by Kim Karr
His mouth twists. “You might think you do, but you’re wrong.”
“I could look them up on the Internet.”
“The Internet. Let me guess, Google?”
“Why, yes, Google.”
“Because what you read on the Internet is always true,” he huffs, more as a statement than a question.
“Well, it is mostly true.”
“Hardly.”
I narrow my gaze. “Since you’re such an expert on Sir Elton Hercules John, then why don’t you sing the lyrics?”
When his mouth opens, I nearly fall off my seat. And although he doesn’t exactly sing, more like raps, he isn’t bad.
You could never know what it’s like,
Your blood winter freezes just like ice,
And there’s a cold lonely light that shines from you.
I frown at him. “Blood winter? That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Sure it does. Your blood is cold like winter. It freezes just like ice.”
Damn him.
Okay, so yes, that makes sense. Thinking my ride is now paid for, I bend toward him and concur, “You might be right, but either way, that’s pretty much what I was singing.”
Tossing his briefcase onto the floor, he leans even closer to me and I feel his warm breath on my cheek. “No, it isn’t like what you were singing at all. You were using verbs. There aren’t any.”
That’s it!
OMG, that’s it.
He’s right.
Now, I’m just annoyed because seriously, how could I not have known that? Frustrated with myself, I throw myself against the bench seat and cross my arms. “I should have went with ‘Bennie and the Jets,’ electric boobs and a mohawk too would have been so much easier to quote.”
His head tips back and roaring laughter fills the cab. “It’s electric boots, a mohair suit.”
I narrow my gaze.
“It is?”
I consider this.
“Look it up on your favorite place.”
So I do, and okay, so it could be right. Probably is. There’s a number of versions, but his appears to be correct.
I frigging hate this guy.
Turning my head away from him, I notice we’re passing the Whitney Museum of Arts and I still have too far to go to get the boot right now, so I force myself to pull my act together and turn back.
He’s wiping tears from his eyes, that’s how hard he is laughing. “Do you want to try again?”
“I’ll pass.” I’m shaking my head, suddenly thinking about how I thought I knew every line to every Elton John song and sang them with such confidence, and what a giant ball of suck I really was the entire time.
What a fool I must have looked like to everyone around me all these years, especially during those Karaoke nights at college. I should have read the screen, I suppose.
Stroking his jaw, his seems to be considering something. Like perhaps telling the cabdriver to pull over and then ordering me out.
“Look,” I say, “I really need to get to work on time.”
“Yes, so you’ve said.”
“Then we’re cool?”
“Cool as in I pay for your ride?”
“Correct.”
His head is shaking and his hair moves when it does. “Then no, we’re not cool. You’re going to have to come up with another way to pay your half.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m not a hooker from the red-light district and I am not blowing you, so don’t even think about asking.”
“Wow, you shouldn’t jump to such lewd conclusions. Anyway, I wasn’t aware New York had such a place. But for the record, I was thinking about something a little less vulgar. Then again, I’d never turn a blowie down.”
Making a face, I pull the neck of my coat tighter. “Well then, I suggest you head to Hunts Point in the Bronx. And I’ll be getting out here, in case you want to reroute the cab.”
His hand reaches over to stop me from gathering my things and the electric current that travels through my body causes me to quiver. “Don’t get out just yet.”
I glare down where his fingertips are pressing against the skin of my bare thigh. “I already told you, I’m not blowing you.”
His laughter irritates me. “And I already told you, I’m not looking for that…yet. But I know you feel it too.”
Feigning ignorance seems best. “Feel what? The bumps in the road?”
The corners of his mouth turn up. “Kiss me and find out if that spark between us is from the condition of the street or natural chemistry, and I’ll take you right to the door of wherever you need to go.”
Out the window, I notice we’re on 10th Avenue. Hell’s Kitchen. So close, so close and yet so very far away.
I try not to audibly pant when his eyes travel downward. I swear I see a glimmer of lust in his starlit pupils, but other than that his expression is blank, unreadable as he awaits my response.
Like yes or no doesn’t really matter, but yes would be nice.
I stare at him in silence. Assessing. He doesn’t look like a creep. He looks like a businessman. A businessman wearing a three-thousand dollar suit with hundred dollar bills in his pocket. Who carries money like that in the city, anyway?
Creeps—my inner voice warns.
Creeps—looking to pay for sex.
Yet, he doesn’t look like a creep. His appeal is raw, wild, and besides, he’s been laughing as if I’m a game to him. Something to pass his time. A wealthy guy who can have whatever he wants, and right now he wants me.
No, not me.
He wants a kiss.
One kiss.
From me.
What’s one kiss?
Just yesterday I kissed my spin instructor, on the cheek, but still I kissed him after he told me I was his very best student. Before that I kissed my TA at college. Before that even, the banker near my house. The postman. The milkman. And then most recently there was my brother’s best friend, which my brother was none too happy about. But hey, said best friend and I didn’t last long.
Okay, so I’ve kissed a lot of men, but a girl has to go through dozens of frogs to find her Prince Charming. Everyone knows that.
One more frog couldn’t possibly hurt.
“Fine, one kiss and that’s it. But if your wandering hands so much as try to touch me here,” I point to my boobs, “or here,” I point to my sex, which is way too wet for my liking, “I will knee you in the balls.”
His mouth quirks up. “I’m rather fond of my balls, so I’ll be sure to mind the rules.”
With some kind of unbridled passion only seen in the movies, I grab him by his silk tie and pull him toward me.
Apparently, the control freak in him isn’t having any of it because before our lips touch, his strong hands are pushing me toward the door and the flat planes of his body are pressing against mine, and then, and only then, do his lips fasten to mine.
Cue the hearts floating around us.
The spark is crazy.
This frog is definitely not a frog.
Before I can process this, I’m clawing my nails up his white shirt, pushing his raincoat from his square shoulders, and twisting my fingers into his ginger-colored hair, tasting him, and liking the mint on his breath more than I should.
A ride for a kiss.
One kiss.
Not a total make-out session.
And yet, I can’t pull myself away from his sinfully delicious lips. I don’t want to, either.
The zing is there, electric, bright as the signs on Broadway. And all of a sudden I want to tear his clothes off while he rips mine from my body, and then I want to run my nails down his back until he bleeds while he thrusts into me fast and hard.
But he’s a stranger, not even from here, and I’ll never see him again, so what the hell am I thinking?
Damn my hopeless romantic side.
Damn him for not being a frog.
The cab comes to a stop, and I open my eyes to see we’re at the corner of 9th Av
e and W 57th Street.
My pulse is zooming, looking for a place to land, and I can’t, no I won’t, allow myself to get sucked into another dead-end romance. Say I wanted to see this sexy beast again, he isn’t from here. And the whole Sleepless in Seattle thing never works in real life. Even my hopeless romantic side knows that.
Besides, after Troy, my hopeless romantic days are over. Done. Finished. I have a career to focus on now, not a love life.
Men are distractions.
Something I don’t need.
Breathless and practically panting, I reach for the door handle. Once I find it, I fumble for my purse.
Still, his lips are divine, and I don’t want to leave them, but I must. So I pull back and allow myself one more look into his magical eyes.
Oh my God.
Cupid’s arrow straight to my heart.
That kiss sprints through my thoughts, over and over, like a dream. Taking a moment to assure myself this is real, I prod at my lips. My tingling lips.
Oh. My. God.
What kind of kiss was that?
Forget my lips. My entire mouth is alive. No one has ever kissed me like that. My mind races, as if trying to match the erratic beat of my heart.
“Christ,” he whispers, as if he too is just landing after our takeoff.
Wrong. This is so wrong. I don’t even know this guy. This dictatorial, demanding…mind-numbing, bone-melting…guy.
Who really knows how to kiss.
Kiss, no, it was so much more than that—he fucked my mouth with his lips, and I loved it.
Those magical twin pillows of his lean in for another kiss just as my eyes drift down and spot lipstick on his collar. Bright red lipstick. Definitely not my shade—at all.
Whore.
The kiss master is a frog whore.
Well, okay, not a frog.
As I try to think about where he would have been before he got in the cab, I feel a speck of insane jealousy.
The fancy hotel across from the subway station? An alley. A hidden corner. Another cab (our place). Anywhere for all I know.
Then I have to wonder just how many girls has he kissed today? He probably uses that line—a kiss for a ride—all day long.
Manwhore.
Since we are still at a red light, I pull the lever on the door and push my body out of the cab, then hurry down the street. I don’t even look back to see if Mr. Smooth is splattered on the ground from my sudden departure.
I can’t.
I don’t have time.
Besides, he’s obviously a player. He’ll find another person to toy with, very soon, I’m certain.
Pulling my phone from my purse, I discover it’s 11:57. Kendra told me to be to work by noon or else. Three minutes. I can do this.
I have to do this.
OPEN SESAME
The triangular-faceted glass and steel facade of Hearst Tower is so close. Tearing off my raincoat, I use it as an umbrella, and sprint toward the flat side of the arched limestone entrance in my heels like a track star.
As soon as I pass the black marble plaque with ‘300 West 57th Street’ written on it in bold white letters, I breathe a sigh of relief.
I’m here.
I made it.
The large brass and glass door is within reach. Lunging forward, I pull on the handle…only to find it locked. I pull and pull and pull.
Pressing my face to the glass, my eyes land on the large round clock inside. It ticks 12:02.
This can’t be happening. I frown. Pull some more just in case it’s stuck. It still doesn’t budge.
It’s locked.
No.
No.
No.
My stomach sinks to my toes as I pound my fists against the surface. Cupping my hands around my face again, I peer inside the three-story atrium to find someone to help me.
That’s when I spot a security guard walking toward the escalator, and I start beating my fists again. He twists, sees me, and keeps right on walking in the opposite direction, ignoring me. As if he has been given orders to not allow access for late-comers.
“Fancy running into you here.” The voice is husky, deep, and I know it belongs to the ginger-haired manwhore frog from the cab.
Yes, frog.
I’ve decided he must stay in that category.
For my sake, and my sanity.
While telling myself to just let my classification of him go, I’m still pounding my hands against the glass. “I have to get inside,” I cry out. “My new boss doesn’t tolerate tardiness and I’ll be fired before I even get hired if I don’t get up to the office right away.”
The ginger-haired man with the hot lips moves even closer beside me, all hot and hard, and starts pounding on the glass as well. “Your boss sounds like a real dick.”
“A real big dick,” I tell him, glancing in his direction with a smirk I shouldn’t be wearing. “Like being late is my fault.”
There’s a snicker coming from him. “Well, I suppose, you could have left sooner.”
Well, yes, there is that, but I mean, I didn’t have much notice. “Yes, I would have if I could have.”
His perplexed look almost amuses me. There’s no time to explain, though. “It’s a long story.”
With both sets of fists pounding, the security guard twists around one more time, and instead of stepping onto the escalator, he turns back.
Mr. Great Kisser motions for him to hurry, and he does.
He freaking does.
The manwhore frog with lipstick on his collar and the snide comment about my time management saved me. That’s why when I look over toward him one more time and my heart skips a crazy beat, I don’t bother making trifle comments about how many girls he’s kissed today.
Besides, what does it matter? I’ll never see him again. So, instead, I just say, “I don’t know how to thank you.”
The grin he gives me causes my stomach to fly off the ground and start to flutter. “You can thank me by not getting fired.”
A glance at the clock tells me that’s exactly what’s going to happen. “More than likely I already am.”
Pulling a monogrammed handkerchief out of his pocket with the letters MNM embroidered upon it, he wipes the water droplets from my face. Eyes alight with enthusiasm, he says, “If you are, don’t stand for it.”
“It’s not like I have a choice.”
“You always have a choice, sunshine.”
“Not when it comes to stiff arrogant men and their unbendable rules.”
He shrugs. “I dare you to tell the stiff what a dick he is, and then demand he give you a second chance.”
The guard unlocks the door and then pushes it open. “Come on in.”
“You dare me?” I ask the man beside me.
Arrogance glimmers in his bluish-gray eyes as I rush past him. “Yeah, I dare you not to run from him like you did me,” he calls as I race toward the escalator.
“Dare accepted,” I shout over my shoulder as I step onto the moving stairs, wishing I could see that cocky man again.
The sound of running water fills my head, the waterfalls on both sides of me are all I can hear as I dash onto the second escalator and then the third.
The elevator is on the other side of the seventy-foot fresco painting and as soon as I’m standing in front of it, I punch the up button.
It’s 12:15 by the time I reach the twentieth floor. The doors open silently to the bold pink and stark-white reception area. Modern furniture with clean, simple lines dare people to deny this place is not the bomb. The magazine’s name is emblazoned in bold silver typeface above the thick, opaque glass doors that lead to the Bombshell offices.
As soon as I pass through them, I start running through the empty cubicle spaces, the wardrobe closets, and toward the large double doors, where I know everyone who had to work today must be.
The studio is at the end of the corridor and has enormous arched windows and cathedral ceilings, which allow in an abundance of natural light,
even with the rain still coming down in buckets. Kendra Walters, my new boss, is just across the room.
She’s striking in her red leather pants and black swing top. Her back is to me and her blonde hair sways all thick and shiny as she moves her head back and forth, attempting to choose between two ties.
Her job is to assist in styling, helping to choose each month’s trends and create stories and looks for the magazine editorials.
My job will be to assist her. Gopher duties mostly. Coffee. Safety pins. Tape. You get it. But still, I’ll be working in fashion, and that’s all that matters.
When Kendra whirls around and sees me, she rushes in my direction. Excitement takes hold of me. She’s going to give me my first task.
Super excited, I smile before she’s technically close enough for a proper greeting. “Hi Kendra. What can I do to help?”
“You’re late. Mr. Montgomery doesn’t tolerate tardiness. I told you that this morning, Gigi,” is her greeting to me.
I push wet hair from my eyes. “I know, but I didn’t have much and the rain—”
She’s short like me, five-foot-five at the most, but when she cuts me off with a slash of her hand, I feel like she’s a giant. “I’m sorry, but policy dictates I have to let you go.”
“Please, don’t fire me,” I practically beg, although technically I’ve not even been hired yet.
Her blonde bob is shaking empathically. “I’m really sorry but there are no exceptions to the Bombshell policy.”
“Just listen to me. Please.”
She’s still shaking her head. “How’d you get in the door, anyway?”
Dejected, I sigh. “Does it really matter?”
“I suppose not.”
“Kendra,” Scarlett calls. Scarlett Region is Kendra’s boss and the Creative Director. She reports to the editor-in-chief and is impossibly hip with her gorgeous accessories. To her waist-length inky black hair, trendy bangs, perfect makeup, and high-waisted pants with cropped sweater, all the way to her way too cool metallic boots—she’s style reincarnated.
Her position is extremely important. She works with creating the entire magazine spread from cover-to-cover. Her job is to ensure everything comes together in the consumer’s mind when the magazine is read, whether it’s the model, the celebrity, the styling, the fashion, or the photography, they all must blend seamlessly. Basically, she defines the visual signature for the magazine.