Ex-Con Times Two

by Jay S. Wilder

  Through the door, I’m sucker punched again, this time by row after row of couture. Chanel, Dior, Valentino and other classics as well as On Aura tu Vu and, gasp, Elie Saab. Kelly realizes I’m no longer following her and turns back, saying, “Hey, no drooling on the high fashion.”

  I laugh and continue to follow her, but can’t help feeling like a moth being drawn to the flame of the beautiful clothing. My mom instilled a love of haute couture in me from the time I was a little girl, taking me to various fashion weeks. We’d always go to a tea room afterwards and pour over Vogue. I think she had despaired that I’d be a tomboy forever.

  Back then, I’d have rather had a basketball in my hands or diving for a screaming line drive as my high school team’s short stop. I was more often found covered in dirt than in designs, although Mom had stuffed my closet with glorious clothes.

  “Size seven?”

  Kelly drew my attention again, yanking me away from the fantasy of a Vera Wang bridal gown. I nod, not trusting myself to speak and follow the other woman into another room, this one filled floor to ceiling with shoes.

  “I can die now.”

  “I remember feeling exactly the same way six years ago,” Kelly said, her blue eyes shining as she spoke. “I wanted to lie down and have someone cover me with shoes.”

  “Ah, yes. There’s no better way to go.”

  Turning a corner and walking past two rows of shoes, Kelly steps into an aisle and pulls down a pair of Louboutin skyscrapers. The tomboy in me shrieks inside at the height of the heel, but I can’t be choosey right now or show doubt in Kelly’s taste or instinct. One thing I learned from being dragged from fashion show to the next is that designers—and everyone connected to them—take their art seriously.

  Kicking off my shoes, I slip the new pair on and find myself towering over Kelly. At five-seven, I’m already several inches taller than the other woman. Now I stand around six feet. A giraffe in stilettos, wobbly legs and all.

  “Will those be okay?” Kelly asks, oblivious to my discomfort. “We need to get you upstairs for your interview.”

  I glance at my watch. Holy shit. Only four minutes until my appointment. I clod after her, my ankles buckling in and out. “Please don’t fall. Please don’t fall” becomes my new quiet mantra.

  By the time we’re back in the hallway, I’ve said “thank you” a dozen times, stuffing my mismatched shoes into my shoulder bag along the way. In the elevator, I’m nearly huffing from stress and exertion. Mom was right, I really should have paid more attention at the finishing school she forced me to attend.

  “Are you going to be alright?” Kelly asks, a more compassionate smile flickering on her lips.

  I inhale and think ‘no’ in my head.

  Exhaling, I smile. “Yes, I think so, because of you. Thank you again, so much for saving me from that embarrassment.”

  Kelly waves me off. “It’s no problem, really. As you could see, we aren’t lacking in shoes around here.”

  As the elevator dings for our floor, I remember to ask, “How do I get these back to you?”

  Kelly smiles. “Don’t worry. I’ll find you.”

  Chapter 2

  Adam

  “Yeah. That’s perfect. Just like that.”

  I lean back in my leather office chair, tuning out all thoughts except one. How do I keep my secretary from hearing me groan when I blast my release down this blonde’s very experienced throat? It’s a legitimate concern. I don’t usually need to stay muzzled.

  The blonde—Melissa or Melanie, something with an M—bobs her head with more enthusiasm. I wrap my hand around the length of her ponytail and thrust harder into her mouth. Her throat spasms around my cock, but she doesn’t slow down, only drives me in and out of her sweet mouth harder and faster. The noises from her wet lips, the erotic slurping and sucking complete the trilogy of pleasure—touch, sight and sound.

  A glance at the clock says I have ten minutes to finish.

  “Hurry, sweetheart,” I urge her on.

  Her hand grips me harder and her suction increases to Dyson level, almost painful, but not quite. When she cups my balls with her other hand and strokes her fingers across to my perineum, I’m lost. My cock swells and my balls tighten, preparing themselves to drive my come as far into her throat as possible.

  My phone rings and I ignore it, probably just another person wanting another thing they think is urgent. Morons. This is a magazine, not war or brain surgery. The fact that florals were ‘so last season’ means nothing to me. It worries me about the state of the human race that people even care about this kind of shit.

  I growl when the phone rings again and I glance over to check the caller ID.

  Shit.

  It’s my dad, the Wilhelm Frederick Gerome. He’s the only person in the world who could make me grow soft this close to orgasm. The very sight of his name has my testicles hugging each other in panic.

  “Bummer,” Melissa-Melanie says and looks up at me, my now half-rigid cock in her hand. She tries again, licking up the shaft and sucking on the tip.

  “Another time. Thanks anyway, sweetheart,” I say and reach for the phone.

  “Hey, Dad.” I don’t even try to hide my annoyance, but clamp a hand over Melissa-Melanie’s mouth when she giggles. I’m not stupid. My father eats, breathes and lives for business. If he suspected for a second that I’m not taking this job seriously, my inheritance is out the window, and he has no qualms reminding me of that every fucking chance he gets.

  “Good morning, Adam. How goes the fashion publishing business today?”

  I watch Melissa-Melanie pull her dress up and back over her shoulders, covering those magnificent tits. She licks her lips and gives me a one-sided smile as she turns her back to me in a silent request to zip her up.

  I sigh. “Going great, Dad. Just zipping up a few last minute details before the interviews begin.” The blonde turns and rolls her eyes. I stand and tuck my soft dick into my boxers before doing a little zipping of my own. Then I lean forward and kiss her on the forehead and mouth a silent “thank you”, pointing to the door.

  “Excellent. I expect a full report by five o’clock.”

  The blonde takes out a pen and paper and begins to write. She kisses the sheet of paper and tosses it on my desk. How the hell she has any lipstick left to leave that deep pink impression is beyond me. She gives me a little wave and is out the door. I pick up the paper—Michelle. I was close.

  “Report by five.” I parrot. “Got it. Wait, what report are we talking about?”

  Dad sighs a long exhale to let me know he’s deeply put off. “Figure it out, son.”

  Click.

  I don’t know whether to bang the receiver against my forehead or choke myself with the cord. I repeat my new reminder—one and a half billion, one and a half billion—over and over again, trying not to remember the dark day a week ago.

  Beep!

  My intercom on my phone beeps, interrupting the depressing thought Dad’s call had settled around my shoulders. My secretary announces, “One minute until your first interview, Mr. Gerome.”

  I thank her and walk to the mirror to adjust my suit and double check for any unwanted evidence Michelle might have left. So far, the models have been a fringe benefit of taking on the helm of Trendsetter Magazine.

  Walking to my office door, I button my suit. Now, to hire the perfect employees—hard-working ‘yes’ men and women who will work their asses off for a pittance and help make my life a lot easier.

  Chapter 3

  Anna

  Wrapping my hand around a hot mug of coffee, I nervously wait for the interview team to file into the conference room. The coffee is too bitter for my taste, I’m more of a ‘like a little coffee in your cream and sugar’ type of girl, but I hang onto it for needed warmth.

  A minute passes and then the door opens. I stand quickly and turn to face the one, no two, no—breathe in, breath out—six people who file in. The last of whom is Kelly, my shoe savi
or. She smiles and gives me a wink.

  After a round of introductions, I look around, confused. I’d been expecting Adam Gerome to be part of the interview team. As I take my seat, the door opens again and it’s him. It’s the face I’d recognize anywhere. I’d seen it plastered on tabloids enough.

  Standing again, I extend a hand and it’s immediately accepted in his warm grasp. Holy hell, I’d thought he was gorgeous in a picture. He apparently isn’t very photogenic because the photographs of him don’t do him justice.

  He’s tall, a lot taller than me even in my stilettos of death, and I hadn’t expected him to be so… looming. He’s broad, his wide shoulders even more imposing in his dark suit. My eyes follow the pink and navy plaid Burberry tie up his chest and to his neck, past the Adam’s apple protruding just above it. I look higher, full lips spread wide into a grin. Higher still and into the most beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever seen.

  “Ms. Nash, it’s nice to meet you.” He’s grinning again, apparently used to this reaction from women.

  I mentally shake myself. “Mr. Gerome, it’s great meeting you too.” Whew, at least the words didn’t come out as a sigh or like a teenager screaming after the latest pop star.

  “Adam, please. Mr. Gerome is my father…and his father.” He grins and gestures toward my chair. I sit and swing my eyes away from him. It would be better for me to never look in his direction again, because I’m already imagining what’s under his expensive suit and shirt—and dammit, his pants. He really should have been a model, and I really should have tamped down my active imagination in the waiting room.

  Laura, the human resource director, launches into the interview with some instructions, a quick summary of the job I applied to, and a rundown of the interview question sequence. She goes on to ask the standard set of “tell us a little about yourself” questions.

  I share a bit about my work experience, which takes all of four seconds considering I have no experience besides being on the staff of my college newspaper at Columbia.

  “Columbia,” Adam interrupts. “My almost alma-mater.”

  “Great school,” I agree and keep going, never even looking in his direction and silently pat myself on the back for my willpower. “I graduated last week and am eager to bring a fresh, young perspective to your magazine.”

  Laura, who appears to be in her forties, purses her lips at that. Kelly, my new best friend, lifts a thumb in the air and mouths, ‘You’re doing great.”

  Edward, the editorial director and the man who might be my boss, joins the conversation. “Your last name is Nash. Any relation to Nathaniel Nash?”

  I blush, feeling the heat rise into my face. I wanted to get a job based on my credentials, not my parents. Since I can’t lie, I give a quick nod and add, “Yes, he’s my father.”

  “Yes,” Edward nearly glowed. “I do remember Nathaniel and Adriana having a child. It’s been years since I’ve seen your father. How’s he and your mother doing?”

  Trying not to sigh, I try to keep it simple. “They’re both terrific. Staying too busy, as usual.” Hoping to escape the shadow of my father and bring the attention back to me, I realize at the last moment I could leverage the nearly star-struck look in the editorial director’s eyes. I add, “Although it’s not officially employment, I have worked side by side with my father for many years. Learned at the feet of a master, so to speak.”

  The nods around the table make me realize it was a good move. As much as I want to get a job on my own, a little help to get my foot in the door with some name-dropping never hurt anyone—and in this case, it’s Edward who drops the name, so I’m simply riding the wave.

  Looking confused, Adam says, “Who’s Nathaniel Nash?” and I think poor Edward will have a stroke. He gapes at the younger man, his mouth working up and down, his eyes incredulous.

  Finally, he composes himself and says, “This young lady’s father is a leading wartime reporter. He’s written several books regarding his experiences and also writes for the New Yorker and New York Times. He also won a Pulitzer Prize several years ago for his reports from Pakistan and Afghanistan.” Edward looks aghast that he would need to explain any of this to anyone.

  Adam looks at me and I lift a shoulder, nodding. Everything Edward said is true. My father is a journalistic legend, called upon by universities around the globe to teach their students, if only for an hour. He receives huge speaking fees and had just received a six figure advance to pen another book.

  Adam says, “Wow, it must suck living under that kind of shadow. I’m surprised you’re not as pale as a ghost and vitamin D deficient.”

  Ahhh, the asshole rumors about Adam Gerome were all true, I’m guessing.

  All heads swivel to me, as if Adam had served me a verbal tennis ball.

  I stare at him and grit my teeth, lifting my chin. “Actually, it’s been quite the honor growing up with a man like my father. I’ve learned a great deal from him, which you’ll find out if you’re smart enough to hire me.”

  Match point. Heads swivel back to my opponent.

  He taps my resume sitting in front of him and leans back in his chair. “Aside from your father’s fireside tutelage, please regale me with the other reasons I would be smart enough to hire you.”

  Taking a deep breath, I soften my tone. “My mother dragged me off the basketball court and into every fashion show that opened in New York City from the time I was old enough to sit still.”

  Note to self—give Mom a big hug when I next see her.

  Adam sputters out with, “So now I’m supposed to be impressed that you ‘learned at the feet’ of your mother too?” He air quotes the words too.

  God, that man’s becoming annoying.

  Keeping cool, I say, “No. I hope you’ll be impressed that I know you’re wearing a Burberry tie from the ‘Regent’ collection and your suit is Canali, off-the-wrack but nicely altered.”

  He lifts his tie and look at the label on its back. Ha, take that, you bastard, I think, but give my prettiest smile when he directs his gaze back to me.

  “I hope you’ll also be impressed that I’ve personally met and spoken to most of the designers you’ll cater to. I’m sure my personal connections could be nothing but a benefit to Trendsetter.”

  Silence fills the room and I struggle not to fidget under the intensity of his stare. After what feels like hours pass, the human resource director clears her throat and leans forward, a smile playing on her lips. “Thank you, Anna. I think you’ve answered all our questions. We’ll be completing the interview process today with other candidates, and once we check references, we’ll have a decision by the weekend, if not earlier.”

  She stands and I take my cue, forcing myself not to bolt from the room. I shake each hand in turn and thank them for the opportunity. When it’s Adam’s turn, he finally stands and my hands is enveloped by his. When I thank him for the opportunity, he only nods.

  “I’ll show you out.” It’s Kelly again, coming to my rescue. I follow her meekly out the door, knowing I’ve most likely blown my chance at this job.

  That cocky bastard Adam Gerome didn’t help my chances one bit.

  Chapter 4

  Adam

  As the conference room door closes on the last candidate, I lean back in my chair and curse at the ceiling. Who the hell thought it would be a good idea to schedule nine interviews in one day? Oh yes…it was me.

  Shit. What the hell was I thinking?

  I open a bottle of water, wishing desperately it was vodka. I need a drink in the worst possible way. Not only to relax after this tenuously boring day, but to take the edge off the Anna Nash sting I continue to feel. I detest beautiful women who turn out to be real bitches. If I’m smart enough to hire her? I scoff at that line. The work experience section of her resume has something like six words on it and she’s trying to pretend she’s the golden goose of the fashion publishing industry.

  I especially hated how everyone in the room tried to hide their laughter. I hate b
eing laughed at. It reminds me of my oldest brother. George was born a dick, always making fun of his siblings, especially me. When I had to wear glasses as a boy to correct a lazy eye, George had been merciless in his teasing. If I complained or ran to our parents, the taunts would become even worse. Then braces had joined the other foreign objects on my face. My brother never stopped laughing. He was all the more clever and menacing to booth.

  “Maybe I should just kill you and put you out of your misery,” he had said to me one night, holding a pillow over my face. “I’m sure it’s horrible being so ugly. Let’s do you and the world a favor and snuff you out.”

  “Okay, now to select a candidate,” Laura, the human resource director, says, breaking me from the past. I shudder and take another sip of water, refusing to allow thoughts of my childhood to invade my present any longer. If only it were that easy.

  Shaking my head to clear it, I say, “Yes. To save endless hours of torture, let’s all just toss our single favorite candidates resume into the center of the table.”

  Laura’s mouth pinches, then opens and I can tell she’s going to disagree. I hold up my hand and she shuts it, frowning. “I suppose it’s a good place to start,” she says with much hesitation.

  Flipping through the resumes in my hand, I pass by Anna Nash with a snarl. I select Nelson Westmoreland, my favorite of the bunch. Twenty-two years of experience in the magazine industry, the most experienced in the group, and who I’m sure will be everyone’s favorite.

  I look up and see that everyone has their favorite in their hand. I look at Laura and say, “Not a good place to start, but a good place to finish. The candidate with the most votes wins.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. I’m sure there are formal HR types of things you feel are necessary to life. I don’t. I say we go on instinct and gut. There’s seven of us, there shouldn’t be a need for tie-breakers.”