Trainwreck 2 (Trainwreck #2)

by Nelle L'Amour

  Jaime continued to study my mismatched eyes. “They’re contradictions just like the rest of you.”

  That I hadn’t heard before. “What do you mean?”

  “Your mind says one thing, your body says another.”

  His words spurred a rush of tingles to my core and sent my heart into a gallop. Damn him! He was unhinging me again. “Mr. Zander, can I please leave?” I spluttered.

  With a smirk, he pivoted so that he was leaning against the doorway. He gave my braid a little tug as I hurried past him. “Ms. Long, I look forward to the pleasure of seeing you again.”

  “The same.” Bastard!

  As I stomped down the hallway, I could feel his fiery eyes on my backside. His voice traveled down the corridor. “Oh, by the way, I find your black lace push-up bra and matching thong very sexy. And that garter…”

  Cringing, I just kept moving. How the hell did he know what I was wearing under my Chanel suit?

  CHAPTER 2

  Insanity. Utter insanity. That was the only way to describe the electrifying pre-show atmosphere at the Lexington Avenue Armory. Production personnel were running around like banshees getting it together. They were talking into headsets and cell phones and frantically jotting down notes on clipboards and in notebooks. The look of stress and panic was etched on everyone’s faces. The adrenaline was flying. The much-anticipated Gloria’s Secret Fashion Show was scheduled to start in an hour, but it seemed like we’d never get there.

  It was always like this even though this was our tenth show. This one, however, was more ambitious because it was celebrating our first decade of putting them on. For the first time, the show was being broadcast on a major television network in addition to being shown live on our website. Every fashion journalist and blogger in the world was going to be here including reporters from Entertainment Tonight…Vogue…Joan and Melissa Rivers… even that teenage wunderkind blogger, Tavi Gevinson…just to name a few. And the celebrity list was endless.

  “Glorious! Thank God, you’re here!” a familiar breathless voice called out. It was my trusted head of PR and Special Events, Kevin Riley. Kevin and I had been best friends forever. Since childhood. We knew everything about each other and shared a dark secret that bonded us eternally. We had been through a lot, and never for a minute did I forget that I owed so much of my success to him. In fact, my life. I loved him like a brother. We even had nicknames for one and other. I called him Kev, and he called me Glorious. We’d built Gloria’s Secret from the ground up together.

  “What’s going on?” I asked as he jogged up to me. While Kev could be an outrageous dresser (I’m talking kilts and jumpsuits), today he was dressed for functionality in perfectly shredded black jeans, a tight V-neck tee, and high-top Keds. With his spiky, dark-haired good looks, svelte toned body, and charismatic smile, he could easily make women melt, but that was not his preference. The diamond ear stud he proudly wore said it all. It had been a birthday gift from me.

  With a flutter of his deep-set hazel eyes, he sighed, “The usual. The models are having meltdowns over who’s wearing what…Kim Kardashian’s people just called saying she’s miffed because she’s not in the front row…and Rihanna’s limo is stuck in traffic.”

  I rolled my eyes. There was no need to freak. All these hiccups were routine for this show. Business as usual. I trusted Kevin implicitly with my heart and soul. He’d make sure things worked out. They always did.

  His cell phone rang. He put it to his ear and said, “Great.” Smiling, he ended the call. “Rihanna’s here! Gotta go.” He gave me a peck on my cheek. “Glorious, this show is going to rock!”

  God, I loved Kev! He brought good luck and sunshine even in the darkest times. As he scurried off, my eyes drank in everything. This show was going to rock! The set designer that Kevin had hired had created an outrageous fantasy of a sexed up heaven. Dry smoke emanated from the stage floor and rose up to the high ceiling where virtual clouds were projected. The plan was for dozens of gorgeous Gloria’s Secret models, clad in outrageous angel wings and the barest of bare undergarments, to float down from the ceiling via invisible ropes onto the runway. Some would even be entwined with sexy male angels in hot embraces. We were selling sex—fantasies and wet dreams. I so loved it! If the televised show went off without a hitch and got high ratings, tomorrow—Valentine’s Day—would be our stores’ busiest day of the year and lead to record first quarter earnings.

  While I took in everything and contemplated my mandatory end-walk down the runway, another familiar, this time shrill feminine voice, sounded in my ear.

  “If you don’t do it my way, I’m going to have you fired.” It was Vivien Holden, my assistant, arguing with a tired, overworked production assistant. I didn’t need to spin around because she was already in my face.

  She was clad in a hot pink mini skirt that barely covered her ass, a tight white blouse opened far enough to reveal her eye-worthy cleavage, and six-inch black patent stilettos that made her compact busty body rise to almost five foot six. I had to admit Vivien was stunning; she was younger than me by four years. I was thirty-three, she, twenty-nine. Her blessings, albeit manufactured, included a mane of long thick ebony hair (weaves), full, sensuous lips (filler), piercing green eyes (contacts), and a perfect upturned nose that I suspected was the result of plastic surgery along with her D-cup boobs. She could afford to have her features altered. She was rich. Mega rich. “Daddy”—billionaire corporate raider, Victor Holden—was Gloria’s Secret’s largest shareholder and Chairman of the Board. I could never keep track of how many shares he controlled. All I needed to remember was that he could make or break everything I’d built. And make or break me.

  Despite being my assistant, Vivien was never pleased to see me. She narrowed her catty eyes and gave me the once-over. “How did it go today with ZAP!?”

  Before I could respond, she huffed, “You know, Gloria, I should have been there. Daddy says advertising is soon going to be under my domain.”

  Her words irked me. Everything was under my domain. I was the CEO and founder of Gloria’s Secret. Vivien thought she was entitled because Daddy backed the company. Though she was talented, she wanted to get to the top quickly. It was no secret that she coveted my job. Inhaling deeply, I controlled myself. I couldn’t afford to offend her because of her father. It was sort of a Catch-22 situation that I had to accept.

  “No, Vivien, you belonged here. The Gloria’s Secret Fashion Show can make or break our year-end earnings. Plus, there’s so much you can learn from being on the set.”

  She scoffed at me. “The only thing I’ve learned is that I’m surrounded by a bunch of incompetent morons.”

  God, I wanted to slap her. Or rip off her phony lips. And that was not all.

  With a flick of her head, she flung back her mane of hair, one of her annoying habits. “So what was Jaime Zander like? I haven’t seen him for years.”

  My brows lifted. Vivien knew Jaime? Why didn’t she tell me? She could have spared me a lot of embarrassment.

  “He was very professional,” I answered, masking my displeasure. She had no need to know the details of the meeting. The thought of Jaime Zander made my breathing hitch. “I’m looking forward to his pitch, which I want you and Kevin to attend.”

  Her cat green eyes lit up. “And I’m looking forward to seeing him again.”

  She sauntered off before I could I ask her what she meant by that.

  “In five, four, three, two, one… Showtime!” Hot techno music blasted; my heart hammered. Watching from backstage, I gaped in awe as our gorgeous long-legged supermodel angels, their D-cup bodies clad in the skimpiest lace bras and thongs, descended from the ceiling through a cloud of dry ice onto the runway and began to strut down it, one after another, in their six-inch stilettos. Their outrageous colorful feathered wings, attached to their backs, fluttered like butterflies as they vamped to the beat of the pulsing music. Loud gasps, whistles, and applause emanated from the celebrity-packed audience and press. I
let out a deep breath. Yes! They loved it! My beloved Kevin had pulled it off again. It truly was an unforgettable spectacle. Almost surreal, otherworldly. I was totally in the moment but wouldn’t be relaxed until it was over. Every muscle in my body clenched.

  Twenty minutes into the show, Kevin joined me backstage. While I was still an exposed nerve waiting for the worst to happen, he was like a child in a candy store. His long-lashed hazel eyes lit up like lanterns. “It’s faaabulous!” he crooned, squeezing my hand. In my anxious state, his hand was a welcome comfort.

  “Have you seen Vivien?” I asked.

  “Not for ages.”

  I wondered where she was. She was supposed to be with me, updating me on the live webcast. Once things settled down and we were back in Los Angeles, I was going to have a come to Jesus meeting with her, regardless of who her father was. That girl needed to learn what it meant to be a team player.

  Without a hitch, the show continued to blow the audience away. Oohs, aahs, whistles, and cheers filled the air. Forty minutes in, Rihanna descended from “the heavens” in a cloud of pink smoke. The crowd went wild. She looked amazing, her dazzling body clad in a diamond-studded black leather bra and thong we had custom-made for her. The cost to make the ensemble was one million dollars, but it was being auctioned off later tonight for charity at the after-party that Vivien’s father, Victor Holden, was hosting at Touch. My hunch was that some billionaire pervert was going to buy the matching set and put them to his nose every night at bedtime. I chortled silently.

  With raw sexuality, Rihanna belted out her new song, “Open Your Mind.” “Mind over body; body over mind. Open your legs wide. Baby, let him know you’re mine.” Closing my eyes, I found myself thrusting my hips, getting lost in the words and beat of the stunning superstar’s sensuous song. Without warning, the image of a stunning man flooded my head. Jaime Zander! We were face-to-face. Heart to heart. Hip to hip!

  My heart was vibrating. And then I realized it was actually my cell phone that I’d stuck inside my shirt pocket. I’d put it on mute, having informed all employees to text me during the show only if it was an emergency. I silently cursed. This must be an emergency. My eyes flew open. I immediately checked my messages.

  Ms. Long~

  What does this song do for you?”

  xJ

  The air escaped my lungs. Holy Shit! He’s here?

  With grinding dance moves to match, Rihanna continued to exude sex with her sultry words. My core was pulsing, my heart racing. What was wrong with me? Jaime Zander! This man, who I hardly knew, had no right to invade my head. And stalk me, no less! Damn him!

  “Gloria, it’s almost over!” said Kevin, snapping me back to reality.

  My mind was elsewhere as Rihanna took a bow, and the show moved into the grand finale. In a file, all the sexy, winged models paraded down the runway, their faces glowing with big smiles. The audience leaped up from their seats, applauding and cheering as the last model did her turn.

  “Glorious, go! It’s your turn to take a bow.” A remixed version of the late great Laura Branigan’s popular 80’s song “Gloria” was always my signal…calling Gloria. Taking my phone out of my trembling hand, Kevin had to virtually push me onto the runway. I was so distracted with thoughts of Jaime Zander that I’d forgotten about this mandatory ritual.

  Wearing our popular black leggings and an oversized button-down white blouse that I’d changed into before the show, I staggered down the runway, my legs like jelly. Thank goodness, I was wearing our popular ballet flats. The models and standing audience applauded and cheered loudly. I inhaled deeply. Once again, I was in the moment, in control. Without a doubt, this show had been our best ever; we had outdone ourselves. Taking my bow, I was both humbled and elated. Fireworks went off, and a flurry of confetti cascaded from the heavens, temporarily blinding me. When the confetti and smoke settled, my eyes grew wide. Sitting in the front row was Vivien. And right next to her, was Jaime Zander, wearing a wicked smile. My gaze met his with a gape, and suddenly I felt as naked as the scantily clad models embracing me.

  After the models got back into their own clothes and congratulated me backstage, I searched desperately for Vivien. I was fuming. I needed answers. What the hell was Jaime Zander doing at the fashion show and who had invited him? I had asked Kevin, but he had no clue and was as surprised as I was.

  Vivien was nowhere to be found backstage, and she wasn’t picking up her cell. I was getting madder by the second, but my bladder was begging a trip to the restroom. I hadn’t peed for hours.

  I ran to the nearest ladies’ room and flew inside. There she was. I should have guessed—in front of a mirror. Leaning into the glass, she pursed her inflated lips as she applied a fresh coat of pink lip-gloss. My reflection met hers.

  “Oh, hi, Gloria,” she said after smacking her lips. “The show looked great online. We’ve had two million hits. I bet it’s going to get fabulous ratings.”

  Great. But that was not on my mind at the moment. “What was Jaime Zander doing in the front row?” I asked, followed by a silent question. And why the hell were you sitting next to him?

  She slipped her tube of lip-gloss back into her quilted designer purse and did that obnoxious hair fling. “Oh, I hope you don’t mind. I sent him an invitation. I thought it would be good for business. Give him a little edge in terms of winning the Gloria’s Secret account.”

  Inside, I was seething. How dare she go behind my back and invite him without telling me? My eyes narrowed with fury. “You should have told me, Vivien.”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “Ooh, I’m sorry. I totally forgot. I was so busy.” Her saccharine voice was oozing with phoniness. Liar!

  I clenched my hands and zipped my mouth. It wasn’t worth challenging her because in my heart I knew I’d get nowhere with her; she would just twist and turn things around. I loosened my fingers and splattered some cold water on my face as she shimmied toward the door.

  “By the way, Jaime’s as gorgeous as ever.”

  I swiveled around but she was already gone. Damn it! I’d forgotten to ask her how she knew Jaime Zander. I’d also forgotten to pee. Tonight at the after-party, I was going to find out.

  CHAPTER 3

  The Gloria’s Secret Fashion Show after-party was one of the most coveted invitations in the city. While many would give the shirts off their backs to be invited to the glamorous New York Post Page Six-worthy event, I usually found it boring. Lots of A-list beautiful people, wannabes, booze, drugs, and loud music. After the stress of this afternoon’s show, I was exhausted. What I really wanted to do was order in room service and curl up in my luxurious bed with a good book on my eReader. But I had no choice. As founder and CEO of Gloria’s Secret, I was expected to attend and party like there was no tomorrow.

  I considered myself pretty low maintenance and prided myself on how fast I could transform from a high-powered executive to a glamorous night owl. Tonight, however, I was taking my time. I needed to unwind. I poured myself a glass of wine from the mini-bar and then drew myself a hot bath, pouring a capful of soothing lavender bath salt from our Bed and Bath Collection into the rapidly rising water. Stripped naked, I dimmed the bathroom lights and lit a fragrant Gloria’s Secret candle, something I always traveled with on business trips.

  Pinning up my braid with a few loose bobby pins, I stepped into the deep tub and sunk into the steamy water. On contact, I let out a loud sigh and felt my tension melt away. I leaned my head against the marble and stretched my long legs out. Reaching for the large sponge, I circled my firm, heavy breasts, brushing over the quarter-sized scar I wore above my heart. I closed my eyes to block out the memory—the secret—that scar harbored. It never worked. I always relived it. I always shuddered. As I swept my hand over my sensitive pink nipples, my mind, unannounced, switched channels from the memory of that horrible night to another unsettling reality show—Jaime Zander!

  He was back in my head. I had to admit he was gorgeous. And sexy as sin. The way h
e looked at me with those intense denim blues was unnerving enough. But when he shot me that cocky smile, I became completely undone. And he knew he affected me. Damn him!

  It had to stop. Control was something I clung to and needed to survive. The thought of losing control petrified me. I had spent hours in therapy dealing with my control issue and the roots of it. Dr. Pepperdine, my shrink, believed it stemmed from my mother… that I feared to become her, a pathetic addict who craved sex as much as she did crack, relying on men to feed her sick habits. In part, she was right. But what she didn’t know was that my need for control was attached far more to the scar. The secret. Boris Borofsky was out there somewhere and could take everything that was precious to me away from me. Including my life.

  Enough. It was time to step out of the tub and focus on getting ready for the party. With the towel draped around me, I stood before the mirror and did my makeup. My routine was simple, even for a glam night out—mascara, eyeliner, a little blush, and some Gloria’s Secret lip-gloss. Refreshed and polished, I padded back to my bed where I’d carefully laid out what I was going to wear. Shedding the towel, I began with my lingerie—an underwire, front-closing black lace bra, matching bikinis, and complementary garter belt—all part of our bestselling “Sexy Nights” collection. I then lowered myself to the bed and languidly inched the sheer lace-trimmed silk stockings up my long smooth, waxed legs. Real silk stockings from Paris were my one non-Gloria’s Secret indulgence—a habit I’d inherited from my mentor, Madame Paulette, who I was visiting tomorrow.

  I slipped into my dress. Okay, confession. It, too, was not from the Gloria’s Secret catalogue. It was a splurgy little black number by Alexander Wang—a designer whose line I admired and wanted to work with down the road. I was thinking of asking him to design a reasonably priced line of dresses for Gloria’s Secret the way Target and H&M were approaching top designers. His cutting-edge sexiness was a good fit. There was definitely money to be made.