Haze (6 page)

"It's not a request." I glance back to where Isla is standing, her arms now around the neck of the man she's talking to. "Take care of it now or I'll call Julian to handle it."

The mention of the club's owner is enough to light a fire under the manager. As he walks away I turn back towards the dance floor. I bring the glass in my hand to my lips, take a heavy drink and curse under my breath as I wonder what the fuck Isla Lane is doing in this club.

Isla

"You'll need to come with me."

I ignore her at first, not because I'm rude. At least, I try not to be rude. I don’t pay any attention to her because I'm sure she's talking to the woman next to me who has been flashing her tits at some guy parked on a bar stool.

I see a lot of breasts in my line of work. On any given day I'd venture to guess that I see at least four or five pairs when I'm helping customers try on bras.

I don’t compare them to mine because I know mine are spectacular. I'm not conceited. It's just that every guy I've ever fucked has said the same thing.

Well, I mean they've said other things, like I'm good at oral or I'm too loud when I come but for the most part, they've liked my breasts. I like them too.

"Excuse me." I feel a light tap on my shoulder with the words.

The tone is too high to be Barry's. Besides he's staring at me and he hasn’t said anything for at least two minutes. I think he asked me something. Did he ask me something?

I feel sick. Like so sick right now.

"I'd like you to come with me." I hear the voice again. It's definitely a woman.

I look to my left and I see her there. She's dressed all in black. Even her dark hair is pulled back into a bun. She's the exact opposite of fun. She's no fun. I wonder if she's related to Cicely.

I think I might vomit.

"She's not going anywhere with you. I'm taking this one to the back with me," Barry, the blonde haired dentist I met earlier, says really loudly. He says it so loudly that my head hurts.

"There's a problem, sir." The grumpy lady is pulling on my arm. "I'm going to have to escort her from the club."

"That's not happening." Barry grabs hold of my waist. "We are going to the back. I've invited her and she accepted."

Technically I haven't exactly RSVP'd yet. He did invite me when he was kissing my neck and drooling in my ear. I was leaning more towards not going. He's not my type and I haven't flossed today so we're not a good match. I know how much dentists hate it when you don't floss. My grandmother always said that if you can't say something nice, try and say something nice…no wait, if you can't say something nice, say something not nice? No…it was…

"You're a good dancer." I tap my hand on his chest. "I like dancing with you."

"What's the problem?" Barry ignores my compliment. "I don't understand what the problem is."
"There's an issue with her identification." The woman gestures towards my clutch purse.

"What issue?" Barry's voice is even louder now. I definitely have a headache.

"Shh." I bring my finger to my lips. "You're so loud."

The woman in the dark clothes leans close to us both. "We have reason to believe she used fake identification to get into the club."

Well, shit. I am so fucking busted right now.

I pull my clutch closer. That fake ID cost me a lot and I need it at least for the next ten days until I'm actually twenty-one. I don't want this woman to take it away from me. What if I decide I need a drink after work one day?

Who am I kidding? After tonight, I'm never drinking again.

"Her ID is legit," Barry says.

"Don't say legit." I grimace as I look up into his face and shake my head from side-to-side. "It's not cool, Barry. You're like over that hill, you know what I mean?"

The woman talking to us stifles a laugh.

"Give me that ID." Barry grabs hold of my clutch so quickly that I don't have time to react. A lot of that has to do with the two, wait, it was three vodkas and sodas I've had since I got here.

"I want it back." I try to yank the bag back into my hands. "That's mine."

"Sir, you need to step back." A man dressed in a dark suit is standing next to us now. I recognize his bald head. I saw it when I first came into the club. He was greeting some people at the door.

"He took my bag," I whine. "Tell him to give it back."

I pull harder on the clutch but Barry's got it in a death grip. He's shaking his head and gritting his teeth. "I'll show you that her ID is real. She's at least twenty-five. Look at her."

I pull harder. "You think I'm twenty-five? Really? I look twenty-five to you?"

"At least." Barry pushes the bald headed man aside as he tugs on my clutch. "Just tell them the ID is real so we can go to the back."

"No." I shake my head as I let the clutch go. "It's not real. I'm only twenty. I won't be twenty-one for another ten days."

I don't see Barry's expression as he falls on his ass. My eyes are glued to my clutch and as it flies out of his grasp and through the air, I say a silent prayer that the broken clasp will hold tight.

It doesn't.

All I can do is cover my eyes as the contents of my clutch spill out and into the view of virtually everyone in the room who has stopped to stare at the commotion we caused. I hear the faints gasps and giggles as my phone, the six condoms, two ten dollar bills and the fake ID tumble to the floor right next to the brand new shiny handcuffs I brought with me.

***

"You look like shit, Isla."

If I'd bothered to look in a mirror today, I'd probably see it for myself. I've avoided it on purpose. In fact, this is the first time I've been up all day and I only got as far as the sofa.

I'd fallen into my bed right after I was dropped off. The woman from the club had not only walked me to the curb, she'd climbed into the front seat of a dark sedan that stopped on the street after she'd ushered me into the back.

I had given my address when asked, never questioning why I wasn't tossed from the club to fend for myself. It wasn't until I woke this morning that I realized that she had also helped me into the building and stayed with me until I closed my apartment door after thanking her for everything.

"I had too much to drink last night." I take a sip from the water bottle I've been holding in my hand for the past thirty minutes. "Do you have any aspirin?"

"I have something that will help." Cassia marches across the living room towards where she dropped her purse when she got home five minutes ago. "Did you have a date? Where did you go that you got so loaded?"

I went to a kinky club because I like to be handcuffed and spanked until my ass is on fire, Cass. What did you do last night?

"No date," I confess.  "I haven't met anyone since I've been in New York."

Her brows perk up as she fishes a bottle of ibuprofen from out of her purse. "You haven't met anyone? I guess that makes sense. You work in a lingerie store. It must be all women, all the time."

It's not. At least half the customers are men either looking for something for their woman or men looking for someone to give them a free fashion show. "You wouldn’t believe how many men come into Liore wanting to get off in the change rooms."

"You're kidding." Her voice explodes into the space, reverberating through my still sore brain. I swear even my eyelashes hurt today. I open the bottle and pop two pills into my mouth, using the last of the water to wash them down.

"I'm serious," I say quietly, hoping she'll take the hint and temper her tone. "It's happened to me a few times."

"You don't ever actually do it, do you? Tell me you don't."

I should be offended by the question but I can't be. Cassia knows me better than anyone. She was the one who laughed alongside me when I got caught in the art supply closet in high school with the captain of the debate team. We were only kissing but it was enough for yet another warning in my file.

"I don't," I say honestly. "It's against company policy. I wouldn't risk it."

"I'm surprised by how much you like this job." She walks into the kitchen. "I know it's just temporary but you're killing it there."

I am killing it. I got paid yesterday and with all the commissions I've earned, my check was the biggest it's ever been. If I didn't have any other direction for my life, I might stay at Liore for a year or two.

I can't let that happen though. I made a promise to myself and selling lingerie for the next three, or four, or more years of my life isn't part of that.

"Have you decided whether you're going to audition yet?" She walks back into the room carrying a glass of orange juice. "Here, drink this."

I tentatively take the glass from her hands as I look up at her face. Her olive skin is glowing. Her hazel eyes surrounded by long, beautiful lashes. She rarely wears any make-up. She's never had to. Her natural beauty rivals any woman I've ever met.

"No, not yet. I need more time to think about it."

"There's a woman I work with at Hughes Enterprises. I was telling her about you and…"

"You told her about me?" I interrupt. "What did you tell her?"

"The regular stuff anyone would tell another person about their best friend." She nervously shifts from one foot to the other. "You have a lot in common."

An involuntary smile pulls at the corners of my mouth. "Does she play the violin too, like me?"

"No one plays the violin like you, Isla." She rubs her hand across my forehead sweeping my hair to the side. "If you audition for that opening with the String Orchestra, you'll get that spot. Hell, if you tell them who you are, they'll give you the spot without you having to play a note."

I swallow hard. I know that she's trying to help but she's not. It's in Switzerland. That's an entire world away from my life here. "I'm not ready for that yet. I need more time."

The sigh that escapes her is noticeable in the stillness of the room. "I know. I just don't want you to waste your talent. It's a gift, Isla. I know you can't see it but it's true."

I do see it. That's because I spent the first thirteen years of my life being paraded around the globe like a show pony with a violin in hand. I was my mother's meal ticket and she made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that my talent was what was keeping our household afloat.

She resented the fact that when she was a child my grandmother, Ella Amherst, was focused on her career as the principal violinist with the London Philharmonic. My mother took it upon herself to rebel in every way possible, including getting pregnant with me, when she was still a teenager.

When the two of them finally settled in Chicago shortly after I was born, my grandmother took on a position with the Orchestra there. My mother took up with one man, and then another, and eventually I ended up with two younger half-sisters, and a handful of stepfathers.

My only solace through all the upheaval was the violin my grandmother had given me. She taught me how to play and with each invitation I received to appear on local television programs or radio stations, my mother's greed grew. Eventually, she was booking me to play at weddings, birthdays and even funerals.

I was the adorable blond haired girl with the big blue eyes and the talent of her grandmother. Nothing more than a novelty, drawing the attention of celebrities and royalty who thought it cute to throw the spotlight on a small child who could play classical music alongside many of the best musicians in the world.

As my bank account ballooned, my school work suffered and when I had to repeat seventh grade because the tutor my mother hired only existed on paper as a tax write-off, my grandmother stepped in.

She retired early, hired attorneys and accountants and when the dust settled and my trust accounts were searched, it was obvious to everyone that my mother's large house and her expensive car weren't paid for from her manager's salary. She'd stolen from me; money, time, my childhood.

I moved in with my grandmother then and after school each day, she'd insist I'd finish my homework first and then we'd play our violins, side-by-side, her helping me perfect my techniques. Those are the moments I'll treasure forever. 

"You'll think about auditioning, Isla. Promise me you will." Cassia's hands rest on my shoulders.

"I'll think about it. I promise."

Gabriel

"If I need to get my attorney involved in this, I will."

It's meant to sound as threatening as it does. It's also proven to be an effective way to deal with the hordes of individuals who believe they can produce imitation, substandard products, and sell them with fake Arilia or Berdine labels attached to them.

"No, please, no sir." The small, seemingly meek looking, man stares up at me. "I didn't know. I'll give them all to you. You can take them now."

That would solve all of his problems. Unfortunately, it would only prolong the inevitable. If I gather up the dozens of men's dress shirts and the handful of women's blouses he has on display, it will only put a dent in his business for at most a day, or two.

These portable carts, hawking imitation merchandise, are as much a part of the landscape of the streets of Manhattan as those selling hotdogs and pretzels. The only difference is that the food vendors are earning an honest living.

He can play coy all he wants but I've seen this happen time and time again.

"I'll send someone down to deal with this within the hour." I turn on my heel ignoring his pleading offerings to keep the police out of it.

I will.

All I need is the threat of a lawsuit delivered in the form of one of the company's staff of attorneys to ensure that nothing bearing any of the Foster fashion brands lands on this cart again.

I make a quick call to the head of the legal department of Foster Enterprises, apprising her of the situation, including the location of the cart which ironically is set up less than a block from my office.

As I end the call, I hear the unmistakable chime of a bell signaling a new test message.

I look down at the screen of my phone, read the message and curse under my breath.

What the fuck is this?

I walked to a local bodega to get a cup of coffee to clear my head. I needed fresh air and a break from a day that has been filled with nothing but mundane problems that feel like a waste of my time.

Now, another issue is pressing and since my driver is at least fifteen minutes away, I do the only thing I can think of. I toss the paper cup in the trash, wave my hand in the air and flag down the first passing taxi to take me to the Liore boutique.

***

It's the most erotic instance of déjà vu I've ever experienced.

As I walk through the door of the boutique my eyes instantly gravitate toward Isla. She's near the back of the space with a female customer.

Her hair is different today. It's wavy, as if she let it dry on its own before she ran her fingers through the golden locks. Her dress is pale blue, fitted and framed in lace. She looks innocent and angelic. She looks nothing like she did three nights ago at Skyn when she was escorted from the club.

I'd left the private room and had stood in the shadows listening to her speak with the female manager who had been sent to accompany her home. She was sweet, sexy, and irresistible as she tried to wrestle her clutch purse away from an asshole that had no right to be near her.

I'd watched in both horror and fascination as her clutch opened revealing everything she'd tucked inside it before she'd arrived at the club.

The condoms and money were expected. The handcuffs caught me off guard.

I haven't touched a pair since college when I'd used them on a woman I met at a club similar to Skyn. She was sure it was what she wanted but when she'd heard the click of the metal closing around her wrists and I parted her legs to fuck her, she'd panicked.

I fumbled with the key as I unlocked her, trying to comfort her but the slap across my face had stilled everything.

She'd left my dorm room in a huff with the handcuffs still attached to one of the posts of my bed frame. I'd tossed them in the trash along with her number.

I prefer softer restraints. Fabrics that have enough give to allow a woman to feel comfortable, yet enough strength to hold her exactly where I want her to be.

Isla's preference is metal. Although judging by the condition of her handcuffs as they hit the floor a few feet from where I was standing, they've rarely been used, if at all.

That might speak to her experience or lack thereof. Either way, it's becoming harder to ignore her.

"Mr. Foster, you're finally here."

I look to my right to where Cicely is standing, her voice conveying the same panic that her text message had.

"Cicely, the building isn't on fire. I don't see anyone with a weapon demanding money." I gesture towards the crowded sales floor. "If there's an emergency here, I'm not seeing it."

"I didn't mean it was that kind of emergency, sir." She's wringing the pair of lace panties within her knotted fists so tightly that I wouldn't be surprised if they ripped in two.

"Don't manhandle the merchandise."

"I tried calling Wallis but it goes straight to voicemail." She sighs heavily as her eyes survey the boutique. "I found something in one of the change rooms. I don't know what to do with it."

I have no idea why I didn't call her before I raced to the boutique. Actually, that's a lie. I know why. The reason is blonde, effortlessly beautiful and now bent over to retrieve a bra that the customer she's helping has dropped. I wanted to see Isla.

"Will you look at it?"

"Look at what?" I can't pull my gaze from Isla. She's laughing. Her eyes dancing over the face of the woman she's helping. It's obvious why she sells more product than any other sales associate in this store. She's captivating. Who in their right mind could walk away from her?

"It's in the back office, sir." Cicely's hand rests on my forearm. "I'll show it to you now."

I turn my head to look at her hand. "I don't have time for this. You're the manager. Your job is to handle anything and everything that involves this store."

"I know. I do. I just don't know how to deal with this."

"Are you like this with Rowan?" I ask out of sheer frustration.

Foster Enterprises employs thousands worldwide. Each of those people has to report to someone above them within the company's hierarchy. For Cicely, that's Rowan Bell and right now, I'm cursing the fact that I sent her to Europe at all. She should be back here, holding Cicely's hand to get her through this latest non-crisis.

"Like what?"

"Exactly what am I doing here?" I pull my arm free so I can turn to face her directly. "I can't imagine what you found that warrants me dropping everything to come down here."

"I can't say it, sir." She blushes as she looks up at me. "Can you please just come with me so I can show you?"

"Fine," I snap. Unless I give this woman what she wants, which amounts to even more of my time, she's not going to leave this be.

I follow her through the store, my eyes locking briefly with Isla's as I offer a simple greeting to the customer she's helping.  Although I want nothing more than to stop to speak with Isla, I don't. I need to see what has Cicely in knots so I can get to the first of several meetings I have scheduled this afternoon.

"It's right over here, sir." Cicely marches across the tiled floor of the cramped office to a wastebasket sitting next to a plain metal desk covered in invoices, order forms and schedules.

"What is over here?" I stop to glance down at my smartphone in my palm.

"That." Her hand darts into the air towards the wastebasket. "I found that on the floor in one of the change rooms an hour ago."

I shake my head as I move towards her, my eyes glued to her face. "We hired you for this position because of your background in retail, Cicely. Unless you can show more leadership and take more control over this store, I'm going to discuss an alternative arrangement with Rowan."

The expression on her face doesn’t shift at all and I realize she likely didn't hear anything I just said. Her hand is bobbing in the air right above the wastebasket.

I drop my gaze, lean forward and look in.

"You found that in a change room?"

She nods briskly. "I found it an hour ago, sir."

"Who was working then? Who was here?"

Her bottom lip quivers slightly. "It was just me and Isla. We were the only two here."

I stare at the used condom and the empty foil packet. It's the same brand that fell from Isla's clutch and littered the floor of the club.