Wicked Beautiful

by J. T. Geissinger

  WICKED BEAUTIFUL

  By

  J.T. Geissinger

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2015 J.T. Geissinger, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by J.T. Geissinger, Inc.

  ISBN 978-0-9969358-0-7

  Cover design by SS Media Co. & the E-book Formatting Fairies

  Editing & Formatting by the E-book Formatting Fairies

  Also by J.T. Geissinger

  The Bad Habit Series

  Sweet As Sin

  Make Me Sin

  The Night Prowler Series

  Shadow’s Edge

  Edge of Oblivion

  Rapture’s Edge

  Edge of Darkness

  Darkness Bound

  Into Darkness

  Novella

  The Last Vampire

  To Jay, for always being there.

  “Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned,

  nor hell no fury as a woman scorned.”

  – William Congreve, The Mourning Bride

  PROLOGUE

  Once upon a time, I had a heart.

  It was a nice one, too, big and wide and tender. I loved everything with that heart: my parents, my little brother, the young mare my father bought me that I rode back and forth to my small country school. I loved my family’s modest ranch, and the flat Texas plains that stretched away from it in shimmering golden miles in every direction. I loved the earth, and the sky, and the soft summer rain.

  Then, when I was fifteen, I met a boy my heart loved even more than anything. My heart loved the boy so fiercely it would bolt, or skip a beat, or stall out altogether, just from the mention of his name. For two perfect years this boy was my heart’s true joy, and, in my innocence, I believed it would remain so forever. I believed my heart was safe with him, that a love so pure and good could never be defiled.

  I was wrong.

  The boy taught me a lesson, and the lesson was this: love is a fairy-tale. An illusion. A lie. Love can wither like an apple blossom killed from frost, and so can hearts.

  Mine did.

  Now inside my chest where my heart used to beat so joyfully you’ll find only a jagged shard of ice. Into that frozen shard is carved a single, simple word:

  Revenge.

  ONE

  Bitch: noun a slang pejorative for a woman who is belligerent, unreasonable, malicious, a control freak, rudely intrusive, or aggressive.

  From behind a Plexiglas podium on the vast, lighted stage in the Broadway Ballroom of the Marriott Marquis hotel in Times Square, I stand looking out, my eyes scanning the faces of the twenty-five hundred women in the audience.

  Pride suffuses me; even after raising the price to two hundred dollars a ticket, I’m still packing these seminars to standing room only.

  Man-hating is big business. I’ve built my entire empire on it.

  I lean forward and speak into the microphone. “Ladies, a show of hands, please. How many of you have ever been called a bitch?”

  Over two thousand hands shoot into the air.

  “Well, congratulations. You’re doing something right.”

  Scattered laughter from the crowd. Smiling, at ease because I’ve given this particular speech dozens of times before, I unhook the mic and stroll out from behind the podium, smoothing a stray wrinkle from the perfectly tailored waist of my white Armani suit.

  “Let’s take a closer look at this definition of bitch for a moment.” I turn to the large projection screen on the wall behind me. “Belligerent. A word meaning hostile, combative, warlike. We all know what unreasonable means: uncooperative, unhelpful, difficult.”

  Grinning, I turn back to the audience. “So far, so good.”

  More laughter.

  “Then we have malicious. That’s a real baddie. It means intending to do harm, cruel or unkind. No bueno, right? And how about control freak? A person who attempts to dictate how everything around her is done. Not so great. Rudely intrusive is self-explanatory, and then we come to my favorite one: aggressive.”

  The smile fades from my face. For a silent beat I examine the audience, enjoying watching them watching me. I get such a charge from being up in front of so many people, having them hang on my every word. It’s almost better than sex.

  Definitely better than the sex I had last night, anyway. I left Mr. Forty Seconds of Fury lying sprawled on his back in his bed without a backward glance. I should’ve known it would be a disaster when he claimed to be packing a python in his pants; I have heels bigger than his dick.

  “The word aggressive is commonly only used in reference to rabid dogs, savage dictators, or a woman with an opinion. If a man is aggressive, he’ll be described as a go-getter, or ambitious, or even simply masculine. In fact, every word in the definition of bitch that you see here is a masculine attribute. Warlike? Difficult? Unkind? Controlling? Those are all the antithesis of what society tells a woman she should be, because they are inherently masculine traits. So when a man calls you a bitch, he’s really saying you’re acting like a man.”

  I pause for effect, and then say forcefully, “And I’m here to tell you that acting like a man is the only way you’ll ever get what you want out of life.”

  In the ballroom, it’s silent as a graveyard. Everyone stares at me, waiting.

  “This is a man’s world, ladies. It might be cliché, but it’s the truth. Women are born at a disadvantage. We lack testosterone, the hormone responsible for the urge to build skyscrapers and fly to the moon and go to war. We are conciliators, peacemakers, nurturers. We are self-sacrificing, which is not only ridiculous, but also a ridiculous waste of potential. What we need to be in order to live truly fulfilled, productive lives is powerful. Can anyone tell me how a woman becomes powerful? Just shout it out. You don’t have to raise your hands.”

  There are a few calls of “Education!” and “Self-knowledge!” and even “Weight lifting!” which brings on laughs. I laugh too, loving the energy of the room.

  “Those are all good examples. But none of them get to the heart of the matter.”

  I always make sure to use the word heart. It’s every woman’s Kryptonite. Well, that and love. But that word is strictly verboten in my seminars.

  And in every other part of my life.

  “Here’s a quote from Roseanne Barr: ‘The thing women have yet to learn is that nobody gives you power. You just take it.’ Sounds simple enough, right? The problem with that is that it assumes the source of power is outside you. It isn’t. You already have all the power you need, but you’ve been giving it away. You’ve been trading it, bartering it, squandering it, because your need to be liked is stronger than your need to honor yourself. Every time you don’t speak up if you’re disrespected, every time you say ‘yes’ when you should say ‘no,’ every time you put someone else’s needs or desires ahead of your own, you give away your power. And what do you get in return?”

  I wait. The audience leans forward, a collective held in thrall.

  “Frustration. Resentment. Anger.”

  Heads nod; I’m preaching to the choir. Picking up energy, I turn and stride stage right. Every eye in the auditorium follows me.

  “Here’s a fun statistic: women are nearly twice as likely as men to suffer from depression. Twice as likely. Do you think that’s fair?”

  When I hold out the mic toward the audience, I get a blistering
shout in return.

  “No!”

  “Of course it’s not!” I pace back the way I came, my legs eating up the stage, my hair tumbling over my shoulders, a lioness going in for the kill. Agog, they watch me.

  “And can you tell me who NEVER suffers from depression?”

  Right on cue, hundreds of voices cry out. “Bitches!”

  “That’s RIGHT!” I roar. “Bitches never suffer from depression! They don’t suffer from anything, in fact, because if it makes them unhappy, they move on! They don’t try to change it, or whine about it, or spend hours with their girlfriends analyzing why. They simply open their hands and let it go!”

  Clapping. Ah, how I adore the sound of clapping. It takes a great deal of effort not to break into another grin, but I manage it. I stand with my legs shoulder-width apart in the center of the stage and gaze lovingly at my audience.

  Even in my thoughts, I’m careful not to call them my “minions,” as my best friend Darcy does. The word is far too disrespectful for a group of people who are putting half a million dollars in my pocket for a few hours of listening to me talk.

  “The bitch’s motto is, ‘After me, you come first.’ Whether it’s a man, or a job, or a family member, the priority is always her own happiness. In this way, and in this way only, a woman controls her own destiny, and realizes and safeguards her power. She’s never at the mercy of anyone else.” I pause briefly to let that all sink in. “What you need, ladies, is simply a new interpretation of that old insult for a strong woman. A definition you can truly embrace.”

  A new graphic flashes on the large projector screen on the wall behind me.

  Bitch: noun a woman in control of herself, her life, and her destiny, who always gets what she wants.

  Shouts of “Amen!” and raucous hoots of approval erupt from the audience. Now I can’t help myself; my mouth breaks into a huge smile.

  “That’s right. A bitch always gets what she wants. A bitch isn’t bossy. She’s the boss. In life, in work, and in relationships, bitches always do better. Now let me ask you ladies…”

  I throw my shoulders back, lift my hand to the sky, and raise my voice to the rafters.

  “Are you ready to become a BITCH?”

  The answering screams are deafening. Applause thunders. The audience leaps to its feet.

  And I stand laughing on the stage, soaking in the adulation of over two thousand women, thinking there’s no way life gets any better than this.

  Well, if Mr. Forty Seconds of Fury had turned out to be Mr. Four Hours of Foreplay, it would’ve been better, but because men are men, we women can’t always get everything we want, despite the claim of the empowering graphic projected on the wall.

  Which is precisely why I own so many vibrators.

  * * *

  Seven hours later, after the seminar is finished, all the questions have been answered, all the books have been signed, and the last of the audience has finally filtered out the ballroom doors to wreak havoc on the men in their lives with their new, enthusiastically embraced titles of capital-B Bitches—and they have the lapel pins, mugs, and bumper stickers to prove it—I’m exhausted.

  Unfortunately, I committed to dinner with Darcy tonight at Xengu, the new hot spot in Tribeca, and there’s no way she’ll let me off the hook, no matter how tired I am. Calling her a foodie would be like calling Jesus a rabbi: accurate, but completely missing the point. Darcy has turned dining out into an art form, and a highly lucrative business. She’s one of the most successful food bloggers in the States.

  She’s also the only woman I’ve ever met who can make a grown man soil his pants in fear at the mere sight of her. If a restaurant gets a thumbs-down review from her, its owner might as well close the doors and start over. She’s utterly, unapologetically ruthless.

  And brilliant. And loud. And hilarious. If there’s anyone in my life I’d use the L-word for, it would be her.

  I’m back in my condominium building, awaiting the private elevator that will take me to the penthouse level, when my cell rings. My assistant Tabby is carrying it, along with my Hermès bag, my laptop bag, and my rolling travel bag.

  Bitches don’t carry their own luggage.

  I don’t have to ask Tabby to answer the phone. She fishes it from her jacket pocket, blows her fire-engine red bangs off her forehead, eyes the readout, and holds the cell out to me.

  “It’s Darcy.”

  I take the phone and say cheerfully into it, “Yo girlfriend!”

  In response, I hear a sigh. “I take it by your lame attempt to sound gangsta you’re running behind schedule?”

  “I could be gangsta!” I say defensively.

  Beside me, Tabby raises her brows.

  Darcy, who is 5’10”, African-American, and weighs somewhere in the vicinity of two hundred fifty pounds, says sweetly, “Sure you could. And I could be Taylor Swift. Now if we’re done living in a fictional universe, can we please talk about how late you’re running? Because I’m not walking into Xengu late; they won’t hold the reservation, even for me.”

  The elevator doors slide open. Tabby and I step inside, and the doors silently close behind us. “They wouldn’t dare give away your reservation! Don’t they know who you are?”

  “Right?” agrees Darcy, reveling in her bulldozer reputation. Her voice turns sour. “But apparently the owner isn’t particularly fond of food critics, because I was told in no uncertain terms that if I were more than ten minutes late, my reservation would be given away, no matter who I was. This place is totallo en fuego, girl! They can afford a few bruised egos.”

  When speaking to me, Darcy enjoys peppering her speech with trendy little Spanish phrases, most of them botched. My mother is El Salvadorian, and my father was from Mexico City, and they both spoke Spanish to me when I was growing up, so I speak the language as well…and Darcy thinks she does, too. Her Spanglish is atrocious. It’s also highly amusing.

  “FYI, Gloria, if you mean ‘completely,’ you just say, ‘total.’”

  I call her Gloria when she butchers the language, after Sofia Vergara’s character in Modern Family. Though Gloria’s butchering English, so it’s not really the same, only it is because I said so.

  “Tch! You ‘totallo’ know what I mean, V! Don’t hate! And don’t change the subject: when are you getting there?”

  The elevator doors open again to reveal the elegant marble and glass foyer of my penthouse. Tabby and I walk inside. She leaves my handbag on the mirrored console against the wall. The rolling luggage bag she takes with her into my home office, where she’ll spend the next several hours going through mail, answering emails, scheduling meetings, and generally making my life easier. I pay her an ungodly sum of money, but she’s worth every cent. I couldn’t do what I do without her efficient support. Even more importantly, she’s proven her loyalty time and again, guarding all my secrets, exercising total discretion in the running of my affairs. She’s one of only two people on earth I trust.

  The ironclad nondisclosure contract she signed when she came to work for me helps.

  Still with my phone to my ear, I unbutton my jacket, toss it to the back of a white leather chair in the living room, and quickly head toward the master bedroom and my favorite thing in this six-thousand-square-foot ultramodern space I call home: the Jacuzzi bathtub. “Give me half an hour. If you get there before me, order me a—”

  “Filthy Grey Goose martini with three blue cheese olives. I know, I know. And let me guess: you’ll be wearing Armani. White, no doubt.”

  I pretend I’m offended. “Are you saying I’m predictable?”

  “I’m saying you’re anal, V. Why not break out some color once in a while? Maybe a floral print? Or, if you’re in the mood to really go for broke, maybe try a drink other than a Grey Goose martini?”

  Because, dear friend, there’s safety in routine.

  It’s when you leave things up to chance that you get hurt.

  I stop in front of the bathroom mirrors and resist the ur
ge I’ve had since adolescence to stick my tongue out at my reflection. That person in the mirror simply isn’t me.

  In my mind, I’m six feet tall. In my mind, I’m a Viking warrior. In my mind, I’m a goddess, irresistible and powerful and, most of all, beautiful.

  The mirror, however, informs me with matter-of-fact disregard that I am a light-skinned Latina of average height and weight with no discernably interesting features. I admit I do have a good head of thick, dark hair, and straight white teeth. (Which, like my formerly crooked nose, I had fixed years ago.) My legs are all right too, but because they’re long for my height, I’m short-waisted, and therefore, unlike Sofia Vergara, an hourglass figure will forever elude me.

  The funny thing is, men don’t see the woman that I see in the mirror. Men see me as exactly the image I have cultivated in my head. Even a plain woman can be beautiful, if only she believes it.

  Perception is reality.

  The problem is getting your pathetic self-image on board. (It helps if you shred the Victoria’s Secret swimsuit issue.) Besides, if Josephine, a woman described as “monstrously tall,” with bad teeth and a sallow complexion, could woo and marry Napoleon Bonaparte, the most powerful man in France, any one of us can definitely convince Joe Schmo we’re a catch.

  Fake it ’til you make it, bitch.

  I take a quick bath, change into a cocktail dress, shout good-bye to Tabby, who has her head buried in a stack of my mail, and head back downstairs to the lobby, where my car and driver await. In eight minutes, I’m walking into the noisy, delicious-smelling entrance of Xengu.

  Which is when I see him.

  Him.

  And the safe, carefully constructed world I’ve inhabited for the past fifteen years ends with the abruptness of two fingers snapping.