by K. A. Linde
Chyna whimpered as he stroked her wetness lovingly, riling her up further. It wouldn’t take much more, and she prayed he wouldn’t notice her heavy breathing or body tightening at his command. All she wanted at this point was to release…to finally release.
As if he could tell she was at a breaking point, she felt his weight at the foot of the bed again. Then, without warning, he pushed forward inside of her. She shook against her restraints, wanting nothing more than to push her hands up into his thick black hair, wrap her legs around his torso, and let her body fall in time with his. But, given the circumstances, she was just glad he had relented to being inside of her.
He grabbed her hips, raising her ass off the bed again so that he could rest on his knees. Then, he slowly eased out of her inch by inch. She whined at the feel of the head pulling out of her, and then he slammed back into her forcefully. Her body pushed back toward her shoulders, and she cried out in pleasure and pain. He repeated the movement—slow, slow, slow, followed by one fast shove into her—two or three times more. If she had thought that she was close before, the agonizing torture of this movement holding her just before the precipice of release was far, far worse. Her skin was tingling, her toes were curling, and her fingers were clawing up the bedspread. Stomach tightening, her body demanded with every fiber of her being to let her come.
And, when she did, earth shattering were the only words that came to mind.
Finally, releasing all control, Marco pushed into her as hard and fast as he could manage with three quick thrusts, and then he followed her. Chyna screamed at the top of her lungs as the orgasm cut through her body, bursting open like a firework. Her body was a volcano, and as her screams subsided, the stillness doused the burning running rampant throughout her body.
His breathing heavy, Marco collapsed on top of her with an air of satisfaction and victory. Her eyes closed beneath the blindfold, and she felt exhaustion turn into a desperate slumber.
When she awoke next, her wrists and ankles had been released, and her blindfold was discarded along with her dress. She was lying completely naked on the same bed she had been tied to, and as she felt along the sheet that covered her, she discovered a figure lying next to her. No clocks were in the room, so she had no way of knowing what time it was. As the room had one window, she only knew that it was still dark outside.
She eased out of the bed, careful not to wake Marco, and she padded out of the room. Her stomach clenched painfully at what she had just done and what she was about to do.
Finding Marco’s bedroom, she changed into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt that she had left behind from one of their shoots. She located a piece of paper and a pen, and after scribbling a short passage on the card, she tucked it into her pocket.
She swallowed hard as she quietly tiptoed back into Marco’s photography studio where he still lay peacefully slumbering. The camera he had used sat undisturbed on a chair, looking harmless. She popped the memory card out of the back and placed it into her other pocket. When she turned back around, she almost cursed out loud. That son of a bitch!
A medium-size video camera on a tripod was set up in the corner of the room. That must have been what the beep was. He hadn’t even told her he was going to be filming her. Why was she even surprised? Not wanting to take any chances, she figured out how to open the gadget. She slipped the tiny recording disc out of its slot and placed it in her jeans next to the memory card. No stone left unturned.
Glancing around the room, she bit her lip as she stared at the immobile man beneath the sheets. She blew him a kiss, wishing she could taste his lips one last time. As she turned to leave the room, something sparkled in her peripheral vision. She glanced at the distraction and saw her priceless dress hanging perfectly unharmed on a clothing rack. She couldn’t help herself. She smirked, grabbing the dress off of the hanger, and then she slinked back out of the room. She would have giggled if she hadn’t been trying to be silent. Walking back through the apartment and into the living room, she pulled the card out of her pocket and stared at it.
You thought I was the star, shining so bright, but you were wrong. You were the star, but you’ve burned out. Now, all I see when I look up into the sky are all my other options.
She took a deep breath and left the card on the piano. Then, she quickly darted out of the apartment.
She left without a kiss, without a good-bye—just with a million dollar dress, a sex tape, and nude photography from one of the best fashion designers in the world.
The sun was just peeking over the horizon when she made it to street level. She had managed to phone a taxi service when she had snuck into Marco’s bedroom, and thankfully, she only had to wait a minute or two before it arrived. She gave the man her apartment address in Italian and was quickly whisked away from Marco’s. Without knowing why, she swiveled in her seat and took one more forlorn look over her shoulder at the place of the man she had been with for the past month and a half. She wished she could have said that she saw the door open as he came running out after her, but no such thing happened. She turned back around, and with a deep sigh, she hugged her dress.
Her roommates were still sleeping when she returned. She wandered through her closet, wondering how the hell she was going to get all of this home. Coming here, she had traveled with nothing more than a carry-on suitcase, and she would leave for home with nothing more. The company was supposed to ship all of her stuff for her when she finished, but she wasn’t sure if that would still happen under the circumstances. Grabbing only her most favorite clothing items, she stuffed them into her Louis Vuitton carry-on along with her star dress, Marco’s sheer purple button-up shirt, her Christian Louboutin red lacquer–soled pumps, and three five-by-five black and white–framed photographs Marco had taken of Milan.
At her insistence, the taxi had waited for her to transport her to the airport. It wasn’t a short drive nor would it be a cheap fair, but she really couldn’t care less in the moment. She was waiting for her phone to blow up, for someone to notice she was gone, for Marco to pitch a fit about her disappearance. But, the hour-long drive out of the city produced nothing, just silence.
Her flight home was atrociously priced, but then again, so was her cab fare. Money hardly mattered at this point. She was just ready to be home.
She boarded her flight without any problems, and she checked her international cell phone one last time to see if anyone was going to contact her. She had expected at least some kind of snide remark from Marco, something to know that he had read her note. All she wanted to do was leave him before he had the chance to leave her.
It was easier that way.
Chyna dozed off on the flight. She was awoken eight hours later by a flight attendant speaking obnoxiously into the speakers about landing and putting seats in their upright position. She yawned and stretched her arms overhead, adjusting the kink in her neck from sleeping on the plane. She flagged down a stewardess as soon as she saw one.
“Yes, ma’am? Can I help you?”
“Can I get a Maker’s on the rocks?” she asked, feeling a headache coming on.
“Ma’am, we’re too close to landing for that,” she said with a curt smile like she was used to dealing with bitches in first class.
“Are you serious? Alcohol. Anything. Thanks,” Chyna said, throwing herself back in her chair and ignoring the woman’s insistence that she couldn’t provide alcohol at the moment.
A couple of minutes later, an older male flight attendant dropped off her drink while glowering at the other attendant. “Don’t mind her. She’s new,” he said with a wink.
“Thanks,” she muttered, taking a shot of the bourbon straight out of the first bottle before adding the second one to her glass. There—her headache was already going away. She sipped on her drink, thankful that someone had shown her some mercy.
The plane touched down at JFK Airport long after she finished her drink. She had another man help her pull her bag down. She hadn’t eaten anything in nearly twent
y-four hours, and the Maker’s Mark was hitting her stomach stronger than it normally would have.
It was eight o’clock in the morning in New York, and her stomach growled, ready for her afternoon lunch in Italy. The time change was going to be a real bitch to get used to. She had informed Carl that she would be arriving in New York that morning and was thankful when she saw his scruffy-bearded face appear among the individuals waiting with signs for their passengers. He ushered her out to the car, taking her carry-on in his hand. He didn’t ask any questions as to why she was arriving two weeks ahead of schedule.
“To your apartment, Miss Chyna?” he asked as he veered into traffic.
“Alexa’s apartment would be wonderful, Carl,” she said, curling up into a ball in the back of her town car. Her phone had never gone off, except for the return message from Carl, and it died shortly after she landed. She felt sick, tired, hungry, and exhausted, and she wanted nothing more than to lounge around with her best friend.
“Of course,” he said, swinging around traffic toward her apartment.
They arrived forty-five minutes later, having evaded most of the Sunday traffic.
“Want me to wait?”
“No, Carl. Thank you. I will catch a cab if I need a ride. Hopefully, I’ll be here all day and night,” she murmured the last part, not wanting to freak him out more than she already likely had.
“Are you all right, Miss Chyna?” he asked as she popped open her door.
“Fine, Carl. Go take your wife to church,” Chyna added with a smile.
“Thank you. Hope you feel better,” he told her, not believing her.
She slammed the door behind her and took the elevator to Alexa’s floor. It was a rickety old thing that made her uneasy, but she didn’t think she could manage the stairs in her state. She traipsed down the hallway and knocked on the door. She had a key…somewhere. It was probably buried in her penthouse. Maybe Frederick knew where it was. He knew more about the design of the apartment than she ever would.
As she stood there, mulling over where she thought Alexa’s spare key might be, the door swung open. Chyna’s empty stomach plummeted, and she tried to hold back the rising bile. The day had been too long, the night too exhausting, the plane ride too burdensome, and the time change too weakening for her to have to deal with this right now.
At least to her credit, Adam looked just as shocked as she did.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded. Her voice came out angrier than she had intended. She was pretty sure it was ninety-five percent exhaustion speaking. The other five percent was blatant curiosity, considering the fact that he had continued to pop into her head yesterday after Alexa had brought him up.
“What are you doing here?” he asked right back. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Milan?”
“Long story. What are you doing here?” she repeated, eyeing him carefully. He still looked the same. A month and a half hadn’t changed him, except he had maybe lost a little weight. It didn’t look bad on him. Damn those hazel eyes. They were more on the side of gold today than green, and she liked those days. What was she even thinking? She was clearly not in the right state of mind to be around him.
“I brought Lexi coffee,” he said, holding up a bright white-and-orange coffee cup with big orange lettering that read Jittery Joe’s.
“Where the hell is that from?” she asked because she had never seen it before.
“Uh…NYU off 45th,” he said hesitantly.
“You went all the way to 45th to get Lexi coffee?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Hold up with the third degree. Her coffee machine broke. Jittery Joe’s is from Georgia. I just thought it would be nice.” He shrugged and put on that goofy grin she had always loved.
No! No. No. She did not even think that word. She swallowed, unsure as to what the hell she was even doing at the moment.
“Who’s at the door?” Chyna heard Alexa call from inside.
Adam turned around and called back. “Chyna.”
“What the fuck? Are you fucking serious?” Lexi yelled, jogging to the doorway. When she saw Chyna, she threw her arms around her best friend like it had been centuries since she had seen her. “What the fuck are you doing home, chica?”
“Just wanted to surprise you,” Chyna said, plastering on the smile Alexa was used to seeing.
“Well, come in! Oh my God, it is so good to see you.” She turned back around after pulling Chyna into the apartment. “Thanks for the coffee, Adam. See you around,” she said, smiling at him sweetly before all but slamming the door in his face. “I am so sorry about that.” She waved her hand at the door.
“It’s fine,” Chyna told her, taking a seat on the uncomfortable, lumpy sofa.
“So…what the fuck are you doing here?” Lexi asked, grabbing her coffee and sitting down next to her friend.
“Time for a change,” she said with a shrug, trying to remain lively.
“Yeah, but Milan!” Lexi’s eyes went wide with the last word.
“Yeah…Milan,” Chyna responded.
“You can’t even pretend to be happy around me right now, and you’re two weeks early! Spill!” Lexi commanded.
Chyna kicked off her shoes and pulled her knees up to her chest. “So…remember that fashion designer I mentioned?”
“Yeah,” Lexi said slowly. “The fling?”
“Yeah, that one.”
“What about him?”
“Well, I gave him up and came home, just like you told me to,” Chyna told her.
“So, what’s the problem?” Lexi asked, putting an arm around her shoulder.
“Nothing,” she said, brushing it off. “I guess I was just in over my head. Time to come home.”
Lexi looked at her like she didn’t believe her, like she wanted to ask a million questions. Chyna seriously did not want to answer them. She didn’t even want to think about how she had left. She had felt so strong when she had walked out of that apartment, choosing to leave him and actually making that move. Now, she just felt drained, and she didn’t want to contemplate what that could mean, wondering if she had made the right choice.
“Actually, chica, can I borrow your cell? Mine managed to die on the drive over,” Chyna said with a shrug.
“Of course,” Lexi said, threading a piece of hair behind her ear. She stood and walked over to the counter. “You sure you don’t want to talk some first? You look like you might kill whoever you’re about to call.”
Chyna took the phone when Lexi handed it to her with a smile. “I’ll make it through.”
“So…uh…who are you calling?” Lexi asked nosily.
Chyna sighed, hating what she was about to do almost as much as leaving this morning. “My mom.”
APRIL—THREE MONTHS EARLIER
Frederick smiled at Chyna, like a kid in a candy store. He was practically bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. “Can you fucking believe this, hooker?” he whispered into her hair.
She shook her head. She was too anxious and excited to see this shit going down. “I’ve been waiting for this for far too long.”
“And, to think we made the unveiling,” Frederick said with mightier-than-thou pretenses.
“Of course, we made the unveiling,” Chyna said, rolling her eyes. “Who do you think I am?”
“I would have started worshiping at your feet earlier if I’d known it would get me into Marco’s fashion line grand opening on Madison Avenue!” he all but squealed.
“I’ll remember that next time,” she said with a catty smirk.
“How did you score this anyway?” he asked. “Not that I’m complaining.”
“Just the right connections,” she said with a shrug.
“Do you even know?” he asked, raising one perfectly groomed eyebrow.
“Of course I know!” Chyna turned back to face the gorgeous boutique on Madison Avenue.
Part of the street had been obstructed from public view for the cutting of the ribbon, and there was
a private entrance for the viewing of the exclusive new clothing line. It was all hush-hush. So, of course, nearly half of the Upper East Side elite had scrambled for a chance to be present. The more exclusive, the more desirable it was to be in attendance.
Chyna hadn’t really thought she would get access to the line. She had a name behind her, but she didn’t model, she wasn’t in the industry, and she wasn’t a celebrity. The chance of finding the golden ticket had been slim.
When she had gotten back from her morning mani/pedi two days earlier, Bernard had stopped her at the door and handed her an envelope. He said someone had been asking around for her apartment or drop-box, but Bernard didn’t know the guy. Since he wasn’t with the postal service, Bernard had taken the letter and informed him that he would hand-deliver it to Chyna. She was surprised that whoever it was had given Bernard the letter.
Bernard had given her a fair warning about opening the contents. He was always looking out for her. She had reassured him that she would be careful, and then she had taken the elevator to her apartment. She had ripped open the envelope without care and stared in shock at the contents within—two gorgeous cards bordered in gold with the designer logo stamped on the front. She turned the stationary over and discovered that they were in fact invitations with her name on them.
She had phoned Frederick immediately. Alexa was too engrossed in finals for her last year of law school, and she probably wouldn’t have been all that impressed with a grand opening for a boutique she couldn’t spend money in. Frederick had squealed like a girl, asking her more questions than she had answers for. She had shut him up real quick by volunteering his pass to someone else.
How the hell the tickets had landed on her doorstep had crossed her mind several times since she had opened the package, but she didn’t have an answer, and she didn’t really care. She was exactly where she wanted to be.
Chyna turned her attention back to the building that was half covered in a white cloth to hide the completed boutique. An enormous red ribbon was held up in front of the entranceway, and a woman was holding a rather cumbersome pair of large gold scissors.
