Blue Shoes 2 (New Adult Erotic Romance)

by Knight, JJ

  They’re all wondering what’s happening with Dylan.

  I’m not going to open my mouth and let on that I don’t know any more than they do.

  I stop off on the cafeteria floor and get a jumbo-sized coffee, full of sugar. It tastes nothing like what I’ve been drinking in Italy. I might need two of these to get through the day.

  Alone in my office, I pull the rumpled Vogue pages from my purse and smooth them out on my desk. I already found the girl’s name—Ryanna Lambert—and now I just need her address.

  I’m going to pay Ryanna Lambert a visit. In person.

  I put a call through to the guy who manages Crazy JT and ask him about the Vogue photo shoot.

  He answers, “The blonde? Ryanna? Yes, we hired her. She was a nice girl. Showed up late for the shoot, though, so we’re not going to hire her again.” He clears his throat. “Never again.”

  I pause, gripping the phone tightly to my ear. He sounds awfully adamant that Morris Music won’t be hiring this girl again. My mind starts racing.

  “What do you mean?” I ask. My mouth goes dry, and my voice gets high and tight. “Did Morris hire this chick to do some publicity for Dylan Wolf? Is that how she met him?”

  “I don’t know anything about that.” He sounds anxious. “Am I in trouble?”

  “Only if you did something wrong.”

  He clears his throat again, and his voice comes through my phone weakly. “My wife and I are going through some stuff.”

  “That’s not my business,” I snap. “I don’t care if you slept with this Ryanna girl. What modeling agency is she with?”

  “Uh…” There’s nothing but a gurgling sound on the other end of the line.

  “Don’t make me come down there to your floor.”

  “She’s not with a modeling agency. She’s with a… different sort of agency.”

  “Great,” I say flatly. Just great. I’m not even dealing with a model, after all. Ryanna Lambert is a prostitute.

  I grunt out a thank-you and hang up the phone.

  My head is reeling, and the room is swimming. I grab the plastic recycling basket from under my desk and hold it for a minute until the nausea passes.

  When Morris Music doesn’t have a person on-staff to “smooth things over” with clients, there are a few agencies we use. We don’t keep the information in the computers.

  If I want Ryanna Lambert’s address, I’ll have to dig it up in the archives.

  In the basement.

  Where I worked when I started here.

  I don’t want to go down there, but I have to. I can’t think about anything else. I can’t even think straight until I talk to Ryanna Lambert and shake the truth out of her.

  I take the elevator down and step into the dry, cool basement. Nobody else is here, and all the lights are off. I flick the switches and wait as the old tubes flicker on.

  The last time I was here was when Dylan and I got back together. He wouldn’t leave my office until we talked, so I brought him down here for some privacy. We ended up having sex on a desk.

  Just seeing the desk now brings a lump to my throat.

  That day we reunited, I thought we were back together for good. Forever. I had him in my arms, and now I only have pain and confusion.

  It hurts so bad when he shuts me out. If this is the way our life together is going to be, maybe we should break up now. I don’t know how many times I can live through something like this.

  When I walk by the desk, my body feels heavy. I stop and lay down on it to catch my breath. I press my cheek against the cool surface for a moment, then roll onto my back.

  I cross my arms over my chest, close my eyes, and push back into the memory.

  His lips on mine. His breath all over my body. His hands pulling at my clothes. Both of us too desperate for each other to wait. Holding each other and making beauty in this ugly basement.

  The memory is so fresh and vivid, it burns into me.

  I force myself to sit up and walk away from the desk. I’m not here to give up.

  If my memory is right, the files shouldn’t be too hard to find. I walk up and down the aisles until I find the box: Social Support, Outside Contractors.

  The files inside smell like the ink from blue ball-point pens. Many of the notes are hand-written. I flick through the files until I find her. Ryanna Lambert. The manilla yellow folder feels hot in my hand.

  I open the folder and find a hand-written page with three different phone numbers, and a street address.

  I pull out my phone. There’s no reception here in the concrete bunker of a basement, but I don’t care. I wasn’t about to phone her, anyway. I wouldn’t want to give her any warning that I’m coming.

  Ryanna Lambert, I’m coming to your house, and we’re going to have a girl-to-girl chat.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I take the elevator all the way back to the top floor. I’ve got Ryanna Lambert’s address in my phone, but I’m not sure I can go through with this.

  Maybe there’s an innocent explanation for all this. But I can’t think of one.

  I turn to my computer and open my email account. I checked it in Italy before I left to come home, but my inbox is full already.

  Before I go to Ryanna’s house, I’ll take ten minutes and check my email in case there’s something from Dylan.

  It takes me an hour, because there are so many personal messages from people, asking if I’m okay.

  They’ve all seen the photos of that girl, and the bruises on her arm and hip. A number of people are offering to beat up Dylan. I shake my head in disbelief. Like more violence is going to make anything better.

  However, I have to admit that part of the reason I’m still in my office is so I’ll calm down and not punch Ryanna Lambert as soon as I see her.

  I reach the bottom of my emails and click something that’s addressed to Chet. It’s from one of our older employees, Bridget, and I’m guessing she didn’t mean to reply to the whole department.

  As I read the email, my mouth drops open in shock.

  Chet,

  Good call on putting Dylan Wolf’s release on hold indefinitely. We can’t keep dumping money into this loser if it’s going nowhere. If he wants to blow his advance on cars and hookers, he can find another sucker to pay for it. We’ve got a stable full of talent more hungry and more media-savvy than him. He was a no-show at the fundraiser and now I have two favors to pay back.

  Bridget.

  I push my chair back from the computer screen, but I can’t pull my eyes away. I re-read the first sentence: Good call on putting Dylan Wolf’s release on hold indefinitely.

  The email from Bridget is from this morning, but it’s a reply to a general email to the department, about artwork for something unrelated.

  I pick up my phone and dial Bridget’s desk, then think better of it. I’m on my way out for the day anyway.

  I leave my office and take the elevator down to Bridget’s floor. I walk past the office of the rep I spoke to earlier about Ryanna. He’s not in, which is lucky for him.

  I knock on Bridget’s door then let myself in.

  “Jess, how was Italy?” she asks cheerfully. The office reeks of her perfume.

  “Bridget, cut the crap. What’s this about Dylan’s album being on hold?”

  She groans and mutters about needing new glasses. “That email wasn’t for everyone,” she says.

  “Is the album cancelled or just on hold?” I demand.

  “There’s nothing we can do,” Bridget answers as she fidgets with the mess of papers on her desk. “It won’t matter if Dylan roughed that girl up or not. She was convincing. Those bruises look bad.”

  “He’d never hurt anyone,” I say evenly. “He has a temper, but he’s never hit me or threatened me.”

  “Of course that’s what you’d say.” Her small, blue eyes are sympathetic.

  “This thing will blow over, Bridget, and then what? You’re going to throw away Dylan’s career over some lie by some s
kank?”

  The corner of Bridget’s mouth twitches into a partial smile. She’s enjoying this. She’s pretending to be my friend, acting concerned that I might be an abused girlfriend, and meanwhile she’s enjoying this.

  Bridget points to the guest chair across from her desk. “Sit, Jess. Let’s talk about what you’re going through.”

  Bridget’s the last person I’m going to open up to. She’s a snake in a cheap suit. But she’s also extremely disorganized, and she’s got confidential papers spread all over her desk.

  I take a seat and hold my hand up to my forehead, playing victim for her. “I’m under a lot of pressure,” I say softly. “Did you see the newest article? It’s on that Mayhem blog.”

  I’m bluffing, but it’s a safe bet there’s something new on that trashy blog.

  “Oh, really?” She can’t get to her keyboard fast enough.

  While she’s distracted, I lean forward to scan the papers on her desk. There are some financial reports about Dylan’s last album, and the numbers are good. They could be better, but we’ve been hoping the second album will be huge.

  “Those bruises looked bad,” Bridget says.

  I fake a sad whimper and keep scanning her papers. She’s got some photos of Dylan look-alikes, along with a list and a few names circled. To people like Bridget, it’s like these musicians aren’t even people. I wonder if she ever loved music, or just got into this business for the cash.

  She keeps talking about the bruises, and how I must be so scared.

  “I’m okay,” I tell her.

  She gets up from her chair and comes around her desk to hug me. I don’t want to be hugged by Bridget, but I play along. Out of the corner of my eye, I scan all the yellow notes stuck to her monitor. She’s got nothing but passwords and logins.

  Now I’m gagging on her perfume.

  “Bridget, do you remember Morris Music hiring that girl, Ryanna Lambert?”

  She pulls away. “Never heard of her.”

  I quickly look down at the floor, so she can’t see my suspicious glare. She spent all that time looking at articles about the scandal, and now she claims to have never heard of the woman’s name. She’s definitely lying.

  That settles it. I really am going to visit Ryanna Lambert.

  Only now it’s not just to find out why she lied about Dylan. It’s to confirm that people at Morris Music hired her, and find out how many people are behind sabotaging Dylan. Whoever they are, they’re all going to pay.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ryanna Lambert lives in an old apartment building called The Seaview. The name must be ironic, or delusional. There’s not much of a view, and we’re far from the sea.

  My legs feel shaky as I walk up to the intercom. I’ve had nothing but coffee and sugar today, but I’m not hungry. I press the button for 3B.

  A girl answers, “Yeah?”

  “Hi, Ryanna?”

  “Yeah?”

  While I talk, I fluff up the frizzy hair of the wig I’m wearing as a disguise. Whether this woman did more than kiss Dylan or not, she’d probably recognize me as his fiancée. That’s why I stopped at a store on my way over and bought a high-quality wig with red, curly hair.

  I paired the wig with some non-prescription glasses, and I don’t look anything like Jess Rivera.

  “Who is this?” Ryanna asks through the intercom.

  “I’m so glad we found you. Is your phone not working? We’ve been trying to reach you. I’m Sally Green. I work at the Morris Music casting department. Crazy JT is doing a new album and we want you on the cover.”

  “Really?” There’s excitement in her voice.

  “Of course. We loved your last work. Sorry for dropping in on you like this…”

  “Come on up,” Ryanna says. The door buzzes.

  I pull it open.

  Inside, the elevator has an “Out of Order” sign on it, so I take the stairs to the third floor. I don’t like lying at all, and I feel awful. I want to turn around and go home, but I force myself to knock on the door for Apartment B.

  I hear someone come running, bare feet slapping the floor. She whips the door open.

  I’m face to face with Ryanna Lambert.

  My hands are limp at my sides.

  I’m shocked by how different she looks from what I expected. She’s not wearing much makeup. When she smiles, she looks so young—barely twenty. Her blond hair is pulled back in a ponytail, making her look like a cheerleader. She doesn’t look at all like a call girl.

  “Welcome to my mess.” She waves me into her apartment.

  It’s a studio apartment, with a bed in one corner and everything in the same room. The place is small, but she’s decorated it nicely. The bedspread is an old quilt with flower patterns.

  Actually, Ryanna doesn’t seem to be hurting for cash. I spot a brand-new laptop, plus an expensive-looking television. There are designer shopping bags strewn around the place, plus clothes that don’t even have the tags cut off.

  Ryanna sees me looking at some designer shoe boxes. She quickly grabs them and tosses everything into a closet.

  “Don’t clean on my account,” I say, but she doesn’t stop.

  She’s got a wall of photos, like the wall at Dylan’s house, only none of hers are framed.

  “Are these your family?” I point to a wholesome-looking group with a golden retriever.

  “Yeah. I came out here last year and I really miss them. I wasn’t sure about all this modeling stuff, but my family’s really supportive. They want me to do well.”

  Modeling? Yeah, right. This girl didn’t buy those designer clothes with a few modeling gigs here and there.

  “Do you want water?” she asks. “I’m sorry. It’s just tap. I don’t have anything else.”

  “Tap water is fine.” I pick some magazines up from the tiny sofa and take a seat. My pulse is racing from the stairs, and from the idea of confronting Ryanna. This would be easier if she wasn’t so nice.

  She brings me the water and starts babbling, “I’m so happy you want me to do a cover for Crazy JT. I had a lot of fun at that magazine thing. Some of these modeling jobs can be kinda crazy, but you guys at Morris are so nice.”

  “Morris Music is a great company,” I agree. “Mostly.”

  She sits in a wooden chair across from me and fidgets with her hands. I don’t see any bruises on her arm, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t there a few days ago.

  I brace myself to ask her some serious questions. “You do more than modeling, don’t you?” I glance around her apartment. “This place isn’t much, but since you’re just starting out, shouldn’t you have a bunch of model roommates?”

  Her blue eyes widen. Her face isn’t perfectly symmetrical, but she’s pretty and vulnerable in real life. I can see drops of sweat forming on her hairline. The wig over my own head feels hot and stifling.

  “I get by,” she says weakly.

  “Doing what?”

  Her blue eyes narrow and she tilts her head to the side. “What did you say your name was?”

  I’ve completely forgotten the name I used at the intercom. To cover, I mutter about getting a business card, then pretend to search through my bag.

  “That’s a really nice purse,” she says. “Italian?”

  It’s the bag I bought in Italy. Now I’m sweating under my wig disguise and my light jacket. “Italian? No. More like flea market,” I joke.

  She reaches across the space between us and touches the soft Italian leather. “That’s a good knock-off,” she says.

  She lets her fingers stroke down the strap and then come to rest on my knee. Now her hand is on my bare leg, just below the hem of my skirt.

  I’m so shocked, I don’t know what to say.

  Her hand is small, compared to a man’s hand. She leans forward in her chair, pressing her chest up with her upper arms, showing me her cleavage. At the same time, she pushes her hand along my leg. She gives me a flirty look.

  My heart practically jumps int
o my throat.

  I wanted to get information from this girl, but I had no idea this was going to happen.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I can’t believe this girl is trying to seduce me.

  And I can’t believe how good she is at it.

  She keeps rubbing my leg, not pushing too far, but not pulling away, either.

  “Ryanna…”

  She whispers, “That’s not my real name. Do you want to know my real name? You tell me yours, and I’ll tell you mine.”

  “You’re pretty, but I don’t like girls.”

  She smiles. “Do you really think I’m pretty?” Before I can answer, she gets up from the chair and comes over to where I am on the small sofa.

  She straddles my lap, facing me, and reaches up to take the elastic band out of her hair.

  I’m so completely stunned, I don’t know what to do. Ryanna really is pretty, and she smells nice. I can’t imagine any straight man in the world being able to resist her charms. Did she do this to Dylan? Did she seduce him?

  My heart aches as I think of him. I don’t even know where he is. We’re in the same city, but we’re still half a world away in our hearts.

  Ryanna strokes my cheek gently. “You look sad.”

  “I’m worried my boyfriend is cheating on me.”

  She pouts her lips. “You should kiss a girl and send him photos. Show him what he’s missing out on.”

  I try to laugh it off. “I should totally do that.”

  She smiles. “Okay.” She looks down at my body, at the small margin of space between us. “You’re so beautiful. Do you know that, beautiful girl? If he’s cheating on you, he’s going to be sorry. We’ll make him sorry.”

  I gaze up into her blue eyes. Our faces are just inches apart. She’s still straddling my lap, moving slowly in rhythm, like we’re dancing. I feel like I’m being hypnotized.

  “Ryanna, do you have a boyfriend?”

  She laughs and reaches up to fluff out her blonde hair. “What do you think?”

  “My co-worker at Morris Music hired you for the Vogue job, right? Did you… sleep with him?”

  She laughs. “That skinny creep? No way. But he did hire me to give his wife a very special massage.” Ryanna winks at me. “She liked it. A lot.”