by Leigh James
A new graphic flashes on the large projector screen on the wall behind me.
Bitch: noun a woman in control of herself, her life, and her destiny, who always gets what she wants.
Shouts of “Amen!” and raucous hoots of approval erupt from the audience. Now I can’t help myself. My mouth breaks into a huge smile.
“That’s right. A bitch always gets what she wants. A bitch isn’t bossy. She’s the boss. In life, in work, and in relationships, bitches always do better. Now let me ask you ladies…”
I throw my shoulders back, lift my hand to the sky, and raise my voice to the rafters.
“Are you ready to become a BITCH?”
The answering screams are deafening. Applause thunders. The audience leaps to its feet.
And I stand laughing on the stage, soaking in the adulation of over two thousand women, thinking there’s no way life gets any better than this.
Well, if Mr. Forty Seconds of Fury had turned out to be Mr. Four Hours of Foreplay, it would’ve been better, but because men are men, we women can’t always get everything we want, despite the claim of the empowering graphic projected on the wall.
Which is precisely why I own so many vibrators.
* * *
Seven hours later, after the seminar is finished, all the questions have been answered, all the books have been signed, and the last of the audience has finally filtered out the ballroom doors to wreak havoc on the men in their lives with their new, enthusiastically embraced titles of capital-B Bitches—and they have the lapel pins, mugs, and bumper stickers to prove it—I’m exhausted.
Unfortunately, I committed to dinner with Darcy tonight at Xengu, the new hot spot in Tribeca, and there’s no way she’ll let me off the hook, no matter how tired I am. Calling her a foodie would be like calling Jesus a rabbi: accurate, but completely missing the point. Darcy has turned dining out into an art form, and a highly lucrative business. She’s one of the most successful food bloggers in the States.
She’s also the only woman I’ve ever met who can make a grown man soil his pants in fear at the mere sight of her. If a restaurant gets a thumbs-down review from her, its owner might as well close the doors and start over. She’s utterly, unapologetically ruthless.
And brilliant. And loud. And hilarious. If there’s anyone in my life I’d use the L-word for, it would be her.
I’m back in the lobby of my high-rise, awaiting the private elevator that will take me to the penthouse level, when my cell rings. My assistant, Tabby, is carrying it, along with my Hermès bag, my laptop bag, and my rolling travel bag.
Rule #1: Bitches don’t carry their own luggage.
I don’t have to ask Tabby to answer the phone. She fishes it from her pocket, blows her fire-engine red bangs off her forehead, eyes the readout, and holds the cell out to me.
“It’s Darcy.”
I take the phone and say cheerfully into it, “Yo, girlfriend!”
In response, I hear a sigh. “I take it by your lame attempt to sound gangsta you’re running behind schedule?”
“I could be gangsta!” I say defensively.
Beside me, Tabby raises her brows.
Darcy, who is 5’10”, African-American, and weighs somewhere in the vicinity of two hundred fifty pounds, says sweetly, “Sure you could. And I could be Taylor Swift. Now if we’re done living in a fictional universe, can we please talk about how late you’re running? Because I’m not walking into Xengu late. They won’t hold the reservation, even for me.”
The elevator doors slide open. Tabby and I step inside, and the doors close behind us.
“They wouldn’t dare give away your reservation! Don’t they know who you are?”
“Right?” agrees Darcy, reveling in her bulldozer reputation. Her voice turns sour. “But apparently the owner isn’t fond of food critics, because I was told in no uncertain terms that if I were more than ten minutes late, my reservation would be given away, no matter who I am. This place is totallo en fuego, girl! They can afford a few bruised egos.”
When speaking to me, Darcy enjoys peppering her speech with trendy little Spanish phrases, most of them botched. My mother is El Salvadorian, and my father was from Mexico City, and they both spoke Spanish to me when I was growing up, so I speak the language as well…and Darcy thinks she does too. Her Spanglish is atrocious. It’s also highly amusing.
“FYI, Gloria, if you mean ‘completely,’ you just say, ‘total.’”
I call her Gloria when she butchers the language, after Sofia Vergara’s character in Modern Family. Though Gloria’s butchering English, so it’s not really the same, only it is because I said so.
Rule #2: Bitches are never wrong.
“Tch! You ‘totallo’ know what I mean, V! Don’t hate! And don’t change the subject. When are you getting there?”
The elevator doors open again to reveal the elegant marble-and-glass foyer of my penthouse. Tabby and I walk inside. She leaves my handbag on the mirrored console against the wall. The rolling luggage bag she takes into my home office, where she’ll spend the next several hours going through mail, answering emails, scheduling meetings, and generally making my life easier. I pay her an ungodly sum of money, but she’s worth every cent. I couldn’t do what I do without her efficient support. More importantly, she’s proven her loyalty time and again, guarding all my secrets, exercising total discretion in the running of my affairs. She’s one of only two people on earth I can trust.
The ironclad nondisclosure contract she signed when she came to work for me doesn’t hurt.
Still with my phone to my ear, I unbutton my jacket, toss it to the back of a white leather chair in the living room, and head to the master bedroom and my favorite thing in this six-thousand-square-foot ultramodern space I call home: the Jacuzzi bathtub.
“Give me half an hour. If you get there before me, order me a—”
“Filthy Grey Goose martini with three blue cheese olives. I know. And lemme guess. You’ll be wearing white Armani.”
I pretend I’m offended. “Are you saying I’m predictable?”
“I’m saying you’re anal, V. Why not break out some color once in a while? Maybe a floral print? Or, if you’re in the mood to really go for broke, maybe try a drink other than a Grey Goose martini?”
Because, dear friend, there’s safety in routine.
“I’ll try something else when they make something better. See you soon,” I say, and hang up.
I run a bath. When it’s ready, I strip out of the rest of my clothes and sink into the steaming water, sighing in pleasure. The only thing that mars my contentment is that my legs are too short to reach the end of the tub, and so I have to hold on to the edges so I don’t sink.
I wish I had longer legs.
In my mind, I’m six feet tall. In my mind, I’m a Viking warrior. In my mind, I’m a goddess, irresistible and powerful and, most of all, beautiful.
The reality, however, is that I’m a light-skinned Latina of average height and weight with no particularly interesting features. I admit I do have a good head of thick, dark hair, and straight white teeth. Which, like my crooked nose, weak chin, thin lips, nearsightedness, and flat chest, I had fixed years ago. Thank God for plastic surgery. Even if I don’t look like a swimsuit model, I definitely look completely different from the country mouse I used to be—and that was the goal. There’s nothing of my old life left in the new me, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Rule #3: Fake it ’til you make it, bitch.
I soak in the hot water until the muscles in my shoulders and lower back release their knots. Then I get out, dry off, change into a cocktail dress, do my makeup, and fluff my hair. On my way out, I shout a good-bye to Tabby, who has her head buried in a stack of my mail. I head downstairs to the lobby, where my car and driver await. In eight minutes, I’m walking into the noisy, delicious-smelling entrance of Xengu.
Which is when I see him.
Him.
And the safe, carefully constructe
d world I’ve inhabited for the past fifteen years ends with the abruptness of two fingers snapping.
* * *
Get Wicked Beautiful here!
About Jack’s House Publishing
Jack’s House Publishing, LLC is New York Times bestselling author Marie Force’s publishing endeavor. Since 2010, Marie has been a leader in the self-publishing movement, particularly within the romance genre. She wants to put her expertise, knowledge and experience to work for authors who are struggling to be seen by readers in this increasingly competitive marketplace. Since 2012, Marie has owned and operated the Formatting Fairies to help authors prepare their books for self-publication. Her team has helped hundreds of authors get started on their publishing journey. Now she wants to put her team to work on helping the authors we acquire to rise above the sea of books currently on sale and connect with readers. When Marie gives workshops on topics ranging from Self-Publishing 101 to Preparing for Success, her message is consistent—success in this business is all about writing a great book—and then doing it over and over again. If you’ve written a great book that no one has read, we want to help you find your readers.
* * *
We’re Looking for the Next Great Contemporary Romance Novel!
Have you written a book that absolutely rocks? Is it edgy and sexy and provocative? If so, we want to be your publisher! Over the last seven years, New York Times bestselling author Marie Force has built an eight-figure business mostly through independent publishing. With more than 40 indie-published books to her name, Marie knows how to elevate your book from obscurity to visibility. After seven years of running the Formatting Fairies business, Marie and her team are ready to work for you. Would you like to skip over the hurdles of discoverability that all new authors face? Would you rather write than deal with figuring out how to format for all the major retailers? Would you like to have one of today’s top contemporary romance authors personally endorse your book? Would you like to be mentored every step of the way, from developing your website and social media presence to choosing your cover to setting your price? If so, we want to hear from you.
Find out more at jackshousepublishing.com
or email us at [email protected].