

“Yes ma’am,” Lisette agreed.

Then Brichelle told the girl what hours she’d be expected to work, how much she’d be paid.

“You mean, I got the job?” Lisette gasped, delighted.

“Well, yes. You did say you were looking for a job, right? But, Lisette, what you have on is simply unacceptable for employment here,” Brichelle said. “Dresses. Or nice blouses and skirts. No jeans, ever, no slacks, and shoes must be closed toe, so those flip flops are inappropriate.”

As an excited Lisette left the shop, Brichelle rushed to the small bathroom to quickly masturbate, thinking of burying her head between the girl’s thighs.

Lisette was a quick learner and eager to work. And she seemed to idolize Brichelle. Lisette’s first day of employment, she had her hair in a bun on top of her head, loose tendrils framing her face, an exact duplicate of Brichelle’s normal hairstyle.

She also wore clothing that mirrored Brichelle’s outfits. Through casual inquiries, Brichelle found that her original guess had been correct, Lisette’s breasts were a 36 DD. And like Brichelle, Lisette tended to favor skirts and dresses that emphasized her luscious rear, and high heeled pumps that emphasized her shapely legs.

The day Brichelle wore her long blonde hair in a thick braid, Lisette showed up to work the following morning, her brown hair in a long braid.

When Brichelle showed up, long blonde hair tied back in several braids, Lisette looked forlorn.

“My mom will never do all that,” she said.

Brichelle found out that Lisette did not know how to create her own braids; her mother always did it for her.

“Come on, hop up here,” Brichelle said, patting the stool.

She then brushed out the girl’s long brown hair, then began the laborious task of braiding several thin braids.

“And…” Brichelle said, tying all the braids back with a lacy ribbon.

Brichelle marveled at Valerie’s composure, self-restraint. The entire time Lisette had perched on the stool, Brichelle had wanted to squeeze the girl’s scrumptious bottom, kiss the girl’s slender neck, spin the girl around and bury her face in Lisette’s large chest.

Instead, once the lacy ribbon was died, Brichelle softly patted Lisette’s bottom and told her to straighten up the birthday card aisle.

Brichelle contented herself with soft pats to Lisette’s bottom, gentle squeezes of the girl’s hands, kisses on the girl’s cheek. Then Brichelle would furiously masturbate at night, remembering how sweet the girl’s bottom felt, how delicate her fragrance was in her nostrils.

“Ms. Brichelle?” Lisette asked when Brichelle handed Lisette her first paycheck. “Why’d you hire me? We, this is more than we made all last week.”

“I just love being around pretty things,” Brichelle admitted, resting her hand on Lisette’s hip.

She pressed her lips to Lisette’s lips. It was a soft, light kiss that only lasted a fraction of a second. It was not a lingering kiss, nor did Brichelle try to suck Lisette’s tongue out of her pretty mouth. It was just a soft kiss.

“And you, you are a pretty thing,” Brichelle said and smiled.

Brichelle began the task of shutting down the register.

“By the way, Lisette, you like mint chocolate chip ice cream?” Brichelle asked, smiling.

**Author’s Note: I write these stories for my pleasure. I post them here for your enjoyment.

Have a pretty little day.