Chapter 15
Kellan
The music was loud and obnoxious—the typical South Beach salsa remix tunes that seemed to play in every club up and down Ocean Beach Boulevard. I sat at the end of the bar, nursing my skinny mojito and wishing Selena and Carla would show up already.
I was as surprised as anyone was when Selena had blown up my phone earlier that day, hatching a sinister plot to get the notoriously workaholic Carla out of the office for a night on the town. I’d immediately texted back, proclaiming what a great idea I thought it was and how I’d be happy to set it up. But Selena was having none of it, claiming a top-secret super-spy supermodel liaison and keeping me out of the loop until the last minute when she’d told me to meet at the Cougar Club by eight.
Glad that Carla and Selena had mended fences, I willingly agreed, even going so far as to text Carla that I’d be working late on a new account and not to wait up for me. She replied with a winking emoticon that she’d be meeting Selena for a nightcap and not to wait up for her! Figuring Selena had sealed the deal, I showered and got ready and was at the Cougar Club an hour later.
That was two mojitos ago and they still hadn’t showed. I sighed and assumed they were probably catching up, sharing a bottle of wine on Carla’s rooftop hideaway and had simply lost track of time. Ordering another mojito, I figured a good plan of attack would be to drink until the music quit annoying me and settle in for the night. It wasn’t like the Cougar Club was torture. After all, it was appropriately named, with randy hot MILFs outnumbering their younger male counterparts 3 to 1. It would’ve been a great ratio for me to get lucky had I been single, but now that I was attached, I sat comfortably on the sidelines admiring the view.
South Beach’s finest were out for a night on the town, despite the fact that it was nearly ten on a weeknight. Platinum blondes and well-preserved Latinas ground against their lucky young suitors on the dance floor, making me wince at their clumsy approximation of doing the “grind” and twerking.
I was just settling in for my third drink of the night—or was it my fourth—hard to keep track with all the strobe lights and throbbing house music—when I saw Selena and an entourage of even lovelier ladies wind through the club.
I perked up, expecting Carla to be in there somewhere, but as the fine ladies headed my way, Selena in the lead—in more ways than one—she was nowhere to be seen.
“Kellan!” Selena cried, and it was clear from her woozy strut and girlish demeanor that I hadn’t been the only one indulging in cocktails all night. “It’s so good to see you again!”
I smirked, offering a hand of greeting when she swatted it away and literally fell into my arms, kicking up one heel old black and white movie kiss style and smothering my face with wet, sloppy kisses. I felt her lips merge with mine before I could peel away, only to receive the same treatment from Selena’s super hot friends.
“Ladies,” she slurred when they’d finally let me up for air. “This is Kellan. He’s a model, too!”
“Which makes us all models!” said one of the girls, a fragile Asian beauty who looked about to pass out.
“For Florida Faces?” asked another one of the girls, a vapid blond with legs as thin as my bar stool.
Selena shook her head, “no,” like it was some tragedy. “For Miami Models,” she said, and all the girls frowned in concert.
They giggled at that, and drifted toward the bar as Selena remained, flirty and ripe in a too tight, too short, too low cut, too shimmery dress. It left little to the imagination and, while the goods on display were more than adequate, I much preferred Carla’s older, riper, less revealing style.
Who knows, I wondered. Maybe I was getting old as well.
Or maybe Selena and her brash, brassy persona just wasn’t my style.
“Where’s Carla?” I asked over the sound of the blaring house music.
Her big brown eyes got even bigger. “She didn’t text you?” she purred, her accent thicker—and huskier—than the first time we’d met only a few short days earlier.
I reached for my phone but she stilled my hand with her own. “She’s running late,” she said, helping me slide it into my front pocket—and then down a little lower. “She said she’ll catch up with us but first, I should get you out on the dance floor!”
I demurred, but Selena—with the aid of her sexy young friends—was a force of nature. Before I could refuse, let alone finish my drink, we were up and on the dance floor. The crowd parted for us as if they were the Red Sea, Selena busting out moves that might have looked comical in any other setting but, in the Cougar Club, with its winking lights and throbbing music, not to mention my empty stomach full of island rum and cane sugar, looked perfectly appropriate.
I didn’t dance so much as get bounced around from bony model to bony model, my silk shirt coming undone, my hair getting mussed, skin drenched in sweat but then… so was everybody else’s.
I kept waiting for Carla to show up but, in all the commotion, I figured she’d find me soon enough. After all, you could hardly miss me—the lone guy in a throbbing sea of model flesh!
Chapter 16
Carla
“Ma’am?”
I looked at the waiter, generically handsome and endlessly efficient, with a knowing smirk. “Yes?”
“It’s just that, well… we’re getting ready to close, ma’am, and if you won’t be needing anything more?”
“Already?”
He chuckled. “It’s nearly midnight, ma’am, and, well… you’re my last table.”
He was being polite. I was the last table… period. “Oh gosh,” I said, reaching for my credit card and handing it to him. “I’m so sorry, please… add 30% on there for yourself.”
“Thanks!” He dashed away, probably more eager to be rid of me than to cash out his extravagant tip for the night’s work.
I sat, staring at the table full of half-eaten appetizers and the empty bottle of wine, which I’d sipped—and sipped and sipped and sipped—while waiting for Selena.
I should have known it was too good to be true. I should have known she hadn’t changed. I should have known she’d been up to no good. But no, I had to be the more mature one, the trusting one, the forgiving boss who just had to give the assistant who’d nearly ruined her one last shot.
And so of course I’d said “yes” when Selena asked me for a girl’s night out that night, particularly with Kellan working late on some “mystery” account. And of course, I’d shown up on time, 9 PM sharp, just like a good little girl. And of course, I’d waited patiently for the ever tardy Selena to arrive. And of course, she hadn’t. Not at 9:30. Not at 10. By then I’d texted her a dozen times, each with the same reply: “I’m on my way!!!!” Followed by a heart emoji.
I’d believed it and like a fool, kept sipping from the bottle of wine I’d ordered for us, and nibbled at the appetizers I’d ordered for us and apparently, three hours had passed!
I stood from the table, a little wobbly after all the wine, and scribbled my signature on the bill in haste. “I’m so sorry,” I apologized, again, rushing for the door. It was locked and I had to stand there waiting for him to catch up to me and open it. Once out on the street, I found it empty and dark, even the twinkling lights in the topiaries out front turned off for the night.
I stood on the sidewalk, not far from home, but the night felt incomplete without either finding where Selena had gone instead of meeting with me, or checking every hospital in town to make sure she hadn’t been in an accident—or chewing her out!
Still, I’d looked pathetic enough sitting at a table on my own for three hours, and I didn’t want to stand out in front of the restaurant for another hour as well. Turning for home, I heard the telltale “ping” of an update on my Facebook account. Normally I couldn’t have cared less. Usually it was some model—or model wannabe—PM’ing me for something they could have just texted me, or emailed me about on the Miami Models website, or asking when their latest headshots would be in.
Still, I had nothing much better to do on the short walk back to my place than check it, so I did. And… I shouldn’t have. Then again, I was glad I did. Or, no, actually… I wasn’t.
It was an alert from Selena, that she’d updated her page with a new photo. Actually, a stream of photos. All lively, all colorful, all damning. There was Selena sucking face with Kellan, other models I recognized from Florida Faces surrounding him, Kellan on the dance floor, shuttling from girl to girl—but mostly with Selena—looking sexy, his shirt untucked, hair tousled, face aglow with sweat and clearly feeling no pain.
My face burned with shame, to think I’d been used so effectively, so easily. To think I’d been duped, not just by Selena—who I expected it from—but from Kellan!
My stomach clenched in the humid night air, the pretty lights of South Beach suddenly blurry as my eyes moistened and I held back tears. That is, until I stumbled into my building, dashed up the stairs, crying silently as I crumpled to the floor in the foyer.
Chapter 17
Kellan
“This is good,” I grunted to the driver as he pauses at the stop sign outside of Papi’s Bodega around the corner from Carla’s building.
“But we’re almost here,” he said, turning to me, arm on the passenger seat.
“I know, my man,” I said, patting his arm as I slid him an extra twenty for his troubles. “But I gotta try and sober up first, you know?”
He chuckled, pocketing the tip before I could change my mind. “Good luck with that, bro!”
I stood at the curb, the night fragrant and tropical around me as the taxi sped off, brake lights shining in the neon darkness. The bodega was bright and loud as I stumbled in, aiming for the cold drinks section and grabbing a tall can of Joltz, the quickest way to sober up known to man: three times the caffeine of a regular soda, twice as much B-12 as your average multi-vitamin, more ginseng than an Asian kitchen and zero calories.
The cashier was a shrewd SOB and, seeing I only had large bills after my night out on the town, claimed it was “too late” to break my $50 bill for “just” a soda.
I was just buzzed enough to consider shoplifting for a quick second—just running out of the store and seeing what might happen—but erred on the side of caution. Instead, I noticed the fine array of cheap plaster statuettes behind him. One was a golden Buddha, perfect for Carla’s rooftop oasis.
“How much for the statue?” I asked, pointing to it with the $50.
“Thirty dollars,” he said without even glancing in its direction.
“I’ll take it!”
The Buddha was lighter than it looked and fit perfectly in the crook of one arm as I shuffled back to Carla’s place, slurping my Joltz cola and willing it to work. The street was silent and, as I juggled the statue and the soda up the stairs to her fourth floor loft—so was Carla’s apartment.
Only after I’d pounded on her door did I realize I had no earthly idea what time it was! Maybe the cashier back at the bodega hadn’t been a hustler. Maybe it really was too late to cash a $50 bill. Just as the echoes of my loud knock faded and I was tempted to turn around and slink away into the night, the door swung open and Carla stood, resplendent in a silk kimono, her hair was up and loose tendrils caressed her flushed cheeks.
“You have the nerve to stumble home in your condition?” she barked as I did just that—stumbled past her to get out of the hall.
“What condition?” I asked, offering the Buddha as if it might absolve me of all my sins—real or perceived. She ignored it and followed me out to her rooftop oasis, where we’d spent so many wonderful hours since I’d walked into her office that very first day.
“Kellan!” she huffed, following me out on bare feet. “It’s three in the morning!”
I turned, having just set the Buddha in its rightful place between two potted lilies near the fountain in the corner. “Get out!”
“You get out you rotten son of a bitch!”
I thought she was joking. As we stood there, her finger pointing back to the loft, her skin flushed, her eyes wide, I honestly thought she was joking. “Carla?” I asked, suddenly sober in a way 28-ounces of Joltz cola wasn’t able to achieve. “Are… are you serious?”
“Am I serious?” she barked, crossing her arms protectively over her chest as she approached. “Are YOU, Kellan? How could you do that to me all night and then stroll in like I was just going to bend over and take it?”
I stood, nonplussed, empty-handed and fuzzy-headed before her. “Carla, I… what did I do now?”
In reply, she slid her cell phone from one of her kimono pockets and tossed it to me. It was a bold, daring move, considering my alcohol consumption rate that night. Somehow, I managed to catch it, staring at the blank screen.
“Just swipe it!” she instructed, so I did. The screen of her oversized cell phone came to life, revealing the last thing she’d viewed: a Facebook page. But not just ANY Facebook page: Selena’s. I felt a soft tremor of foreboding as I saw the top of a blurry picture, recognizing immediately the neon lights and smoky haze of the nightclub I’d just left—the Cougar Club.
My heart hammered as I scrolled down her feed, shot after shot, pic after pic, of the girls and me dancing. Twerking, jerking, writhing and grinding. That would have been bad enough, but every few dance pics Selena had seen fit to re-upload the ones of her kissing me. Though it had felt innocent at the time, it seemed far more dubious in living color.
“Carla, I…” I handed the phone back but she ignored it, turning and drifting without a word to the sliding glass doors. “We were going to surprise you,” I blathered.
She whirred around, eyes moist, cheeks damp, voice hoarse. “You sure did, Kellan!”
I took a step closer and she flinched; literally, flinched. “No, I meant, she said you were meeting us. She said it was—”
Her face changed then, as if she thought I was lying. “Just stop,” she said, standing aside to let me pass. “You’ve lied to me enough tonight, Kellan. Just go, just leave and don’t ever darken my doorstep again. Here or at Miami Models.”
I paused, just as I passed, and the hurt look on her face—pale and puffy, her mascara running down her cheeks—told me she wasn’t kidding. “Yes, Kellan,” she said with finality as I drifted toward the foyer. “You’re fired!”
The words echoed in my ears long after I’d closed her door, walked down the stairs and found myself on the street, dawn was only a few hours away, and my mind reeled as I sank onto the nearest bus stop bench.
I should have known Selena was up to no good. I did, actually. I knew the minute I met her there was something “off” about that evil witch. I hadn’t trusted her then, but Carla had seemed so desperate to reconnect with, to reunite with, to forgive her former assistant that I’d politely let her handle her own affairs. Little did I know Selena would make it seem like she and I were having one!
As I sank back onto the bench, the quiet night balmy around my wrinkled slacks and unbuttoned shirt, I slid my arms out on either side of me, sliding them across the back of the bench bus. The quiet street faded away, and I saw only my revenge taking shape. Selena had spent half the night talking up Florida Faces and how I’d be a “great fit” there. The other girls had, too. About all the work I’d find, how easy it would be to get started.
Perhaps, I thought, rising from the bench to get started on my own evil retribution, it was time to find a new modeling agency after all…
Chapter 18
Carla
I paced my office, watching a tiny Finch bathe itself in the bird bath in the lush, tropical atrium outside my floor to ceiling windows. It was mid-afternoon, the sun glistening off the tiny bird’s feathers, but I hardly noticed as I paced a tread into the hardwood floor beneath my sensible heels.
Another alert pinged on my laptop as I groaned silently, willing Kellan to just stop—to just leave me alone. He’d been radio silent for days after I’d kicked him out of my apartment, but only after firing his no good
, sexy, hard bodied, lying, cheating, hustling tight ass. Not a word, not a text, not a phone call, not a bouquet of flowers, not a teddy bear and balloon basket delivered to my door in all that time.
And now, suddenly, he’s blowing up my text thread? IM’ing me on my laptop? I knew what it was about, of course. I didn’t need Kellan to tell me, let alone brag to me, about his first official turn on the catwalk as one of Florida Faces’ newest models.
I’d heard about the Platinum Pullover show for weeks now. I’d known the high-priced, high-fashion yoga jacket line was scouting modeling agencies to staff their next catwalk show—right on the beach, no less—and had even sent some of my best models up for a shot.
No dice. Then, just like that, Florida Faces gets the account. And who do they choose to headline the account? None other than Kellan Montclair! I knew the show was today. I knew it was just about time to get started. I knew the whole town of South Beach was abuzz, local magazines and newspapers and paparazzi stalking the beach to see which designers, celebrities, rappers and movie stars might show up in the front row.
Did he think I didn’t know?
Did he want to torture me?
Brag? Had I been that incredibly, pig-headedly, completely and utterly dead wrong about him?
Another ping and I gave up. “Fine! Fuck!” I blurted, no one around in the empty office to hear as I ignored the little showering finch and turned toward my desk to sink into my chair and respond to his IM.
I grunted, not surprised to find that he hadn’t sent a flood of heart shaped emoticons or even so much as a note, just the same link—two dozen times—to the live feed of the Platinum Pullover show, moments away from beginning.
“Is he for real?” I grumbled aloud, reaching into the dorm size fridge beneath my desk for a beer. Sure, it was only three in the afternoon. Sure, I was at work. Sure, I was talking to myself. This is what Kellan had driven me to!
Forbidden: A Student Teacher Romance Page 15
