Taming Blake (A New Adult Romance): The Complete Trilogy

by Eve, Charlotte

  And as for the memory stick – whatever was on it, I couldn’t handle it right now. I shut it in the drawer, too, deciding to deal with it another day.

  But the most frustrating thing of all? I hadn’t actually got any work to throw myself into, had I? I’d finished Blake’s apartment and I hadn’t yet lined up any new projects.

  I knew I was supposed to set up meetings with all the people Blake had introduced me to at the ball, and some did seem genuinely interested in talking to me and hearing my ideas, but I just didn’t know quite where to start. I’d landed the Matthews account the same way I’d landed my first real job with Marianne: by total fluke. And I didn’t have the confidence to start ringing people up and setting up lunch meetings to tell them how great I was. I just wasn’t that kind of a girl.

  There was Blake’s business partner, Alex Wiltshire – I’d met him a couple of times now, and he’d seemed interested in me and my work. Maybe I could start with him? After all, he’d said he was expecting to hear from me, and so it wouldn’t be totally out of the blue. Except I didn’t just want to get all my work through Blake. I wanted to be truly independent and get jobs through my talents, not just because I was Blake’s latest ... whatever I was.

  I pushed myself up from the desk, so angry and annoyed that I felt like I could tear out all my hair.

  See you on Friday.

  With everything that had been going on this last week, I’d completely forgotten that this coming Friday was the last of the month. But Blake obviously hadn’t.

  Why did he leave a cryptic note?

  Why didn’t he just speak to me about the party?

  Was he playing some sort of psychological game? Was that the idea? Was I some sort of plaything for him now, caught in a ridiculous cat-and-mouse game? And was he actually intending to make me worry and stew all week long while he was off in Milan, doing God-knows-what?

  Or God-knows-who.

  I took a few deep breaths and paced the room, trying unsuccessfully to empty my head of all this swirling nonsense and worry. I knew that if work wasn’t enough to distract me, then I’d have to try Plan B ...

  §

  Bloomingdales was surprisingly busy for a late Monday morning in November, and as I headed up to the second floor I passed a wide-eyed, nervous-looking girl about my own age, bustling past me in the opposite direction, her cellphone clutched tightly to her ear as she carried on her conversation. “No, no, I’m sure you said… What? But I thought, I thought… Okay, well anyway I’m here now, and I’m sure they can exchange them for that other color… No, I’m sorry it must be my fault, I must have misheard you…”

  As I watched, she stopped on the stairs, laying down a couple of the bulky items she was loaded with and about to drop, obviously preparing to head back to the Homewares department to exchange them.

  I wondered if it was Marianne on the other end of the line, and I felt a flash of relief that at least I had escaped the wicked witch, even if my new existence seemed just as wracked with problems, albeit very different ones.

  Up in the shoe department, my eye was immediately drawn to a pair of black Gucci over-the-knee boots. I ran my fingers across the butter-soft leather, not even really totally sure I liked them, not even sure they would suit me – or whoever it was I was trying to become. They were just so sexual and powerful, but was that really the kind of woman I wanted to be? And was it the kind of woman Blake wanted?

  If I was trying to change, was I doing it for him? Or for myself?

  Just then my thoughts were interrupted by a loud female voice. “Those would look fabulous on you! Totally fabulous!”

  “You think?” I asked honestly, looking up into the tanned, overly-made-up face of the shop assistant.

  “Sure honey. You’ve just got to try them on at least …”

  And I found myself letting the girl have her way, dashing off to bring out the boots in my size, putting on a little show of delight when I tried them on, and eagerly encouraging me towards the registers, insisting that I wouldn’t find a prettier, more ‘me’ pair of boots anywhere in the whole entire world …

  It was only as she was ringing the price up in the register: just over twenty five hundred dollars, that the thought hit me:

  Is that what I’m worth to you, Blake?

  Is that what a week of my time costs?

  A week of ‘services’, not as your interior designer, but in your bed.

  So what does that make me to you exactly?

  Just another girl to grace your bed, quietly paid off so she won’t make a fuss?

  I’m no better than a hooker.

  “I’m sorry,” I blurted to the baffled shop assistant, as I felt the hot prick of tears in the corners of my eyes. “I think I’m gonna leave them actually ...”

  And with that, I quickly turned and ran out through the store towards the exit, my heart pounding, and it felt like the whole shop was staring at me. Who am I kidding? Of course people were staring at me: I was crying and running out of the store like some kind of hysterical woman, quite the spectacle for a quiet Monday morning.

  Back out on the street, I took a few deep breaths of the crisp, cool Autumn air, trying to calm myself down.

  I pulled out my phone, figuring if anyone was going to be able to help me feel better now, it was Fallon. It was her apartment I was supposedly staying at, even though I hadn’t actually been there all week.

  I held the cell to my ear, frustrated when it reached an engaged tone.

  Typical, just when I need somebody the most, everyone in my life is busy with someone else.

  §

  “OhmygodJessicayoutotallygottaseethis!” Fallon practically screamed, the second I set foot in her apartment.

  Her eyes were wider than I’d ever seen them before, her hair was sticking up wildly in all directions, and it was pretty much impossible to tell whether something amazing or awful had just happened to her.

  “Oh my God? What?” I asked, following her through to the living room. “Everything okay? You’re acting kind of ... different.”

  “Read this!” she exclaimed, thrusting her iPad excitedly into my hands. “We made the front page of Pitchfork! Can you freaking believe it?”

  I stared at the hip music website – I didn’t know much about music, and indie-rock especially wasn’t quite my scene, but even I knew that to be featured on a site like this was a huge deal for a band like Fallon’s.

  It was an in-depth review of their first self-titled album: Circles, put out on their own tiny record label. I skim read it; the review seemed pretty positive. Amazing! But the more I read, the more complimentary and gushing it became, the journalist calling them ‘original,’ ‘mold-breaking,’ ‘fierce,’ and about a hundred other adjectives. The page-long article concluded by crowning Circles ‘totally essential’ and urging the reader to seek this album out ‘at any cost’.

  “Fallon!” I gasped. “This is absolutely incredible!”

  I was so proud of her. I knew she was talented, but on top of that she’d worked so hard and so long for this.

  “And that’s not even the best bit!” she replied, brimming with such energy and excitement she seemed like she might burst at any moment. “We’ve been offered tour dates supporting St. Vincent, too!”

  “No way!” I screamed.

  This was a massive deal.

  St. Vincent was one of Fallon’s all-time favorite acts, so I knew just how much something like this meant to her. They had been on Letterman, and I imagined that meant they’d be playing some pretty big venues. But best of all, Fallon had put such a lot of time and energy into her music, playing dive bar after dive bar for little or no pay for years, it was fantastic to see all that hard work finally paying off.

  I hugged her tight, both of us jumping and screaming for joy in her tiny little Ocean Hill apartment.

  “I don’t care what you’ve got planned for this evening, Little Miss Stopout ... I’m not even gonna ask where you’ve been all week,” she said
once we’d finally calmed down a little. “Tonight we’re going out!”

  §

  We ended up in a cocktail bar called The Counting Room, on Berry Street in Williamsburg. As cool as Fallon was, even she hadn’t been here before. The basement bar had a masculine, industrial kind of vibe, but was actually really cozy, too. And most importantly the drinks were delicious. Before I knew it, I found myself on my third La Vie de Boheme cocktail: a beautiful infusion of prosecco, gin, fennel and spiced orange syrup.

  The lighting was low, the music was fun, and as I bought us round after round of celebratory cocktails, I felt relieved to have something else to focus on, instead of my troubles with Blake.

  Fallon was talking mile-a-minute about the places she was going to get to play on tour, and all the new opportunities this might open up for the band. And as we drank away, I’d almost forgotten about Blake completely, until Fallon said, out of the blue, “So anyway, time to spill the beans, where the hell have you been all week anyway? I thought you were supposed to be crashing at mine. You’re not back with Greg, are you?”

  “No, of course not!” I reassured her.

  The truth was, despite us leaving things amicably, I’d not given Greg a second thought since the break-up.

  “Alright then, International Woman of Mystery, where have you been?”

  I looked at her, her right eyebrow raised, her mouth curling in a wry smile, and I knew for definite there was absolutely no point hiding it: she knew me far too well. I was gonna have to tell her about Blake; it was probably already written all over my face anyway. And I felt glad for the low lighting, as I was probably blushing.

  “Well, you remember Blake, you know, my boss? I was working on his apartment, and well ... we ...”

  “I knew it!” Fallon exclaimed, before I’d even had a chance to tell her the full story. “Come on then, spill. I’ve always wanted to know what a guy like that is really like in bed!”

  And so I began to tell her everything. Well, almost. Because, how exactly do you say: Right, so it turns out my new guy also runs this exclusive private sex party once a month, where the rules are simply sleep with whoever the hell you like ... even to your best friend?

  I took a deep breath, and what I said next was, at least, the truth:

  “I know what you’re thinking, Fallon. Because that’s exactly what I was thinking when I first met him,” I began. “Sure, he looks like a typical rich guy asshole, who only cares about money, only ever dates models. But you know what? There’s so much more to him. He’s funny, he’s smart, and he’s kind, too – he’s already helped so much with my career, for instance, and he really seems to care about me.”

  It was such a relief to finally say it out loud, to say to somebody, anybody, that I was actually with Blake. Because honestly, I wanted to shout it from the rooftops. I couldn’t believe that I was seeing such an amazing guy.

  But no sooner had I talked her ear off about how great Blake was, and how much I liked him, I found that there were other things I had to off my chest as well. So I also began to pour out all my doubts and worries and insecurities. I knew all women got anxious about their partner’s ex-girlfriends, but they weren’t able to scan Page Six and see that exactly who he’d last been with. I just couldn’t silence the nagging doubt that I was nothing more than the next girl in a long line of conquests, and for all I knew, I was already on the scrap heap. Perhaps he’d already moved on ...

  What are you doing in Milan, Blake?

  “You want my honest opinion?” Fallon said, decisively.

  I nodded.

  God, I really, really did.

  “Honestly? He sounds like bad news. He sounds like a player. Guys like that are fun for a weekend or two, sure, but they’re not for life. You need to make sure you don’t get hurt here, Jessica.”

  “You’re right,” I said sadly, feeling myself slowly facing up to the cold hard reality of my situation.

  “And most of all, don’t let yourself fall in love,” she warned.

  Fallon was right; she’d been around the block enough times to know a thing or two about this subject.

  “But,” she continued, “if you keep your head, you could have a great time. I mean, you were practically married to Greg. And you’re still way too young for all that. You need to play the field. And if you can do it with his credit card as well? Bring it on! And you know what, Jessica? Don’t worry about the models on Page Six. ‘Cause everyone’s in the same boat there. When you like a guy, all of his ex-girlfriends seem like Scarlett Johansson. And while you might not be able to look at them on Page Six, they always seem to be having the most super-perfect amazing life on Instagram, full of cool friends and new shoes.”

  I laughed. She was right. Despite everything, Blake was just a man, and my problems were the same as everyone else’s. It made me feel a little less at sea.

  “And another thing,” she continued, leaning forward, looking me straight in the eye, surprisingly calm and lucid for someone who had been knocking back super-strong cocktails all evening, “before I leave for tour, you and I are gonna work hard on that portfolio of yours. I know you said Blake’s been really supportive of your career, and that’s cool, that really is. But wouldn’t it be much better if you could stand on your own two feet? You need to find work outside of the stuff he’s been promising you. You need to build up your own client base. And you need to make sure that, if this all does come crashing down, you can still work. Understand what I’m saying?”

  I nodded.

  It was kind of hard hearing the truth spoken out loud, but I knew deep down she was right. I repeated her advice back to myself, over and over, hoping it would finally sink in.

  Have fun, sure, but don’t let yourself fall in love …

  The thing was, I worried that it was already too late. And just as I fell silent, thinking it over, my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a low, male voice.

  “Excuse me, do you mind if we join you ladies?”

  I looked up to see an actually-rather-handsome guy and his not-too-shabby-either friend. They were both well dressed in the kinds of clothes so many men around this area wore: the sort that looked like they were intended for men working on the railroad in the previous century, but were actually really expensive if you inspected the labels. You could tell by the cut and fit that these guys really cared about their outfits and had most likely paid a premium for them.

  I looked to Fallon. Situations like this always made me feel like a deer caught in headlights. I didn’t quite know how to ask these guys to leave while remaining polite, and I was hoping that as usual she would have just the right sassy turn of phrase to tell them where to go.

  Fallon looked back at me with a wicked smile and, without taking her eyes off my face, said, “Actually gentlemen, yes, I think you may be able to help us with something ...”

  As the guys settled themselves at our table, Fallon registered my look of surprise, laughed, and whispered, “Remember, Jessica: play the field.”

  §

  “Ugh, pass me the Diet Coke,” Fallon groaned from her colorful nest of pillows and blankets on the sofa. “On second thoughts, just bash me over the head with the bottle. Put me out of my misery once and for all.”

  I laughed, knowing just how she felt. After one too many cocktails last night, my head was throbbing too, and I was glad that we’d decided to just cancel all our plans today and act like total slobs, watching a Gilmore Girls re-run marathon and sending for take-out.

  I picked up the bottle of soda from amongst the empty candy wrappers littering the coffee table and passed it across to her, wincing as the motion caused another painful throb in my poor skull. I’d already sworn to never drink again as long as I lived, but even that didn’t quite sound long enough.

  Fallon and I had been ready to call it a night, but Stevie and Oliver, the guys we met at the bar, weren’t about let us leave without a fight, and had insisted on buying us more drinks.

  Despite my h
eadache, I had to admit: it had been fun. I’d never really flirted with guys like that before. I know that makes me sound like a total innocent prissy little virgin, but back in high school I didn’t really know how to flirt, and then of course Greg came along, and there was just no need anymore ...

  I’d always thought that if you flirted with guys and let them buy you drinks, you kind of owed them something, but last night, guided by Fallon, I’d realized that you didn’t actually have to give a guy anything you didn’t want to, no matter how many cocktails he bought you.

  We’d called it a night at three a.m., leaving them with nothing more than a kiss on the cheek, but they said they’d had a blast and so did we.

  But if I had felt like doing more? Maybe that would have been cool, too. I mean, if Blake and I weren’t exclusive, if he really was in Milan right now, taking his pick from a long line of European beauties, it didn’t mean that I had to stay at home, crying into my Ben & Jerry’s, did it? Maybe I could find my fun elsewhere, too ...

  I resolved that Blake wasn’t about to have an exclusive monopoly on my time whenever he wanted it, and I began to feel guilty that I’d left Fallon in the lurch all week.

  “Hey, by the way,” I said softly. “I’m sorry I was away so much last week. Thanks for last night. I had the best time. It was just what I needed. I’m really enjoying being your roommate, and I promise I’m not gonna disappear like that again.”

  “About that ...” Fallon said, her face suddenly growing serious. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about, actually.”

  “What?” I asked, worried in case I’d accidentally done something to upset her or put my foot in it somehow without realizing.

  “Well, it’s about the apartment,” she continued. “The tour’s gonna last three months, you know? So I’m going need to sublet my place, and fast. Do you want it? I’d much prefer it went to someone I knew ...”