by Max Monroe
Jesus. These people are never going to want me to do the design work for their New Orleans hotel. We have completely different tastes.
My style is what the design world would call comfortable minimalism. Not minimalism like Kim and Kanye’s morgue-like mansion, but warm light, rich textures, and clean lines. My designs revolve around making a space feel light and airy yet so warm and cozy you feel like you’re cocooned inside of a womb.
A space you not only want to look at, but you want to live in, be in, thrive in, too.
But this? This flashy and ostentatious gilded-clutter of a design scheme is giving me a headache.
If this space is a womb, I’m smack-dab in the center of Satan’s uterus.
Discouraged again, I head for the elevator, intent on ordering a hamburger the size of my face and devouring it like the classy lady I am—wearing nothing but a bathrobe while lounging in bed, mind you—when I get to my room.
When the elevator door opens, I step inside and turn around, only to realize I’ve been followed in by what must be a supermodel convention.
The five women are tall, slender, and artfully put together. Sexy heels. Sexy dresses. Perfect hair. Perfect nails. Perfect lashes and lips. They are ready to do it up New Year’s Eve-style in New York City.
And standing beside them is me—a woman wearing wrinkled clothes, who stinks of airplanes and bad news.
I’m basically the cover model for pathetic right now.
And it’s that bleak thought that sparks something inside of me.
Emory’s right.
If I have any chance of going into that interview in two days with an attitude even slightly better than the Grim Reaper, I need to shake it up.
Make different choices. Get some endorphins or whatever shit Elle Woods has, and give myself a chance to turn it around.
I have tonight and all day tomorrow to get myself in order. Get my mind right. Get my confidence up.
In terms of time, it’s not a lot.
You better get your ass in gear, girlfriend.
The elevator slows to a stop and announces its arrival at the twentieth floor, and I move past the flawless women, out of the cart, and toward my hotel room without looking back.
This isn’t a time to dwell; it’s a time to take action.
And my first New York action? Throw on some workout gear, figure out where in the hell the hotel gym is located, and get some damn endorphins all up in my bloodstream.
You got this, Greer.
It only takes five minutes inside the hotel gym to realize why my original plan was to eat a hamburger in bed.
I do not got this.
I’m not good at working out, I’ve never been good at working out, and I’ll never be good at working out.
I don’t know what to do with the equipment, and it doesn’t know what to do with me.
Clearly, it’s been designed for people with half a foot more height and fifty percent more muscle, and even on the lowest of settings, I fumble my way through biceps curls like an uncoordinated inchworm.
I can barely reach the handles, so I have to kind of stoop to get in position, but the newly formed curve of my spine makes me have to arch and wiggle to complete the curl. If it weren’t for my kick-ass Metallica T-shirt, I might start to worry that I look foolish.
The ten-pound weight clanks as I drop it the inch and a half I managed to lift it in the first place, and I stand up to find a different machine. Surely there’s something in here I can operate without having a special license.
I find some kind of seated thing with weights on one end and a padded face rest on the other. I sit, lay my face down, and attempt to slide my legs underneath the weighted bar. But it’s completely awkward and uncomfortable, and I start questioning what in the fuck this thing is even supposed to do.
Just before I give up completely, a throat clears deeply beside me, and I look up to see a far too muscular man staring down at me in confusion. “Uh…wow…I didn’t realize you could use it that way…”
Huh?
I nearly ask him what he’s talking about, but his actions answer any and all questions I might have.
He sits down on the machine beside mine—an identical machine to mine—and it’s then I realize the face rest is not a face rest.
It’s a seat. For asses.
A seat for sweaty, workout asses.
Jesus Christ. I shudder and disentangle myself from the machine.
“You okay?” Arnold Schwarzenegger’s long-lost brother asks, but I just nod off his question and put some much-needed distance between us.
Also, I scrub my face with the hand towel I brought down from my room like it’s a fucking Brillo pad capable of removing the ball sweat that’s probably found itself a home in my pores.
Note to self: take one thousand scalding-hot showers tonight.
With a deep inhale, I try to regain some of the pride I lost back there to Mr. Muscles and peruse the room until I find a machine that’s labeled with instructional pictures to boot.
Hip. Abduction.
Do I need aliens to use this thing?
Against my better judgment, I study the pictures and peptalk myself into sitting down on the seat and swing my legs over to the inside of the knee pads.
No face-to-butt-sweat mistakes happening here, folks!
The weight is set on one hundred and fifty pounds from the person before me, and it makes me wonder if Thor is staying at this hideous hotel too.
I pull out the pin and put it on forty instead.
After a quick test push with my legs, the setting seems doable, so I take out my phone and start scrolling through it to set up some music to accompany me.
Yes. Yes. That’s exactly what I need. Some workout jams.
Of course, once I’m on it, I get distracted by Instagram, and five minutes go by before I realize I’m sitting on a machine, not a couch, and the purpose here is to do something other than lounge.
I glance up from my phone and scan the room, wondering slightly if anyone knows how long I’ve been sitting here. Mr. Muscles has moved on to a new machine, but a different guy across the room makes eye contact and smirks.
Busted.
Normal human decency dictates he should let me off the hook and go about his day, but this fit, Adonis-looking, sweat-covered, brown-haired, green-eyed—good God, he’s attractive—man apparently has no manners.
Shit.
His sleeveless white T-shirt clings to his tanned body as he strides my way, and his athletic shorts conform to a muscular set of thighs and ass.
I look everywhere but at him, fiddling with the machine as though I’m doing something productive, but he still doesn’t get the hint.
Raspy and firm, the clearing of his throat sounds right next to me.
I look up as innocently as I can manage and pull out my earbuds as though I had music playing.
“Um, hi,” I say with a cute little manufactured laugh. “I’ll be done in just a second.”
He laughs too, but his seems genuine and undeniably directed at me. “If you keep up your current pace, I think it’s going to be a little longer.”
“Excuse me?”
“Come on,” he says good-naturedly—the prick. “You’re just pretending to work out.”
Oh no, he did not just say that….
“I’m not pretending to work out,” I deny. “I’m just getting warmed up.”
He nods knowingly.
“And setting up my music,” I continue.
He hums.
“I’m just about to catch my stride.”
“Sure you are.” He calls bullshit with his smug, green-as-fuck eyes, and for the briefest of moments, they glance down at my chest and my legs before meeting my gaze again. “But there are people who would like to really use it, so if you’re done…”
What. The. Fuck.
Who does this guy think he is?
“Are you always this rude?” I question, and his green eyes lighten a bit.
> “All right, you’re right. I’m really not trying to be a dick,” he says and runs a hand through his hair.
Should it really take that much effort not to be a dick?
“Let’s start over…” He pauses and pushes a small smile to his full, kissable lips. “How are you enjoying the hotel?”
Start over? How about let’s never have started at all?
Still annoyed, I don’t censor my answer. “It’s…swell.”
He laughs at first, but when I raise an eyebrow in contention, he frowns. “You don’t like it?”
“Maybe ugly décor and a whole buttload of pretention are good for some people, but not for me.”
“Ugly décor? Really?”
How can he be shocked by this? Anyone with eyes could see the design flaws here.
“Are you kidding? I feel like I’m in my ninety-year-old grandmother’s living room, except it’s a waking nightmare and I’m about to be eaten alive by the curtains.”
“I don’t think it’s that bad. It’s timeless.”
Normally, I’m not such a snob about design, nor do I make a point to make other people feel bad for their likes and dislikes, but for some reason, this handsome prick and his dickish attitude just bring it out in me.
Before I know it, I’m channeling Regina George.
“Well…” I pause and scrunch up my nose dramatically. “I’m sorry to break the news to you, but the design of this place looks like it was done by a blind rat. Gilded sailboat pictures and tapestries with oxen on them aren’t timeless. They’re old.”
His eyebrows pinch together, highlighting the otherwise perfect features of his face. Goddamn this ugly hotel for housing such perfect-looking humans.
“What did you say your name was again?”
Shit. Emory will absolutely murder me if she finds out I got into some kind of confrontational tête-à-tête with a random Romeo in the hotel gym.
Let’s also not forget this hotel gym is located inside a hotel that is owned by the company you’re about to interview with…
Shit. Yeah. I’d better cut and run while I can.
“I didn’t.” I jump up from the machine with the exact agility I’ve lacked during the rest of my workout and offer a saccharine smile. “But, hey, good news. Machine’s all yours.”
“Aren’t you going to wipe it down?” he asks as I walk toward the door, and I can’t help but turn around for my parting shot.
“Why?” I smirk at the pouty-lipped asshole. “After all, I was just pretending to work out.”
Because you know what dicks can do?
They can go fuck themselves and wipe down their own workout equipment, tight asses and chiseled jaws be damned.
Suck on that, workout Romeo.
Greer
At ten thirty on the dot, I glance at the clock and tell myself it’s time to get a move on. Even though Emory might strangle me for being so damn late, I focus on the fact that I’m starting to feel kind of good.
It’s quite possible Lady Luck has decided to grace me with her presence.
Maybe, just maybe, things are starting to look up.
I’ve only been in New York for half a day, and I’m starting to feel like the Greer I used to know way back when. The Greer who had vigor and a lust for life. The Greer who felt like she could conquer anything.
I’ve showered. Well, showered and most likely scrubbed off a layer or two of skin from my face.
And I’ve made myself look presentable, pretty even. My long brown locks are fixed into gorgeous waves, and the long, snazzy gown I’m wearing is hugging my curves in just the right way.
Simply put, I’m Beyoncé.
Okay, fine, I’m Greer in a rubber Beyoncé mask.
But that’s not the point.
The point is that inside the city that never sleeps, I’m starting to feel like me.
Maybe this is what Billy Joel would call a “New York State of Mind”?
Or was that Sinatra?
Eh, screw it. No matter who said it, I’m feeling it.
Start spreading the news, bitches! Greer is feeling herself!
Figuratively feeling myself, that is. My hands are nowhere near my tits.
With my head held higher than it’s been in months and a hitch in my hard-to-wear-stilettos-clad step, I hurry out of my room and head for the elevators.
From the hallway, I hear the arrival bell ding, and my red satin dress drags on the carpet behind me as I run for the available cart and slide in just before the doors close.
Several partygoers fill the cramped space with an overpowering mix of perfumes and cologne and pompous attitude. It’s obnoxious, but maybe if I’m lucky, the particles will cover my tardiness like a cloak.
I wish I knew what I was getting myself into by attending this insane New Year’s Eve Mask-erade party at the Vanderturn Manhattan hotel, but Emory lives for the element of surprise.
Meet me up there, she said.
It’ll be great, she said.
This party is hosted by the people you’re interviewing for, and I’ll kill you if you mess this up, she said.
Nerves flutter in my stomach as laughter and chatter carry on around me. The people filling the tight space around me are in Emory’s circle. They’re rich and happy, and I can guarantee none of them are faced with looking for a new place to live because their house is being foreclosed on.
Fuck. Instantly, my thoughts send my upbeat mood into a nose dive.
Hold the presses, bitches. It appears there is no news to spread.
Not to mention, Emory has a new boyfriend to take her arm, a man to take her back—a shield to deflect some of the attention.
I am a one-woman Beyoncé show. In a fabulous dress, mind you, but still a lonesome party of one all the same.
The elevator dings its arrival on the top floor, and the people behind me push out with the consideration of a herd of buffalo.
I bob and weave, trying to find my footing in these stupid fucking heels I decided to wear, and I finally make a dash out the doors just as they’re closing.
One deep breath is followed by a second as I take in the room and engage a commanding step forward.
At least, I try.
The train of my red satin dress tugs back violently, and I stumble like a newborn colt.
Sweat breaks out in beads on my brow as I scan the room to see if anyone noticed. All eyes safely averted, I try again, jerking on the material with a demanding hand, only to be denied once more.
What the ever-loving hell?
Now manic and desperate, I follow the satin like a dive line until I reach the end—clamped by the fucking vise of the outer doors of the elevator shaft.
Oh my God. Why is this happening?
I tug and tug with my back to the doors in an attempt to be discreet, but people are starting to look, I can feel it.
The anxiety is intense, pricking at my skin and clamming up my hands and making my throat close in around itself.
Oh my God. I’m going to die, right here, dressed like Beyoncé!
I look to my right and find a rubber-masked Batman, but all hope of the Caped Crusader offering a superhero hand goes out the damn window when I notice he’s tongue-kissing a guy dressed like Robin. My heart drops to my fucking feet.
Since when is making out more important than saving a damsel in distress? Gotham City would be ashamed.
I’m just about to knock myself out by slamming my body into the doors in a feat of sheer self-preservation when a Kanye-masked mountain of a man appears and pushes the button to call the cart.
Within seconds, the ding of arrival sings, and the doors pop open to free me.
Why didn’t I think of that?
“Jesus,” I mutter more to myself than anyone else and put a hand to my chest to calm my racing heart. “Thank you, Kanye. I’m certain Beyoncé wouldn’t have wanted to go out that way.”
“No worries.” The man’s responding chuckles fill my ears. “Beyoncé had one of the best videos
of all time!”
I smile at his use of Kanye’s exact words to Taylor Swift, when the blond-headed singer herself steps forward and takes his arm in hers.
“I guess it’s a good thing we were standing near the elevator, waiting on your notoriously late arrival,” the girl on Kanye’s arm says, and instantly, I know it’s Emory, dressed like Taylor Swift. “You okay, friend?” she asks, and I nod.
“Quince, this is Greer,” she says, and I smile, but it’s useless behind the rubber Beyoncé mask covering my face.
Seriously. Whoever thought wearing rubber celebrity masks to a fucking party like this would make it a good time is a total moron.
“I like your mask, Greer,” Quincy says behind his Kanye mask. “Isn’t it fun?”
“The masks were Quince’s idea,” Emory moons, and the ironic timing of my thinking almost makes me choke.
“Wait…are you Greer Hudson?” Quince asks suddenly, turning to look at Emory and then me, like somehow staring into the eyes of my Beyoncé mask is going to uncover the truth.
“Uh, yes. Should I already know you?”
“No, no, I’m just a fan of your work.”
“Seriously?”
“Definitely,” he says, and his voice vibrates with honesty. It warms my cold heart, but unfortunately for him, it also leaves me one hell of an opening.
“Well, this is embarrassing,” I respond with feigned nervous giggles. “I honestly thought none of those tapes were circulating anymore…”
“What?” he questions.
“I swear, I only did it briefly,” I add. “After college. To pay rent.”
“Oh God.” Panicked, his eyes dart between Emory and me like a ping-pong ball. “No, I… I don’t… I—” He clears his throat. “I haven’t seen any tapes of you. I don’t watch tapes. Well, I mean, not since high school anyway. I—”
Emory spears me with a glare and takes her flustered boyfriend’s bicep in hand.
“Relax, Quince. She’s kidding. Greer never had a porn career. Only a sick sense of humor.”
I smile and stick out a conciliatory hand. “Nice to meet you, Quince. And now I’m one-hundred-percent interested to know which tapes you watched in high school. Hefty Jugs? Tight Taints? Bangin’ Blondes, perhaps?”
