Fashion Jungle

by Kathy Ireland

  “You’re too good to me.” Frederick kissed her and then turned and wrapped an arm around Dane. “Shall we?”

  “Car’s out front,” Dane said in a bored tone. “I’ll be right there.”

  Why wasn’t he gone already?

  Zoe finally lifted her gaze. And there he was in all his arrogance. Sharp, clean-shaven jawline, crystal blue eyes, and hair that any woman would feel compelled to run her hands through. His silky, black tendrils lay perfectly against a face that had graced Page Six way too many times to count. No wonder he was one of the city’s most eligible bachelors.

  It didn’t matter that he had a dark side.

  That he fed it well.

  All that mattered was what was on the outside. Zoe’d had to learn that the hard way. The girl with stars in her eyes and longing in her heart had been replaced by a reality that even the most glamorous lifestyle couldn’t shake.

  Regret.

  Mistakes.

  And a heavy dependence on the one man who could ruin them all.

  “A minute, Zoe?” Dane held out his hand. She had to take it. There were photographers, investors, peers. The mayor nodded his greeting as they walked by.

  She knew what Dane wanted.

  Zoe wouldn’t give it to him, though. Not yet. Hopefully, not ever.

  They walked in silence until they were in one of the back rooms reserved for private parties and events like this one. He shut the doors.

  They clicked with finality that gave her heart a jolt.

  How did they not see?

  He was a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

  A cunning. Sexy. Devouring wolf.

  “The designs look good.” He crossed the room and walked toward her. She gulped and met his gaze. “Any buyers yet?”

  “Saks, Bloomingdales, Nordstrom.” Zoe fired off the department stores. “Then again, you already knew that.”

  He reached out and caressed her face with his knuckles, his lips parted as if he were going to lean down and kiss her. He didn’t move.

  She fought to keep her mouth from trembling. Battled not to show her fear, her desire, her confusion, and her very human need for more than just his touch. She refused to let him hold all the cards; it was all she had to work with, her defiance to being with him, to becoming one more thing he could control.

  “Yes. I already knew that,” he said in a harsh whisper. “I found out from Brittany when you refused to answer my fifth phone call yesterday.”

  She had known he would be angry.

  Not enough to corner her.

  But angry.

  “I was busy.” She shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal when even her heart knew the danger she was in. It thumped loudly against her ribs, making it impossible to hear her own thoughts as the air buzzed in her ears, her throat thickening with a choking tension that made it nearly impossible to swallow.

  “You were at lunch.”

  He was right.

  She gulped.

  “I don’t like these games, Zoe, and I would hate for it to get out that your dead aunt never gave you a cent… that your trust fund was a pillowcase and an old piece-of-crap car that your parents were upside-down in the day they died.”

  Zoe squeezed her eyes shut. It was fine. Too many people were here. He wouldn’t do anything. “I need to get back to my friends.”

  The only thing Zoe had been able to give back to him in the past had been her secrets; it was their currency, and now, it was a ticking time bomb.

  “Yes. You do.” He moved out of her way and then pressed his hands down on her shoulders. A mixture of fear and something else ran through her body. She ignored everything but the fear. She had no choice.

  “I don’t like being lied to, Zoe. I’ve known you since you were fourteen. I know you better than you know yourself—and you owe me more than just your life. Never forget who pulls the strings.” He removed his hands.

  “I paid you back.” She stared straight ahead at the doors, at her escape from this nightmare.

  “No.” An arm wrapped around her waist. “You paid back the loan. We had interest…”

  “Never again.” It came out like a hiss.

  “Never again, what?”

  “I won’t make the mistake of you again, Dane. I don’t care who the hell you are. I’ll get your interest money.”

  “I know why you haven’t paid it yet,” Dane said once Zoe reached the door and pulled it open. She waited for him to continue. “It’s the only thing that still ties us together, besides my dead sister. It’s the last part of your past you aren’t willing to bury. My bet is, it will be a cold day in Hell before I see anything because if there’s anything I know about you, it’s that you’d rather torture yourself with the past than face any sort of future where you could be happy.”

  She snorted out a laugh. “In what world could you ever make me happy?”

  “Careful,” he warned.

  And then he swept by her in a flurry of cigars and fine whiskey, leaving her drained before the party was even over. She held her breath until she saw him disappear through the front door of the restaurant and then rejoined her friends.

  “What was that about?” Brittany tugged at her black Gucci dress and grabbed another glass of celebratory champagne. Zoe tried not to frown at her friend. “He looked… angry.”

  Zoe shrugged to hide the trembling in her hands. “When is Dane not angry? Don’t you have an early appointment?” She pointed at the champagne as Brittany resolutely ignored her and lifted the glass to her red pout.

  “Ain’t that the truth?” Everlee scrunched up her nose. “Another toast!”

  Zoe quickly shoved her dark thoughts away and grabbed a fresh glass of bubbly from a passing waiter and lifted it into the air. “To friendship.”

  The girls all shared a smile and a toast, but sadness still hung in the air. Because their other friend was missing, the one who’d wanted nothing more than to become the face of their new line—her dream since she was fourteen.

  She had taken her life a year ago.

  Leaving things altered.

  “Don’t be too hard on him,” Brittany said under her breath once Everlee excused herself to use the restroom. “We all deal with grief in different ways. Dane lost his sister. We lost our best friend. And he turned into a sociopath. We’re going to see to it that our dream happens and share it with Danica’s memory.”

  Brittany squeezed Zoe tightly.

  Zoe hated the tears that welled in her eyes.

  Just like she hated how much she needed the hug that would tell her everything would be okay.

  It had to be.

  Something good had to come from such a pointless tragedy.

  Especially since had Danica not done it first, Zoe was petrified it would have been her they were mourning.

  The ceiling fan whipped around in circle after circle—and with each pass, anxiety pressed down on Everlee’s chest, making it nearly impossible to breathe, holding her prisoner as the blankets weighed heavily against her ribs. If she focused hard enough on the whooshes of air, she could almost hear bone shattering, her heart stuttering to a stop with each breath she sucked in through her teeth.

  It hadn’t always been like this.

  But it was a reality now.

  A constant reminder.

  A nightmare she couldn’t see past.

  Always the same.

  Never different.

  The only thing that had changed was her. And the only reason she had changed was because of him. She checked her phone again—three a.m. She had to be up early for a photo shoot, and then she was meeting the girls for drinks later. If she could just focus on the positive, on work—on the fact that she was still working in the industry—she would be okay. Not thinking about him, the past, about how each year seemed to add more time that they spent apart rather than together. How each time they were together, he became a little more aggressive, a little more violent, taking pieces of her heart with each passing day and refusing to ack
nowledge he was doing it in the first place. Like a sick game that she didn’t know the rules to.

  She swiped at a tear under her right eye.

  Nights had once been filled with laughter, sex, and late-night TV. She even used to get crazy and talk about her dreams with him.

  And now?

  Now, he was late.

  Again.

  And he’d apologize while smelling like alcohol, cigars, and perfume.

  Again.

  And she’d forgive him.

  Again.

  Because she’d forgotten what life was like when she wasn’t counting turns of the ceiling fan; when she was so poor, she heated up Chinese takeout two days in a row and prayed she’d get a stomach virus so she’d drop another dress size and look willowy for her next runway show.

  Life had seemed empty then.

  Filled with so many rules: restrictions on what to eat, what to wear, how to act. Everlee had seen Frederick as her freedom. Her dreams had shifted.

  She’d had no idea that she would merely be exchanging prisons.

  And handing off another set of keys to an equally punishing guard.

  She only wondered what was worse?

  Punishing herself.

  Or letting someone else do the honors.

  The door clicked closed down the hall.

  She squeezed her eyes shut as the flicker of the flat-screen in her pristine master bedroom caused shapes and colors to dance along the wall.

  Footsteps neared.

  She bit down on her bottom lip… and held her breath.

  The bedroom door clicked as it closed.

  He stumbled.

  She exhaled in relief. He was too drunk to pick a fight. This was good; it would be fine as long as he slept it off.

  A string of angry curses had her flinching. Another stumble as it sounded like his pants got caught around his ankles, and then more cursing until finally, his body bounced onto the mattress. It didn’t matter that she was huddled in the corner.

  Or that she had the covers pulled up to her chin.

  It never mattered.

  Because as her husband, he had certain expectations, certain… rights. Please pass out, please pass out.

  Everlee’s upper lip began to perspire as Frederick tossed and turned, and then she felt it, his hand creeping along the silk sheets. The linens he’d bought after she complained about the cotton ones causing her long hair to knot at the back of her head.

  She stayed stock-still as a warm hand cupped her hip. With one pull, and in record speed, he had her body jerked across the mattress. Never let it be said that Frederick wasn’t inhumanly strong. He was the opposite of what everyone expected a photographer to be in the fashion industry.

  It’s what had drawn her to him.

  His strength.

  Masculinity.

  His alpha-male tendencies that made her feel like the most important woman in the world—that was until she’d aged.

  Now, this alpha male would never forgive her for not stopping the inevitable.

  Getting older.

  “Mmm.” Frederick kissed down her neck, his mouth hot and eager. She wanted to respond to him, she did. He was, after all, her husband, and that was her job. To honor him, even when he smelled like Chanel when she’d always worn Gucci.

  Even when his skin smelled like sweat.

  It was her job to love him unconditionally.

  And love him unconditionally she would.

  Besides, that was just the life they lived.

  The parts they played.

  Lies they believed.

  He pushed her onto her back and hovered over her, his cold, drunken gaze unfocused as he pulled up her favorite Victoria Secret pajamas, the ones he said were too domestic for a supermodel. She refused to let him know how much his judgment of her, and his emotional attacks, wounded her heart. He controlled everything about her… even down to demeaning her choices in intimate apparel. She realized she meant no more to him than any other object.

  On good days, he called her basic.

  Plain.

  On bad days, he called her washed-up and pointed out every flaw with ridiculous precision, even after she’d given him whatever he wanted.

  “These again.” He gripped the silk shorts and pulled them so hard, the fabric dug into her skin before they ripped off her hips. He dangled them in front of her. “You’re so much better than this.”

  He meant it as a compliment.

  He was smiling like she was his world.

  Then why did she feel sick?

  He dropped the shorts onto the floor and lowered his head, kissing her soundly on the mouth, parting her lips with his whiskey-infused tongue. He moaned like he couldn’t get enough.

  She held her breath so she wouldn’t have to smell the perfume.

  She closed her eyes so she wouldn’t see the lipstick smudge under his right ear.

  And when they joined in those brief drunken moments…

  She pretended it felt amazing.

  When all she felt was empty.

  And resentful.

  “We have the perfect life,” he whispered when he was finished. “Everyone says so.”

  “Yeah, sweetheart,” she agreed. Because things could be worse, right?

  He moved away from her and fell asleep with a snore.

  He missed the tear that slid down her cheek as she very calmly crawled out of bed to shower.

  He missed the toilet flushing to cover the crying.

  And he missed the pills she took to make the pain go away as she tossed them back and fell asleep with a smile on her face. Because she was free.

  At least, in her dreams.

  New York Fashion Week Countdown - 16 Days

  That extra glass of champagne had been a horrible idea. How many did that make? Two? Three? Clearly one too many for someone who only drank when the occasion asked for it. Brittany pushed up her tortoiseshell Tory Burch sunglasses and pulled open the doors to the hospital.

  You can do this.

  It’s just a building.

  It means nothing.

  Hands shaking, she made her way down the hall toward outpatient care. If anyone noticed her, they were polite enough to make it look like they didn’t. Then again, it was a hospital, not a runway, and people only saw what they wanted to see—she knew that all too well.

  “Code blue!” A female voice came over the intercom.

  Brittany sucked in a breath and pressed her back against the wall as a flurry of nurses rushed by.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. One breath, two. It’s just a building.

  The walls she could handle.

  The smells, however, reminded her.

  They reminded her well.

  Haunted.

  Dug their razor-sharp fingers into her skin and held on tightly as they twirled her lifeless body around and around.

  “Play with me, Mama!” A young voice sounded from down the hall.

  Brittany didn’t move as she watched the little girl with big, bouncy, black curls twirl and twirl by her mom’s feet. “Come on, Mama!”

  A dizzying sickness stabbed Brittany in the stomach as tears filled her eyes, tears of anger, outrage. And worst of all…

  Loss.

  “Where is he?” she yelled. “I need to see him!”

  “He never came,” the nurse whispered.

  And Brittany knew… she would never forgive him for it.

  For choosing something other than new life.

  For not choosing her.

  “Miss?” A deep voice interrupted her heavy thoughts. “Miss?”

  She blinked up and smiled. It was forced but believable. After all, wasn’t that what she was paid to do?

  Make it believable.

  Make them want.

  Make them desire.

  The American dream.

  Right.

  The happiest girl alive…

  “Yes?” She found her voice as the man in blue scrubs grinned down at her. He was
at least six-two and looked like he belonged in an MMA ring not in the hall of a hospital with its antiseptic smell and fluorescent lights. “Can I help you?”

  His laugh was smooth as his eyes crinkled at the corners, and a dimple formed at the corner of his mouth that drew her attention more than it should. “I think you stole my line.”

  “Oh.” She tucked her hair behind her ears and smiled, a real one this time. “Sorry. I was just… I’m here to see a friend.”

  “Lucky friend,” was all he said as he motioned for her to follow him. He stopped a foot away at the nurses’ station. “And your friend’s name?” He signed some paperwork, didn’t look up. No wedding ring, no tan line either.

  “Ummmm.” Great, now she’d forgotten the name of one of her best friends, her agent, all because she was checking out the doctor’s left hand! Stupid champagne. Her head was fuzzy, her mouth dry. Coffee would probably save her soul right about then. That and a re-do with Dr. Dimples. “Roger Maxwell,” she said smoothly.

  “Perfect.” He turned his megawatt smile back to her, right along with that body, and held out his hand. “I’m his doctor, he’s just resting. Surgery went as well as can be expected when you have your gallbladder removed. You’ll have to remind him to take it easy. Will there be any family visiting or—?”

  “Me,” Brittany said quickly. “I’m his family.” They all were—his girls, his tribe as he liked to call them, though they were minus one member.

  Emptiness settled in Brittany’s stomach as her eyes searched the doctor’s for any information other than that Roger was going to make it.

  “Okay.” The doctor drew out the word slowly and then smirked as if he were trying to figure her out. The dimple reappeared. “He’s in recovery room nine. I’ll take you over there. Just curious, is he always so…?”

  “Dramatic?” Brittany laughed. “I think that’s the word you were going for.”

  “I was going to say excitable, but dramatic works, too.” He chuckled. Laughs were insightful. If the eyes were the windows to the soul, then a laugh had to be a door cracked open. Every intonation, the way someone held themselves, said all there was to know about a person. A laugh was a tell. And Brittany knew by the doctor’s that he was a good man. After all, she’d been surrounded by the most powerful men in the world, and most of them laughed because they had to. This man did it because it was instinctive. “Your friend asked me if I copped a feel during surgery then offered to let me while he was awake. He’s a pretty interesting guy.”