“What about your two-weeks’ notice?” she splutters.
“I’m gonna skip the whole notice thing. You owe me about nine weeks of vacation pay, anyway.”
“How do you figure I owe you that much time?”
“It’s easy. My contract says I get three weeks of vacation time every year. The only time I’ve taken any was when my mom had cancer. Even if you subtract my time off, you still owe me for more than two months’ worth of vacation. Just tell the courier service to deliver my check because I’ll be at home packing.”
“I made you in this business, I can and will take you down,” she blusters.
“I can’t go much lower than I am already. If you have the power to take me down even further, I guess it’s up to you to decide whether it’s worth the effort. At this point, I don’t care.”
“You haven’t heard the last of this. I’m going to have my lawyer go through our contract with a fine-tooth comb to make sure you don’t owe me anything.”
I can’t bring myself to look over to Mishka’s client. I am too humiliated. As I struggle to contain my embarrassment, I take the pen from behind my ear and march Mishka’s office and throw the pen down on her austere desk.
“Here, this is all I have that belongs to Mishka Unlimited,” I declare. “Use it in good health.”
“Just so you know, all the designs you’ve been working on belong to me.”
“I guess it’s a lucky thing for me you haven’t allowed me to do any design work — even though it’s what you hired me for. I have to say I liked you better when I knew you as Elouise Hadley. The person I met way back then wouldn’t treat me this way. I hope you find her again,” I say with emotion dripping from my voice.
“I told you never to say my name again. I have become Mishka.”
“Well, good for you,” I reply as I stand. “You have someone waiting for you.” I dig my key chain out of my purse and take my office keys off my key fob. “I’d like to say it’s been nice working for you, but it hasn’t.”
Before she can say a word, I turn on my heel and stride the office. I stop to grab a couple of personal photos off my desk. I unlock my drawer and pull out my purse and stick the pictures in it. I’m blinking back tears and struggling to breathe as adrenaline courses through my body.
Cristiano clears his throat as he says, “Well, this is awkward. It’s an official; Jordan Shepherd, you’re having a worse day than me.”
In that moment, I want to fall through the floor and disappear. Instead, I stiffen my spine and walk out the door as if all of this kind of stuff happens every day.
“Jordie, take a deep breath. You’re going to make yourself sick. I’m sure things will work out,” my brother says as he adjusts his webcam.
“That’s your considered medical opinion? How in the world is everything going to be okay? I just blew up my entire life.” I choke back a sob. I’ve been crying for so long my ribs hurt. I barely made it home before I was overcome with tears and white-hot anger. I’m furious at myself for allowing the situation to get completely out of control. It seemed like a great idea at the time, but now I’m feeling lost.
Jaxson brings my attention back to him as he says, “For one thing, you’ve been under-appreciated in your job for years. You are far more talented than Mishka ever gave you credit for. Look at this as an opportunity to stretch your wings and fly a little.”
Feeling defeated, I wipe tears from my face. “I don’t even know if I remember how to fly and I definitely don’t want to fly all by myself in New York. What if she does have the power to completely blackball me?”
My brother shrugs. “It’s also possible she was merely talking smack. If you don’t want to be in New York, come back home. We miss you.”
I smile at his invitation, but sigh as I consider the ramifications. “I don’t really want to come home with my tail between my legs. I never did make it big like I had planned to.”
Jaxson shakes his head. “You wouldn’t be the first person whose plans didn’t work out exactly how you thought they would. That doesn’t mean you have to come back feeling like a failure.”
“Says you, Dr. Shepherd. You don’t ever let anyone down.”
My brother is like the golden child who can never do wrong.
Jaxson’s brows come together, and his smile turns to a frown. “I think you have a short memory. I’ve let lots of people down, including my own daughter.”
I give myself a mental kick. “I’m sorry Jax, I didn’t mean to bring Jasmine in to it.”
“You didn’t. I did — to remind you that none of us are perfect. Come back home, Jordie. There are options for you here. Donda and Madison were impressed with the work you did to get Donda’s story out to the media when she was trying to keep her stepdad in jail.”
“I enjoyed working on her campaign, but it doesn’t mean anyone else will take my resume seriously. I’ve basically been a glorified receptionist for years. Who’s going to pay attention to my design chops or my journalism degree?”
“I think you’re underselling yourself. I may be biased, but I know you’ll be a rock star at whatever you decide to do.”
“Dammit! I’m too old for this crap. I’d be starting from scratch. Where do I even start?” I wipe my face off and collect myself. My panic level always skyrockets when catastrophic thoughts start tumbling around in my brain.
My sister-in-law, Donda walks into the frame. “I can tell you from personal experience, it is not too late to start over. I started Claim Your Space after a parade of failures. All my work is finally paying off.”
“Well, it should. You are insanely talented.”
“So are you. Trust me, if someone treats you like that Mishka chick did, they don’t deserve all your tears. Come get to know your niece. We’ll get you all fixed up,” Donda says with a sympathetic smile.
I rub the heels of my hands into my eyes and try to focus my thoughts. “You’re right. There’s nothing left for me here. Give me a few days to get everything wrapped up, and I’ll be there.” I attempt to smile. “I’ll try not to be too obnoxious — but I have to let you know I like to listen to my music pretty loud.”
“Hello — did you forget I have a teenage son? You don’t know the meaning of the word loud. I can take whatever you dish out.” Donda’s open acceptance of me is stunning, given our past.
I swallow hard. “Thanks, Donda. I appreciate the chance to start over. Maybe this time I won’t make such a mess of it.”
CHAPTER 2
CRISTIANO
I FEEL AWKWARD AS HELL standing there with my arms out like some weird architectural sculpture. A woman with wild hair and a severe expression who introduced herself as Mishka insists whatever it is she is going to design will be the latest in runway fashion. I guess I have to take her word for it; I’m not the person to judge. I’d much rather be riding my bike through the mud or jumping over alligator pits. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the dog-and-pony show which goes with my job now.
Without warning, my arm begins to drop. My shoulder socket is burning as if someone placed a burning piece of charcoal in it. As much as I hate to admit it, my last rotator cuff surgery didn’t quite fix everything. Holding it up for this long is not a smart move on my part.
“I told you not to move,” the designer snaps at me as she yanks my arm up, so it’s parallel to the floor. “Can you not follow directions either?” When she twists my arm to get a better angle, the pain makes me sway a little.
Her sharp words bring back the exchange I heard earlier. I have to admit, I’m curious. I thought tensions between me and the network were high, but my dispute looks petty compared to what I witnessed today. After I met Mishka and dealt with her for a few minutes, I have new found sympathy for the mysterious Jordan Shepherd.
“Will this take much longer?” I growl as my shoulder seizes up again.
“If you don’t stop moving, I’m never going to get this done. Some people are just so lazy.”
I s
tep off the dais and shrug out of the sample jacket and shirt so fast I barely have time to take a breath. My shoulder screams in pain. At this point, I’m so angry I strip off the pants too and stand there in my boxer shorts. “Guess what? I’m done with you too. You might be famous, and my boss might want to woo your fans — but it’s not worth it to me to deal with people like you.”
“How dare you say that? Do you have any idea who Mishka is?”
I roll my shoulder and shake my head as I admit, “No. Truthfully, I had no idea you even existed before this afternoon.”
She narrows her eyes at me as she says, “That’s obvious; you dress like a peasant.”
“Strangely, I’m okay with that,” I retort as I snag my well-worn 501’s from the floor.
“People like you don’t deserve my clothes. You need a second-rate designer like Jordan Shepherd. She would probably suit you just fine.”
“Not a bad idea. I’m sorry I wasted your time today — but I am sorrier you wasted mine,” I say as I awkwardly put on my Levis and Henley shirt.
“I can ruin your reputation with one phone call.”
“That’s funny; you’ve used the same threat twice today. I’ve got news for you — I’m already a person of ‘ill-repute’ as the nuns in my old Catholic school would say. You can’t do damage to me I haven’t already done to myself. You’re welcome to take a run at it, if that’s what makes you happy.”
“Get out!” Mishka bellows as the veins in her temple bulge.
I fasten my belt and head toward the door. “That’s the first thing you’ve said all day I agree with,” I toss over my shoulder as I leave the shop.
“You did what?” my executive producer, Rowden Randall, hisses at me when I break the news of my meeting with Mishka. “Do you realize this event could secure our contracts for the foreseeable future?”
I move the TENS unit from my shoulder to my knee while I balance the phone on my shoulder. I don’t know why I bother. I think I’m too far gone for electrical nerve stimulation to make a whole helluva lot of difference. My joints still feel like they’re on fire.
“Honestly, I think changing the name of the show to something people could define and pronounce would help more than some high-class fashion show,” I suggest as I struggle to focus through the fog of pain.
“No can do. We’ve talked about this before. The wife named the show, and she is a huge Scrabble fan. Xyresic is one of her favorite words.”
“That’s fine for Scrabble, but what does it have to do with the X-Games?” I press.
“The answer is the same as it was the last time you asked this question. It means razor’s edge. The title is perfect for our show; it’s a great play on words.”
I sigh. “Rowden, a play on words only works if people know the meaning of the words. In this case, I think our show title is over people’s heads. Why not call it The X-Games: Razor’s Edge?”
“Hey, that’s good. I’ll run it by Jubilee. I’d love to be in the permanent rotation for a change. Our air times and location in the cable lineup make it difficult for people to consistently find us,” he says with a sigh. “Unfortunately, that does not solve our wardrobe problem. This award is the real deal — our shot at making it into the big leagues. The network execs at ESPN will to be expecting you to wear designer duds.”
It’s probably a good thing my boss can’t see my eye roll as I reply, “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got it covered. Now, if you don’t mind, I had an exhausting day today. If you want me to look halfway human on air, I need to go and get some rest.”
“Please, Cristiano, whatever you do — don’t embarrass us. This is not some place you could show up in board shorts and a T-shirt.”
“I guess you think I have stupid written across my forehead.” I blow out a frustrated breath. “I said I would get it sorted out and I will. Don’t worry about it.”
“I worry about you all the time. The way you present yourself reflects on my company’s reputation. You can’t look like some high-schooler on a spring break trip.”
I don’t even bother to hide my sigh. “If I buy a suit off the rack, I don’t think it’ll sway our fans one way or another. They watch our show to recap the action they weren’t able to see in person. Fans don’t tune in to see what I’m wearing.”
“I keep telling you, Romero, in today’s world, you can’t just be an expert in your own field, you have to be a ‘personality.’ You have to think of the big picture. If you are dressed well enough, our company name will be re-tweeted everywhere.”
“I’ve got this covered,” I reply abruptly.
“Just so you know, that designer you blew off was our only option. I don’t have other people lined up to make you presentable. You’re on your own. Get it done.” With this terse reply, the phone goes dead.
Holding my cell phone in my hand like it’s a brick, in the privacy of my living room, I can admit I have absolutely nothing covered. I don’t know what compelled me to promise I could figure all this out — I don’t know anything about the fashion business.
My mind conjures up the image of Jordan trying to keep control of her pride and her emotions this afternoon as she walked out of Mishka Unlimited. I guess it’s time for some internet research; if Jordan worked for someone like Mishka, she probably has contact info somewhere on the web.
As I type Jordan Shepherd’s name into my phone, I am a little surprised by the images. She looked efficient and businesslike today, but the pictures on the Internet tell a different story. With her hair free, sultry makeup, and sexy clothes, she is off-the-chain glamorous. A real knockout.
After scrolling through several dozen pictures, I’m already jealous of the men she’s hanging out with and all these pictures. Hell, if I could hang out with the likes of her, I would do red carpet events more often. It would almost be worth the effort to clean up.
I smile as I run across a video of her dancing to music by Aidan O’Brien. She looks at home on the dance floor. I don’t know I would ever be that comfortable, but it is a treat to be able to watch her dance with abandon. The happy person on this video is so different from the sad, dejected woman I met today.
I scroll through a few more pages before I find an old profile of hers on LinkedIn. Fortunately, it has a phone number and an email address which doesn’t seem to be connected to Mishka Unlimited.
On a whim, I type in her phone number in the reverse directory. My stomach sinks to my feet as it pulls up her address. This is the outcome I wanted, but it’s not safe. I hope I’m panicking unnecessarily because I am viewing the world through my fractured rose-colored glasses. I know I made an ass of myself today. It’s like I injected myself with rude serum. If I just call her, chances are Jordan is not even going to speak to me. I know I probably wouldn’t. I think this calls for a more strategic approach.
My heart pounds like it did when I went to my first dance in Junior High, flowers in my hand. What am I doing? I don’t do stuff like this. Yet, here I am like an idiot. It would probably serve me right if she slammed the door my face. I am reevaluating my strategy of surprising her with a visit; this could go very badly. Guess it’s too late for me to worry about it now.
A maintenance guy walks around me in the foyer while I’m waiting. He takes one look at the intercom light and shakes his head. “Good luck with that one, man. She has a loud growl and a big bite.”
“Who, Jordan? I don’t think so,” I respond, feeling the need to defend her from the random criticism.
“Watch yourself. She’s a bit of a handful,” he says as he shrugs his shoulders and walks away.
If I was a little apprehensive before, now I’m really nervous. All of a sudden, this seems like a universally bad idea.
Jordan peeks through a gap in her door frame as she opens the door a scant couple of inches, leaving the chain locked.
“You? What are you doing here?” she asks as she shifts to get a better look at me through the small gap.
“I don’t come to New
York very often. Would you believe I need a tour guide?”
“I might believe you — except then you would have to explain how I still don’t know how you tracked down my apartment.” Her brow furrows as she sees the flowers in my hand. “I guess you can do that inside.” She opens the door wider and steps out of the way.
I scoot past her, dragging a hand through my hair to get it out of my face. “It was frighteningly simple. You have a substantial footprint on the Internet.”
“My job was very public, but I didn’t think it would lead you to my front door.”
“Granted, you weren’t on Google Maps or anything, but it didn’t take much effort to put the pieces together.” I grimace. “You might want to do something about that — particularly if your former boss is as bent on revenge as it appears.”
Jordan slumps against her banister on the stairs as she says, “Please, don’t remind me. It was one of the more unpleasant experiences in my life.”
“Really? I have a different perspective. See, I’ve spent just a few minutes in the presence of the great Mishka. If she were no longer my boss, I’d be doing the happy dance while taking a victory lap.”
“Oh, believe me,” Jordan says with a laugh, “the part of me which isn't completely petrified and freaked out about not having a job for the first time since junior high school is having a heck of a party. Sadly, the other part of me is thinking ahead. I’ve got bills to pay, after all.”
“That’s actually one of the reasons I’m here. I came over today. I was in town, and I need to talk to you about an important project.”
Jordan shoots me a confused look as she responds, “You want to speak to me? What kind of project is it?”
Jude’s Song (A Hidden Beauty Novel Book 7) Page 24
