Chapter1
Mist formed from her breathing as she leaned against the double-paned window, lost in deep thought—or, more likely, trying to lose herself in it. She was nervous and understandably so. At the age of twenty-two, she had finally left her quaint hometown of 4,586 residents, for the Big Apple. Sierra Whittaker was riding the 238 that had left the station at exactly 1:35 in the afternoon. She had left her father, her mother, and her two sisters behind for this once-in-a-lifetime chance to do something big that their small town couldn’t offer.
“Now, you be careful,” her mother had told her as she embraced her tightly. “Watch out for those boys. Did you grab your father’s gun?” she joked.
Sierra laughed and hugged her mother again, knowing full well her father kept a strict watch on his guns, being the town sheriff. “Got the sawed-off shotgun in my trench coat, Mama.”
“Are you sure that place is safe?” Tasha Whittaker asked her eldest daughter.
“Yes it is,” Sierra had assured her. “Tyrone booked it for me.”
Her mother shook her head, remembering Tyrone Smith, the flamboyant homosexual schoolmate of Sierra, and their former neighbor. Tyrone had left the town of Rushport before their senior year to be a part of the glittering world of New York, aiming to be a celebrity. Tyrone had wanted Sierra to do the same.
Tasha had suggested she take a plane to New York City, but Sierra wouldn’t hear of it. She wanted the whole experience; she had saved money for this trip, and a plane ride would take a large chunk of her money. Besides, she reasoned, Rochester was still in New York, and it would do her good to learn the ropes, traveling alone included.
It was Sierra’s first time to venture out alone for a career opportunity, and the first trip she had taken in five years. The last time was to visit her mother’s sister who lived in Maryland. Her parents were highly hesitant, but she had convinced them by the time she had graduated from the local community college.
It was serendipitous, actually.
Just three months ago, she had been working part-time as a front desk officer at The Rushport Arms, the town’s oldest and finest inn (with high speed internet and a buffet breakfast). A middle-aged woman and her husband had checked in for two nights without a reservation, and they were very pleasant guests, obviously from the city judging by the way they talked. The couple, Mr. and Mrs. Chesterton, delighted in the handmade wooden key chain and brass key presented to them by Sierra, who looked amused by their reaction to it. Quaint was the word they had used, holding up the key to marvel at how hotels still had keys like these.
They had asked to be placed in a quiet room, facing Lake Ontario. Sierra did her best to give them their request, even helping the chambermaid clean up the dual occupancy room to speed things up and not make them wait too long at Rushport Arms Pub, where they had finely crafted beer, a secret held for generations by the owners of Rushport Arms.
The day they checked out, Mrs. Chesterton dropped her voice low. “My dear, have you ever modeled?”
Sierra grinned. “I’ve had photos shot for Rushport’s quarterly magazine. It was for our spring festival, three months ago,” she told the lady.
Mrs. Chesterton looked at the outdated town magazine and saw a two-page article about the importance of the festival and a beaming Sierra surrounded by a multitude of roses, sitting on a park bench. She gave a smile to the young woman with the wonderfully deep skin tone and luscious black hair. There was a sincerity in her that radiated outward, demanding attention, yet it was sweet and shy with the typical Rochester accent.
“Well, you look especially lovely. Now, I handle a small modeling agency in New York City, and it would be an honor if you would join my agency.”
Sierra looked flustered. “Why, I’ve never been out of Rushport—”
“Isn’t it about time, then? You’re keeping yourself away from the world.” Mrs. Chesterton leaned in the counter as she assessed the young woman carefully.
Around five feet and eight inches, with a good complexion and evenly spaced teeth, she had high cheekbones and wonderful deep-set eyes with thick lashes. The makeup artists certainly wouldn’t have a problem with those, Mrs. Chesterton thought.
Sierra gave an embarrassed laugh. “I really don’t know much about it.”
“Do you plan to stay here forever?”
Sierra shook her head. “I want to start a master’s course in New York. It’s just the matter of affording it.”
“And you think you can afford it while working here?” Mrs. Chesterton pressed on.
Sierra gave another embarrassed guffaw, and she saw Mrs. Chesterton’s eyes narrow. She quickly stopped. “I’m working on it.”
“Well, this is an opportunity you might like,” Mrs. Chesterton said, giving her a card.
Sierra said her thanks, her grip on the card’s edges tightening. She could hardly believe she was hearing this; she didn’t even bother looking at the card.
“I hope to see you soon,” Mrs. Chesterton said.
She bid the nice lady goodbye and saw the bellboy (a varsity football high school senior) carefully put their luggage in the private sedan the inn owned. The moment the car drove off, she looked at the card in her hand carefully. It said:
Vanessa Dee Chesterton
Ramp Agency
| +1 212-500-RAMP
599 Broadway, New York, NY 10012, United States
The serif font in gold lettering screamed classy against the thick, white paper. Sierra found herself smiling, unable to believe her luck. Sure, people had told her she was beautiful, especially her mother, but to hear someone with distinct connections to the modeling world was heaven to her ears. Vanessa Chesterton actually thought that she had the makings of a model, a model who could stand out in a sea of attractive people.
As soon as her shift ended that day, she walked the short distance from the hotel to her home. She arrived in front of an old but well-maintained house. It had narrow windows with wooden shutters, and the house’s wooden pallets were done in blue. It had a gray slate roof that Sierra’s father had personally repaired after a freak snowstorm a few years back. She smiled, hearing her mother call out for her younger sister.
“Ma, I’m home,” she said as she walked into the kitchen backdoor.
“Why’d you pass through there?” Tasha asked.
“I thought I’d catch Ayesha sneaking out again,” Sierra said with a grin.
The late afternoon at home started out fine, until she brought the topic up over a good dinner of chicken and beans. Her father had been adamant that it was a ruse, some human trafficking ring posing as a modeling agency.
“I checked the website. She’s legit,” Sierra reasoned.
“Era,” Sheriff Don Whittaker began, using her nickname, “people do all sorts of crazy things to get attention, to fool people.”
“Her agency’s been in the news for years. Vanessa Chesterton is a real representative.”
Her mother took a deep breath. “I thought you wanted to work here.”
“I told you I wanted to get my master’s,” Sierra reasoned, trying to sound convincing. “This agency is in New York. I’d be able to support myself without taking up a loan.”
“Modeling?” her mother sighed, suddenly remembering some distant memory of her walking down the city streets sporting what was fashionable back then in the 80s. She had been approached twice by modeling scouts as a young woman, turning down both opportunities to finish a secretarial course.
“I just happen to have gotten your genes,” Sierra joked to her mother. But it was true; Sierra was the spitting image of her mother, albeit younger. They had the same cheekbones and alluring light brown eyes. Sierra was just blessed with height, as her mother towered at five feet and four inches only.
Her father’s face ended in a scowl. “I really don’t like the sound of that.”
“How’d she get discovered?” Ayesha groaned, eyeing her older sister with just a tinge of envy. She looked more like her father with his large build. Ayesha did get her mother’s eyes, though.
“Because she was working,” her father replied, “and you were supposed to be studying for finals today, right? Except you kept sneaking out to join your friends at the mall.”
“It’s not even a mall,” Ayesha complained. “It doesn’t even have a second floor. Besides, it’s where my friends and I hangout to exchange notes.”
They all burst out laughing, knowing full well how Ayesha behaved. As soon as the laughter died down, Sierra tried to talk her parents into allowing her to go to New York again.
“Let’s discuss this some other time,” Don told his daughter, trying to buy some time. She might just change her mind, marry some local boy, work in public office—she could even become the first female mayor of the town if she wanted. Just not New York City and modeling.
Sierra sighed and finished her dinner, knowing full well Don was hesitant about the sudden opportunity that had come for her. She hadn’t even contemplated modeling. She was probably a late bloomer at twenty-one for the modeling world. Sierra had seen an episode of some runway reality show where the host stated one was geriatric by the time she reached twenty-nine. Well, bluff or not, she had eight years to prove her worth as a model, however it went.
Sierra approached the same topic at least once a week until after she graduated, and that was when her mother relented first.
“Look, Don,” Tasha began, “I think our daughter here is on to something big.”
“Like what? A drug bust?” Don snapped. He scowled. “I don’t like the idea of you being all alone; I mean you live in the same house as we do, even if you have finished college.”
“I would have moved out on my own if you’d allowed it. I was only gonna rent a room that was three blocks away,” Sierra said, rolling her eyes.
“Don’t sass me, young woman,” Don told his eldest daughter.
“Pa, don’t you think it’s high time I do something on my own? Live on my own? Survive on my own?”
Don Whittaker remained silent, a million thoughts running through his mind. The probability that she would get mugged, the probability that someone would exploit her—she could get leered at by unruly men; he knew his daughter was tremendously lovely,
“I hope you aren’t overthinking what might happen to me,” Sierra told him, shaking his shoulder.
He blinked and shook his head. “Course I’m not.”
“Then why won’t you allow this? I mean, no offense to Tyrone who ran away, but I’m here asking for your approval because it means a lot to me that you approve of my dreams.”
“But modeling? You could have just told me you’d gotten a regular desk job in New York. I mean, you graduated top five in your class, you’re a cheerleader, in the journalist’s club, and now you want to be a model?”
“It might pay for my master’s.”
“Might,” Don repeated slowly.
“It will,” Sierra corrected with much conviction. She took a deep breath. “Dad, you know I’m a good, upstanding citizen. I won’t do drugs or shoot anyone.”
Don tried to hide his smile. “Damn right, you won’t.”
Sierra knew she had convinced him the moment she saw his grin. Her mother tried to hide hers, too, trying to concentrate on chewing her meal, but the dimple forming on Tasha’s cheek was a dead giveaway. Tasha had given her full support as well.
Fast forward to the first week of August. Sierra was on a train, bound for New York City. The journey would take a few hours, but she didn’t mind. It would give her time to collect herself. Those six hours would give her time to plan out her life alone in the big city. It was a hell of a lot bigger than Rochester and, in Ayesha’s words, “heavily infested with rats bigger than our Bichon Friese.”
Of course, Sierra had been to New York City, say, ten years ago. It had been that long ago? She couldn’t believe how busy she had been in their small town. No matter how small it was, there had been a lot of things to do, even as a high schooler. Most of the townspeople lived and died in Rushport. She hadn’t really thought about moving out and venturing into a different world just hours away until she had met Mrs. Chesterton.
She’d had dreams even before the whole modeling offer, but she hadn’t taken them too seriously. She’d thought of working in Rushport for a few years, getting a recommendation and then a scholarship for her master’s. A degree that could benefit Rushport and her happiness. Funny how things can change in just a few minutes of conversation with a total stranger, she mused.
The trees rushed by her in a haze. She suddenly felt anxious about being alone. Could she do it? She would, she told herself. She had always been a go-getter, always the positive thinker. She would do fine in New York. She would make new friends and get the master’s degree she had been planning on since community college. Getting her master’s this way would be quicker than the four years she had projected it would take.
Being alone would mean loneliness, too. Was she ready for it? She had to brace herself for lonely times. While she was a friendly character, not everyone was. She was a bit shy, but her mother had claimed she was an introvert masquerading as an extrovert.
It had even taken her first boyfriend years to actually tell her he liked her because she had looked reserved and disinterested in anything that wasn’t cheerleading, academics, or helping out at the local animal shelter. While her town was small, Sierra knew it had a big heart and a big impact on her personality. She wondered if her career in New York would make her feel the same.
***
“Would you care for some more champagne, sir?” a voice interrupted his reverie. Benjamin Eriksson forced a smile and politely declined, telling the attractive stewardess the bubbly was giving him a headache.
“Would you care for some medication, sir? Are you allergic to—”
He waved her off before she could finish. “I’m fine, really. Thank you.”
She smiled at him and left, her thoughts on the VIP and his distinctly god-like features. He looked like a Norse god with his blond hair and blue eyes. The other flight attendants weren’t kidding about him being a drop-dead gorgeous passenger. They talked about him in the cabin crew area every chance they could, even going so far as to Googling him to know tidbits about his personal life.
Ben wanted some peace and quiet during the remainder of the flight. Of course, it wasn’t the flight attendants’ fault that they had to interrupt his rest every now and then. Or maybe they wanted to interrupt him on purpose. He scoffed at the thought of it. Women. Typical.
There were many reasons why he wanted peace and quiet. The first was to enjoy the success of one of the new prototypes the company had produced. He smiled, remembering what a perfect sight the Orion 7 Iris was. It was probably the most beautiful car he had seen in years, and he was getting amped up about the company releasing another prototype car in twenty-four months, at most. With its full-width tail amps and touch-sensitive LED dashboard, the model also came with a 4.0-liter V-8 and eight-speed torque converter; he had pushed for this feature to be maintained, no matter the cost and the effort it took.
The unveiling of another prototype would be next year, a mere wait of seven months, nothing his company couldn’t manage. It was his company, he thought with sudden relish and sudden trepidation. His father had stepped down a year ago after suffering from a stroke, and a debilitating one at that.
He had been thrust into the corporate limelight, barely after finishing his master’s degree in business administration at the age of twenty-six. He had also quietly taken up additional courses in automotive engineering without his father’s knowledge. He didn’t want his subordinates to assume he was just some asshole who happened to be the son of the head of one of the newer and most successful luxury automotive companies in the world. He had apparently been labeled as such the day his father’s stroke made headlines.
He hadn’t seen his father in a month. He always made it a point to visit, going so far as to give a detailed account of every aspect of their company. Ben did this at his father’s bedside, despite the fact that his father drooled every few minutes and had poor muscle control and function. There wasn’t much to talk about, as Ben did most of the talking, anyway.
His father, Claus Eriksson, had once been called the ‘auto maverick,’ building up the company at the age of twenty-one with his car-crazy, engineering graduate father. The company had done well enough to rival the great Italian luxury cars of Ben’s generation now. His father had partial German ancestry, courtesy of his mother, which was why the main factory was in Germany with a satellite one in Sweden. Ben flew to these countries every month to check on them personally, while studying the possibility of opening a factory in America, where he had studied and lived since college.
Had it really been eight years ago that he had moved to America? Time hadn’t slowed down for him. Every day had gone on schedule, and if it didn’t, he made it work around his schedule. He had been raised to think and act like a CEO from the day he was old enough to know the difference between semi-automatic and automatic transmissions. Ben was the only child and was both nurtured and spoiled by his parents and grandparents.
There was less than an hour to go before landing, and he checked his phone for messages and emails. There were fifty since his flight had taken off seven hours ago. He ignored them all. He saw a message from his girlfriend. He ignored it, too. All it said was We need to talk. About what? The fact that she wanted to get married and he didn’t? There was so much more to life than settling down with someone for the remainder of his life. He dated her because she was hard to covet, like a vintage or prototype car. He changed cars like he changed girlfriends and didn’t give it much thought. That was how he preferred life. He always had the last word.
He wondered how people stayed so long in relationships. Didn’t it bore them? Because it certainly bored his father. He had two much younger siblings from his father’s affairs; his mother had turned a blind eye to them. Perhaps the stroke had been karma. Or maybe there had been a logical reason to it. His father worked too hard and didn’t exercise as often as before. Nonetheless, he still respected his father as a businessman and as his mentor.
The “fasten seat belt” sign had turned on without him noticing. Another flight attendant approached him and asked him to elevate his reclined chair and fasten his seat belt. He nodded and gave another quick and easy smile. He hid his temper from the public, and only a few people knew how his moods shifted with the slightest calculation errors and even grammatical ones.
The plane landed with ease, and he smiled, wondering who the pilot was. He had been planning to expand to aviation technology in a few months, seeing how well-received Orion’s car engines were. At the airport’s entrance, his chauffeur was waiting. He slid into the car his father had designed two years ago as his chauffeur placed his luggage in the trunk of the luxury sedan.
“Where to, sir?” the chauffeur asked.
“241 West 17th,” he said languidly.
The chauffeur said nothing more and drove to the senior Mr. Eriksson’s house. It was a slow drive, exacerbated by Thursday traffic going into Manhattan. He reached his father’s home an hour later and told his driver to wait in the kitchen for him, where he could help himself to a good snack with his father’s staff.
It was an elegant, five-story townhouse, with an elevator and twenty-two foot ceilings.
His father’s designated nurse greeted him with a smile. “Sir, I didn’t know you were back.”
“How is he?” Ben asked, placing his coat on a hanger by the door.
“I just fed him ten minutes ago. He’s awake. I think he’d be happy to see you.”
“Has anyone visited?”
“Your mother came to see him last week. Around twenty minutes, just to check up on the house and his medications.”
He thanked the middle-aged woman and proceeded for his father’s room on the second floor of the house. His mother hadn’t lived with his father since his first affair had been discovered. She lived close to him in another apartment on the Upper East Side. It was actually remarkable that his mother still found the kindness in her to see the man who had cheated on her numerous times.
He walked up the steel and granite staircase and proceeded for the half-open room with its red mahogany doors.
“Hey Pop,” he greeted his father.
The senior Eriksson was wide awake; his blue eyes darted to meet his son’s. He tried to talk but only managed to make gurgling sounds. Ben knew his father was frustrated at the slow progress of his speech; it showed in his eyes.
“Flight was all right,” Ben said, assuming that was what his father meant. He almost always assumed he knew what his father was saying, until his father grunted and tried to make crazy eyes if he didn’t like Ben’s assumptions.
“So, I’ve been to Stuttgart; remember the plans I showed you a year ago?” he began, then he took out his iPad, scrolling through some images. “Well, look at this. I present to you the Orion 7 Iris.”
He saw the flicker in his father’s eyes. His father approved, but Ben knew that if he could talk, he would be questioning a lot about it. “We’re planning to finalize key aspects, but other than that, it’s all good to go for the auto shows lined up for the remainder of the year.”
Some dribble fell on his father’s bib. Ben calmly wiped it away with a tissue and threw the tissue into the trash can close to his father’s bedside.
“You like it, huh?” he asked his father. “Well, I like it too. We’ve retained key aspects from the 94 Aurora. I’ve test-driven the 7 Iris. Still needs a bit of work, but it’s really beautiful. You’ll like the dashboard, too; I made it wider, with better touch sensitivity.”
Ben zoomed in on the key aspects that he knew would make the auto world abuzz with expectation and delight. The color was his father’s favorite, a deep, almost midnight blue. He saw his father’s eyes light up, another sign of approval.
His phone rang, and Ben excused himself with a sigh. He had just begun his momentum with his father and hated being interrupted from it. He saw it was his mother, and he headed for another room, one further down the hall.
“Ma,” he greeted.
“Are you back?” his mother asked from the other line.
“Just two hours ago,” he said.
“Are you at your father’s place?”
“Of course I am.”
“When are you coming to visit me? I never see you anymore.”
“You know you can interrupt me anytime at the office.”
“I don’t do that. It’s unprofessional.”
“Ma, you don’t even work for the company,” Ben said lightly.
“Would have and could have,” she replied tersely. “Now, please let me see you soon?”
Ben sighed. “Maybe the day after tomorrow or the day after that. Dinner?” he suggested.
“Park Hyatt?” his mother suggested.
“How about at your place?” he said tiredly. “I’m kind of tired of eating in restaurants all of the time. I’d like a home cooked meal I didn’t cook myself.”
Grace Eriksson laughed. “Fine, your grandma’s gonna help.”
“But—”
Grace had by then hung up. Ben sighed again, looking at his iPhone’s screen for a few seconds. There was a reason he avoided his mother (and his grandmother). He didn’t want to think about it much, so he slipped the phone back into his pocket. Walking back into the room, he found that his father had dozed off while propped up by pillows on his bed.
He nodded to himself, knowing his father needed every chance of rest he could have. The whole thought of another near-successful prototype excited him and had worn him out. Walking down, he met up with his father’s nurse in the kitchen. A few of the household help and his chauffeur were there, watching a rerun of a football game.
“Shall we?” he said to the uniformed chauffeur.
“Where to, sir?” the chauffeur asked as soon as Ben was in the car.
“The office, please.”
Ben worked until it was eight in the evening. He had just gotten home when his phone rang again. He ignored it and took a long, warm shower first. He enjoyed the solitude of a shower; he had enjoyed it since childhood. It was probably cathartic to some degree, he thought to himself. Wash away all the shit of the day.
As soon as he had gotten out of the shower, he heard his phone ring again. He ignored it once more, telling himself he’d call back as soon as he put on clothes. He forgot about it the moment he plopped down on his favorite couch and turned on the television set to catch some late-night news.
For the eighth time, his phone rang. Oh damn it, he thought, hurriedly picking it up.
“Baby,” a pinched voice began.
“Hey,” he replied, closing his eyes and cradling his head on the fluffy headrest. He braced himself for another long conversation, reclining his legs on the low rise table across him.
“You arrived today?”
“Yep,” he responded to his girlfriend of one year.
“You didn’t text me at least?” Denise Holt sounded irate. “I had to find out from your mom an hour ago.”
“Sorry, I was really busy. Wait, you called my mom?”
“I wasn’t sure when you were coming back. I can’t believe you didn’t think of telling me.”
“Like I said, I was really busy. First the airport, then I had to see the old man, then I raced back to the office to get some paperwork done.”
“You have people to do that for you.”
“You know that’s not how I work.”
“Micromanaging isn’t good for you.”
“That’s how I like it,” Ben replied, feeling a tad bit annoyed at her insistence of avoiding micromanagement. She wanted him to adapt to her style of working, bossing people around in her father’s company.
“Anyway, lunch tomorrow?”
“I need to check my schedule.”
“You make your schedule,” Denise told him.
Ben didn’t like where the conversation was going. She would coerce him again into dropping a few meetings just to meet up with her for lunch and maybe a quickie, although he didn’t mind the latter.
“Fine, let’s have lunch.”
He had already decided to break up with her tomorrow.