chapter 2
Her
“You got the job? Oh honey, that’s terrific!” My mother’s voice pumps out from my cell phone, and I can picture her legs moving, one hot pink lycra-ed leg before the other, her free hand swinging, as she moves down the street. “I am so proud of you! Do you like your new boss?”
“I’m not sure yet.” I open the fridge and stare at the contents.
“I’m sure you will, I can just feel it.” She inhales. “Plus, it’s a new moon tomorrow, and that will help.” There is the blare of a horn, and the muffled sound of her cursing. I put her on speaker and set the phone down on the counter. When she returns, her voice is bright and cheerful. “So! I’m assuming you gave L&L your two-week notice?”
“I tried. They had security escort me out.”
“What?” I can almost hear the screech of her tennis shoes against the pavement.
“It’s standard, Mom. They don’t want me messing anything up on my way out.”
“Well, that’s ridiculous. I’m so sorry, Kate.” She huffs into the phone.
I find a box of stuffed green peppers in the freezer and pull it out. “Anyway, you can tell Jess tonight. It’s not a secret.”
“Are you sure you can’t come? I’ve got plenty of food. And you can bring Craig! It’ll be fun.” Her voice pitches, as if in protest of her words, and I bite back a smile. There are many definitions of fun, but Craig and I—around my sister and her five kids—is never fun, at least not for him. It’s entertaining for Jess and me, especially if Mom’s pulled out the wine, but it is excruciatingly painful for him. And tonight, as much as I would enjoy seeing them all—I need some space, a quiet night to celebrate my time at Lavern & Lilly, and my fresh start at Marks Lingerie. “Another time. Give everyone a hug from me.”
She promises to do so, and I turn on the oven as she hangs up. I call Craig, leaving him a voicemail with the good news, and then I go out to the garage, opening the car’s trunk and grabbing the first cardboard box, carrying it into the apartment before returning for the second, and then the third.
Eleven years at L&L and all of it fits into three boxes. I open the first one, and pick through the contents. With the second box, I grab wine and put the green peppers in the oven. Before opening the third box, filled with nostalgia, I eat.
I find a framed photo from just before my Parsons graduation, with my old best friends. Four of us, all with maxed out credit cards and big dreams, clinking sugar-rimmed martini glasses in a dark club somewhere in Manhattan. I haven’t looked at the photo in years, and haven’t spoken to them in almost that long. Meredith is in Seattle now, Jen is in Miami, and Julie and I got in a fight four years ago and haven’t spoken since. I wipe the dust off the frame and return it to the box, not interested in seeing it every day, not interested in feeling the pang of regret. Maybe I should call Julie. I take a long pull of wine and discard the idea. Truth be told, I haven’t really missed her.
I sift through a pile of business cards, dropping a few of them into the kitchen trash. Maybe Craig and I can find new friends. He has a group he wants to join—Mensa—and brought home membership tests last week, his application already completed, typed into the form with neat precision. Apparently there are weekly events, parties where intelligence is tested and carefully orchestrated mingling occurs.
I haven’t taken my membership test yet. It’s an IQ exam, one that ignores any fashion abilities or reality-tv knowledge. Craig has pushed me to take it, sending reminders by email, spare tests brought to every date. I almost took it yesterday, but I’m torn over whether or not to cheat on it. My conscience says no. My common sense says that it’s a stupid Mensa test and morals aren’t really in play, but my fiancé’s respect is. On the man’s eHarmony profile, he had “intelligence” as his most important quality, above cleanliness and personality. Before our first date, he had asked for my GMAT scores. I may have overinflated mine a teensy bit out of competitive pride.
My phone buzzes, and my back stiffens out of habit, my mind steeling for Claudia’s voice, before I remember my resignation. I take a long sip of merlot and force myself to relax before I reach for my cell. It’s a text from Craig.
Just got your voicemail. Congratulations! Want me to come over to celebrate?
I consider the offer, my eyes moving over the cardboard boxes, the vomit of my past all over the kitchen counters.
Sure. Come over around ten. We can celebrate naked.
I send the message and smile, imagining Craig’s face when he reads it, the rise of his eyebrows, the widening of his eyes. It will catch him off guard, our texts never racy, everything appropriate, should anyone pick up either of our phones. But tonight, I’m feeling reckless. Maybe it’s the unshackling of my Claudia VanGaur cuffs. Maybe it’s the three glasses of wine I’ve had. Or maybe it’s the phantom feel of Trey Marks’s eyes, the way that—fully dressed before him—I had felt naked.
Craig’s knees against the inside of my thighs. His hands beside my shoulders. He dips his head and I lift my chin. We kiss, our teeth bumping, and he slows his thrusts in order to do a better job.
“I love you,” he whispers.
“I love you, too.” I lift and wrap my legs around his waist, my hands digging into the meat of his ass, and when I pull him hard against me, he responds. There is a moment of heavy breaths and small grunts, and I close my eyes, enjoying the movement, the flex of his cock inside of me, the slap of our bodies together. I can feel when he is close, the quickening of strokes, the tightening of muscles, and he moans, pushing deeper, his body stiffening as he gives one final pump.
I close my eyes, and Trey Marks’s face flashes, for a quick moment, in the dark.
At L&L, all of the Los Angeles employees worked in one big loft, our desks arranged in clusters to foster teamwork and interaction. The only thing it fostered was paranoia, the feeling that we were being watched constantly, no conversations private, peak times a shouting match of everyone trying to be heard. Some nights I was hoarse from the constant need to raise my voice just to have a simple conversation.
At Marks Lingerie, I am given a private office, one with glass walls and a view of the city skyline. I run my fingers over my nameplate, the Creative Director title sending a small thread of pleasure through me.
“Got everything you need?” I turn to see Trey, his hand gripping the edge of the doorframe. The tie he wears is crisply knotted, his jacket gone, his short hair styled in the messy way of playboys everywhere. His tan skin contrasts with the blue button-down, his eyes popping against the color.
“I’m good.” I smile, pulling my bag off of my shoulder and setting it on the desk. “Great view.”
“We need you to keep it.” He smiles, and I see the stress behind the words.
“Yes sir.” I nod. I can handle pressure. Compared to L&L, this is Disneyland. Instead of eight clothing divisions, we have one. Instead of reporting to Claudia, I’ve got him.
Lingerie, I can handle. Visions, I can create. A team, I can inspire. A boss, I can please.
I smile at him and can see the worry in his eyes.
It’s amazing how productive I am when Claudia is removed from the equation. In a typical day at L&L, I spent five or six hours with her. On my first day at Marks, there was a three-hour stretch where I closed my office door and no one bothered me. Total silence! For three hours! I was able to review four years of catalogs and product lines before lunch. I unpacked my thermos and ate at my desk, diving into the designers’ files, a task which ate up the rest of the day. I left by six, and was asleep by nine.
On my second day, I conducted an employee survey, as well as interviewed the entire design staff, one-by-one, a process that ate up almost seven hours. The general consensus, though they didn’t use these exact terms: Trey is amazing and this job is a cupcake run. Maybe it’s the last decade I’ve spent in cardigan-wearing hell, but my lip had curled a little at the idea of a company drowning, and their employees enjoying the ride. It is past time to rock this boat.
Trey walks by, his jacket on, keys in hand, and I already hate this glass wall that separates my office from the hall. Each pass of his suit reminds me of a donut shop display, a million calories, lined up to tempt you. A million mistakes, all brightly lit and just a touch away. Just before his office, he turns his head, our eyes meet, and it’s like biting into a dark chocolate eclair. That one hold of eye contact—it’s addictive, the promise of more, the knowledge that you should put it down and walk away.
I’ve never been good with sweets. If I have one nibble, one bite—I’ll eat an entire box. I’ll wreck my stomach and destroy my diet, toss away weeks of hard work. I’ll give up everything for one long moment of gluttonous satisfaction. I look away, and it is a torturous effort.
It’s his fourth pass this morning, his office two doors down from mine. This isn’t going to work. Not with a man like him, one too tall to miss, that suit jacket stretching smoothly over muscular shoulders, his dress pants sliding sleekly over what appears to be a perfect ass. God, listen to me. His ass? I’ve never even noticed a man’s ass before. I stand up from my desk before I lose all sense completely. I have four months before I pitch him my vision for next year. Four months to break apart every style line that Marks Lingerie makes and rework it into my own.
The first step to that goal? Remove distractions.
I stand and walk to the corner of the room, then turn back and survey my desk.