Gloria's Revenge (11 page)

He lowered himself onto the arm of the chair, laying out the first aid supplies next to him. He grabbed a cotton ball and soaked it with the peroxide.

“Glorious, this is going to sting,” he warned as he gently dabbed it on my raw, bloody wound. No shit. I winced. He dabbed it again and then pulled out a wide adhesive bandage from the box of Gloria’s Secret bandages. Earlier in the year, we had made a licensing deal with a major pharmaceutical company. Our focus group research had shown that single women loved to use the shiny white Band-Aids with our signature bright pink heart to hide hickies while moms reported that their little girls loved them to cover up boo-boos. Our first licensing deal had turned out to be a huge success.

“Try to hold your finger steady.” I watched as Kevin peeled off the paper wrapping and then circled the bandage around my ravaged knuckle. The signature pink heart sat just above where two entwining diamond hearts had once been. If only there was a bandage big enough to cover my aching heart. Jaime had cut it open, and it kept on bleeding tears.

Kevin admired his handiwork. “Try not bend your finger or get it wet while it heals.”

I nodded. “Thanks, Kev,” I sniffled and lightly kissed him on the cheek.

“Do you want to stay over?” he asked. “Or want me to come up?”

I quirked another small smile. “Thanks for the offer, but I think I need some time alone to think things through. There was so much to think about—everything in my life was going so wrong. At the top of my list was the future of Gloria’s Secret, and my broken heart was not going to make dealing with it easier.

I passed on a glass of wine and slogged one floor up to my condo. I was barely one foot inside it when the intercom buzzer sounded. I pressed the button on the wall by the door, careful not to use my bandaged finger.

It was Walter, the kindly sixty-five-year-old doorman. “Ms. Long, there’s a gentleman by the name of Jaime Zander here to see you,” I heard him say through the speaker. My heart skipped a beat and my body shook. I quickly bolt-locked my door. “Tell him I don’t want to see him.”

“He’s insistent on seeing you.”

“Tell him to go away.” My voice was quivering.

The next voice I heard was not the doorman’s. It was Jaime’s. “Jesus fucking Christ, Gloria, let me up!”

“Go away,” I pleaded, my voice watery.

Walter: “Ms. Long, do you want me to call security?”

“Fuck security!” I heard Jaime growl. Shit! I hoped he wasn’t going to do in the poor, soon-to-retire doorman. With his red-hot temper and brutal strength, it was a possibility. I shuddered.

Walter’s voice cracked with panic. “Ms. Long, he’s coming up. I couldn’t stop him. I’m calling security now.”

“No, Walter. It’s okay. Don’t call security.”

A combination of dread and despair filled me. My heart pounded and tears fell from my eyes. I sagged down against the door into a crouching position. There was a loud pounding on the other side. Jaime.

“Gloria, let me in!”

“Go away!”

He pounded harder. “God damn it, Gloria. Open. The. Door.”

“No!” I sobbed.

“Just do it!” He gave the door a hard kick—so hard I could feel the vibration against my back.

“I swear I’m going to kick the door down if you don’t open up.” He began to frantically kick the door. I painfully felt each angry kick.

“Stop it!” I choked. “I’m going to call 911 if you don’t leave.” Of course, I wasn’t.

He gave the door another loud, hard kick. “Fuck you, Gloria. You’re not the only one who can fall apart.” And then the pounding, screaming, and kicking stopped. He was gone. Heaving sobs wracked my body. I buried my head between my knees and just let the tears fall. I had won the battle, but victory eluded me. I forced myself to get up and stumbled to the window that overlooked Wilshire Boulevard. Gazing down at the busy street below through my tears, I watched Jaime Zander peel away in his Thunderbird convertible. I rubbed my throbbing finger as he raced down the boulevard and disappeared. Pain ripped through my body. My heart was still bleeding tears.

Chapter 11

M
y snooze alarm rang at six a.m. I pulled the covers over my eyes. I didn’t want to get out of bed. There was only one word to describe how I felt—sick. Very, very sick. My eyes stung from crying; a thick, painful lump in my throat made it almost impossible to swallow, and waves of nausea brushed against my chest. Madame Paulette had once said, “Love
eez
a disease for which there
eez
no cure.” I shuddered—were these the symptoms? Was this how I was going to feel the rest of my life?

Yes, Jaime fucking Zander had broken my heart. He had asked for my trust—and my love—and all the while, he was deceiving me. Once the player, always the player. The heart-wrenching pain I felt from his deceit was in many ways worse than that of a bullet wound. It hurt physically
and
emotionally. As much as I willed the image of his beautiful face out of mind, it wouldn’t go away. Memories of all the good times we had together danced in my head and brought a rush of fresh tears to my eyes. I couldn’t stop reliving our most recent passionate encounter overlooking the Pacific Ocean. But each time I replayed it, the divine feeling of his fullness inside me succumbed to the excruciating emptiness I now felt in my heart.

The alarm went off again, and I made my first executive decision of the day. Fuck it! I wasn’t going into my office—at least not this morning. Yes, I felt sick but that hadn’t stopped me before. The truth… I couldn’t face Vivien. The image of that vixen kissing Jaime flooded my head and made me shiver. If only I could fire her, but that wasn’t an option. Her type of betrayal wasn’t on the list of Human Resources’ causes for job termination. And there was always Daddy to protect her tight little ass.

With my burning eyes still closed, I forced Jaime to the back of my mind and focused on what I had to do today. To the best of my knowledge, I didn’t have any major meetings—except that dreaded lunch with Victor at noon to meet a potential business partner. I could work from home and then meet him at the Polo Lounge. Depending on how I felt after lunch, I would decide whether to go into my office. And then I remembered…

Tonight was my big night—I was being honored at the Beverly Hilton for the charitable work I’d done as the founder and chief supporter of Girls Like Us. I’d been so looking forward to this event but now I dreaded it. Oh, God. How was I going to get it together? Face a crowd of over a thousand people? I hadn’t even written my speech. Maybe, I’d just wing it—that is, if I made it through the day.

Sliding down the covers, I reached for my cell phone on my night table. I’d put the ringtone on mute before crawling into bed last night, not having the strength or desire to deal with anything or anyone. There were thirty missed calls—all of them from Jaime. As fast as I could, I deleted all his messages, not wanting to hear his voice. My middle finger still throbbed like my heart. Tears stung my eyes. I had cried myself to sleep so hard, it was hard to believe I still had tears to shed.

Listlessly, I entered Kevin’s seven-digit phone number on the touch screen; I knew it by heart, and it was way easier to reach him this way than to scroll down my long list of contacts. He picked up on the first ring.

“Morning Glory, how are you feeling?”

“Like crap.” Kevin was the one person from whom I could never hide things, and just from my painfully hoarse voice, he would be able to detect my deplorable state of being. Shit! How was I possibly going to give a speech tonight when I could barely talk?

“You sound awful. Is there anything I can do?”

“Yeah, Kev, would you hold things down at the office. I’m not coming in…at least this morning.”

“You’ve got it.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you want me to cancel tonight’s gala?” There was hesitancy in his voice.

Kevin, my head of Public Relations, had spent months carefully planning the Beverly Hilton event; he had been looking forward to it as much as I had. I gulped a breath of air. As much as I wished I could call it off—hell, I was in no mood to get an award and be all smiley-faced—I couldn’t. Important people from all over the country had flown in for the $1000 per ticket, Oprah-hosted fundraiser, including celebrities and politicians as well as one hundred underprivileged young girls who were likely squeeing about getting princess makeovers, courtesy of me, and attending their first-ever black tie event. I had also bought tables for many of our employees.

“No, Kev. I can’t do that. I’ll be there.”

Kevin proceeded to fill me in on the latest stock crisis news. It was not good. Rumors all over Wall Street were circulating that the Board of Directors was going to ask me to resign. This day was quickly going from bad to worse. Reality stabbed at me. By tonight, I might even be introduced as the “former CEO of Gloria’s Secret.”

I told Kevin to keep me posted of any new developments and then ended the call with an exchange of “I love you.” He always had been and always would be there for me. Our last words whirled around in my head.
I love you
. Jaime and I had never uttered these three words nor would we ever. My heart sunk lower as if lower were possible.

As much as I wished I could stay in bed all day with the covers over my head, I was still, at least for the moment, CEO of Gloria’s Secret, and I couldn’t eschew my responsibilities. I forced myself to roll out of the bed and stumbled to the bathroom. I glimpsed my reflection in the mirror. I looked every bit the train wreck I was. My duo- colored eyes were bloodshot and swollen; my skin pasty, and my long braid was a disheveled mess. I immediately brushed my teeth just to get the taste of something fresh in my system. It helped, the minty toothpaste revitalizing me a little. What I really needed was a shower.

Despite Kevin’s urging not to get my bandaged finger wet, I let the hot water pound on my flesh, sparing no inch of me; it stung my finger. With a large soapy sponge, I washed every part of my body, but I couldn’t wash the painful memory of Jaime Zander away. It was moreover impossible not to think about the sensuous times we’d showered together. Tearfully, I circled the scar that never let me forget that my past was real. Beneath that scar, there was a new one that could only be felt, not seen. It was the scar on my heart that Jaime Zander had left behind. Madame Paulette had once told me that the scars you can’t see are the hardest to heal. I wondered—do they ever?

Stepping out of the shower, I towel dried myself with a soft white bath sheet and then donned my oversized Gloria’s Secret robe. The softness of the velvety terrycloth against my skin was comforting. Standing before the mirror, I was pleased to see that the shower had improved my reflection a bit. My skin again had a fresh glow, and while my eyes still had a few ugly red spider lines, they were no longer red balls of fire. I spritzed myself with a little GS cologne and then braided my hair. My throbbing stiff middle finger made weaving my long locks difficult. The almost waist-length braid was definitely not my best. After securing the wispy ends with an elastic, I decided to take a look-see at my finger. I peeled off the wet bandage and grimaced. My knuckle looked gruesome. It was still raw, inflamed, and puffy. I should have heeded Kevin’s advice. This was definitely the kind of wound that was going to get worse before it got better. I opened my medicine cabinet, pulled out my own box of Gloria’s Secret bandages, and re-covered it. I stared at the bright pink heart in the center of the bandage that sat smack on my torn flesh. Thoughts of Jaime flew into my head…that cocky smile, those beautiful denim blue eyes, all those crazy sexual encounters. He had unleashed a hidden power inside me and made me feel like beautiful goddess. He’d even saved my life! Fresh tears were verging. God fucking damn it! Confession: As much as I loathed him, I still loved him. Fuck love. It hurt. My finger would eventually heal, but I wasn’t sure about my heart. As I lumbered out of the bathroom and headed to my desk, I was no longer sure if it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. By the time I was slumped over my computer, I was sorry that I’d ever met Jaime Zander.

Occupying myself with my e-mails didn’t help. There were at least fifty e-mails from Jaime, each one begging me to call, text, or e-mail him back in the subject line. In one swoop, I deleted all of them. My sorrow morphed into rage. I wasn’t going to let him get the time of day with me. Rules are made to be broken, he had said, and so were contracts. Screw a deal is a deal! I immediately fired off an e-mail to Business Affairs, asking if we had signed a contract with ZAP! and if we did, to find a way to get out of it. Before I could hit send, my intercom buzzed. My heart jumped. Shit! Could it be him?

I jogged downstairs and sprinted to the intercom. I pressed the button. Through the speaker, Jules, our daytime doorman, piped that there was a man here to see me.

My heart thudded; I cut him off. “What does he look like?”

I’d say he’s about six-foot three—
Thud!
—has longish brown hair—
Thud!
—blue eyes—
Thud
!—and he’s probably in his sixties—
Phew!
“And he’s got a delivery for you.”

“Send him up,” I said with a sigh of relief. Okay. Confession: I was disappointed. I perversely wished it had been Jaime. What was wrong with me?

Five minutes later, the deliveryman was at my door. I unbolted the lock and gaped. Tucked in his arms were three crystal vases, each filled with a dozen magnificent red roses. They were just like the ones Jaime had bought me in Paris. My heart teetered between melting with joy and exploding with rage. I almost told the man to take them back from wherever they came but ultimately told him to place the vases on the entryway console. The apartment instantly filled up with their heavenly scent. Once the deliveryman was gone, I ripped open the small enveloped that was clipped to a plastic holder planted among the roses. There was a handwritten note inside, the penmanship black and bold. I shook as I read it.

Angel~

Please trust me.

Je t’aime.

~Jaime

I crumpled the note in my trembling hand. Tears seared my eyes. Why was he doing this to me? Was this the beautiful bastard’s latest ploy to make me fall apart? If it was, he was succeeding. My emotions were in turmoil, flying out of control. One by one, I hurled the vases onto the white marble floor. Fuck you, Jaime Zander!
SMASH! SMASH! SMASH!
They were as shattered as my heart. Tears spilled into the water that was drowning the now tattered, scattered roses. I was too much of an emotional wreck to clean up the mess. In a tailspin, I ran back upstairs to my computer and sent my e-mail off to Business Affairs. Whatever it took, Jaime Zander needed to be out of my life. I shut down my computer, set my alarm clock to 11:00, muted all my phones, and then did something I hadn’t done in a very long time. I sat down on the carpet, crossed my legs, and closed my eyes. I meditated.

At exactly eleven a.m., the loud ring of my alarm clock brought me out of my deep meditation. I slowly peeled open my eyes, took a deep inhale, and brought awareness back into my body. I felt empowered. Back in control. There was no Jaime Zander lurking in my head.

I rose to my feet and marched over to my lingerie commode, selecting my favorite, most uplifting black lace bra, panties, garter, and silk stockings. Fifteen minutes later, I was again dressed for success in my killer Louboutins and the Dior dress that I’d worn to Madame Paulette’s funeral. My little black mourning dress. In no mood to drive, I called my driver Tyrone and told him to meet me downstairs at 11:30. Grabbing my purse, I scurried out the door, ready to meet Victor Holden head on. I was not going to let him take me down.