by Meghan March
“Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get out of here. Time to beat the shit out of something.”
Seven
Scarlett
The cab slows to a halt in front of the four-story brick building that has been one of my favorite places for most of my life. I pay the cabbie and slide out, my gaze going directly to the letters carved into the stone over the main entrance.
* * *
House of Scarlett
* * *
Every time I read it, I feel a pang of grief for my mother. Even five years after losing her, it hasn’t faded much. It’s duller than it used to be, but always there. Just as I feel like she’s always here with me. After all, this was her favorite place too—the headquarters of one of the world’s most iconic fashion houses where my mother was founder, CEO, and creative director, at least until she made the decision to sell it after receiving her cancer diagnosis. The new owner moved everything to LA, and the building came to me after she passed.
My mother spent almost a decade as a runway model before she met and married my father, something I still don’t understand to this day, given their incendiary fights and legendary divorce when I was eight. My dad thought House of Scarlett was a silly little project that didn’t mean anything and gave up all rights to it in the divorce settlement. Only, he would have been better off with House of Scarlett than his family’s pharmaceutical company, which has been facing massive lawsuits for the last decade from selling drugs the company knew were tainted . . . but didn’t recall or warn the public about them.
I choose to believe I get my business sense from my mother and not my father.
A feeling of being watched shivers down my spine, and I spin around to scan the street behind me.
Nothing but people who look completely normal, going about their business. But, then again, maybe I’m not the best judge of what completely normal looks like, because I didn’t notice the guy who kidnapped me only hours ago.
Is he following me? I back toward the door as I continue my assessment of the potential threats on my block.
The woman with a watering can, trying to extend the life of her impatiens as the petals fall with the cooling temperature. Mrs. Wanstein, I think? And then there are the three girls in plaid uniform skirts and white blouses, who must have already started school. A man walking a greyhound. Someone trying to parallel park poorly.
All normal. Right?
I turn back around and jam my key into the first lock, noticing the large flower pots bursting with rusty red and orange mums out of the corner of my eye. Amy must have switched them out today, so we’d be ready for tomorrow’s appointments.
Two more locks and I’m inside. Even the familiar fresh citrus scent of my sacred space doesn’t dispel my disquiet—at least, not until the door is bolted shut behind me. I lean against the wooden panel and drop my head back against it with a thump.
Home. Safe.
Also better known as Curated. My baby.
Critics have called my social media staging store brilliant, simply elegant, and forward-thinking. Then there are the others who’ve called it shallow, vain, and adding to the problem of millennial vapidity. That last one stung.
But I don’t care what the critics say. I don’t do this for them. I do it for me. Because it makes me feel good to help level the social media playing field. Not everyone instinctively understands how to curate their surroundings to help create a great feed, and I can help. So I do.
Critics can shove it. It’s a lot harder than they realize to grow up in the limelight, with paparazzi shadowing your every move because of who your mother is, and then still have the courage left to take risks. Nearly everything I do, whether business or personal, is watched, judged, and often criticized. But my detractors don’t get it. My only other option is to do nothing—which means not living, and that is something I refuse to do.
My purpose isn’t to give everyone a picture-perfect life, but to give people the tools to showcase their life in whatever way makes them happy, which I think is pretty damn cool.
And luckily, so does a lot of Manhattan and the rest of the country.
Business is going ridiculously well, and demand is always outpacing supply. We actually had to change three of our open days, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, to be by-appointment-only because of the crush of people in the store. On Fridays, when we’re open to the public, a line extends from the front door all the way down the sidewalk, and we have to cut off allowing people to join it at five o’clock.
I personally stay until every single client has what they need, which usually means staying open until nine or later. On Saturdays, we start the cycle over again—restocking with one-of-a-kind pieces, moving inventory from the exclusive third floor down to the first two floors, and I occasionally still get to go on the buying trips, meet vendors, and go treasure hunting in their warehouses. Although most of the time, I have to delegate to Amy or one of the other members of the team because I get wrapped up with other things. It’s a ton of hard work, and I absolutely adore it. Because it’s totally and completely mine.
And right now, it’s silent and utterly peaceful, exactly as it should be.
I walk through the living room, touching china and books and knickknacks as I make my way to the wide wooden staircase, with a gorgeous carved newel post and bannister, that leads upstairs. The second floor has three uniquely themed bedrooms that change weekly as we redecorate and turn over the store, along with a library, three bathrooms, a study, and a tea room. The third floor contains an entire house layout, but it’s for our clients who prefer to shop without an audience and prize exclusivity. All the newest and most exciting pieces are staged on the third floor first. Anything not purchased that week is moved downstairs to the other rooms for our Friday shoppers.
I keep climbing until I hit the fourth floor. My domain.
Half of the square footage is taken up by office space for my team, and the other half is my sanctuary—the space that was my mother’s design studio, which I now call home after I sold her penthouse overlooking Central Park. This suits me better anyway.
I miss you, Mom. I think you’d really love what I’ve done with the place.
After unlocking my private front door, I step inside, finally feeling the remaining tension drain out of me. No one can get me here. This is where I’m safe.
I don’t just mean kidnappers can’t get me either. No one also includes the press and photographers and everyone who wants something from me. It’s an amazing life that I’m truly grateful for, but my privacy is more valuable to me than gold, diamonds, or vintage Chanel.
“And I think a drink is in order after this afternoon,” I say out loud to the empty space.
But before I reach the antique sideboard and cut-crystal decanters, my phone buzzes in the pocket of my leggings. I yank it out, wondering if it’s Jordy finally texting to find out what the hell happened to me. Or Patricia, whose shop I was running by to plug on social media.
It’s neither of them. No. It’s my boyfriend.
* * *
Chadwick: Come over tonight. I’ll be home by 10:30. Want to see you.
* * *
It doesn’t take a genius to realize the message is a booty call. Which . . . I should be excited about, but after the day I’ve had, I think it’s fair to say that sex is the last thing on my mind.
My first instinct is to tap the screen to call him and tell him everything that happened, but something stops me. Probably the threats that Bump made . . . but also, a pair of ridiculously blue eyes, set in a dangerously arresting face, appear in my mind.
Gabriel Legend.
I tap out a text to Chadwick, who would never deign to go by something so pedestrian as Chad, letting him know I’m tired. We don’t even live together, but we already have our code for sorry, you’re not getting laid tonight. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but I have my theories.
* * *
Scarlett: Sorry, working late on numbers t
onight, just like every Tuesday.
* * *
Sure, it’s a little passive-aggressive, but he should know that Monday and Tuesday nights are when I do the majority of the number crunching and catch up on administrative stuff that I couldn’t get to over the weekend.
As I wait for his undoubtedly annoyed response, I can’t help but feel resentment build in me. Somehow, it’s okay for Chadwick to work late multiple nights a week, and people think he’s a stud. But when he talks about how much I work, people give him looks of pity, like I’m less of a woman because of it.
Yes, I miss birthdays, holidays, and sporting events. No, I don’t have many hobbies that aren’t related to my business. Or much free time. And I rarely go out with my friends to any event that I’m not attending specifically for the purpose of being seen for business reasons or to help someone else.
But those sacrifices are worth it, because without them, I wouldn’t have Curated.
Chadwick doesn’t get it, though. Maybe because he works for my father and not for himself. Or because he’s just there to climb the corporate ladder and collect the fat checks that pay for the life he lives.
Regardless of all that, I’m just not a booty-call girl. I’m an in bed by ten and wearing my blue-light-blocking glasses and watching Charlie’s Angels reruns kind of girl. Sometimes I even mix it up with Bewitched. And if I’m feeling really salty, Daria. I love that cranky girl.
Not that Chadwick knows or cares, as is evidenced by the next text I get.
* * *
Chadwick: It’s been a week since I’ve seen you.
* * *
He means, it’s been a week since he’s gotten laid.
* * *
Scarlett: You know I would, but Aunt Flo is in town.
* * *
I really shouldn’t be smirking when I hit send, but I am.
His reply is almost instantaneous.
* * *
Chadwick: Good luck with your numbers. See you at dinner tomorrow.
* * *
“Predictable as hell,” I tell my living room. Because in Chadwick’s world, women don’t have bodily functions, let alone talk about them. And yet he keeps trying to get me to move in to his condo, and says that living above my store is negatively affecting my image.
Whatever, Chadwick. I like my store. And my image.
The reminder about dinner is welcome, though. I forgot I’m meeting Chadwick and my father tomorrow night, and I’m actually looking forward to it.
Somehow, some way, when Chadwick is around my father, our relationship makes sense. No, Chadwick isn’t the perfect boyfriend, but my father becomes a different person than he is when we’re alone together. Lawrence Priest never really knew what to do with a daughter, but when Chadwick joins the mix, my father comes alive in a way that makes me wish I could have that version of him all the time. At least there’s one major positive to my relationship with Chadwick.
After pouring three fingers of Seven Sinners, my favorite whiskey, I take the glass over to the Ames chair that my mom loved for relaxing and sketching. The same chair Chadwick told me I should toss—one of the few times he came to my place. He couldn’t stand the eclectic style and said “the chaos of it all” gave him a headache.
Despite being offended to the core, I smiled, as expected, and showed him to the door and promised him we’d meet up at his place from then on.
Ugh. I don’t want to think about Chadwick anymore. I sip the whiskey and savor the heat and the earthy flavor as it slides down my throat, letting my mind wander.
And dammit, it goes right back to those blue eyes.
I snatch my laptop off the coffee table and type in his name. My curiosity isn’t going to be tamed with anything less than a full-on, stalker-level search of Gabriel Legend. It doesn’t take much, because in a fraction of a second, I’m sitting on thousands of results.
It’s the videos that draw me in first. I hit play on the first one, and—holy crap—there he is. Shirtless and in all his sweaty glory.
Oh. My. Word.
I jerk back, almost spilling my whiskey as his opponent throws a fist and Legend dodges out of the way before firing back at him. The sound of gloved knuckles connecting with skin is primal at best and brutal at worst. I duck and shift as the guy goes after him again, forcing Legend to bob and weave. At least, I think that’s what it’s called. I’ve never been into boxing or whatever kind of fighting this is.
Legend takes a shot to the chin, and blood flies out of his mouth. But instead of hitting the floor of the ring, he launches himself at the other man and takes him to the mat. My jaw drops as they wrestle.
The way he subdues the man and uses his body to create enough leverage to nearly rip his opponent’s arm from the socket is like watching cruel poetry in motion. The man slaps his hand on Legend’s abs, as if begging for mercy, and then the fight is all over.
Holy. Shit. I wasn’t prepared for this.
My heart is pounding. My palms are sweaty. And heat—the kind that was disturbingly absent when my boyfriend texted me about a booty call—thrums between my legs.
There’s something wrong with me.
Could I have Stockholm Syndrome already? Is that even possible? Because I shouldn’t think this is appealing. I should be repelled. Repulsed. Terrified to go back to Legend on Saturday night and fulfill my part of our bargain.
But I’m not. I’m practically drooling over the image of the man frozen on my screen, with sweat glistening on his skin. Sweat that makes me think very naughty thoughts. Like I should make my way to the bedroom and finish myself off with a vibrator.
Shit. This isn’t good.
I toss back the rest of the whiskey, which is a crime, considering it should be savored, but I don’t care. I put the laptop on the table and stride across to the sideboard. But instead of pouring another glass, I rearrange all the barware and decanters.
One by one, I pick up each glass and wipe it down with a bar towel and restack them, artfully. Then I dust each decanter and shift it left a half inch to compensate for the new space taken up by the crystal. It only takes me five minutes, but the mindless task calms me down and helps me put what I just watched out of my mind.
Don’t think about him. Think about the club and how you’re going to fix it.
Not trusting myself to halt the Google searching, I grab my phone and make a call to one of my most trusted confidants who also happens to know damn near everything about almost everyone—Kelsey Pak, my beloved hair and makeup artist.
She answers on the third ring. “Hey, babe. What’s up? You need me? I can be over in a half hour if you do.”
Despite the fact that I pay her very well for her services, I know Kelsey wouldn’t make the offer to her other clients. I get special treatment because she’s not just a service provider, she’s one of my best friends.
“I’m staying in tonight, so don’t worry about that . . . but I was wondering if you could help me with some information.”
I can practically see the trademark smirk cross her face. “Oh . . . now you’ve piqued my interest. What do you need to know and about whom?”
Kelsey has made a name for herself in this city as not only being excellent at what she does, but also as a trusted source of legitimately true gossip. Of course, she’d never talk about one of her clients, though.
“Gabriel Legend. I need to know everything you—”
“Whoa. Whoa. Back up,” Kelsey says, interrupting. “I didn’t hear you right. Did I? Because I thought you said Gabriel Legend.”
“I did.” I look around the room, suddenly feeling like I shouldn’t be saying his name out loud. Like if I say it three times, he might appear.
But would that be so bad? Oh my God. What is wrong with me? Stop it, Scarlett.
“Why? How? A sweet little thing like you shouldn’t even know that man exists, let alone want to know more about him. Wait. Wait. Did you . . . hook up with him? Oh shit. Oh my God.” Kelsey’s tone is half bouncing
out of her chair with excitement and half I’m scared for your life. It’s a little disconcerting, but thrilling all the same.
“I didn’t hook up with him,” I say quickly, not letting her very active and vivid imagination run away with her.
“Then why?”
As much as I want to tell her the truth, Bump’s warning hangs in the back of my mind. So I go with the closest thing I can say instead. “I heard about his club and the shooting, and wondered if there’s a chance it can make a comeback.”
Kelsey snorts. “That place is dead in the water. Not even you could resuscitate it. That grand opening party was off the chain. Like ridiculously insane.”
“That’s a good sign, though.”
“Yeah, until someone came in wearing a mask and shot up the place. You know better than anyone that the who’s who of Manhattan does not deal with gunshots and chaos. You all are way too protected to handle that level of gangster shit. No one will go back there now, no matter how hot and sexy the reclusive Gabriel Legend is. They’re terrified, thinking they’ll get shot at again.”
I search my brain for details, and want to kick myself for not clicking on the articles about the shooting before I got sucked into the raw display of male power that was the fighting video.
“But no one got hurt, right?”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean anything. People are afraid, and there’s no way they’ll chance it again. Why do you care? You aren’t really a party girl if you can avoid it.”
Considering she’s been part of my life since I was twenty-five, trying to find my own personal style, and let me cry on her shoulder when my mom passed, Kelsey knows me better than almost anyone.