Love, Chloe
Page 1
Love Chloe
Copyright © 2016 by Alessandra Torre.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Digital ISBN: 978-1-940941-75-2
Print ISBN: 978-1-940941-76-9
Editors: Madison Seidler, Marion Archer
Proofreaders: Angie Owens, Perla Calas
Front Cover Design: Perfect Pear Creative Covers
Image: Perrywinkle Photography
Cover Model: Brit Allen
Formatting: Erik Gevers
Title Page
November
1. Booted From My Life
December
2. Interview With a Condom Heiress
3. Opening the Ex-File
4. Girls Just Want to Have Fun
5. Kissing a Frog
6. Countdown to Jaw Drop
7. Canines, Couture & Conversation
January
8. New Year’s Resolutions & Regrets
9. My old friend: Tiffany
10. Prawns & Porn
11. Parenting 101
February
12. Finding a New Pad
13. The Italian Stallion
14. Pop Quiz
March
15. I Blame it on the Ah-ah-ah-ah-Alcohol
16. Well. This is Awkward.
17. My Super-Sexy Super
18. Hunger Fried My Brain
April
19. The Calm Before the Storm
20. Stepping in Shit
21. What Had Happened Was…
22. Have Morals, Will Sell
23. Please. Yell at Me More.
24. Mo Money, Mo Problems
May
25. The Benefits of Grape Bubble Gum
26. Saved by the Super
27. Meeting a Movie Star
28. Oh. I Totally Get It.
June
29. How to Lie Without Lying
30. Evidence & Betrayal
31. Am I a Terrible Kisser?
July
32. We’re all Sluts for Cash
33. Knock. Knock.
34. The Walk of Shame
35. Becoming Famous
36. A Big Dick
37. My Boss Is A Bitch
38. Knight in Shining Joey
August
39. Sinking Deeper
40. Codeword: SugarTits
41. Phi Iota 4 Life
42. My Party Planning Skills Suck
43. Loving Him With Lies
44. Does Sex Solve Everything?
45. The Myth of Sex Without Feelings
46. The Worst Time to See Your Ex
47. The Hardest Kind of Drug
September
48. Hunting Hotties
49. Heartbreak Red
50. Fighting With the Past
51. Table for Two
52. “Please.”
53. God Bless Presa Little
54. Just the Two of Us
55. She’s a Monet.
56. Mrs. Robinson is a Bitch.
57. Getting Clean Never Felt So Dirty
58. Late Night Booty Call
October
59. So Much for Male Loyalties
60. My Middle Name is Classy
61. Is Closure Really Necessary?
62. Calling the Enemy
63. Negotiation Works Best Naked
64. Six Tons of Oh Shit
65. I Should Have Seen This Coming
66. Out of the ClearBlue Sky
67. Dropping the L Bomb
68. Wounds Aren’t the Only Superficial Things
69. Was I Brave Enough to Love?
70. My Mouth is Big
November
71. Distracted by the D
72. Closure: Is it Really Necessary?
73. Drinks With the Devil
74. Hit Me With Your Best Shot
75. Five-Fingered Prick
76. Breaking up with Balenciaga
77. The Thing I Didn’t Want to Talk About
78. I Hate These People
79. Walking the Plank
80. My Big Fat Mouth
81. The Worst Kind of Goodbye
82. Finally Saying the Words
83. Aren’t Visitors Supposed to Call First?
84. Loose Lips Sink Everything
85. Spilling the Beans
86. She Doesn’t Deserve Children
87. Back Where I Belonged
88. Chanel No. WTF
89. Cupcakes Heal Most Wounds
90. Was I Reading Too Much Into This?
91. A Grown-Up Conversation
92. Oh. You Guys Again.
December
93. Coercion is a Dish Best Served Wet
94. To Pack or Not to Pack?
95. We Are All Worthy of Love
96. My Penniless Ass is FREE
97. Senior Citizen Kink
January
98. Chloe & Carter, Sitting in a Tree.
99. Six Months Later - June
Epilogue - Carter
And Then...
From the Author
I’m blessed. I know that.
1. Booted From My Life
Someone was trying to break in. I sat up with a start, pushing up my sleep mask, the sunlight coming in through the windows too bright, my drunk stumble into bed last night neglecting the blackout curtains. I found my phone and peered at it. 9:48 AM—an odd time for a robbery. There was more pounding, the sound coming from the living room, then the splintering of wood. I yanked at the cord of my cell and unplugged it, gripping it tightly, pushing the covers aside, my bare feet hitting the floor just as my bedroom door swung open, a stranger in the opening.
My search for a weapon stopped as I stared at the man, clad head-to-toe in tactical gear, a walkie-talkie at his mouth.
“Chloe Madison?” he asked.
“Yes?” I said weakly, praying my grandma underwear didn’t show underneath my baggy tee, a Versace number that barely hit mid-thigh.
“I’m from the FBI. As of now, this apartment is the property of the US Government. We’re going to have to ask you to leave, or you will be arrested.”
“But … I own this apartment,” I said weakly, my gaze darting around the bedroom, a Monistat box open on my dresser. I closed my eyes in embarrassment, two more men appearing in the doorway.
“Your parents did,” he corrected me. “Not anymore.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m going to need you to get dressed.”
There was a time in my life when I found FBI agents sexy. Let me assure you, they aren’t.
I’d spent my whole life trying to impress people. Maybe that was the start of my fall, the last two decades one plush float into the depths of shallow, insecure, hell.
All I know is that when I hit the bottom, I hit hard.
I stood in the afternoon sun, my eyes stretching up the Central Park brownstone, counting the stories out of habit. Five. Double-checking the address on my phone, I rang the bell, my toes tapping a nervous beat, my eyes tracing over the decorative B that was carved into the heavy door before me. I wasn’t used to being nervous. Or anxious. Or desperate. And that’s what I had become. Desperate. It didn’t wear well; it itched along my skin like a T.J. Maxx clearance sweater.
I should have been in South Beach, with Cammie and Benta, lying on a beach and celebrating our NYU graduation. They’d flown out yesterday an
d hadn’t stopped Instagramming since. If I could have reached through the Internet and throttled them, I would have. Instead, I gave them the ultimate passive-aggressive snub: no likes.
A pathetic move on my part, but the best I could manage from my reduced social state. Anyone who’d seen a television in the last month knew about my family’s downfall. The Madisons—a filthy rich financial advisor couple who pocketed a hundred million bucks from insider trading—were front-page news. My mom had befriended all of the Fortune 500 wives, prying business tidbits from their martini-stained lips and passing them on to Dad. Daddy Dearest had used the information wisely illegally, steering his clients (and our portfolio) through a hundred highly profitable deals. I’d gotten a new Range Rover for my sixteenth birthday and didn’t think twice about it. My parents got arrested in the midst of their Christmas party and laughed it off. Told me it was a ‘minor mis-understanding.’
They weren’t laughing now. Not since last week, when the easy wealth I’d enjoyed my whole, pampered life ended faster than a Taylor Swift relationship. Our accounts were frozen, cars taken, assets seized. Including my NYC apartment. Thank God they had let me keep the clothes. I might be homeless, but I was rocking it in Marc Jacobs.
The biggest issue was my tuition. Half of my last semester was due, NYU being absolutely uncool about it, holding back my degree until it was paid. A month ago, I’d have swiped my AmEx and not thought another moment about it. Now, the huge bill seemed impossible. What good was four years of undergrad without a degree? Worthless when it came to the cutthroat job market that was NYC. So while Cammie and Benta were toasting their futures with mojitos in the sunshine, I was alone in New York, praying that this interview would go well. I’d had three interviews so far, submitted my résumé to twenty-two jobs, and had gotten zero callbacks. I was getting desperate.
The door swung open, and Nicole Brantley stood there.
Nicole Brantley. Sole heir to the inventor of the latex condom. Every time a foil package got pulled out of a pocket, Nicole Brantley got paid. At sixteen, she played a blonde bimbo on a Party of Five knock-off and had humped the Lifetime movie circuit ever since. My mother met her at a charity golf luncheon last year, and they’d stayed in touch. Mother promised that “Nicole was a doll” and “would be a pleasure to work for.” This all coming from a woman who hadn’t worked a day in her life. Regardless, I couldn’t be picky. I needed money, and Nicole Brantley had piles of that.
“Yes?” she asked, her bright blue eyes skipping over me, darting from my heels to my handbag, a critical appraisal that ended in approval. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Chloe Madison. My mother said you were looking for an assistant? I have an interview scheduled for one.” A pathetic opening. My mother? But, remarkably, the woman’s face curved into a smile, the Madison name still having some pull in the lowly area of hired help.
“Thank God,” she drawled, dragging me through the front doors. “This week has been a disaster. Come inside and let me track down Clarke.” She turned on her heel—a hot blue Louboutin—and clicked a rapid path through the foyer.
I’d been in New York for four years. Enough time to realize the mansions of my Florida youth didn’t exist on Manhattan’s streets. Pools and guest homes, tennis courts, and country clubs—those niceties were in the Hamptons or New Jersey. In the city, wealth was spoken through garages, Central Park views, and square footage. The Brantleys had all three. I spied a housekeeper, uniformed in the white and black attire that a sliver of the upper-class demanded. Saw the Picasso and Kandinsky in the hall. Noticed the views of the park that dominated the room we moved into, and the man who stepped away from the window, a phone to his ear.
He nodded to me, a curt smile passed over before he refocused on his conversation, his voice sharp as he spoke into the phone. I watched his hand come up to the window and press, the lean of his body against the glass stretching his suit tight across broad shoulders and a tight ass, the drop of his head a masculine, sexual gesture. I watched him and felt a pull of longing, the Chloe romance channel devoid of excitement for a very long time.
“That’s Clarke.” Mrs. Brantley’s voice rang out loudly, no concern given about his call. “Sorry about his lack of greeting,” she said airily, snapping at me and gesturing for me to follow, her ability to move in five-inch stilettos admirable. “His hand is permanently attached to that phone.” She rounded a staircase and headed up and glanced down at me. “Chanel is up here.” She took the steps two at a time, her calves ridiculous, my follow more laborious in execution. I tried to respond and managed a wheeze, glancing around for the elevator that surely existed. Chanel. Mom hadn’t mentioned any children, and I prayed this girl would be old enough to be potty-trained.
Nicole glanced back. “As far as pay, it’s a thousand a week. I’ll need you from nine in the morning until four, Monday through Friday. Chanel will be a large part of your job. Does that work for you?”
My breath was short as we finally hit the top of the stairs, my mind working overtime. A thousand a week? That should be enough for food and rent, with a little extra to pay down my tuition until NYU coughed up my diploma and allowed me to get a real job, one that would make use of my real estate development degree. I frowned. My original plan, after graduation, had been to work in commercial and residential real estate, a non-salaried, straight-commission job. A job that—in the wake of my newfound poverty—was now unfeasible. I refocused on the conversation, my mind stuttering a little at the second mention of the child. I’d never been around a baby, my knowledge of infants restricted to sporadic episodes of Teen Mom. “Yes, great. That sounds perfect.”
She stopped on the landing, holding up a red-tipped finger and pressing it to her lips before turning the handle, pushing open the door to a nursery. I silently groaned at the crib, set in the back of the pale pink room, CHANEL on the wall in block letters. I followed slowly, reluctant to meet the baby. A smile fixed into place, I leaned over, glancing into the crib, and—helpless to stop myself—gasped at the body that lay there.
A dog’s body.
I stood at the side of the crib and fought to keep my expression normal as I took in the pink outfit that encased a body not weighing more than five pounds. It lay on its side, brown poufs of hair spilling out of each opening in the ensemble, a fur-lined hoodie loose across its back, and snored, little purrs as it stretched out across a duvet.
“She’s sleeping,” Mrs. Brantley whispered loudly.
Duh. I attempted a polite smile and looked back at the pup. This was a large part of my job? To dog sit? Everything turned more appealing, diapers and runny noses no longer part of the equation.
“When can I start?” I whispered, careful to give the proper respect to sleeping Chanel.
She glanced at her watch, a diamond-studded timepiece. “Can you work today ’til four?”
“Absolutely.” I smiled brightly.
Mrs. Brantley patted my arm in what seemed to be approval. “Tomorrow, I’ll go over my needs. Today, I’d rather you focus on getting to know Chanel and introducing yourself. I’ve got to hop on a call. If you have any questions, hunt down one of the help.”
The Help. A group I was now part of. I nodded politely, watched her exit, and performed a cursory sweep of the room. Decorated in three different shades of pink, the en suite included a miniature treadmill, a puppy closet that rivaled my own, and dressers stocked with supplies and toys. Unsure of what exactly Getting to Know Chanel meant, I settled into a leather chair and waited for her to wake up, the gentle snores from the crib creating a soothing lullaby.
I may or may not have fallen asleep. But we could pretend that I diligently watched over Chanel’s sleeping form without a single head droop. That was me. Best New Assistant EVER.
At 4:05 PM, I nodded a goodbye to the maid, pulled on my coat and stepped onto the street, the afternoon sun minimizing the chill as I pulled the door tightly shut behind me. Success. I wanted to dance—right th
ere on the street, strangers brushing by—in celebration. I wanted to wave my arms and revel in the fact that I, Chloe Madison, was officially independent. I had my own job. Would not become homeless. Would not fail. It was liberating, exciting in a way that my privileged upbringing could never afford. Yes, a thousand a week would barely make a dent in my mountain of debt. Yes, I’d be eating Ramen noodles and taking the subway. But still! I was on my own and, for the first time, it didn’t feel scary; it felt manageable.
I moved down the street, swinging my purse from my shoulder and dug for my cell, the phone to my ear by the time I hit Park Avenue.
“Hey beautiful!” Cammie’s voice rang through the phone, her greeting seconded by Benta, and I could imagine the two girls, faces together over a pitcher of margaritas, the phone held between them.
“Hey you tan goddesses,” I teased. “Enjoying the Florida sun without me?”
“We’d be lying if we said we weren’t.” In the background, I heard music start. “How’d the interview go?”
I delivered the good news, the girls squealing with an excitement that rivaled my own, a laugh spilling from my mouth at their reaction. “I wish you guys were here to help me celebrate.”
“Woman, hop on a plane and get down here! We’ll save one of these beautiful men for you.”
“Don’t tempt me,” I warned. “I’m so sick of New York men I could scream.” A vision of Clarke Brantley appeared in my mind’s eye, his hand against the window, his masculinity screaming through every line in his body. I closed my eyes briefly and fought the urge to check my lower lip for drool. “Anyway, I’ve got to run. I’m going to check out apartments, try and find a place to live. I just wanted to let you guys know the good news.”
“That’s great news, babe,” Benta called out, her voice overshadowed by the background noise. “Go have fun tonight! Celebrate without us!”
I smiled at her order, said my goodbyes to both of them and ended the call before dropping my phone into my purse and jogging down the subway steps, the mild warmth of the afternoon sun fading as I stepped into the dark underground.
My phone rang as I hit the bottom step, the muted song chiming from my purse. I stepped out of the way, digging frantically as my ringtone neared its end. I followed the glow of the screen, pulling out my cell just in time. My finger froze mid-swipe, and I stared down at my screen at the name.