by K. A. Linde
Staring up at the enormous stone building made her feel at home. In that moment, she realized how much she had missed New York City while she had been in Milan. She adored Milan, and it would always have a special place in her heart, but nothing could compare to New York.
She couldn’t believe that only yesterday she had been the centerpiece for a major fashion show. Her reaction regarding Marco had been rash, but that was usually how she worked. Act now and think later. It wasn’t always the best approach.
She was miffed that she hadn’t received so much as a fuck off, bitch text from Marco. Not to mention, she hadn’t heard a single word from her three bitchy roommates. How could they see that she was gone and not even ask if she was alive? What great friends! Alexa would be worried sick. Well, Alexa was worried sick, but Chyna didn’t really want to share what had happened. She already knew what she would say anyway, and she had been chastising herself enough.
In all honesty, she was just ready to get back to her life. She wanted to leave Milan and Marco behind and start fresh here. Fashion was huge in New York, and she was sure she could top fashion here as easily as she had in Italy. Plus, she had all of her favorite places back, and tons of men that had probably missed her in the clubs. She hadn’t been available in a while, so it would be fun to get back into it.
She smiled faintly and took a seat on the south side of the MET stairs. That was all she wanted anyway, right? Modeling and men. She could live on that.
Leaning her elbows back on the step behind her, she waited, watching the tourists pass her by. A few stared at her as they passed, whispering to each other excitedly. Another openly ogled her, nearly running into the person in front of her. When a third group took out their cameras to snap a photo of her, she started getting confused. What was going on? She knew that she was pretty, but total strangers didn’t normally pull out their cameras.
“Excuse me?” a giggly teenage girl said as she approached while handing her camera to her friend.
Chyna’s eyes narrowed. “Yes?”
“Can I take a picture with you? My friends will never believe that I met a supermodel!” she cried, nearly jumping up and down.
Chyna had the good sense not to let her mouth fall open or show her surprise on her face. She took the picture, and the girl thanked her before scurrying off.
What. The. Fuck. Was. Going. On?
She stood up and walked up a couple more steps to get out of the direct line of sight of the people passing by. She needed to uncover the truth of what was happening. How had four separate groups of people known who she was? Why had that girl called her a supermodel? It wasn’t a term she took lightly. Her mother was a supermodel. She resembled her mother, but come on, it was pretty obvious Chyna was twenty years younger!
Speaking of her mother…
“There you are, darling,” Andrea said, walking briskly up the MET steps in her characteristic white pea coat and over-sized black sunglasses. She kissed both of her cheeks in greeting.
“Do you know what’s going on?” Chyna demanded, skipping the introduction.
“What do you mean?” she asked coyly.
“Someone just called me a supermodel. Last I checked, the bill didn’t fit,” Chyna told her.
“Let’s go inside. It’s a bit chilly out here. I assume you wanted to ask me something else also,” she said, linking arms with Chyna and dragging her along.
Chyna relented to follow her up the stairs and inside.
“Let’s walk,” Andrea suggested.
“Can we just sit?” Chyna asked, not looking forward to this conversation. She looked forward to very few conversations with her mother. It was only the second or third time Chyna had seen her in the past couple of years, and she didn’t do family time for no reason.
Andrea sighed dramatically before answering, “Well, all right.”
They walked toward an empty bench in the main entranceway and took a seat next to each other. Chyna saw a woman glance in her direction, but she kept walking. She suddenly wished she had a hooded jacket. She normally enjoyed the attention, but this felt very different.
“So, how did you manage it?” Andrea finally asked.
“Manage what? Do you know why all these people are staring at me?” Chyna asked.
“They went up this morning all over the city.”
“What did?” she demanded.
“Are you certain you don’t know? I’d be shocked if you didn’t,” Andrea said, narrowing her eyes as if she didn’t believe her daughter.
Her disbelief wasn’t really out of the ordinary though.
“Would I be asking you if I knew what was going on?”
“Marco’s new advertisement went up all over the city. You’re the cover of his boutique. You’re at every bus stop, and you have a full-page spread in the New York Times. Darling, you’re everywhere.”
Chyna saw stars. No. No. No. No. No. This could not be happening to her. “Wha-what does it look like?” she managed to get out.
“Stunning. You’re wearing a purple mermaid dress, full sequins, perfect lines. You look like you’re ready to crawl through the camera,” she told her, eyeing her warily. Clearly, her reaction wasn’t what Andrea had been expecting.
“I’m sure someone has a New York Times around here.”
“That’s all right,” she said. Her hand dropped to the bench. She gripped it, trying to hold the nausea back. How had she fucked-up this badly?
“Didn’t he tell you?” Andrea asked suspiciously. “They always tell you.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Chyna said, swallowing. This was going to be much more difficult now. That damn man! “I came to talk to you about something else.”
“You look sick, darling. Should I get you something?” She waited for Chyna to respond, but Chyna said nothing. “Chyna, am I missing something?”
“Besides six years of my life, no,” Chyna spat back coldly, shutting Andrea up real quick. “Please stop trying to mother me. I don’t need a mother right now.”
“Fine, what do you want then?” she asked, crossing her leg and tapping her foot in the air impatiently.
“You know Cassandra Corsa?” Chyna asked straight out. She didn’t want to beat around the bush with this. She just needed answers, and she intended to get them.
“What the hell do you know about Cassandra Corsa?” Andrea asked, planting both feet on the ground as she turned to face her daughter.
Chyna shrugged. “I know enough.”
“Why are you even asking about Corsa? You have Marco’s line at your feet. You’re plastered on every corner. I’ve been there,” she said wistfully. “Now, why would someone like that need Cassandra Corsa?”
“It’s really none of your business.”
“It is if you are asking me about her. Marco knows Cassandra Corsa. You could have asked him,” Andrea said as if seeing a chink in the armor. “So, why haven’t you asked him?”
“It really doesn’t matter whether or not I’m talking to Marco about Cassandra Corsa. I just asked you about her,” Chyna said, hating her mother’s perverse logic. She had been married to Chyna’s father for too long.
“Marco won’t let you near her, you know?”
“Mother!” she cried, raising her voice, drawing unnecessary attention her way. “Can we not do this?”
“Oh, now you want a mother,” she said, narrowing her eyes.
“I just want you to give me her phone number,” Chyna countered, ignoring her previous statement.
“Why should I do that?” Andrea asked her point blank.
Chyna sighed and stared at the ground. She knew where this was going. She couldn’t be hard, edgy Chyna in this situation. Her mother knew her too well. She had, kind of, raised her, and Chyna had gotten a lot of her bite and attitude from the person sitting next to her. Everything else she had was from her father, and Andrea knew how to get around him better than anyone. Andrea also hated it more than anyone, so Chyna needed to be someone else.
&nb
sp; “Because I need it,” she finally said. “I need her number because Marco won’t give it to me. He doesn’t want me near another designer. He thinks he owns me.”
It was mostly the truth, and it sounded like something her mother could sympathize with. It wasn’t like she was going to go around telling Andrea what had really gone down.
“Sounds like a typical male designer,” Andrea said with a snort at the end for extra emphasis. “Self-indulgent, egotistical, demanding, self-righteous…assholes. I’d love to eliminate the whole lot of them.”
Chyna laughed at her mom’s perfect description of Marco. It was like she had experience with these types of men or something. Well, she probably did.
“Fine,” Andrea finally said. “Just because I know the situation you’re in.” She pulled out her phone and handed the number over to her. “I’m still in contact with her some. Sweet girl. So much like her mother. I bet she’ll be in New York for her line reveal in two weeks,” she threw out offhand.
“Thank you,” Chyna said, grateful for the shred of mercy her mother had shown her. It was the most she had seen since she and her father had given Chyna her penthouse.
19
Present
Hiding from the constant stares the next four days was harder than Chyna had thought possible. It was a strange feeling to go from being well known to being an overnight celebrity in her hometown. Alexa had the decency not to bring it up. She was laid back enough to not care that her best friend’s face was plastered around the city. In fact, the only time it had come up, Alexa had just shrugged her little shoulders and told her she had assumed that was why Chyna was in Milan in the first place. Alexa certainly had more faith in her newfound supermodel status than Chyna did.
She hadn’t ever realized it would be that different, but she had lost all anonymity with Marco’s cover spread. It was infuriating. She just wanted to move on; she wanted to forget. But, her face was everywhere. And she couldn’t avoid the heated fuck-me eyes she was sending Marco’s way or the dress he had originally created for her to wear to Glam Ball.
When she had seen the photo that Marco had chosen, she’d had to grab onto the bus stop for support. She knew that picture. Marco hadn’t been satisfied with the quality of the photo shoot one day, so they had played around with lighting and camera angles back at his apartment all afternoon. The picture plastered all over New York was her seduction. It had never been meant for anyone else’s eyes. No wonder everyone was eating it up.
At least, Cassandra Corsa was interested. She had seen the spread—everyone in the fashion world had at this point—and was willing to meet with her. She was still in Italy on business after the Glam Ball. She sounded surprised that Chyna had already returned to New York since most of Marco’s girls usually spent the final two weeks of the summer at the beach together, finalizing deals for modeling jobs in the fall. Thankfully, Cassandra hadn’t asked any questions.
Chyna was hoping that her offer was still on the table. Cassandra had made it seem that way at Glam Ball, but that had been a different time. Chyna couldn’t even let herself worry about that. Remaining positive was key.
In fact, she was just ready to get back to her old life. She was pretty sure she was already beginning to fool Alexa. That was all she needed right now. She would get this new modeling job, exactly what she deserved, and things would go back to normal. She was sure of it.
As soon as Chyna made it up to the VIP area in her favorite club, she took her dark Ray-Bans off and pulled her long black hair down from the loose ponytail at the base of her neck. Recently, it had been easier to hide behind her glasses. No one in VIP would say anything though. She was secure in her identity here.
The club was packed, and she had to fight her way through the club, even in the VIP section. It was much more crowded than normal for a Thursday night, but she appreciated the cover that gave her. Plus, it meant it was more likely that she didn’t know everyone. She was ready for some normal. She wanted to prove Alexa right.
The bartender had two shots of tequila waiting for her when he saw her approaching the bar. God, she loved him! She had been gone for two months, and he still knew exactly what she wanted. At least one man did.
She took one after the other, appreciating the never-failing bite as it burned its way down her throat. The lime that she chased it with had never tasted so refreshing. She took the martini from the bartender and left the bar to scope out the scene. A group of girls in the corner waved her over. She recognized one or two from the private school she had attended during middle and high school. They weren’t her favorite people in the world, but she was looking for normal after all.
“Chyna Van der Wal,” the first one said, standing uneasily with her drink in hand. She threw her other arm around Chyna’s shoulders. She was nearly as tall as Chyna with long, wavy blonde hair and a snooty upturned nose. Her parents had old, old money, and she let everyone know it. “It has been too long.”
“Totes true,” the second one chimed in. She had a round face with a short chin-length brown bob and dimpled cheeks. She looked like she had put on a few pounds since high school and was hiding it behind her boob job.
“Good to see you, Layla,” she said to the blonde. Then, she turned to the brunette. “You, too, Amy.”
The two girls scooted their friends over to give Chyna room to join their group. Feeling obligated, she sat down. Layla introduced Chyna to the rest of the girls, but she wasn’t planning to be around for much longer, so she didn’t pay attention. In fact, she had other things on her mind, like getting wasted, dancing away the rest of the night, and stumbling home to try and forget the rest of the week.
“So, what have you been up to?” Chyna had seen Layla at the MET sometime last year. She had tried to avoid her, but Layla had somehow cornered her on the way out. She had just graduated from Yale with her bachelor’s in interior design or fashion or something Chyna knew Layla was likely never use as a stay-at-home mom.
Layla thrust her left hand out, revealing the massive diamond on her finger. “I got married!”
“Nice,” Chyna said unenthusiastically. Marriage was pretty low on her list of priorities. Actually, it might not be on the list. Sex sounded nice though. Nice, straight, rough, vanilla sex.
“And, I’m engaged!” Amy followed it up by showing off her own rock.
“Great,” Chyna said, barely glancing at their rings.
“And, you…” Layla said wide-eyed. “You’re all over New York. Following in mommy’s footsteps, I see.”
God, she remembered why she hadn’t been friends with these bitches in high school. The bite of jealousy in Layla’s voice was so unbecoming.
“How did you get to model for Marco’s anyway? I’m still trying to get him to return my calls. I heard he designs wedding dresses, and hubby said I could get whatever I wanted,” Amy crooned.
Chyna clutched the armrest at the mention of his name. She couldn’t escape him. She just couldn’t get away from any of it. She put her glass down on the table and stood. She hadn’t even noticed that she hadn’t taken a single sip from the drink. “I have to go.”
“Wait!” Layla called. “Where are you going?”
“Away.”
“What’s wrong?” Amy cried, standing as well.
“Nothing. I just…you know what? It doesn’t matter,” Chyna said, turning away from them.
“Rude much?” She said heard Layla call at her as she walked away from their table.
She didn’t stop or turn around. She made it to the center of the dance space and began grinding her body to the beat. She wasn’t drunk enough to forget what had just happened, but she tried to fill her mind with the music, the dance, the grip of someone’s hands on her hips. Still Marco weaseled his way into her thoughts even then.
She wasn’t supposed to care about what she had done. It was no more than he deserved. He might have been about to surprise her with the cover spread of his new advertisement, but that didn’t mean anything
. How many other women had been cover models for him? How many others had he photographed in his studio? How many other models had he tossed aside for the next thing? And how many had left him?
She was sure that she was the only one.
The only one dumb enough.
“Hey, baby, what’s your name?” the guy whispered into her ear while she pushed her ass against him.
“Doesn’t matter,” Chyna said, pushing her hands up around his neck and rolling her body back against his. Her name was too recognizable at the moment. Maybe he hadn’t seen the advertisement. Maybe he hadn’t seen her name written in shiny gold font at the bottom. But, she wasn’t taking chances. Tonight, she was just some anonymous girl in the VIP lounge.
“I like that,” he breathed into her ear. They danced for the next three songs before he leaned forward and spoke to her again. “You want to get out of here?”
She debated. He was cute and a good dancer. He definitely fell into the high school jock category as far as looks went. He was kind of built like a baseball player with shortish blonde hair and a cocky smile. She could dig that cocky smile. It usually meant good things in the bedroom…or it meant terrible things. Taking a second look at him, she guessed the former.
But, did she want to leave with some guy that she just thought was cute, even if he had a smile that she knew held promise? “I don’t think so,” she finally responded.
He didn’t acknowledge her refusal as he continued to dance with her, his movements getting impassioned. His hands ran up her sides, and as she began to pull her hands down from around his neck, he reached up and locked them back in place. She obliged his forceful behavior and kept on dancing with him. That was good enough for now. He was a good enough distraction.
He took this as encouragement and moved his hands back down her arms. His hands got adventurous, rounding the curves of her breasts and then trailing down her flat stomach to the waistline of her black shorts. His fingers dipped under the material and fluttered lightly across the inside of the seam. She dropped her head backward onto his shoulder as his touch heated her body. Maybe this was the easiest way to forget.