I Love My Healed Heart: 4 Book Box Set/Omnibus (Erotic Romance) (16 page)

The storm
begins. She gets very, very still. Oh God, what did I just do? A cold chill
forms around her, wafting my way in icy sheets. The hair on the back of my neck
stands on end. The rest of the world disappears around us. Wolves howl
painfully in the distance. A troll cackles. And she, The Bitch, in a voice that
would frighten Medusa, says, “Who THE FUCK is Brittany.”

 
“One of the minions.” Sorry Britt.

 
“The blonde with the small boobs?”

“The
brunette…with the perfect ones.”

She sucks
in a breath. “I see. Is he interested in her?”

I won’t
throw James under the bus. I won’t say he’s interested, too, but I do have to
intimate the threat is real, right? After a thoughtful grimace that tells her
she’s not going to like this, I answer with, “Not really… but what guy wouldn’t
be interested, after what she told him. It’s only a matter of time, you know?”

“What did
she tell him!”

“‘I’m
going to ride you like the poles I rode while stripping my way through
college.’”

The
Bitch’s eyes glow demon-red and her head pops off. “She WHAT?!”

“I told
her you guys were dating.”

“What’d
she say?” she demands.

“She
called you a name I can’t repeat, out of respect… to you.”

“That
little CUNT!”

“That was
it.”

The Bitch
explodes with a primal sound I couldn’t explain if I tried. I’m not
exaggerating (this time). I hear it and my eyes bug out. She spins around and I
have to admit, I’m more than a little nervous Brittany is about to be killed.

The Bitch
halts and spins back to ask, “What did you tell
him
? He looked angry.”

I swear
I’m not planning any of this. The lies are falling effortlessly off my tongue.
“I said he should pick on someone his own age? I mean, what is she… twelve?”

Another
explosion! But this one is laughter, which shocks the hell out of me and all I
can do is blink. So that’s where The Bitch’s funny bone is. Age jokes. Huh. Who
knew? I watch her march off chuckling to herself, far more contained. I may
have just saved Brittany’s life by being funny. I knew that skill would come in
handy. Still, I’m curious, so I call out, “What are you going to do?” No
answer. She’s gone.

I jump at
the sound of my phone ringing. It’s the offices of Michael Kors. Still watching
the space where The Bitch just vanished into, I answer the call, but say
nothing. I am on pins and needles, expecting her to jump out and shout, “I am
the Devil! Boohahahhahah!”

“Jessica?”
the show coordinator asks on the other end.

“…Yes.”

“I made
it happen. She can sit in Maggie Von Turle’s seat now.”

“…Good.”

“It
wasn’t easy,” he confides.

I look down
at the water bottle Chris gave me. “Yeah. We do what we have to do, though. To
survive.”

“Yeah.”

We hang
up.

Last Show of The
Day

Running
in high-heels is a great time. I have to get to the next show, pronto. I jog
past the Bryant Park Grill, and then past a slew of civilians on 40
^th
Street (people not in the fashion industry). I am running as fast as my shoes
will allow, which means I have to balance with outstretched arms to avoid
falling as I zip around the side of the New York Public Library building to get
to the front door. As soon as I enter the lobby, I skid to a fast walk. Diego
waves me over.

“Jess!
Did you hear what happened?”

“I don’t
have time right now, Diego,” I catch my breath, and I ask, “What are you doing
out here in the lobby? Aren’t you supposed to be backstage? Wait, did something
happen to your camera?”

“I had to
get more batteries from my roommate,” he explains as he joins me and matches my
pace. We’re moving fast, like we’re in a T.V. show doing one of those
walking/talking scenes.

“Your
roommate has your batteries? Did you go home? I’m confused.”

“No. He
got some and brought them to me, because I couldn’t leave.”

“Ahh. How
was Project Runway’s show?”

“Pretty
cool, actually. The pics I got are re-tweeting like crazy!”

“Wonderful!”

 
“Have you heard what happened to
Brittany?”

I stop in
front of the closed door, my hand on the handle. “What happened to Brittany?”
As he opens his mouth, I hold up my hand and stop him. “You know what? Tell me
after. I have work to do.”

He shrugs
and laughs, turns, and heads to another door over to the side. It’ll lead him
backstage, whereas I have to watch as a member of the audience. “It hasn’t
started yet! You’re fine!” he calls over to me.

“Yeah?
Great! Thanks!” Walking into pitch-blackness, I still easily find my
predictable seat next to The Bitch. I could navigate this room in a blizzard;
it’s so familiar to me now. I wave as I pass familiar faces. Now that I know I
want to one day get promoted, it’s time to do a better job. I take my seat just
as the stage lights blast a fantastic spiraling strobe. Showtime!

“Sorry I
was almost late,” I whisper to my boss.

“It’s not
a problem,” she whispers back, as the first model’s high heel hits the stage.

That’s an
odd thing for her to say. I sneak a peek at her face to see her smiling. Odd
again. She blocks me asking why, by holding up her iPad. Fine. Cool. I happily
start tapping away into it. I take notes on patterns, fabrics, detailing,
accessories, hairstyles, makeup – all of it. I do this in a short hand
I’ve developed over the years. If I tried to spell out everything I see in a
grammatically correct fashion, I would lose my mind. It’s too much fabulous
information.

During
the show I lose myself in the clothes and forget about Brittany. The models are
gorgeous. They are beautiful walking hangers. It’s not a bad way to make a
living, if you think about it. I’d do it… if I had a better body and a better
face. Nicole could easily have been a model, but she chose the painting route,
instead. She has very little interest in her looks, which makes her prettier.

When the
last gown is revealed, it’s worn by The Mutant. Brittany’s sister glides along
the stage, two feet in front of me. She spots me and her eyes flicker ever so
slightly. Nobody sees it but me. I can’t feel badly for what I did. If they
hadn’t ganged up on me, two against one…Still, writing notes on her gown, I
have to work very hard not to write mean things about her beautiful face. I
manage to contain myself.

She
struts off. The lights come back on and we break into enthusiastic applause as
the designer proudly takes several bows and then retreats backstage again. I
hand The Bitch her iPad and we get up and start walking, me two steps behind.
While she talks to various V.I.P.’s, everyone is polite to me. They always are,
because they think I have her ear. I do not have her ear. If she listened to
me, that would be a miracle. I usually don’t talk, and since this is a habit,
I’m doing it now. I’m following her and staying quiet, watching and learning.
Next season I will schmooze my little heart out, but I’m out of practice and
there’s no rush. “Slow and steady wins the race,” they say.

So, wow.
I want to be fashion editor one day! I can’t believe it. I’ve been so busy
being miserable, beaten down day after day, that I forgot my dreams. I won’t do
to The Bitch what I just did to Brittany, though. That was purely self-defense
and not my normal style. She left me no choice. But The Bitch? She’s worked
hard to get where she is. I’ll wait, work hard too, and earn it. I think it can
be done that way. As I watch my boss now, I wonder how she got the way she is.
She’s a woman, underneath all that molten lava. She’s got to have some kindness
and nurturing in her body, doesn’t she? Maybe that’s what she got from dating
James – why she called herself Mommy. It was the only time she got to be
soft? I will never know, nor do I really want to know because the thought makes
me ill. It’s like thinking of your mom having sex with your brother. Ew.

One time
a friend told me that at her law firm, there was one woman at the top. There
would only ever be
one
woman there,
and when she retired, she’d pick another woman to take her place. Why? Because
it took her forever to get there. She would not share the coveted space she’d
won in a man’s world. She’d clawed to get up there, and she would claw to stay
there. Alone. Interesting to note – these women are often not married.
This, while being an interesting observation by my friend, made me feel ill.

 
Wait. Whoa. I’m a huge hypocrite. What
did I do to Brittany today? It was self-defense, yes, but I don’t know what
happened to her. I need to find Diego. Over the shoulder of a woman wearing a
really ridiculously awful fur coat, I mouth to The Bitch, “Diego?” She frowns,
ignores my question and continues talking to the fur-beast.

People
mill around, dramatically discussing the show’s failures and successes. This
lobby is insanely packed, so it’s impossible to see Diego. I stand on my
tiptoes, but it doesn’t help. He’s not the tallest guy. Maybe he’s backstage,
still? Probably. I make a beeline for it, squeezing through the crowd, smiling
to everyone and planting seeds for my future.

As soon
as I walk through the door I run smack into The Mutant.

“You!”
she hisses.

“You were
beautiful,” I counter.

She
yells, “Fuck off. My sister got fired because of you!”

“She did?
How is that possible when she was never hired?”

The
Mutant hauls off and punches me in the face! My head swings, knocked to the
side and I almost fall over. The pain shoots through my jaw, up my nose,
through my eyeballs and to the back of my head. Wide-eyed, I stare at her,
holding onto my cheek.

“What the
hell?” It’s Diego. He saw the punch but missed the accusation.

Through
the rainbows of pain slamming through my brain, I hold my hand out for
protection, in case she wants to punch me again, and say, “It’s okay.”

“It’s not
okay. Misty hit you! She hit you hard! I’m calling the police.”

MISTY???!!

And… this
is the second time he saves me this day. As he pulls out his phone to dial,
Misty The Mutant cries out, “No! Don’t call the police! I can’t go back there!”

Both
Diego and I react. She looks at each of us, then back to the phone in his hand,
and bursts into tears, which oddly makes me feel bad. “
Back
there?” I ask, incredulously.

She nods
and squeaks, “Uh-huh.”

An idea
comes to me. “Diego, can you give us a moment.”

Hesitating,
he mumbles, “Sure,” but protectively stands off to the side, just in case I
need him. Men are so wonderful that way.

Mascara
sprints down her perfect cheeks and she manically implores me to understand. “I
can’t go back! I can’t! I’m sorry! I have anger issues! I’m working on it, I
swear! Please don’t send me back there. Do you know what they do to girls like
me?”

“They
take away your lipstick? Look, Misty, we won’t call the cops if you and your
bitch sister leave me the fuck alone. I’m not kidding. I’m not taking this
anymore.” I rub my jaw. This is sure to leave a mark.

“Fine.
Fine. Whatever.”

“No
‘whatever’!”

“Sorry! I
meant YES. I promise!” Fresh sobs say she means it. Today, anyway.

“And
don’t think that when time passes, and this mark on my face heals, it’ll be
okay to come after me again now that the evidence is gone blah blah blah
– because this whole crying thing you’re doing, what you just said about
not wanting to go back to jail, all of that was caught on video.”

She gasps
and turns around. One of the male models from the show is holding up his phone,
grinning as he records.

“No! Oh
my God, nooooooo.” She covers her face in her hands.

“We have
a deal?”

“Promise
me that won’t end up on YouTube!” she whimpers. She’s not asking, she’s
begging.

“I
promise if you promise.”

“I
promise! I promise!”

“Good.
Diego, would you mind escorting
Misty
(I still can’t get over her name) out and past the crowd. We don’t want a
scene, if we can help it. If anyone asks why she’s crying, say she loved the
show so much, it moved her to tears.”

“You got
it, Jess.” He puts his arm on her back to make sure she leaves. I watch them,
thinking two things. 1.) I am the luckiest girl on the planet. 2.) Ouch, my
fucking jaw.

 
“Hey, can I have that?” I ask my
unwitting accomplice, the male model.

“What are
you going to give me for it?” he asks.

“Who do
you want to walk for next season?”

“Really?”

“Really.”

We
coordinate a deal and, after I promise to get him into his favorite designer’s
shows, he emails me the video. I watch as he then deletes it from his phone. I
don’t know if there’s a way to retrieve a deleted video from a phone, but I
doubt he knows either. Also… I smell pot on him. There’s no way he’s going to
work that hard, for this. Views of himself on stage are way better than views
of someone else, on the Internet.

I walk
back out to the lobby and marvel at how quickly all that just went down. There
are still loads of people congregating here, which means I was gone, punched,
blackmailing for silence, and back – within minutes. Whoa. I lean against
a wall, to rest a second and gather my wits. I pull out my phone. Amber made a
move in Scramble With Friends. I open it and see she’s found ninety-two words.
How does she do that? Is she an alien?

“Jess, I
have to... Hey, what happened to your face?”

I look up
and James is standing in front of me, looking very guilty and nervous. My mind
is distracted though, by everything that just happened. “Umm…Ran into a very
tall ladder.”

“Oh.
Jess, I’m so sorry. Shit. I don’t… I have to talk to you.” He looks to his left
and says “Dammit. I’ll call you later.” He dashes away. The look on his face
was so odd.

What was
that all about? I look to my right. The Bitch is walking in my direction with
her back to me, talking with the owner of the magazine. I wonder what James
wants to talk about? Is he still mad about Chris? The thought of Chris does
something to my spirit. A calming sensation flows over me and I drop my phone
in my bag as I get off the wall to stand up straight. I give both my boss and
grand-boss a big smile. I don’t have to fake it anymore. I want to make a good
impression. Is my hair okay? I rake my fingers through it, and wait.

“It’s
sure to be a brilliant. The R.S.V.P. list is longer than the invitations,” The
Bitch gushes in a purposefully lazy manner. They’re talking about the party.

“Really?
Jessica, is this true?” He turns to me.

Gulp. The
Bitch is not happy the question was deferred to me. I have to answer though, so
I smile, “Yes, sir, it is. People have
asked
if they could come, when they heard we were throwing a party, despite the fact
they weren’t on the invite list.”

The Bitch
spreads her hands out, palms up. “And why wouldn’t they? It’s going to be the
party of the year, Howard.”

“What
happened to your face?” my grand-boss asks, frowning at me.

“Ladder.
Walked into it. Don’t worry. It’s been removed.” I smile, knowing just how true
that statement really is.

Annoyed
that I’m getting so much attention, she stands in front of me, slides her arm
through his and says, “Such a klutz. Let me walk you out, Howard.”

“Walk
with us?” He calls to me. She says nothing. I follow them. What can she say?
He’s always been really nice to me, but I secretly believe it’s because he
knows it drives her crazy. Walking a few steps behind, I hear him congratulate
her on the idea I gave her three months ago. “Good thinking to have it tonight
rather than Thursday.”