Happily Ever After: A Romance Collection

by Amelia Wilde

  No, the problem is not that there’s anything wrong with Kristina.

  It’s just that she’s not Ellie.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t do this,” I say and untie her leg restraints.

  When I bring the swing down to the floor and undo her arm restraints, she slaps me across the face.

  “What do you mean you can’t do this?” Kristina asks. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  “I’m sorry, but my head is just not in this tonight.”

  “Well, get in this.”

  She goes to slap me again, but I catch her hand before it reaches my face.

  “Please, don't do that again. Ever,” I whisper in my most dead-serious voice.

  “You’re an asshole, you know that!” Kristina yells, grabbing her dress and shoes, walking out of the room.

  17

  Ellie

  When I see my best friend again…

  I love New York in the fall.

  It has only been a few days since I got back from the yacht, but fall seems to have descended on New York with a vengeance.

  The streets are wet and slick, and trees are already changing colors.

  When I open the window to my room, I fall in love with that smell of fresh rain on the cool asphalt.

  The large oak tree in front of our apartment is already turning shades of gold.

  There is something about this time of year that makes me want to buy stationary supplies even though I don't go to school anymore.

  Perhaps I may indulge myself, nevertheless, and get a new writer’s notebook and some pens.

  Without getting out of bed, I stretch out and yawn, curling my toes.

  Suddenly, I have a flashback to the toe-curling orgasms that Mr. Black gave me only a few days ago.

  I don't know if I will see him again, but I know that I will not forget that night with him for a very, very long time.

  Climbing out of bed, my body shivers, remembering the pleasure that he had given me.

  As someone who isn't afraid to identify myself as a feminist, because I firmly believe that men and women deserve the same pay for the same work and equal rights, I was definitely not the most obvious candidate for the type of auction that I participated in on that luxurious yacht last weekend.

  If someone had brought it up to me before, I would’ve dismissed them without giving them a second thought.

  But when the time came, it seemed like an exciting and fun thing to do.

  Exciting because I didn’t know what to expect or who I would get. But never in my wildest dreams did I think that I would get anyone like Mr. Black.

  “Hey, bitch!” Caroline bursts into my room. It’s only six in the morning and we both have to work, but she just got home.

  “Another fun night out?” I ask, pointing to her short evening dress and heels that are much more appropriate for the club than for that high-end art gallery in Soho where she works.

  “Actually, I met this really hot guy.

  He works on Wall Street,” she says, unzipping her dress and motioning for me to follow her to the other room.

  “Is that the type of guy that you always meet?” I ask.

  “I don’t know what to say; the exclusive clubs around here are littered with them,” she says, shrugging. “But he was really cute. And really good in bed. He was wasted, so I can just imagine how good he’d be if he didn’t drink so much.”

  I nod and head to the bathroom to brush my teeth.

  “He wanted me to sleep over, actually,” she yells from the other room.

  “Wow, that is different,” I mumble through the toothpaste in my mouth.

  “I know, right?” Caroline pops in the doorway. “I wasn’t going to, but then, get this? I just fell asleep. How embarrassing, right?”

  I shrug. It doesn’t sound that embarrassing actually.

  “Oh, c’mon. I don’t want him to think I’m some loser who’s going to be a hanger on. I really like this guy. And guys like a challenge.”

  Caroline is very experienced with men, but all of her experience just seems to have manifested itself into a broad theoretical interpretation of how you shouldn’t act around men.

  You’d think that there would be a purpose to theories - like if she was on the lookout for the right one, the marrying kind.

  But, no, Caroline isn’t interested in that at all. She thinks of dating as one elaborate game and one that she has to win at all costs.

  Caroline disappears into her room for a few moments, giving me just enough time to wash my face and put dry shampoo in my hair.

  I usually shower at night because I can’t stand lukewarm showers, and hot showers leave my face with red splotchy spots that refuse to go away.

  Unfortunately, most of the time, my hair gets greasy just from sleeping on it and requires a strict dry shampoo regimen even the following day.

  “Oh my God!” Caroline shrieks at the top of her lungs, nearly giving me a heart attack. “I almost forgot!”

  I stare at her with my hair pulled back in a loose ponytail and my hand in desperate search of a hair tie.

  Where the hell do they always go? I just bought a pack of them at Rite Aid last week and now nearly half of them are already gone!

  “You have to tell me what happened on the yacht! And the auction!” Caroline jumps up and down.

  A part of me thought that she would be so engrossed in the aftermath of her own date that she would completely forget about my weekend.

  But, apparently, I had no such luck.

  “It was fun actually,” I say. “Really fun.”

  “Okay, you’re not getting off that easy.”

  “Okay, but only if you pay for breakfast.” I finally cave. She gives out another shriek and wholeheartedly agrees.

  We go to the local cafe for an avocado omelet and brioche toast.

  Even though she’s tall and lean and built like a model, Caroline is again on a diet, avoiding all carbs as if they are poison.

  Despite my much curvier body, which is still carrying around ten or fifteen pounds more than I want, I enjoy my toast immensely. When the waiter comes back with a second cup of tea for me and a third cup of coffee for Caroline, I finally finish my story.

  At first, when I agreed to tell her everything, I thought that I would leave out all the really dirty bits of what happened.

  But as I started talking and really got into reliving what happened that weekend, I didn’t want to.

  I wanted to capture it just as it happened.

  And if I can’t share this story with Caroline, my closest friend, then who the hell can I tell this to?

  “So, you got $250,000 for just spending one night with him?” she asks.

  “Well, actually more. I must’ve made an impression because he paid off my school loans of $150,000, so now I have the full quarter million to do with whatever.”

  “Holy shit.” She shakes her head.

  She actually looks impressed. Caroline’s family may own half of New England, but this amount is a lot even for her.

  “Having regrets?” I ask.

  “Actually, yes.” She nods. “I honestly thought that they’d maybe go up to ten or fifteen thousand, but not a quarter of a million.”

  “Well, most girls got around a hundred thousand.” I point out. “Which is still really fucking good.”

  “Fuck me.” She shakes her head.

  Her family may have a lot of money, but like all kids who are raised in wealth, she knows very well that that money comes with certain restrictions.

  She’s only entitled to it if she follows the rules.

  The rules aren’t too strict, but they’re still rules.

  “The thing is that beyond the money, I just had a really wonderful time. Mr. Black…was amazing. He was unlike anyone else I’ve ever met. He was just so…arousing.”

  “Wow, smitten-kitten much?”

  “I know. I must sound like a love-sick teenager,” I say.

  “So, you think you’ll see h
im again?” Caroline asks.

  Now, there’s a loaded question. I inhale and exhale deeply before answering.

  “I didn't at first. I mean, it’s only just supposed to be a one-night thing. But he gave me his card and took my number.”

  “Oh my God, really?”

  “I still don’t know if he’ll call,” I say.

  “If he gave you his card, you can always call him,” Caroline says.

  Of course, that’s true.

  I just don’t know if I can actually do that.

  I’m not Caroline.

  Actually, I’ve never called a guy and asked him out for a date before.

  And I’m definitely not going to start with Mr. Black of all people.

  I glance at the time. Shit, I’m going to be late.

  “I have to go,” I mutter and get my purse.

  “And why is it again that you’re going to that shitty job of yours?” Caroline asks, signing the check.

  I don’t have a good reason except that it’s work.

  “You do realize that you are a very rich woman now?”

  I nod and give her a peck on the cheek. “I have to go. I’ll see you tonight.”

  Fifteen minutes later, I arrive at the office drenched in sweat.

  Even though it’s fall, it’s still rather warm and humid outside and running all those blocks to the office does not leave me in the most presentable shape.

  When I enter the office, the first person I lay my eyes on is Tom, one of my closest friends and my secret crush of more two years.

  His desk is only a few away from mine, usually giving me an optimal spot for watching the way his gorgeous hair falls into his face as he works.

  Tom waves at me excitedly and I wave back, but the butterflies in the pit of my stomach that I usually feel every time I am in his presence are gone.

  Completely. I don't quite believe it.

  I walk over to my desk and drop my bag to the floor.

  “You’re late,” Tom says, coming over to my desk. “She was expecting you fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Late for what?” I ask.

  He stares at me as if I have completely lost my mind.

  “Carrie? You have a meeting with her this morning?”

  Oh, shit.

  Suddenly, I remember.

  Carrie Warrenhouse, the beautiful and hard as nails editor of BuzzPost and Tom’s fiancée, wanted to see me first thing Monday morning.

  Oh, shit.

  Shit.

  Shit.

  “You forgot?” Tom asks. “I can’t believe you forgot.”

  Well, I can’t believe that you are marrying that bitch, I want to say, but I keep my mouth shut.

  Instead, I look through my very disorganized bag for a notepad and a pen so that I have something to write with in case she has any notes for me.

  When I first started here, I learned the hard way that Carrie always has notes and finds it insulting if you don’t come to her office prepared.

  “Here, here,” Tom says, grabbing a notepad from his desk. “Do you at least have a pen?”

  I find a pen on my desk and display it for him proudly.

  “Thank you,” I say and head toward her office.

  18

  Ellie

  When things at work don’t go as planned...

  Carrie Warrenhouse.

  She’s the current editor of BuzzPost and the daughter of the Edward Warrenhouse, the current owner of BuzzPost.

  It would be one thing if she was a total incompetent idiot, but the thing is that she’s not.

  Not at all.

  She’s smart and incredibly put together.

  Despite her rich family, she probably would’ve gotten into Harvard all on her own accord.

  She’s five years older than Tom and I are and, over the last few years, she’s made BuzzPost an actual contender in the game of serious news.

  It made its mark on the world with wacky videos and funny online quizzes, but over the last few years that she has been Editor in Chief, they really transitioned into reporting on important political and international news.

  And, unlike other online magazines and newspapers, they continue to make money off it.

  Advertisers love us and the money is pouring in.

  “Please have a seat, Ellie,” Carrie says, pointing to the plush chair in front of her desk.

  Her office has floor-to-ceiling windows and a beautiful view of the skyline.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” I mumble and crouch down into the seat.

  I don't know what we’re going to talk about, but meetings like this always make me nervous.

  I feel like I’ve been called to the principal’s office and she’s about to call my mom and report me.

  Carrie is the epitome of chic.

  Her hair is styled in a short razor-sharp bob without a single strand out of place.

  In comparison, my own long unkempt tresses, which kindly may be described as styled as beach waves, look unprofessional and out of control.

  I twirl a lock around my index finger, regretting the fact that I didn’t even bother running a brush through them this morning.

  “I wanted to discuss with you the last article that you submitted,” she says.

  This place has about ten editors, but Carrie is such a micro-manager and workaholic that she oversees every part of the BuzzPost with utmost precision.

  “Uh-huh.” I nod.

  For the life of me, I can’t even remember what the article was about.

  “It’s this one, about the Kardashians and their new makeup line,” she says.

  Oh, yes, of course.

  Now, that’s some hard-hitting journalism right there.

  “From reading it, I got the sense that you were not particularly interested in the topic,” she says, pointing to the printed out article on her desk.

  I glance over and see that it’s all marked up in red. Shit.

  “Well, you know, it’s kind of a fluff piece.”

  Double shit. I should not have said that.

  “A fluff piece?” Carrie asks with a look of shock and contempt on her face. “Are you serious?”

  “No, what I mean is that.” I try to backtrack, but nothing really comes to mind. “I didn’t really mean that.”

  “I’ll wait,” Carrie says, crossing her arms across her chest.

  What a bitch. It takes all of my power to keep myself from rolling my eyes.

  “It’s just a sponsored post about their new makeup line,” I say.

  “Exactly. It’s a sponsored post, and that means that we’re getting paid good money for publishing it. And that’s why a story like this needs a writer who can at least fake a minimal amount of excitement about the products and the Kardashian brand in general.”

  Are you serious?

  I want to scream.

  Are you fucking serious?

  I mean, we both went to Ivy League schools and now you’re asking me to show more excitement for the Kardashians?

  It’s not that I have anything against them.

  It’s just that I don't actually really know anything, or really care to know anything, about them.

  But, of course, I can’t express any of this. Instead, I bite my tongue and say, “I understand.”

  “The thing is Ellie, that this is not just a one off problem with you,” Carrie says. “This is becoming something of a habit. I have been reviewing some of your other work and, frankly, I think you can do a lot better.”

  I nod as if I agree with her.

  There’s nothing really to say since they did publish my other articles.

  “I know that your direct editor seems to be happy, but I expect more. I want BuzzPost to be one of the top online magazines around, and we’re not going to get there if our writers are not on top of their game.”

  “Okay, I’ll try,” I mumble.

  But Carrie doesn’t let it go. She just keeps pushing.

  “I don’t need you to just try, Ellie. I need
you to do.”

  Finally, I’ve had enough.

  “I don’t really know what you want me to say,” I say after a moment of silence. “I mean, I’m sorry if you think my work isn’t up to some standard, but I think it’s pretty good. Frankly, I think I got as excited about the Kardashian makeup line as any sane person could get. But if you want to employ a celebrity-obsessed teenager to write these kind of articles, be my guest.”

  Oh my God.

  I can’t believe I just said that.

  I’m not an outgoing person, and I’ve never said what I really thought to a boss before.

  From the look on Carrie’s face, she seems to be a little bit caught off guard as well.

  She straightens her tailored suit jacket and adjusts herself in her seat.

  Suddenly, a strand of hair breaks off from the rest of her perfect bob, and she no longer seems so intimidating.

  “I don’t really know what to say to that, Ellie,” she says after a moment. “Except that you don’t really seem very happy here.”

  “Actually, I’m not. Not at all. I don't like writing the kind of fluff articles that I get assigned, and I don't really like to write articles that pretend to be journalism but are actually elaborate advertisements. That’s not why I came here.”

  “Then maybe this place isn’t the one for you.”

  I think about that for a moment.

  She’s right.

  For the first time, I actually agree with her.

  “No, it’s not,” I say, getting up. “Consider this my two weeks notice.”

  Before I get all the way to the other side of her office, she calls out, “Actually, we don’t need two weeks notice. We can get the interns to fill in for you.”

  Wow, really?

  I’ve worked here for almost two years and she’s going to get the interns to do my work.

  And she doesn’t have to pay them anything.

  Perfect.

  I don’t even bother to acknowledge her statement.

  Instead, I walk out of her office and head straight to my desk.

  19

  Ellie

  When my secret crush disappears…