“We’ve done so many shows together, Vicki! Damn, just think about it! We’ve had so many parties, travelled all over the damn globe! You’re crazy, you know that?”
The woman grinned. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“No, I’m serious. People don’t hate you, honey! They’re envious, want what you have. You say I’m authentic? Well baby, you’re the real McCoy!”
The woman laughed mildly, nodded, and withdrew her hand to cross her arms over her chest, closing the door, locking Taryn out, leaving her in the damn cold. The glimmer that once danced in her eyes all but evaporated, leaving the shell… the one that was talking, but simply no longer cared.
“…I’ve never told anyone but my therapist about it, except now. I told you, Taryn, so that you’d understand the impact you had on me; how at times, you were one of my few friends. I’m a wild card but people are addicted to my persona—the person I portray, anyway. They don’t really know me… Taryn, no one really knows me.”
She nodded in understanding. “Well Vicki, people can’t get to know you if you don’t ever reveal your true self…”
The woman sighed. “Yes, I suppose. This… this is all I have.” She threw up her hands. “I have my looks. It’s what brings in my checks, pays my bills, gives me the lifestyle I require. I don’t want a sugar daddy; I just want a good fuck and then to return him from whence he came.” Her teeth glistened as she chortled deep and heavy, yet it wasn’t real… No, her surface joy lay saturated in viscous layers of bleeding pain. “Enough of that shit, a bunch of damn sadness.” She sighed and slapped the table, bringing everything to an abrupt stop. “I don’t do sadness. I do never ending diets that make me want to go out and slice someone up into tiny cubes, boil them, and have myself a grandiose meal.
They both burst out laughing.
“I’m beginning to think you’re a cannibal, Vicki.” Taryn winked.
“A man eater? Many would agree.” She winked back. “Anyway, I wanted you to ride with me, for us to do this together, but you tell me you don’t want it anymore. I don’t understand.” She shook her head in disbelief. “But I can respect your decision. What’s going on though?” Her eyes narrowed.
“If I told you, you might think it’s comedy hour.” Taryn grimaced as she leaned back in her seat, not completely believing her nerve.
“Try me.”
“I don’t want to abandon ship completely. I love fashion.”
“…And fashion loves you.”
“I also love many aspects of being a model, so I know over the years I may have come across as blasé, but—”
“We’re kindred spirits… You didn’t come across as blasé; you came across as jaded.” She smirked.
“She shoots, she scoooores!” Taryn stuck her tongue out at the woman in jest. “So… here is the deal. I actually want to design now, Vicki. I want to be on the other end of the table, so to speak.”
“You’re kidding me, really?” The woman’s tilted smile assumed the eye-catching colors of astonishment, just as she’d imagined her reaction would be.
“Yes, really.”
“Well, what are you designing?” She leaned forward, her eyes wide with what Taryn was certain she was mistaking for genuine curiosity. Taken aback, she stumbled over her words.
“Well, I… I mean, they’re undergarments.”
“Let me see.”
“You think I just walk around with big notebooks of this stuff, Vicki?” She laughed. “I don’t have them with me. We were having lunch, not planning an exhibit.”
“You have no designs on your phone, tablet, nothing? What type of businesswoman are you?! Taryn, if I’ve told you once I’ve told you a million times—come ready.”
“What?” Taryn sat back in her seat, truly astonished.
“For bloody sake, Taryn! I’m going to have to set you straight. If you are really serious about giving this a go, then you should always be ready. I was prepared to make a call on your behalf if you had anything worth sharing… I’d tell you either way.” She sat back in her seat, a look of defiance on her face.
“A call on my behalf? To whom?” Her brow rose in sky-high curiosity. “And before you answer, I’ve already shopped them around and no one is giving me the damn time of day.”
“Then you should ask for the time of night…”
“Touché…” They grinned at one another. “You just reminded me—I do have some in my email that I had taken photos of…” She quickly pulled her phone out of her purse, scrolled through her messages, and found what she sought. Thrusting her phone across the table into Vicki’s grasp, she sat back and watched, waited.
“You’re fucking good,” was all the woman offered as she continued to scroll. “Pause! Who is this handsome devil? What a nice looking bastard! Is this your boyfriend? I’ve yet to meet him… Oh wait, is he nude in this photo? Well holy hell, wave a bell, he is! What a nice fuckin’ cock!” She cackled.
“Oh my God,” Taryn said in horror as she waved her hands frantically in the woman’s direction. “Give me my phone back!”
“No wonder the smile on your face was so big when I walked in. It surely wasn’t because you missed me. Oh no, you’ve got some man meat at home!”
“Why do people like you always have to go and look at other pictures when you hand them your phone?! You swiped left! I already directed you toward what you needed to focus on!” She laughed nervously, and kept gesturing for Vicki to return her damn phone.
“More naked pics!” Vicki gasped, faking astonishment.
…It was too late…
“You dirty girl!”
“Vicki, give me my goddamn phone!” Taryn narrowed her eyes upon the woman, no longer playing the game.
“Nope.” She smiled. “I’m back in your designs now… not that I wish to be… His eyebrows need plucked, but even those are a bit sexy… Boy, is he hot.”
“I thought you said you were back on my designs?!”
“I am, this is just an inquisition. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen him before. What agency is he with? Ford?”
“I told you when we talked a few weeks ago that my boyfriend is a cop.”
The woman shrugged nonchalantly as she continued to peruse the phone. “He could do both… How many of us have waited tables and bartended and even taught school while modeling? It happens.”
“…That’s true. He isn’t a model, though.”
“He’s fucking amazing. And his cock, Jesus! Simply a thing of beauty!”
“Okay, Vicki! Enough about my man’s dick, please!”
The woman offered a sly smile and continued on. “Anyway, seriously, you need to show these designs to someone and though they are not my expertise, per se, I know just who may be interested. Hold on.” She set the phone down, dug in her purse for her own, and moved her fingers about the screen, presumably scrolling through her contacts list.
Taryn focused on the lady, her sense heightened, not wishing to miss a single thing. She hadn’t anticipated such a turn of events. She’d only expected to meet a friend for lunch, certain she’d accept whatever offer was cast her way, no matter how big or small, but instead, she’d slapped opportunity in the face, tossed herself in a hole, and then waited for a shovel to fall from the sky… She hoped it was golden; it would make the path upward a bit more glorious.
“Yes, Diane, this is Vicki Laurel, how are you? Beautiful! Yes… I’m still in New York. I will be going to Thailand next week.” The woman smiled in an almost obscene way as Taryn caught her image from the corner of her eye. “Look, I need for you to relay a message to Jules, please… Oh, he’s there? I assumed he was, well, never mind. What a pleasant surprise… Why, of course. Yes, I’d like to speak to him.”
“Jules Rousseau?!” Taryn perked up and slapped Taryn with a disbelieving look. “You’re talking to Jules Rousseau?!!!” She couldn’t believe her ears but was soon met with a stern, ‘Shhhhh!’ along with a finger pressed against plush, pink lips, demanding her sile
nce.
Vicki’s expression settled into an agreeable one as she looked off into the distance, seemingly unaware that her photo was being taken once again.
“Hi Jules.” She tilted her head to the side, giving the performance her all. “I know you’re a busy man, but I promise not to take much of your time. You see, I have a friend who has some outstanding lingerie designs I’d like for you to take a look at… Oh yes, I do understand, but you see… Yes, I know.” She dropped her head, rolled her eyes and sighed. “But these are different and if you could just give me three minutes, I’d be happy to let you get back to whatever it was I interrupted… Oh, wonderful!” She turned like a viper in Taryn’s direction, snapping her damn fingers, and whispered, “Email three, and only three of those designs to him, NOW!’
Then, on a dime, she was back on the phone, sealing the deal. Taryn scoured the phone once more, her hands shaking.
Her lips kinked in an anticipatory grin.
“Okay… what’s his email address?” she asked, cocked and ready.
Vicky snatched the phone out of her grasp while she still cradled her own to her ear, talking to the guy, and sent the damn files herself.
“She’s sent them to you, Jules,” she said nonchalantly, not the least bit apologetic about her actions. “Her name is Taryn Jones… Yes! The model… She is lovely, isn’t she? She’s sitting right here actually. Let me put you on speaker…” She laid her phone down and the two women huddled over it like they would over a damn bonfire.
“Yes, I see the email,” the man stated after a few moments of stilted silence. His thick, French accent sounded suave, sexy, refined. “I’m opening it now… How’s the weather there?” he asked, a smile in his tone.
“Hello, Mr. Rousseau, this is Taryn. It’s a little dreary, but I can’t complain.”
“Mmmm hmm,” he said without much enthusiasm.
What the hell is he thinking?!
She shot Vicki a perplexed glance, but the woman had moved on to bigger and better things, such as looking through her phone once again and smiling in some perverted way.
I’m gonna kill her!
She proudly held up a photo of Nick in the shower, fully exposed, his hair soaking wet and his notorious kinked smirk spread across his face. Taryn pointed at her, angrily waved her hand at her, but the exchange was cut short.
“I understand you had cancer, Taryn…” the choppy male voice came through, laced with the sexiness that only a distinguished Frenchman could bring.
“Yes.”
“You’ve been out of the circuit for a while… You had a double mastectomy, correct?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“I’ve never seen anything like this…very interesting. These are…intriguing. I believe I want to meet with you. I have to go back to Paris tomorrow, but will be back in New York in a couple weeks. Call my assistant and have her schedule you in for the first week upon my return. These are good… they’re different, too. Let’s talk.” And just like that, the conversation was over.
“Oh. My. God!” Taryn screamed. Her enthusiasm blasted through the damn roof.
“You owe me…” was all Vicki stated with one brow raised as she shoved her phone into her purse.
“And what do I owe you?” Taryn snatched her phone off the table and slid it inside of her bag.
“To do this Betsey Johnson show. It will be your last hurrah. She wants you now; she’s already looked at your portfolio. Don’t screw me over like this.”
“After what you just did for me, you got it. I’ll do it. Thank you so much, Vicki!” Taryn squealed, bobbing about in her seat.
“Not so fast. You know this could go absolutely nowhere, but at least he’s willing to see you. And well, I’ve never seen such classy yet sexy lingerie designed specifically for women who’ve undergone such a surgery. Those are like works of art within themselves. You’re full of surprises, Taryn… full of surprises.” She got to her feet to leave.
“Aren’t you going to stay and wait for your celery?” Taryn joked.
“No, they’ll have someone send it to me once they see I’m gone.” She shrugged. “They know where I stay. Anyway, I must be going. I’ll speak to you later this evening.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“Oh, and a word of advice. When you walk into that man’s office, wear a really nice pair of heels. He abhors flats.”
Taryn nodded in understanding.
“Let me ask you something,” she said. “Why’d you call Jules, of all people? He’s not a lingerie designer. He would have never popped into my mind. I would have never thought to try and present my designs to that man.”
Vicki paused and smirked in her customary way. “I finished an editorial for him a couple of months ago for Harper’s Bazaar.”
“Yes, I saw it. You looked beautiful as usual.”
“I know. Well, there was a wardrobe malfunction with one of the other ladies. Her bra wasn’t fitting quite properly, so it had to be rigged. She couldn’t go without one; you would have to have seen the blouse. It would’ve looked plain silly. Lovely girl but I’d never seen such a thing. Anyway, they found her another bra, and it looked Godawful so they had to Photoshop the shit out of it. No one had time to go out and get her another one. Jules sat there, his legs crossed and said, ‘We’ve designed dresses made of crushed glass that don’t slice into the human skin and yet an attractive bra that can be adjusted to fit each and every woman is yet to be made. We’re fucking imbeciles.’ I thought the comment was funny, but I knew he’d hinted upon a real issue he was having in regard to undergarments. I didn’t think anything of it until you showed me your designs and, additionally, his aunt passed away from breast cancer. She’d raised him…and he adored her.” She turned her back and began to walk away. “Best of success to you, Taryn, and thank you for lighting my way…”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
He pushed the down arrow on the computer, and scrolled as fast as his eyes could handle. Slightly ashamed, he wished upon a million stars that Sticky Finger Nicky would just die, but the thief refused. No, he wasn’t lifting top of the line bike parts and expensive men’s shoes, this time, but information. His eyes scanned down the screen. The damn thing had kept him up at night, made things hard to swallow.
Fuck!
The case had been plastered all over the news about a perpetrator in Brooklyn kidnapping little girls and the damn mystery refused to release him. He’d first read about it while in rehab, and the details held him captive. His curiosity grew into an obsession, and his obsession became his breakfast, lunch and dinner, with plentiful snacks in between. He was tired of shuffling papers and helping to answer the damn phones. Where was his goddamn beat? Where was the fucking city? The lights, the sounds, the groans of a soiled drunk lying about asking for money, then cursing him out when he refused? Where was the subway filled with people on their way to places they hated, missing those that they loved? Where was the instant flutter of criminally designed legs, flapping about in the opposite direction like bird wings taking flight when his car would enter their drug trafficking zone?
He needed the shopkeepers to call; he desired to hear the arguing voices of people blaming one another for a break in, of possession of stolen goods… even the nonsensical calls of someone reporting another for stealing their stash of weed and illegally carried gun. He was going stir crazy, about to pop at the seams. So, he soaked in the private conversations around him about the damn case. His hearing had always been one of his best senses, and before long, he’d become one with the case. This particular one struck a special, blood-drenched chord within him, one that bellowed an off-key melody that he was hell bent on tuning to perfection. He looked at the screen, seeing all the missing girls’ names, then looked over his shoulder at the map of the various abduction locations.
We got Rockaway Parkway right here… 108th street, two hits… We got one on Ditmas Avenue. We got one on Ralph Avenue and three on Sutter and then one on East 95th street, t
he latest one… The kidnapper is working a tight area…
He looked at the stack of photos of the girls, all pinned to each location. Scratching his scalp as he cocked his head to the left, he winced, working the information around in his mind, trying to make sense of it all.
They’re all black, except this one is Dominican. He tapped the photo of the dark-skinned ten year old with long, bushy hair…
Hair.
They all have long hair… a couple have braids… all dark brown or black hair… And they all are small for their age… He continued to tally the information, mull the shit over…
She coulda been mistaken for black… I think he’s going after all black girls… They ruled that out because of this one white girl right here on Ralph Avenue but I bet that wasn’t his… I bet that was a separate case…
He studied the photos carefully, running his finger up and down them. He noticed things, little things, big things—and then a thought hit him. Grabbing his jacket, he burst out of there, swooshed past his desk, still cold from him not touching it at all that morning.
“I gotta go!” he called out. “Be back in an hour! Lunch break!”
Nick stood along the main drag of Atlantic Avenue. It was 12:09 P.M., and the latest incident had taken place in broad daylight, around lunchtime, almost as if the perpetrator had squeezed in a little afternoon play during a rather busy day. A case from his childhood haunted him as he stood there leaning against his car, watching traffic go by…
A beautiful, young Puerto Rican girl by the name of Eldira had disappeared one early autumn day in Brownsville. She only lived a few blocks from him, but he didn’t know much about her. He recognized her; she was easy on the eyes, but in his thirteen-year-old mind, she was just another girl. Her parents had five other children, and somehow, in the shuffle, Eldira disappeared one morning on her way to school and was never seen or heard from again. Her body was never recovered. It was one of those mysteries left unsolved and uncared about once the long weeks turned into longer months, and the months into faded years.
In the Nick of Time Page 54
