True North

by Liora Blake

  Inside, on the fifth floor, Kellan is waiting in the restaurant, fiddling with his phone when I walk in. When he looks up, he stands and raises his arms in the air, and bellows across the room, “I can’t believe I’m the personal stylist to Mrs. Trax! Who knew that we would be here, even after the texting scandal I implemented, which brought your two lusty bodies together? I’m a genius matchmaker at heart. Like that pasty buffoon that hosts The Bachelor, but significantly more awesome.”

  The few women in the dining area are older, junior league types and all of Kellan’s yelling about lusty bodies has prompted them to give us some serious stink-eye. I try to avoid their stares, but give up when Kellan hugs me so hard I nearly fall over.

  “No Mrs. Trax here. Just this week’s bedmate, I’m sure.”

  “Are you kidding me? I don’t think he goes all black Amex for a flavor of the week.”

  “What?”

  Kellan grins and shakes his head at me. “You must be a tiger in the sack, girl. Like, blow his mind and his everything else. Come on, his exact words were ‘whatever she wants, no limits, go crazy.’ ” Kellan looks away wistfully. “I love the way those words sounded coming out of his mouth.”

  “Seriously, what are you babbling about, Kellan?”

  “Trevor. He called me earlier, told me to charge everything to him today, get you whatever you wanted and then some.”

  Kellan raises his eyebrows at me and the glint in his eyes tells me he has dastardly plans to destroy the inventory on hand here at Barneys. Unfortunately, I can’t see straight all of a sudden because I’m pissed.

  “Give me one second, I’ve got to call Trevor and explain the concept of being a concubine to him.”

  I heave my bag down on the chair, dig out my phone, and stomp out of the restaurant, dialing him up as I huff my way out of earshot of the Red Hat Society women, who probably have called the cops by now.

  His ringtone, which previously sounded like a lullaby to me, is now so annoying that if he doesn’t pick up in three seconds, I’ll break something in this pretty little hallway.

  “Miss me already? I just dropped you off fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Yo. Daddy Warbucks. What the hell do you think you’re doing?” My teeth are grinding against each other and have made my jaw ache in just the last thirty seconds.

  “What? Why do you sound all pissed off? When I left you there, you were purring in my ear about all the dirty shit you wanted done to you in the next twenty-four hours.”

  “I’m pissed because I don’t want you calling Kellan and handing over your fancy credit card to him. I don’t need you to buy me stuff. It makes me feel like a dirty pros—”

  “God help me, Kate, if the word ‘prostitute’ comes out of your mouth, I will come un-fucking-hinged.”

  “Prostitute. Whore. Concubine. Kept woman. Whatever. I’m not in this for clothes and jewelry and furs or whatever women like that want.”

  I hear him slamming the door on his car and then he lets out a loud guttural growl. “I fucking know that. Apparently, I’m an idiot, because I thought it might be nice for my girlfriend to have some clothes or shoes or whatever the hell else she wants. Because I can afford to do that and until about three minutes ago, I thought she was the shit, so I wanted her to have what she wants.”

  “All I wanted today was to have lunch with Kellan and maybe have him pick out something for me to wear to dinner tonight. That’s it. Now he’s got dollar signs in his eyes and I’m looking like Pretty Woman out there.”

  My fingernails dig into my palms. Trevor slams another door, probably at the studio. He lowers his voice and breathes into the phone with significant effort.

  “I love you, you complete pain in the ass. Just let me do this. You’re making a big goddam deal about something that shouldn’t be one. So, if you could get off your high horse for a couple of hours, that would be great.”

  “Hold on. Are we fighting?”

  He sighs. “I guess. I’m a little bit turned on with all the yelling, which will hopefully lead to make-up sex, which probably means we’re fighting.”

  Hmmm, make-up sex with Trevor. I’m suddenly interested in what form that takes. Rough, teach-me-a-lesson kind of approach? Maybe more of a sorry I was a presumptuous douche, how do you like my head between your legs thing?

  “Fine. What’s the budget?”

  “Budget?”

  “Yes. How much can I spend?”

  “No budget, just get whatever you want. My card doesn’t have a limit.”

  “Give. Me. A. Number.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake. I don’t know. How about fifty?”

  “What am I going to buy at Barneys for fifty dollars?”

  “Oh, now it’s not enough? Make up your mind, Mosely. And I didn’t mean fifty dollars, I meant fifty grand.”

  I bang my head against the wall in the hallway. The old biddies are probably reporting me to security right now as a homeless crazy person.

  “What would I do with fifty thousand dollars in clothes? You’re not even being reasonable. Who does that? Where would I even put that much stuff?”

  “In our closet. You see how much space I need.”

  Trevor’s house has a walk-in closet the size of my kitchen. What’s hilarious is that he uses approximately one-tenth of the space. The rest is just bare hanging rods and empty cedar shelves covered in dust. The same goes for the bathroom, where there are two vanities, each the length of a pool table. All he has in there is deodorant, some cologne he rarely wears, plus his toothbrush and toothpaste. That’s it. I’ve never quite figured out what he spends his money on. There’s the overpriced car, but just the one, instead of a fleet. Beyond that, he doesn’t seem to care much about electronics, gaudy jewelry, or expensive toys. Apparently, the mountain bike crap was his only vice until he met me and started buying up Montana ranch land and financing unreasonable shopping sprees.

  “Fine. I’ll spend as much money as I can in the next four hours. Sounds great.”

  “I don’t give a shit now. Do whatever you want. Go to Walmart instead—the fifty bucks should do just fine there. I’m sure that’s exactly where Kellan wants to go crazy.”

  “Don’t be mad, Daddy Warbucks.”

  “Stop calling me that. Do you think you could do one fucking thing for me?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I want the dress you get to wear tonight to be for me. Hot, sexy as hell, and easy access. Got it?”

  “Anything more specific?”

  “Tell Kellan, he’ll figure it out. He seems to be able to dress you like every one of my filthiest fantasies in the flesh.”

  A shiver runs over me and I consider how long I have to wait to make up with him properly. After I hang up, I try hard not to feel like I’m being bought somehow, reminding myself it’s different because he loves me. Even when Kellan announces loudly to the room that I look like an apology orgasm is in my future, I try to hold my head high.

  Four hours later, I’m slumped in a chair in some kind of VIP (which I’m now convinced stands for “very important prostitute”) section of Barneys, surrounded by a bevy of bags and boxes. All I want at this moment is a tall glass of iced water with lemon, two ibuprofen, a bed, and to sleep for days. How do brainless twit women do this all day? Trying on clothes is exhausting, mentally and physically.

  Don’t get me wrong, it’s entertaining for the first hour or so. When sales clerks and managers figure out that you’re about to drop some serious cash, a treasure trove of things comes your way. There are snacks, champagne, espresso, and an endless supply of insincere compliments. While I know it is impossible for everything to look “spectacular” and “totally amazing” on me, that’s what they kept saying over and over and over.

  Luckily, I had Kellan to tell me with unflinching honesty what was good and bad. There were a few times he covered his eyes with his hands and shouted, “Off! Take it off now!” when I toddled out of the dressing room. One was a strange orange silk romper with
a gold sash tie and the other a cotton-candy-pink pair of wide-leg pants with giant red buttons. I was educated on what the term “editorial” means in the world of fashion. It means that no sane person should attempt to wear it out of the house, because it only looks good on pin-thin models as tall as gazelles who slouch in a way that makes them look cool. The rest of us just look like dangerously dehydrated kooks.

  We didn’t spend fifty thousand. Not even close. I can’t imagine how long it would take to do that. Except when Kellan fingered a few couture dresses that would have blown the budget pretty quickly, looking at me with pitifully large eyes and telling me to try just one, that I wouldn’t regret what it feels like to wear a dress like this. I drew the line and wouldn’t consent even to try them on. Where in Crowell would I wear a seven-thousand-dollar dress that barely covers my ass? The post office? The feed store? My bare legs would stick uncomfortably to the pleather booths at Deaton’s Café, that’s for sure.

  After sending Kellan on his way, I stretch out to wait for Trevor, who I texted a few minutes ago with an SOS to come pick me up before I drift into some kind of fugue state. A few of the helpful concierge types keep checking on me, asking if I need anything or if they should call a car service for me. As politely as possible, I tell them my ride will be here any minute. Maybe it’s because I keep saying “my ride” that they keep looking at me funny. I’m sure most of their fancy clientele doesn’t wait for their “ride” to come get them. They drift into limos, Bentleys, or hovercrafts that vaporize into thin air.

  Dropping my head back to rest on the chair, I hope if my eyes are closed the next time they wander by, no one will want to disturb me. Before I can really drift off into the nap I so desperately need, I sense Trevor over me. I can smell him, all his clean skin and him, whatever it is that makes my mouth water and my skin flush.

  “Are you alive, Mosely?”

  “Barely.”

  With his arms outright against either side of the chair, he leans down and kisses each of my eyelids.

  “Looks like you bought the place out. I can’t believe fifty bucks bought all this.”

  Opening my eyes, his cute face is still hovering near mine so I dart my lips up to give him a tiny kiss.

  “Au contraire, Daddy Warbucks, we spent significantly more than fifty dollars. I hope you plan to put in some serious overtime down on the docks because you’re going to need a solid paycheck to cover all this.”

  “If you call me Daddy Warbucks one more time, I will leave your ass here. Good luck fitting all this shit in a cab.”

  My eyes go wide and I whisper to him desperately. “Please don’t. I hate it here.”

  He smiles and lays a serious kiss on me before straightening up to grab some of the bags. Peering into them quizzically, he keeps picking up more when he realizes how light they all are.

  “Can’t be much in these, they’re light.”

  “Oh no, they just like to put every single little thing in a separate bag. With the exception of this one.” I shove the bag sitting on the floor right next to me with my foot. “This one has lingerie in it, so they went ahead and filled it up.”

  He raises his eyebrows and grins. “Anything interesting in that one?”

  Leaning down to pick it up, I make a show of opening it up and studying its contents. “A few obscenely expensive push-up bras and some very tiny panties. What else, what else?” I furrow my brow and then look up at him innocently. “What about a red lace corset with a matching garter belt and black fishnet thigh-highs? Would that qualify as ‘interesting’ to you? Kellan seemed to think you might appreciate the sheer quality of the lace.”

  “Are you totally sure he’s gay? The fucking guy seems to be in my head, seeing every little dirty daydream I’ve ever had about you.”

  “I’m quite positive he’s completely uninterested in any kind of sex involving women. He’s just a complete savant about clothes. For any situation, naughty or otherwise.”

  Trevor looks at me and jerks his head toward the door. “I suggest we go home and you can show me everything you purchased. Beginning with that bag in your hand. We’re done fighting, right? Now we can move on to the making-up part?”

  Pulling my lips together into a sly smile, I drop my chin and gesture to a garment bag lying amongst the rest of my haul. “If you think the corset sounds interesting, you’re going to love the dress I have for tonight.”

  He’s pushing the door open with his back to load the bags into the SUV and he stumbles over his feet trying to crane his head back to me. I laugh and shake my head, loving that I just threw him off his über-cool game for one second.

  24

  We have dinner reservations at some sushi place I apparently should have heard of, but haven’t. Evidently, it’s well-known by the locals, plus the paparazzi and the tourists who cram in to see if they can catch celebrities shoving twenty dollars’ worth of sea urchin into their mouths and knocking back sake like it’s water.

  After I slink into the unbelievably tight, low-cut, supershort tank dress that Kellan insisted would be perfect for tonight, we’re lucky to make it to the restaurant anyway. The dress is pure white and simple, just a thin knit fabric that wraps every single curve on my body, leaving nowhere to hide. When I tried to tell Kellan that girls like me aren’t proper enough to wear white, he brushed off my claims and explained that a white dress like this is the equivalent of catnip to men. Something about virginal white makes their temporal lobes go bonkers. Leave it to Kellan to know how the male brain processes fashion and sex. Even if it’s all bullshit, it sounds like the Gospel when he lays it on me.

  Trevor hollers down the hall that he’s going to start the car just as I finish flipping my hair around and puckering my lips in the mirror while applying another layer of lip gloss. I clasp a silver choker around my neck and take one final look in the mirror.

  When I pull the front door closed behind me, I can see him in the car, staring at the radio console, on which he has probably already flipped through a million stations in the last five minutes, grumbling about nothing good being on the air anymore. As I start down the walkway, he looks up and stops whatever he’s doing. I hear the engine shut off and he leaps out of the car, slamming the door behind him. Reaching me, he puts his hands around my waist and shoves his hips into me, forcing me to start to walk backward toward the house.

  “Back in the house. Now. I’m going to have to fuck you before dinner in that dress.”

  I shove his hands off and make a quick move around him to jog down the walkway to the car.

  “No way. I didn’t just spend an hour getting ready so that you could get me all mussed up. You are totally going to buy me dinner before I put out.”

  I’ve already made it to the passenger door when I turn to see him standing helplessly on the walkway where I left him. He pulls his hands to the top of his head and shouts over to me.

  “Don’t fucking run like that in those heels and that dress! Your tight little body bouncing like that makes it worse!”

  Ambling slowly over to me, he opens my door and gestures for me to get in with a resigned look on his face. I slide into the seat and cross my legs. He leans in and runs his index finger down my arm.

  “Are you wearing some of that new lingerie under there? Maybe the little G-string? Or that bra that’s basically see-through?”

  “Nope.”

  “What are you wearing under it?”

  I smooth my hands over the fabric and stare out the windshield. “Just me.”

  Trevor groans and shoves my door shut with a thud. When he walks around the car in front of me, I watch him run his hands over his head and heave a sigh. Inside, he starts the car then gripes about whether appetizers will be enough to satisfy me, so we can get to satisfying him.

  There are distinct advantages and one glaring disadvantage to the private dining room he arranged at the restaurant. In the pro column, there are no Jack and Jill tourist types to gawk at us while we eat. They gawked enough when
we walked in, so who knows how long it would have taken just one of them to summon the courage to come over for an autograph or a picture. The food is delicious, especially given that I think raw fish of any sort is probably better suited to being in a white Styrofoam cooler that you can buy at the Quik Stop on the way to the lake, right next to the little plastic tub of night crawlers and a sixer of cheap Rainier beer.

  Solidly in the con column? Trevor. He looks too good in the soft dim light; his eyes are bright, and the little gold flecks in them are teasing me. He keeps using his hands to eat, instead of the chopsticks, which means he sometimes sucks the tips of his fingers just a little. Then he feeds me some pieces with his fingers, drawing close to my lips and getting this dirty sultry look on his face while he does it. He’s laughing, smiling, and generally being wonderful, which makes me drunk like the sake is one hundred proof.

  Then there’s the touching. Nothing overtly sexual, just drawing his fingers down my arm, sweeping my hair back over my shoulder, holding my hand and then massaging the palm gently with his thumb. I want to drag him somewhere and go completely nuts—the kitchen, the bathroom, the alley, or maybe under the table. Despite how he was when we left the house, he seems utterly self-possessed at the moment and now I’m the one left pouting and frustrated.

  When we finally finish and wait for the server to return with his credit card, I lean over and kiss him, long and hot. He pulls his hand into my hair just as the server returns and clears his throat before laying down the receipt and scurrying away. I drop my head to Trevor’s shoulder as he signs the ticket and puts everything back in his wallet. Pulling me out of the private room, he stops just before we start to leave the restaurant.

  “There are probably photographers out there. Are you OK with that?”

  I shrug and turn up one corner of my mouth. “Only one way to find out, right?”