Haze (7 page)

Isla

I saw Mr. Foster checking me out when he walked into the boutique twenty minutes ago.

Checking me out may be too strong of words, or more likely, wishful thinking.

I did notice him staring in my direction. It may have had everything to do with the fact that I didn't have enough time to straighten my hair after my shower. I'm a mess.  I overslept this morning and being late isn't something I can afford to do right now.

I can't screw up again. Mr. Foster made that very clear. 

"Isla, I need a word."

My head pops up at the harsh clipped sound of Mr. Foster's voice. He's standing in front of the counter, not more than two feet away from where I am. Cicely is next to him, her arms folded across her chest.

I'm in shit. Real shit this time.

"Of course, sir," I say in the most sincere tone I can muster. "Can someone take over for me?"

Cicely looks around the store. "Steph started ten minutes ago. I'll get her to watch the register."

I nod as I stand in place, my eyes focused completely on Mr. Foster. He's wearing a black shirt and suit today. The only contrast is the silver tie around his neck. He's polished, calm and judging by the way he's looking at me, he's not going to be as understanding as he was last time.

Lucky for me, I haven't broken any rules since then; at least, none that I know of.

"We'll do this in the office." He steps away from the counter just as Steph, another sales associate, comes into view. "Follow me."

I do as I'm told. My heels drumming a fast beat against the tiled floor as I fall in step behind him. I don't turn to look but I know instinctively that Cicely is pulling up the rear of this train of doom.

She'd looked panicked when she went to retrieve garments from the fitting rooms earlier. I'd stopped her to ask a question but she'd brushed me off with a shake of her head and a hand in the air to silence me.

I hadn't pushed. I've been working for her long enough to know that when she's on a mission, it's best to get the hell out of her way. I did that by focusing on customers and doing what I was hired to do.

"Close the door, Cicely."

My stomach knots instantly when I hear the brash tone of his voice. Something is definitely wrong. This job is becoming way more trouble than it's worth.

I hear the latch of the door as it's closed. I stand quiet, waiting for him to speak.

"You had intercourse in one of the change rooms this morning." Cicely's anxious voice breaks the silence. "I know it was you."

Mr. Foster cocks a dark brow as his eyes jump to my face. I can't tell what his reaction is. He's silent save for the faint tapping of his shoe against the floor.

"What?" I shake my head from side-to-side as Cicely moves into view. "I didn't. I wouldn’t."

"You did." She reaches towards a wastebasket. "I found a used… there was a used thing in there. I found the package too."

"A used thing? A condom?" I search her face trying to find something there that resembles even a shred of sanity. I've been well within her view all morning. I've been on the sales floor, helping one customer and then another. "I haven't been in the change rooms. It wasn't me. It was someone else."

"Well it wasn't me," she spits the words out. "I checked the rooms before I opened the store the same way I do every morning and there was nothing there. There were no garments leftover from when customers tried things on yesterday and there were no... nothing else was in that room. That means that you took a man in there so you could do stuff with him."

Stuff? Grow the fuck up, Cicely and just spit it out. You think I fucked some random in the change room.

"Mr. Foster," I say his name quietly realizing that I need to appeal directly to him. Cicely has already convicted me of being a shameless slut. "I didn't do this. I know the rules."

His full lips part slightly before he runs the tip of his index finger over his eyebrow. "We've already had this discussion, Isla. You don't always follow all the rules."

I suck in a slow, deep breath as his eyes fall from my face to the top of my dress. "I didn’t break that rule. I wouldn't take a man into a change room with me."

"Do you have any idea who would?" he rasps. "If it wasn't Cicely or you, explain to me who had that access."

I can't. The doors are locked until an employee unlocks them. It's a measure that's in place to deter theft. We know exactly what items go into each room and we have to account for what comes out.  We're also not allowed to let men go back there to see their wives or girlfriends trying on the merchandise.

"I don't know. All I know is it wasn't me."

"Are you saying it was me?" Cicely's hands jump to the waist of her purple dress. "Do you think it was me, Isla?"

I look her over from head to toe. "Of course not. No one would think it was you."

Her eyes squint. "What does that mean?"

I don't have to explain it. I can't explain it. It hasn’t slipped my mind that Cicely and Mr. Foster have a date next Friday night. I'm not about to insult her with him standing less than a foot away from me.

"I've been on the sales floor since I got here." I look down at my hands, twisting them together in frustration. "I wasn't near the change rooms at all today."

"You didn't let any of the customers in the rooms?" Cicely says in a tone that is way too judgmental. "You're telling me that not one of your customers wanted to try anything on?"

I turn towards her, my patience wearing thin. "I spent time with two customers this morning." I dart two fingers in the air. "One was a woman who wanted to buy new bras for her mother who just had a double mastectomy and reconstructive surgery. She knew the size. It's a perfect 34C. My other customer was in here last week. Her husband loved the things she bought so much that she came back for more so she could surprise him on their anniversary. Neither of them needed to go to the rooms."

Cicely's eyes move from my face to Mr. Foster's.

"There are security cameras," I think aloud. "I've seen Wallis watching the footage when she caught a shoplifter. There aren't any in the rooms but they do give a view of who goes in and out of them."

"I was just about to suggest that." Cicely turns towards the door. "I remember Wallis mentioning those. We can review them right now to prove what really happened."

"I need to go." I don't make eye contact with either of them. "I have customers waiting for me."

I brush past Cicely, twist the doorknob in my hand, and walk back to the front of the boutique knowing that as soon as I can, I'm leaving this fucked up circus behind me for good.

Gabriel

The water pounds down on me. The heated spray beating a path along my back. My eyes are closed. My mind is too awake. It's near three in the morning and I haven't slept. I can't quiet my thoughts.

The full day of work I had planned ended abruptly as I watched the security tapes in the Liore boutique. I'd called Wallis to the store from the corporate offices to assist me. She'd been in a meeting, an important meeting, regarding the men's line.

My better judgement was swept aside by my insatiable, unexplainable need, to see who had fucked who in that change room.

When Cicely had showed me that condom package and the refuse of what had transpired in the cramped space, I'd been hit with images of Isla bent over the bench, her dress hiked to her waist, her panties pushed aside as a customer pounded his dick into her from behind.

I'd imagined his hand bunched in her hair, pulling her neck back as he rode her fast and hard. The sense of rage I felt with those thoughts invading my mind was palpable. It wasn't rational but it was real and stifling.

She'd looked different when her eyes met mine in the boutique. I saw a need and a desire there that I hadn't before. It may have been nothing more than my remembrances of how she looked in the club. She was so ripe, willing, and waiting to be taken.

My intention when she followed me into the office was clear. I wanted a simple explanation. I wanted her assurance that she wasn’t the one who had taken a man into that space. I needed to know that. It had nothing to do with her job. It had everything to do with my selfish need to slide my cock inside of her.

I felt relief wash over me when Wallis spotted the culprits on the footage. The cleaning crew had granted themselves carte blanche in the boutique hours before the store opened. The man and his female counterpart, hired to clean the store, had instead fucked like rabbits in the corridor leading to the change room before they fell out of view and into the room.

Cicely's explanation for not finding the evidence of their misdeeds when she did her required check of the rooms before the store's opening was far reaching. She'd been interrupted mid-check she claimed at first by a customer knocking on the door, wanting early access to the sales items.

As Wallis ran through the security footage one final time, Cicely's story lost all merit. It was clear that she'd strolled through the corridor before the store opened, unlocking each of the change room doors before pushing them open with a brush of her foot as her eyes were cast down at her smartphone. She was blissfully unaware that cameras were even in place.

When I finally walked through the boutique on my way out two hours later, Isla's back was turned to me. I'd stopped to thank her for being so cooperative but the only response was a faint nod of her head before she walked to the left to adjust a row of stockings that had been knocked astray by the greedy hands of bargain hunters.

She's pissed. I don't blame her. Cicely fucked up and I was pulled into that.

That's not who I am.

It's not who I want to be.

I don't care if a woman I'm interested in fucks someone else. I'll find another.

I don't care if a woman I want tells me to go to hell.

I move on. I find someone else. I fuck her until I forget everyone else and then I walk away.

That's who I am.

It's who I want to be.

The only difference now is that I know Isla Lane exists and I can't get her out of my mind.

***

"You can't possibly be mad at either of them, Gabriel." My mother hugs me gently taking care not to allow her face to touch mine. From the looks of it, she's spent hours in someone's make up chair. "Caleb and Rowan were waiting for me. I wanted to look my best."

She looks stunning.

I'm not surprised. Whenever there's a spotlight to be had, or a red carpet to stand on, my mother will be front and center. Tonight she's wearing a striking royal blue dress from one of our boutiques. It's cut just low enough to show off a stunning diamond necklace. I'm not about to ask where it came from. We'll have that discussion when her credit card bill crosses my desk in a few weeks.

"I'm not angry," I say quietly hoping to diffuse her. If the cameras aren't pointed at her, she'll do whatever is necessary to draw them towards her. Once, three or four years ago, she burst out in song during a press event for the Berdine line. It took months of negotiating, manipulating and subtle coercion to get the gossip rags to finally move on to another story.

At the time, my mother viewed their ongoing attention as flattery. I knew better. They would follow her in hopes of catching her in another moment of desperation. Things have calmed now, but I work hard to keep her in the background, out of the way of any stray microphones or cameras.

Tonight, I'm grateful that they've focused all of their attention on Libby Duncan, the Broadway actress, who is thankfully wearing a red, strapless dress from the Arilia collection. Her picture will be splashed across countless papers and websites tomorrow morning and that dress will be sold out within hours. That's the type of publicity that is priceless.

"I had hoped that Caleb would be here to present the check." I glance over to where my brother and his wife are standing, engaged in a lively conversation with the orchestra's conductor. "I took care of it. I'm just glad you're here in time for the performance."

"I've never been to the symphony, Mr. Foster."

I turn toward the female voice. It's Cicely, in a bright yellow dress. I make a mental note to talk to Caleb about offering our employees a stipend that includes free merchandise from each of our boutiques. A visit to Arilia would benefit Cicely and it wouldn't hurt our bottom line if she wore our designs to Liore each day. Cross promoting our own brands is a smart move.

Socializing with employees isn't something I'd normally do but this event is a benefit for an organization that promotes the arts for children. The chair is a close personal friend of my mother's and also the head partner at one of the most prestigious law firms in New York.

From its beginnings, he's been a robust supporter of the Foster Foundation, an organization founded by two of my cousins that provides medical care to individuals who have fallen on difficult times. Attending tonight, with a large check in hand, is a benefit for everyone.

"It's nice to see you, Cicely," I offer as I watch my mother walk towards Caleb.

She grabs hold of my hand, pulling it close to her. "I've never been at an event like this. I'm so honored that you asked me to join you."

My gaze follows the movement of my hand in hers. I jerk it away just as she's about to clasp it to her chest. "It's an important cause. It's vital that Foster Enterprises shows support. I'm glad that you, and the other employees, could make it."

She glances up at me, a wave of disappointment washing over her eyes. "I'm always happy to help the company in any way I can, sir."

I had asked her to attend this benefit, and the charity concert that immediately follows, on the phone, during an afternoon of similar calls to over a dozen employees.

I hadn't considered my choice of words at the time because I assumed that she'd understand that the invitation was offered in relation to her position at Liore. Not once did it cross my mind that she believed that the two of us would be attending this cocktail party before the symphony's performance as anything other than representatives of Foster Enterprises.

"Things are going well at the boutique," she blurts out, I assume, to change the subject. "You haven't come in since that day. I mean that day I found that trash."

It's been almost two weeks since I reviewed that security footage. It had taken all the restraint I possessed not to go back to the boutique after that day. I felt the pull on an almost hourly basis to walk in, under the guise of a short meeting with Cicely, just so I could see Isla.

It was type of temptation that is pure torture. The desire overwhelming, the need undefinable and the drive to listen to her voice, inhale her sweet scent and touch her is potent.

Once Rowan returned I'd delegated everything back to her, reminding her that she, and she alone, is responsible for the day-to-day operations of the Liore division.

She'd fallen back into step, speaking to Cicely about her management skills and spending time at the boutique to streamline their systems. Everything had calmed, even my unexplainable need to see Isla.

I had almost exploded at the boutique that day. My heart had pounded as I watched that footage, holding my breath with the hope that Isla wasn't fucking someone else. It made no sense. I have no claim to her.

I can't pull her into my world. I won't walk out of it the same. I can't risk that, not even for a woman like Isla.

"The performance is going to start soon, Gabriel." My mother taps my shoulder. "I want to freshen up before we take our seats. I'll find you in the concert hall."

No, she won't. She'll find a cocktail, and then another, and most likely someone more than willing to listen to her retell the story of what she deems her tortured youth back in Belgium. She'll never understand that having to fetch herself a glass of milk occasionally, when the private chef my grandparents employed was busy, is not the same as not having enough food to eat.

"I'll show you the way." I motion towards the doors that lead out of the reception hall and into the lobby of the venue. "I wouldn't want you to get misdirected. No good would come of that."