Disaster isn’t the right word.
Disaster by definition implies a onetime catastrophic event with unimaginable consequences. My love life is more like a cataclysmic prolonged weather phenomenon better known as the century-long drought. Similar to both of my best friends, I like men. I like men a lot. I’ve dated some. I’ve even dated boys if you want to go back to my youth. But when it comes to long term, my relationship with Stephen is the longest one I’ve had with anyone with a penis. Not that I have seen Stephen’s—or want to. But you understand.
And a romp, as Stephen called it, isn’t exactly an accurate account.
However, when it comes to describing this man from my past as Kimbra’s brother-in-law, that is one hundred percent on point.
Thus, the reason for secrecy.
Whatever Trevor and I had happened innocently enough. On the morning of Kimbra’s wedding, I happened to wake in the bed of a handsome, sexy gentleman who later that day became her brother-in-law. It’s a long story, but the reality is that it was simply that—one secret night. Even the next night as we grew more familiar, we didn’t take it further. The timing wasn’t right. I was headed back to London and he back to the state of Washington where he was overseeing an engineering project.
If romp implies sex, we didn’t romp.
We had attraction—off-the-chart sparks—enough to ignite a forest fire with a side of some teenage making out—without the teenage clumsiness—but that was all. You could say that the lack of sex is another element to the drought I mentioned. Seriously, if things don’t look up, my vagina may dry up and blow away.
After that secret one, we spoke a few times on the phone—off and on for a few months. While absence may make the heart grow fonder, distance sucks big hairy balls. Living on two different continents separated by thousands of miles does little for a future. The spark didn’t die as much as it was suffocated by the Atlantic Ocean.
While Trevor and I haven’t spoken in months, now that I’m back in New York, I haven’t been able to get him out of my mind. I imagine seeing his green eyes in a crowded restaurant or his wide shoulders in a packed elevator. I remember his dark blond hair that never seemed to stay in place, beckoning my fingers to comb through the soft tresses. I recall how protective he was and how we would talk for hours. Nevertheless, any hope for a future with him is simply my overactive imagination. Life has a way of interrupting dreams and even messing with our imagination. We both chose our careers. The last time we spoke, he was still working on a project on the other side of the country. Granted, that was a while ago, but still, Trevor Willis is water under the bridge.
That’s what I keep reminding myself.
And now I’m here, back in New York, with a great opportunity to further my career. Not talking about that secret one helps to nullify its significance. Since only Stephen has heard my sad tale, I don’t need to discuss it with anyone else. That way I can keep Trevor in the safe recesses of my memory, only to take him out when my mind slips to what could have been.
When Stephen meets my other best friend, Kimbra, he’s forbidden from saying, “so I hear you have one sexy-as-hell brother-in-law,” after introducing himself.
Life could be different if I were back here for good. However, there’s no guarantee we’ll be moving back to New York. Our promotion to ladies’ lingerie is contingent upon the success of this fashion show and the work that follows. As it stands now, we’re simply in the city for a trial run.
All at once, as Stephen and I enter the sound booth, the subject of our conversation changes. No more entertaining the memories of the one sexy man from my past. As the booth door closes and I’m faced with the empty stage, an array of lights, and plethora of buttons and switches, I’m back to work—no longer a lovesick woman but the possible new budding director of ladies’ lingerie at Saks Fifth Avenue.
Mentally pushing Trevor aside, my mind is now consumed with beautiful women, sexy lingerie, and pulling off the best runway show this city has ever seen.
Shana
“No, no!” I say to Chantilly as I stare into her eyes. “Tell me this isn’t happening.”
“Shana, if I could, I would. Jenese is sick. Food poisoning, she thinks.”
“Food! She doesn’t eat.”
“You know if she could be here, she would. It hit her hard last night. She tried to push through and early this morning she ended up in the ER.”
“No. She’s our top model. Everyone is expecting her, especially in the finale.” I take a deep breath. “We have an hour to showtime...what are we going to do?”
“You could take her place.”
I look at Chantilly as if she suddenly grew another head. Of all the possible solutions, this is quite possibly the furthest from my mind. To be honest, it wasn’t even a consideration. “What? That’s the most absurd thing I’ve heard in my life. I’m obviously not a model.”
“It’s not that obvious. No, you have never done it, but you know the routine.” When I don’t respond, Chantilly goes on. “Shana, you’re a beautiful woman. The only thing stopping you from modeling is you.”
“And my height, body, and, oh yes, inability to walk a straight line in flats, much less heels.”
She looks me up and down. “Okay, you’re not as tall, but let’s face the reality. It’s too late to get a backup here and teach her the routine. That leaves you and Stephen who know every step for every model. Even I don’t. My job is backstage.”
I take a deep breath, afraid to listen to her reasoning.
“Shana, you can do this. Besides, think about it. Stephen won’t fit into the lingerie.”
I close my eyes, hoping that if I wish hard enough, Jenese will magically appear.
“The doors are open and people are coming in,” Stephen says through an earpiece.
“The show, as you two have made it, isn’t like it was when it first came to us,” Chantilly goes on. “The changes are great, but no one else knows them, not like you do.”
My head moves back and forth. “You do.” I look her up and down. Chantilly is a pretty brunette with chocolate skin and big blue eyes. She’s about my height, and as I take a closer look at her figure, I notice she has a shape that would easily be flattering in lingerie. “You say you were backstage, but you know everyone’s place.”
“Shana, I want this for you. I do. Putting me in heels out there is a mistake.”
“What if we do some last-minute adjustments?” I ask, grasping at straws. “We can move Shelly to lead.”
Chantilly nods. “That’ll work. She’s the tallest. Still, the finale will be minus one featured outfit. The finale is where the buyers take their last looks at their favorites. If you move Shelly to Jenese’s outfit, the long negligee that Shelly is wearing won’t make the finale.”
I know that the designers pay a premium fee for placement in the show. Excluding even one piece from the finale will have far-reaching repercussions, ones that won’t facilitate my promotion. I look down. “Chantilly, I’m too short to wear Shelly’s long negligee.”
She looks down at her iPad. “We have a petite in the back. It’s white instead of the black Shelly is wearing, but in reality, that’s a plus to show any style in two different colors. The designer is only paying for one.”
My heart is thundering in my chest. This is a mistake. “Think,” I say, clasping my hands together. “Give me anyone else. Please. Another option.”
“We have other models.” Chantilly lays her hand on my shoulder. “Even if one of them could be here in time for the show, she won’t know the routine. I can get someone here for the individual runway, but not the finale.”
“So no matter what, we need me to do the finale.” The words come out flat as my mouth grows drier by the second, and my stomach does its own gymnastic routine.
“We do. Shelly can do both outfits during the runway. It saves us from calling in someone new. Then the only time you need to go out is the finale.”
I process the show in my hea
d. During the finale, each piece is reintroduced; the model makes one trip down the runway and back to a spot until the entire stable is onstage. And then it happens, the finale extravaganza, an intricate weave of models passing around one another, turning, repositioning as a team until one by one they exit. It gives each piece of fashion the same exact amount of time onstage to be seen.
Why didn’t I go with the simpler choreography?
I changed the show to demonstrate that I could. I changed it to make the show special. To make it mine.
Last night, our final run-through was perfect. We stayed an hour later than scheduled, the models were exhausted, but the result was as stunning as a Broadway number. As my eyes closed on my pillow last night, I experienced a rare sense of accomplishment, and now that feeling is replaced with butterflies the size of dragons. Judging by the burning in my chest, the dragons are spitting fire.
“Let me think for a minute,” I say, shaking my head as I lift the mouthpiece on my shoulder to my lips. “Stephen, I need you.”
His reassuring voice materializes into my earpiece. “I don’t think you want me backstage.”
“I do, in a white lace-trimmed silk negligee.”
“Talk to me.”
Tears burn the back of my eyes. “Meet me in the sound booth.”
“You can do it,” Stephen says. “Let them shorten the hem so you’re not wearing stilts. When they’re all positioned, the outfit you’ll wear is off to the side. Everyone will be looking at Shelly at center. You know this routine. You taught it to them.”
My best friend blurs as the tears threaten to spill over my lids. “Stephen...”
His arm comes around my shoulders. “Stop it. You’re our leader. Chantilly’s idea is a good one. There isn’t time to reteach.”
“Maybe you’re right and that negligee is off to the side in the routine, but I’ll still need to make one trip all the way down the runway, and then manage not to knock out any other models during the last part.”
“Boss lady,” he says, his voice lowering to his reassuring timbre, “I never told you this before because, well, it’s not my style, but you’re beautiful. The first time I met you, I thought HR had sent me to the wrong person. I assumed you were a model. Tell me you never considered modeling.”
“I’ve never considered modeling.”
Stephen’s head shakes.
“Okay, maybe as a young girl, but I loved the fashions too much to simply wear them.” I lower my eyes. “And the idea of everyone looking at me scares me.”
Stephen lifts my chin. “Think about our junior models for a moment.”
I do. Even though they model teenage clothes, most are adults in petite bodies.
“What about Becky?” he asks.
“What about her?”
“What does she do when she isn’t modeling?”
The tips of my lips move upward. “She mostly studies. I think at last count she’s only a few credits away from finishing her master’s degree in finance.”
“You went straight to the creative duties in fashion because you’re smart. You’ve moved up in this company because you’re quick on your feet and a problem solver. Those women back there are modeling because they are beautiful, and yet they also have other dreams and goals. You’re doing yours in reverse.”
“If I do this—”
He cuts me off before I can finish as he emphasizes his first word. “When you do this, you will overcome any fear you ever had about modeling. Not only that, but you’ll be in a better place to do what you do because you will know what it’s like to be out there. You will have experience. You will have conquered!”
“If I fall on my face, we’re headed back to London. You know that, right?”
Stephen loosens his embrace, moving both hands to my shoulders. “Something came up last night, and I put a deposit on an apartment.”
My mind isn’t functioning fast enough. “You did what?”
“When you kill this show, they’re going to see how amazing you are. We’ll be moving back here, and I need a place to live. Would I have done that if I had doubts?”
My entire body begins to shake. “I don’t know why you would do that. This...” I flail my arms about. “...isn’t set.”
“It is. Chantilly and I have your back. You said last night that you couldn’t see anyone from the stage. Just imagine the only person out there is the one person you want to see you in a silk negligee.”
My lungs try to fill with air. “The one person?”
“It’s me, isn’t it?” Stephen asks with a sheepish grin.
“It’s so not you.”
“There. You’re smiling. When you walk out imagine that one person is the only one in the audience. It’s just the two of you and you’re walking to him—only him.”
My nerves begin to calm as I imagine the green eyes I’ve been thinking about since our airplane landed on US soil. I look up to Stephen. “I really hate you.”
He kisses the top of my head. “You love me. You, Shana Price, can do this. A leader, a problem solver, delegates when possible, and takes control when needed. We need you. You can do it.”
“Thirty-five minutes,” comes from Mike at the sound panel.
“Go,” Stephen says. “I’ve got this out here. You need to talk to Chantilly, and Shelly needs to know what’s happening.”
I narrow my gaze. “You really put down a deposit on an apartment in Manhattan?”
“Would I lie to my best friend?”
“In a heartbeat.”
“East Village. It was too good of a deal to miss.”
I close my eyes and bring up the image from my past. I envision the one person I’d like to have look at me in a negligee—the one man I’ve imagined since our secret night. I recall his gaze when I woke in his arms, his playful smile as he helped me remember what Fireball had tried to erase, and the way we kissed the last time we saw one another.
“Shit,” I mutter to myself as I make my way backstage. “I’m going to need nipple tape if my thoughts go there.”
“Shana?”
I turn to see my possible new boss. “Vicky!”
Her expression is more enthusiastic than her voice. “I heard about Jenese. I can’t believe she isn’t here.”
“Things happen,” I say with more confidence than I possess. “We will still make this work.”
“I don’t need to tell you that there’s a lot riding on this show.”
“You don’t.”
“And the designers paid for their spots.”
“But not for the models wearing them. Every outfit will be spotlighted. The show must go on.”
She takes a step back and nods. “Grace under pressure is an asset we can use in lingerie.”
“I’m going to be backstage, but we can talk after the show,” I say.
“Count on it.”
Trevor
Eric laughs as he settles against the cool vinyl of the booth and listens to his future. “You guys can’t be serious? This sounds like The Hangover meets Impractical Jokers. This is my bachelor-party weekend. I was thinking bars and nightclubs. Last night was a good start.” He shakes his head. “I wasn’t thinking of crashing a fashion show. A. Lingerie. Fashion show.” He says the last part staccato like it will change Max’s mind.
“Deadly serious,” our friend Max says. “I didn’t travel across the pond to sit casually at some gentlemen’s club. The fashion show is perfect. There will be beautiful women for you blokes and some nice eye candy for me. It’s a win-win.”
Max lives in the UK. How he became part of our inner circle is a long story. Suffice it to say, as an investment banker, his work with McCobb, the engineering firm where Eric, Matt, and I work, brought him to our New York offices many times. He has one of those personalities that is the complete opposite of most engineers: outgoing, gregarious, and fun. Yes, I’m admitting we can be boring. The thing that makes Max unique is that he brings out those traits in others. When I was in Washington a
nd Eric was in Indiana working on different projects, Max used our apartment when he’d come to New York for work. Our interests may not all be the same, but we’ve become friends. While this weekend is about Eric and his impending wedding, Matt—the fourth of our foursome—knew inviting Max would keep the weekend lively.
It seems he was right.
As I try to smother the alcohol from last night in greasy eggs, potatoes, and thick bagel, I don’t have the energy to argue. However, while taking a large gulp of good ole black coffee, my deductive reasoning is getting the better of me. “You don’t expect us to just crash the Saks Fifth Avenue lingerie fashion show, do you?”
“Now, wouldn’t that be fun?”
“You can’t be serious. I’m sure there are tickets and shit. They don’t just let four men off the street—”
Max holds up his phone, interrupting my only attempt to change our plans. The screen appears to have some sort of ticketing information. “Not crash. The dare...” He lowers his voice as his expression explodes with excitement. “...is to make contact with one of the models.”
Eric shakes his head. “Are we twelve?”
“No,” Max says. “Twelve-year-olds don’t purchase tickets to see beautiful women walk around in lingerie.”
“No, they sneak on to their father’s porn sites,” Matt says with a laugh.
“So we’re too sophisticated for that. Besides, we can all afford our own viewing pleasure. This is different. It’s unique and unusual. This fashion show only happens twice a year. How many times do you blokes get to watch lovely models parade in front of you?”
“Listen,” Eric says, “I’m not doing anything to jeopardize my marriage to Cynthia.”
“No one is asking you to,” Matt says, joining the persuasion. He and Max have obviously worked the details out amongst themselves. “Make contact. That doesn’t mean fuck or even touch.” He shakes his head with a laugh. “Well, contact... no. Talk to, get a phone number, have a conversation. Unlike the show, the dare is not for all of us. One of us needs to be the judge. That, my man,” he says to Eric, the groom-to-be, “is you. Max, Trevor, and I are the ones who have to do the dare. You choose the one who wins and the other two pay for this entire weekend...hotel rooms, drinks, and all.”
Another One (Lighter Ones Book 2) Page 3