Yes, that’s not an attractive scene, but what followed was better.
She was so embarrassed by what she’d done that she made us flee the scene.
Not leave through the door. No...that would have been too easy. She looked at the mess, looked at me, and yelled, “Run!”
We ran.
Scaled a fence, wandered through a parking garage, and finally snuck through tunnels.
It was the most fun I’d had in years.
It was as if instead of an engineer who planned everything in his life, I was spontaneous and free. She did that to me. With her hand in mine, I was someone else. Helping her escape while keeping her safe were my only thoughts.
From that moment on, I wanted her, all of her, but that night she wasn’t exactly in a position to consent to more than my assistance. It wasn’t that she fought me off, but then again, she wasn’t coming on to me either. She isn’t that type of woman. Her purse and room key were MIA after our little excursion. The hotel refused to provide another key without identification. Taking her to my room was all I could think to do. Once there, she fell sound asleep. Like Sleeping Beauty from the fairy tale, it wasn’t until morning when I kissed her forehead that she finally awoke.
I’m a thirty-three-year-old man who admittedly still has fantasies. Perhaps with the time I travel and read, you’d think I’d have daydreams—and night dreams—about a model or an actress, maybe my high school sweetheart or college crush.
No.
Shana Price, the beauty who made me feel alive, who woke a part of my soul I didn’t know existed, who was within my grasp only to disappear...
She’s the recurring star in my imagination.
She’s the one who got away.
Even though we never did more than sleep—yes, the slumber type—kiss, and perhaps a bit of heavy petting, in my mind as I recall our short secret time, I imagine more. I’ve pictured her face on the pillow beside mine. I’ve imagined that kiss I gave her leading to more as I stand facing the shower wall, hot water streaming down and relief at hand.
It wasn’t only our careers and distance that deterred a relationship but also our connection. She’s my sister-in-law’s best friend, her after-college roommate. Shana and I agreed not to tell Kimbra or Duncan about our secret time together.
Now sometimes I wonder if it really happened.
If it was real.
Did she exist or is she an unobtainable aspiration that will forever remain in my thoughts but never again in my grasp?
I reason that she’s real because after that night, we spoke a few times on the phone.
Each time was harder than the last—yes, pun intended. The distance and inability to see her face-to-face became too much. With me on the West Coast and her in London, the time difference made even communication difficult. Finally, the calls ceased.
I thought to ask Max if he knew Shana since he lives in London, but what would be the chances? London is immense. An investment banker who’s interested in men would have little reason to know or meet a Saks Fifth Avenue lead buyer for the junior line.
“Saks?” I say, looking back at my friends. Obviously, their conversation has moved on while I’ve been reminiscing.
“What?” Eric asks.
“Did you say this is a Saks Fifth Avenue fashion show?”
“Yeah.” Matt’s eyebrows waggle. “Lingerie line.”
“Right.” Lingerie. Perfect for a bachelor party but not for seeing the woman I want. Shana Price oversees Saks’s junior line. Right now, she’s most likely in London dressing teenagers and deciding on next year’s best prom dresses.
Chapter Five
Shana
My heart beats so rapidly that I fear it may jump clear out of my chest. I’m confident the thin layer of silk covering me is jumping with each beat. I’m not usually concerned about my appearance. When it comes to my work, I’m confident and strong, yet in this negligee and about to walk out in front of hundreds of sets of eyes, I’m as insecure as a thirteen-year-old about to go to her first dance and sure she will spend the entire time in a circle of friends who no boy will ask to dance.
How have I been able to send other women out onto the runway without considering this side of the journey?
It’s because those women are models. I’m not.
I’m dressed like one for a single reason—to save this show.
Even with my good intentions, every lie I’ve ever told myself, every thought of self-doubt, and every time I’ve compared myself—even subconsciously—to another woman...all the moments so many women can share are dancing in my head. As soon as Chantilly helped me slip into the white negligee, I saw the world of fashion from an entirely new perspective. It is one thing to be the one applying body glue. It’s quite another to have the cool liquid rolled across my skin as goose bumps prickle and Chantilly yells for nipple tape.
I mean, nipple tape is a great accessory until it’s applied to your breasts. I don’t even want to think about removing it.
“You can do this,” Shelly whispers as I slip my feet into shoes that could easily double as stilts.
“I’m not even sure I can walk in these.”
“Did you take some painkillers? I have some Advil in my bag.”
I’m lost on her train of thought. The way my head is pounding and nerves are stretched, painkillers aren’t a bad idea. “Painkillers?”
“Oh, honey,” she says in a stage whisper. “Every model knows the tricks. If your shoe size is seven, wear a size eight. And always take some over-the-counter painkillers two hours before the show.”
“Two hours?” I say as a question. “Why?”
She shakes her head. “Let me get you some. It’ll still help.”
Before I can respond, Shelly rushes across the room and returns with a half bottle of water and two pills in the palm of her hand.
Eyeing her offering, I wiggle my toes. Immediately, I realize I’ve already agreed to the wrong size. Reaching out, I pop the two pills into my mouth, followed by a quick drink of her water. “Thank you. This is a lot easier from over there.” I tilt my head toward Chantilly.
Shelly smiles, reminding me of that circle of friends from the middle school dance.
“Sometimes it’s good to get a taste of both sides. You’ve got this. You and Stephen put this show together. You made it more than what we’ve done in the past. The audience is already going wild.”
She’s right. Since the show began, the electronic orders on every piece of lingerie shown are through the roof. The applause has been louder than I’ve ever heard at a junior’s show. If I weren’t about to ruin the entire thing, I might actually be happy about it.
Slowly, I stand, reaching out to Shelly’s shoulder as I steady myself.
“Take two steps, then another one. You can do this.”
As I start to move forward, imitating the grace of a baby fawn or maybe a newborn giraffe, she says what I’ve said to models for years. “Don’t look down.”
It makes a smile come to my lips. “Do you know how many times I’ve said that?”
Shelly just smiles knowingly back at me.
Taking a deep breath, I look over to Chantilly. Her grin widens as she nods her approval.
It isn’t just the shoes and negligee. In the short time since the show began—with Stephen in my ear giving play-by-play—the backstage assistants have teased my hair and painted my face.
“That’s it,” Stephen says through the earpiece, the roar of applause coming from behind him. “Give me three and I’ll make my announcement. Then it’s time to wow them with the finale.”
I want to respond, but I can’t. Even with him still in my ear, my microphone is gone. And then I hear Chantilly’s voice. “We’re ready. Wait until you see Shana. She’s gorgeous.”
My gaze shoots her direction, but she’s not looking my way.
Could she possibly not know I’m still wearing my earpiece?
“She can do this,” Stephen agrees.
&nb
sp; Before more can be said, I take out the earpiece and tuck it behind my things. I can’t listen anymore. Their support means the world. If by chance something else was said, I’d never be able to go onstage.
“Ladies,” Chantilly yells. “Get in position. It’s finale time.”
As Shelly’s hand lands on my shoulder, I recall Stephen’s advice from earlier. “Shelly?” I ask, “Can you see the audience? Yesterday during rehearsal, the lights were so bright...”
She smiles. “If you try hard enough, you’ll see the first few rows. I recommend not trying.”
“I don’t want to,” I laugh as much as say. “I want to pretend the room is empty.”
“When I first started modeling, I imagined my family members were the only ones who could see me. And then I started modeling lingerie.”
“I can see how that became awkward. Now who do you imagine?”
“No one. It’s just me. It’s like practicing walking in my apartment. Just me. I count my steps. I know my spots. I hear the music and the cues, but the people are gone.”
I nod. “Good advice. Except I haven’t practiced.”
“Yes, you have. You know everyone’s position. And as for walking, think back. Remember those cheap plastic heels most little girls wear for dress up?”
I do. I remember the pink sparkly heels with the stretched-out elastic band that held them to my feet. I also remember slipping my feet into my mom’s shoes and walking around the house. “I’m afraid I wasn’t too graceful.”
She eyes me up and down as her eyebrows waggle. “But, honey...now you’re all grown up. If the no people idea for the audience doesn’t work, make it that one special person.”
“That’s what Stephen said to do.”
“What does he look like?”
“Stephen?” I ask.
“No...” We’re now moving with the rest of the models like a well-oiled machine.
My rational mind reminds me that it was Stephen and I who made them this way—who choreographed and made this show our own. But they did the hard work. They put in the hours. I owe it to them to stand tall, move about the stage, and not ruin their success.
“That special guy,” Shelly clarifies, bringing me back to reality.
Immediately, Trevor Willis’s image comes to my mind. “Tall, not too tall, but taller than me.”
“Even in those shoes?”
My grin widens, lifting my cheeks. Although, I’m suddenly afraid my makeup may crack, I think about Trevor. “Yes, even in these shoes. And his hair is light brown and a perpetual mess.”
“Oh, sexy!”
“Definitely. And his eyes, vibrant green.”
She shakes her head. “I’m imagining broad shoulders and just the right amount of facial hair.”
“That’s him.”
“Strut your stuff for him. We’re all counting on you.”
Those butterflies that had been dancing around my stomach grow to the size of bats as we make our way past the curtain and onto the stage. The runway before me is brightly lit as if it were a landing strip, a place to land planes instead of showcase models. The lights from above flicker with color as I move forward. Doing as Shelly said, as I’ve told others to do, I count. Though the sound of the audience is there, I hear the music. I’ve listened to this arrangement over a hundred times. I’ve counted out each model’s steps. I know it.
I’m lost in my own world, my body doing as it should when my gaze lands upon the first row. It’s at that moment that I know I’ve found my Zen.
I’m not sure how my imagination could work so well, but off to the left of the runway, I see the green gaze from my memories. His disinterested smile morphs before me.
Appreciation.
Shock.
Bewilderment.
Approval.
My feet continue to move. I have one trip down the runway and back. Having Trevor in my mind, his are the only eyes upon me.
I can do this.
Chapter Six
Trevor
What the actual fuck?
My mouth opens, closes, and opens again. I consciously force my lips to close, afraid if I don’t, I’ll risk calling out her name or even make a bigger fool of myself by drooling.
Holy shit!
She’s everything I remember and more.
Then again, maybe I’m hallucinating.
Maybe the vision before me is my imagination. Maybe it’s induced by the alcohol we consumed last night. I’m sure after the quantity, there’s still some coursing through my bloodstream. Maybe this is a mirage, a vision that doesn’t really exist, one I’ve concocted out of desire. After all, Shana Price has been in my thoughts daily—and especially nightly—since our one secret night.
Whatever is happening...I approve.
This fashion show just got a lot better!
The rest of the models disappear as I concentrate on the blonde. She’s not as tall as most, but damn, she’s more beautiful. High heels move below the long flowing nightgown. Fuck that. It’s not a nightgown. My grandmother wears nightgowns. This one is sexy and hangs perfectly from small straps over her slender shoulders with a lace trim that barely covers her breasts. The long skirt has a slit that allows her long and determined steps as she moves in sync with the rest of the models.
I’m certain this woman in the white negligee isn’t the same model who wore the black negligee earlier in the show. I know it was black because when we entered, we were all given tablets with information on each showcased piece. Yet my reasoning mind can’t come up with a plausible answer as to why they made the change. My heart tells me the woman of my dreams is onstage. The woman I can’t seem to forget. The woman who stars in my fantasies. The woman who broke open my shell with only her smile.
The one I let get away.
Onstage is Shana Price.
But how and why?
I continue to struggle, my analytical brain searching for answers.
Maybe the world is filled with doppelgängers?
No. I’d know if it weren’t her, and damn, I can’t take my eyes off of her. She’s beautiful and confident and fits right into the show without fanfare.
I’m awestruck.
As the realization settles in, murmurs of approval from the men around me fill my ears, filling me with dueling and equally powerful emotions. The first is pride mixed with amazement. It’s not as if I know her that well; however, from what I do know, I can’t fathom why the top buyer for Saks’s junior department would be onstage for a lady’s lingerie show, but damn if she isn’t stunning. Like many others in the audience, I’m blown away by her presence.
It’s the other people in the audience—their presence and their eyes on her—that fuel my second strong reaction. Gripping the arms of my seat, my pride in her ability is the only thing tempering my growing need.
I’m overwhelmed with desire to rush the stage, wrap the woman of my dreams in my jacket, and carry her off like a prehistoric caveman. My skin heats at the thought that as gorgeous as she is, I don’t want others looking at her. Yes, I know it’s barbaric. I even have a split-second image of myself beating my chest and telling the world she’s mine.
It may be insane, but nevertheless, it’s real. Never before and with none of the other models have I felt such a strong urge to protect someone. It makes me wish that we weren’t in a room filled with others. Instead, I wish I was the only one to see Shana in that negligee.
Whichever emotion I concentrate on, I’m mesmerized by the woman before me.
And then...she turns and looks my way.
Our eyes meet for the first time since our weekend so long ago.
Her expression changes for only a second, but as it does I know with everything within me that none of this is an illusion. The model in the white nightgown isn’t a doppelgänger. She isn’t a mirage. Ignoring the rest of the women onstage, my gaze follows her every move as she works her way to the rear of the stage, mixing with the rest of the models. Her steps are flawless.
Yet the only thought in my mind has nothing to do with lingerie. My thought is getting to Shana Price.
Chapter Seven
Shana
The show is over and as we all make our way backstage, I’m exhilarated like never before. It isn’t only that the show is complete or that I didn’t fall and make a total fool of myself—it’s more.
An overwhelming sense of triumph.
Cheers fill the air as everyone makes their way into the dressing room.
From the sound of the crowd and the look on Chantilly’s face, the fashion show was a shining success. Not only that, I overcame a lifelong fear. I did it. I walked onto the stage. For the first time, I was more than the woman behind the scenes. Putting the show ahead of my own fears, I did what needed to be done.
While allowing myself to be vulnerable, I kicked ass. At that second, I realize that sometimes it takes the first to do the second.
“To Shana!” Shelly yells above the roar of the other relieved models.
The backstage dressing room fills with applause.
“To each of you,” I reply. “You did this, ladies. I’m so proud to have been a part.”
Chantilly motions me toward her but not before I have the chance to step out of the tall shoes. When I reach her, she wraps a long black robe over my shoulders. “Before you change, there’s someone who wants to talk to you.”
For only a second, I imagine the person I pretended to see in the front row. “Who?”
“Stephen is outside. He has news.”
Stepping from the room in my bare feet, I leave the roar of the models for the sound of the crowd beyond the stage.
All ONES: The Complete Collection Page 43