That’s what gets me about what David did. He didn’t tell me he was unhappy. He didn’t tell me what he needed. I didn’t see any signs that he was unhappy, so… was he? It wasn’t like Amber and Josh where they never have sex, so there’s obviously something going on. With David, he was all over me. We stayed up late and talked about our days. We did things together - went to Central Park, checked out new bands, tried interesting restaurants, stayed in on Sunday mornings wearing sweats and snuggling on the couch with our coffee. It was great. It was amazing, actually.
So why did he cheat on me? Why did he crush me like that? Was he unhappy? I don’t think so.
I think some people are cheaters, no matter who they’re with.
But it’s okay. I’ve over it. Couldn’t care less.
Thursday
A Week Later
Fashion Week Madness; It’s day one and Bryant Park has been transformed into a circus of style. It’s a beautiful thing. Huge tents have been erected and centered in the park. The entrance, complete with red carpet, is on 6th Ave. Paparazzi are everywhere because celebrities are everywhere, wearing clothes that cost enough to feed a nation. Don’t hate them though. Those clothes are often given to them. Er…okay…you can hate them. But truly, the clothes are given to them by the designers, so when they show up in a magazine, the designer is attached to the article, and voila – money falls from the sky as people buy up their clothing.
I’m standing behind stage at DVF, watching the models get made up by some of the most talented makeup artists in the world. Diane Von Furstenberg is fabulous. She’s sophisticated. Confident. Beautiful. A total powerhouse. I can’t help but stare at her as she directs her staff, telling them how she wants the hair on this one, pin up this dress on that one, forget about those slacks – use these, etc…
“Jessica!” The Bitch hisses at me.
I jump in the air. She always scares the shit out of me, but now that I slept with her ex, I am fucking terrified. I’m walking around barefoot on broken designer glass, waiting to get fired, skinned, or both.
“YeswhatI’mherewhatWHAT?” I sputter, incoherently (that’s not a typo).
Her eyes bulge like Cruella Deville’s and her manicured nails point at a spot right in front of her. “Come HERE!”
My walkie-talkie headphones almost fall off my head as I sprint over in my heels. I want so badly to end the suspense. Just fire me already!!! I slept with your ex in the handicapped bathroom and then he bathed me until I came. I know. I’m a horrible person! Make it go away. Make it please please please, go away!
Out loud I vomit, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry! So sorry. Yes? What do you need? I can do anything. What. What.”
“There’s a chair out there that does not have goody bag on it!”
I blink. “Um. A chair? One chair?”
“Yes! How did the minions miss it? I need you on top of this!”
“Maybe someone, I don’t know…took it?” I suggest, slowly.
She whisper-yells at me, because she doesn’t want DVF to see her lose her cool. “THEN REPLACE IT!”
“Yes. You got it. I’m on it. You can count on me. Yep. I’m on it.” I hear that I’m shamelessly kissing her ass… and I want to shoot myself.
She doesn’t wait for an answer. She flips on her heel, perpetual ponytail threatening to knock over Delaware, and leaves through the curtain.
I take a deep breath. Okay, so… still not fired.
The minions are our magazine interns, college students just out of high school who want to be in the fashion business, who want to be yelled at, like I am yelled at every day. We call them minions. We probably shouldn’t, but we do. They need to earn it, she says. I should warn them that working in this industry isn’t as glamorous as they think, but I’m certain they wouldn’t listen anyway. And it does beat a lot of other jobs. I get free stuff sometimes. I get to go to cool parties. I’m backstage at Fashion Week. That’s pretty fabulous.
Is it enough? Right now… I’m not so sure.
I call out on my walkie-talkie that I need a goody bag brought to DVF, “STAT.” I exit through the same curtain she did and arrive where the show is due to take place. As I walk by the runway, dark and waiting for show time, I see the hordes of photographers practically getting into fistfights over positions. But that’s not my problem. My problem is that one little goody bag went missing. This is my life.
Our magazine wants to cover this season’s best shows with these bags, so that we can market ourselves to fashion’s elite – and they will all be at DVF’s show. Every chair has a goody bag, as far as I can tell. Maybe on the other side? I walk around, scanning until I finally see it near the pitch black curtain at the very end of the riser. One empty chair waits, lonely and longing for it’s little taupe-colored bag full of Bumble and Bumble Hair Products, Dermalogica Skin Smoothing Cream, and – the jackpot - Stella McCartney perfume.
“Where’d your bag go, little chair? Huh? Where’d it go?” I ask it, like I’m talking to a child.
“Someone stole it,” answers a deep man-voice behind me.
I spin and see James standing there, looking handsome as hell.
“James!”
He balances, like a basketball, one of our taupe-colored goody bags on his index finger. “Hi. Lose something? I heard you on the walkie and hijacked this from an intern.”
“She calls them minions,” I say and then add, “So I call them minions, to keep the waves nice and lowwww.”
“But she’s not a very nice person… remember?” He is referring to our last conversation where he told me why they broke up. How could I forget? “Is she why you’ve been avoiding me?”
“Have I been avoiding you?” I ask, looking stupidly innocent. There is no way he’s buying this look on my face. I have a pretty innocent Midwestern face, though. So, maybe?
“Yes. You have.” He puts the bag on the empty chair. Problem solved. No screeching required. “Hey Jess, guess what I found,” he asks with a mischievous smile. Those blue eyes of his are ridiculously hard to not to drown in. I think he may even be better looking than Matt Bomer. Is that possible? I’d have to stand them next to each other. Naked. With me in the middle. Also naked. Mmmm.
I forget entirely my fear of being fired, and tilt my head down so I can look at him from underneath my long eyelashes. They’re one of my greatest flirting assets. Thank you, Grandma. “I’m really bad at guessing.” I say with a tiny suggestive smile.
His eyes darken and he takes me by the hand and drags me behind a curtain, as I scan the room to make sure no one sees. We end up in a small space that seems to be designated for storage; extra chairs, lights and a big stack of extension cords, a couple trash cans, abound. I gasp as he yanks me to him and wraps his arms around me. Looking down at me he says, “Now you can’t get away, like you have at the office all week.”
“James. I can’t. She…”
“Shh…” His finger silences me. He searches my eyes. I can feel the heat of his breath. The audience will be taking their seats any minute now, on the other side of the curtain. We’re both aware of this. I should go. I start to pull away but he tightens his hold and says in a deep rough whisper, “I know you could get fired. I know I could get fired, too. She could talk to everyone in town and make our lives a living hell. But this thing we’re doing is driving me insane. And the fact that you’ve been avoiding me is making it worse. Didn’t you have fun with me? Did I do something wrong?”
“I did! No, I had a great time. You’re amazing. It’s just…” What is it again? I can’t think with the scent of him turning me on like it is.
“Jessica. Seriously. I can’t stop thinking of ways to get you away from everyone, so I can attack you. I’m thinking about the way you kiss, the feel of your skin, if you have anything on underneath this. I’m barely hanging on here and when I heard you on the walkie asking for a stupid goody bag… I wanted to let the intern get it. But my legs wouldn’t listen. Just like the rest of my body isn’
t listening to me right now. I want you. Please don’t say no.”
His mouth is on mine and I’m unable and unwilling to stop him. My body isn’t listening to my mind either, truth be told. It doesn’t care that he could be bad for my career. It doesn’t care that I could be throwing everything away that I have worked for, in this moment. I am answering his impatient kisses, the pressure of them on my lips. I can feel his raging, throbbing cock and all I want to do is climb on it, use it. Hide on it. He forcibly pulls me tighter to him, almost bruises me as he breathes into my mouth, kissing me hungrily. I love this, it makes me know that he’s stronger than me, that I can be soft. Gasping, I kiss him back passionately.
He grins and flips me around and bends me over an abandoned chair, where he pulls my dress up over my ass, exposing my pink panties. Yeehah! He rips my panties right off. I gulp and feel myself get wetter in an instant. A tiny, tiny voice inside me whispers I shouldn’t be doing this. Someone could walk in! Fuck ‘em. I spread my legs a little wider and hear him swiftly unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants. God help me. I want him.
His right hand grips my hip, holding me there, making sure I don’t move. It orders me to obey, which is so fucking hot. I love a commanding man and my breath catches in my throat as I wait. I don’t look back, because I like the suspense. It excites me. When he surprises me by sliding his thick index and middle fingers into me, I have to work very, very hard to silence the purring moan coursing through my veins. We can hear the chatter of people just outside. They’re taking their seats now to watch a highly respected show, they don’t hear us, ten feet away and hidden, his fingers turning me on and making me deliriously wet. Those people outside have no idea what they’re missing! I shamelessly move my hips, help him bury those beefy, manly fingers deeper into me. Yes…
In one slick gliding motion, he slaps a condom on (I’ve never seen a guy who can do it faster than James), grabs onto my hips with both hands and drives his steel-hard cock into me. The pulsing sensations of his full, throbbing cock are sweet luxury. I can feel him growing harder with each animal thrust as he grips onto my hips. I want to scream out. Tell him to fuck me harder; the fact that I can’t, makes me want to do it more. I bite my tongue and force myself into silence. The desire travels inward and unleashes on my senses. I can’t see anything but the swaying walls in front of me. With one last plunging thrust he takes me to heaven where I am exploding my release all over the shaft of him.
He collapses onto my back, lungs vibrating, heaving as he hurries to separate us, and pulls me up to a standing position. He turns me around, dazed. With my eyes hooded and unfocused, I watch him as he pulls my panties out of his pocket, where he must have put them. Interesting. He reaches under my dress and uses them to clean me, spreading my legs a bit with his knee, because I’m not capable of doing anything right now. I smile at him and he smiles back, two people held together by a secret. There’s a trashcan in the corner so I think he’s going to toss my crumpled little underwear there, but he tosses the condom, and puts my panties back in his pocket with a wider smile, before he zips back up his pants and buckles his belt. What a dirty boy. I kind of love that he wants them.
“At least this time your mouth isn’t going to give you away,” he whispers, looking so handsome.
“Well they can’t see one of them,” I whisper back.
“You didn’t just say that,” he chuckles.
I smile. “Oh, I did.”
His gorgeous blue eyes get serious, “Don’t ignore me again.”
Then he turns and leaves. Just as I hear the show beginning! We can’t leave together… I get it. But what do I do now? Do I have to wait in here until it’s over? There is no way I can wait here until the show is over. I have to get out here. I’m supposed to be sitting next to The Bitch. There is no way around this. Somehow I have to get out there without being seen. I should have left before he did, but I was too gone to be sensible!
Think, Jess. Think.
I can maybe sneak out? This is the best idea I’ve got. I peak through the side of the curtain and see the models to my left, beginning their strut down the runway. The Theater is very dark except for the lit stage, but my trained eyes can see The Bitch on the other side of it, in the first row, where she always sits. There is an empty space next to her. An empty space that is waiting for my ass to be in it.
I’m off to her right, so I wait until she looks to her left to watch a model stroll down the end of the stage. Now I make my move. I dash out and see an empty chair in the first row. It’s opposite her, but I can act like I’ve been there all along. Just as her head starts to turn back to see the next girl, I slam into the chair, and look nonchalantly at the show as if I’ve always been there. I’m looking ridiculously casual now, with one leg slung over the other. My hands are on my knees like I’m a good girl and not someone who just got fucked by her ex in some weird little room behind a curtain.
Dare I look at her? With my head still cocked casually, I look across the stage with just my eyes, and BAM. She’s staring right at me! Her demon-eyes scowl and with one scissor-sharp index finger, she points at the empty chair next to her, just before a model’s leg blocks my view of her face for a blessed moment. That face she just gave me? It’s the face my mother used to use. That one that says very clearly that I had better get over there. NOW.
I get up, say excuse me as I block people’s views of another fabulous gown, while I walk-run. As I round the end of the stage, about fifty thousand photographers, cameras poised and clicking in my direction, get pissed off because I am now between them and the stage. I sprint out of their way as they maul me with whisper-hissed swear words. I want to flip them off, but really, I’m the one at fault. A few steps more and I finally collapse into the chair by her side, panting. Again.
I look at her expectantly, but she keeps watching the show. Does she know where I was and who I was with? Please let her not know. Please let her remain clueless and happy. Well, she’s never happy. Let her remain bitchy and disenchanted with life. Anything but vindictive and murderous. Please? She side-eyeballs me with an expression I can’t read. I raise my eyebrows and stare at her, waiting and terrified on the inside, totally and completely cool, on the outside.
She turns her head away from me, looks back to the models, but leans over and whispers to me from the corner of her mouth, “I need a drink.”
I am stunned.
She needs a drink? What a perfectly normal thing for her to say! One of my girlfriends would say such a thing. But she never talks to me like she’s my girlfriend. She talks to me like she’s Satan.
She needs a drink. Huh. I lean back in my chair and stare at the last model coming out, but I don’t see her, because my world has just been turned upside down. The Bitch needs a drink. The Bitch is human. And she for sure does not know I just got my ass handed to me on a fuck-platter by her ex… who she sends flowers to… who she hopes to get back together with. Playing this over in my mind makes me remember David - how he cheated on me and how badly that hurt. And yes, I understand that The Bitch and James are not still together, but she still cares about him. And I, in a way, maybe just did to her what was done to me.
Oh. My. God. I out-bitched The Bitch.
When the show is over we all get up and file out. People stop to schmooze her. She smiles and talks to them. Me? I just stare at her. I try not to, but I’m pretty sure I fail. I can’t get it out of my head that there’s a woman in there. Does she have friends? She must. Are they real friends? Does she have a pet? Does she walk around and pick up its poop, like the rest of the world?
Just when I feel like I’m the biggest jerk on the planet, she walks by me and blurts, “Would you close your fucking mouth! You look worse than you normally do, and I thought that was impossible.”
The heavens open up
…and all is right in the world.
I am off the hook. She is still Satan, and fuck her! Or rather, fuck her by fucking James. Wow. That’s a lot of f-words.
Exhale, Jess. Exhale.
Shoebox Sweet Shoebox
At the end of the longest first day of New York Fashion Week I’ve ever known, I go straight home. I’m exhausted. This whole office-fling thing is a roller coaster I can’t believe I got on. While I’m riding the subway all by myself, I think about the parties I’m missing tonight, but somehow I just don’t care. I need some space. I don’t go out with friends. I don’t go out with co-workers. I make a beeline for my comfortable little shoebox apartment in the East Village.
As soon I walk inside, I inhale, close the door and lean on it, looking around the sanctuary. Home. It’s not big, but it’s all mine. Throwing my bag, my keys and my phone on a table, I strip my clothes off as I walk.
In the bathroom, I look at myself in the mirror. “Jess. Do you know what you’re doing?” No answer comes back to make me feel better. I can think about everything later. James, The Bitch, David… all of them can wait.
I rinse myself off in a beautifully hot shower, let the water wash away the muck of uncertainty and restore me to sweet sanity. I put my softest sweats on, pile my clean dyed-red hair on top of my head, and brush my teeth. I put some eye cream on around my baby browns, and give myself a smile because I can tell I need one. I’m starting to feel more like me again. This is good.
In the kitchen, I pour myself a chilled glass of Pinot Grigio. Putting it beside me, resting it on the coffee table, I cuddle up on my overstuffed couch to catch up on my reading. I’m into a new series called Fire Nectar and I gratefully let it steal me away into a world of vampires, addiction and love.
Far, far away from bosses, confusion, and stress. Yessss…
Friday
When I arrive at Bryant Park the next morning, I walk into Pax on the corner of 40th and 6th Avenue to get my favorite apple and Brie cheese baguette sandwich. Soooo good. I grab the sandwich and am humming to myself thanks to a good night’s sleep when I see him. David. My ex. He’s in line and about five people ahead of me, reading something on his phone. No no no no no! I really want this sandwich, but I don’t want him to see me. I turn right around, toss my sandwich to an employee who catches it, surprised, and I casually sprint like a motherfucker out the door. I’ll eat later, I guess.
I Love My Healed Heart: 4 Book Box Set/Omnibus (Erotic Romance) Page 9
