Live For This

by Kathryn R. Biel

  Live For This

  By

  Kathryn R. Biel

  LIVE FOR THIS

  Copyright © 2016 by Kathryn R. Biel

  ISBN-10: 0-9971939-0-5

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9971939-0-9

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excepts in a review. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Cover design by Karan Eleni.

  Cover image via depositphotos.com by lofilolo.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  DEDICATION

  To Eric:

  In a way you didn’t know until years later, your life gave mine purpose. Your journey gave me the inspiration to help others. Thank you.

  CHAPTER ONE: SAMIRAH

  You would think waking up in a pool of your own vomit would mean you’ve hit rock bottom. For me, it’s just Saturday. At least, I think it’s Saturday. My brain is fuzzy. Definitely not firing on all pistons. Slowly sitting up and wiping my mouth on the back of my hand sucks my remaining energy. I’m tempted to lay right back down and hopefully wake up … never.

  It’s not that I want to die. I don’t. I just don’t want to live my life. To me, my life is just a show. A facade I don like a thick layer of make-up. I exist. And I don’t know how to change it. On paper, my life is not so bad. That’s what I tell people at least. Not everyone can be a hostess at one of the most exclusive restaurants in New York City. My roommate and I dominate the social scene. It’s not a party until we arrive. We hobnob with the elite. We are the beautiful people. We are important. Again, that’s what I tell myself.

  “Sam, are you alive?”

  “Barely,” I sigh. “Give me a sec.”

  Meadow is not great at waiting. She’s a neat freak, and the mess I’ve made in here will not be tolerated. The ever-present antibacterial wipes assist me in returning the toilet and surrounding floor to its status quo pristine condition. Too bad the rest of the apartment is a shit hole.

  She apparently can wait no longer as the bathroom door flies open. Lucky for me, my reflexes are intact enough to allow me to jump out of the way before the corner of the door slams into my head. The bathroom is tight quarters for one person, let alone two. Ahh, the joys of city living.

  “Were you in here all night?” Meadow pushes past, not even waiting for me to leave before she pulls her G-string down and plops on the toilet. Meadow’s wearing only a short T-shirt on top. With a body like hers, she can afford to walk around half naked. I work hard to look like Meadow, but the results are never quite good enough. Meadow doesn’t appear to have any modesty around me. Not like I haven’t seen it before, but it still makes me uncomfortable. I guess when you’re a model, it’s nothing to strip down in front of people. I’m not a model. Meadow pushes me to be more open, more “free,” as she likes to call it. Certainly more liberal than anything I’d grown up with or been exposed to before I moved here.

  “Last night was so off the hook!” Meadow continues talking while wiping and flushing. It doesn’t seem to bother her that I’m in here, and she never even waits to hear if I’m okay.

  “Was it?” No matter how vigorously I scrub my teeth, I can’t seem to get the foul acid taste out of my mouth.

  “Tell me you don’t remember again.” Meadow nudges me out of the way to wash her hands and moves on to examining her flawless face in the mirror. The night of hard partying doesn’t show on her face. It’s not fair.

  I spit one last time and look at our reflections in the mirror. Meadow is tall and lanky, with unnaturally blond hair and breasts provided by a former boyfriend. My 5′6″ frame appears short and wide compared to my friend, but I’ve always liked my curves. Not so much when I’m next to her. Meadow has convinced me to lighten my naturally dark hair to an ash blond. I’m not sure it does anything for me. Her skin is golden brown where mine is more on the pale side, with just a hint of olive. On my own, back home, a lifetime ago, I was considered pretty. Beautiful. Exotic even. Standing next to Meadow, I feel wrong. All wrong. I don’t need to be beside her to feel wrong, either.

  My mother was British-Persian, and my hair and features come from her. My father, the bastard, gave me my most striking feature—gray-blue eyes that have been passed down through generation after generation of strong Norse peoples. Every time I look at my eyes, I see him and hate myself.

  I wish I could figure out how to be comfortable in my own skin like Meadow is in hers. I pretend I am, but it’s simply an act. And although I would never consider myself a good actress, no one seems to notice. People see what they want to see. Even Meadow.

  “You ready for the gym?”

  “Do I look ready, Meadow?”

  “No, you look like hell. You really need to take better care of yourself, Sam. You’re not going to be young forever. Speaking of which, did you see Amanda?”

  “She’s, like, pitiful. I mean, what is she still doing on the circuit? She needs to hang up her stilettos and call it quits. She’s totes old.” I wash my hands and leave the bathroom, Meadow close behind. It’s annoying when Meadow follows me around like this. I have very little privacy from my roommate.

  “Totes. The quack who did her boobs should be, like, shot. They look terrible.” Meadow shudders as she speaks. I don’t want to think about Amanda’s tits. You can tell they’re fake from a mile away. They make her look desperate and old. Not like she needs any help with that. If I’m still hanging out in clubs all night when I’m in my mid-thirties, someone please kill me. She’s like eleven years older than I am. That’s practically a generation.

  “Todd didn’t seem to mind.” Todd is one of those losers who hangs around the periphery, waiting to get a chance at the low hanging, or very drunk, fruit. He’d never get any if the girls were sober. The thought of him makes my skin crawl.

  “Ugh. Better her than me. Todd is like an octopus. I don’t know how many times I can tell him no.”

  T
he apartment is small and the kitchen is even smaller. There’s not really room for the two of us in the kitchen, but Meadow doesn’t seem to realize this. Everywhere I turn, Meadow is standing there.

  “Let me just grab a protein bar and get dressed. We can head out to the gym then.”

  My bedroom gives me the privacy I crave. I can sit for just a moment without Meadow’s presence. The protein bar sits like a rock in my stomach. I need some greasy eggs and bacon but would probably throw them back up once we hit the gym. Meadow will be throwing up after eating, but that’s a calculated move on her part. I take some pride in the fact that I haven’t yet stooped as low as bulimia to maintain my figure. Not yet. Of course, I don’t make my living off my figure either.

  I don’t feel like working out. On the other hand, it’s probably what I need to sweat out the alcohol. Dehydration’s a strong possibility at the moment, though the thought of drinking water makes my stomach lurch and roll. And I know I need to stay in shape. Otherwise, I’ll never be able to fit into the skimpy, revealing outfits Chase likes me to wear.

  Chase.

  Thinking about him brings flashes from last night. He was so intense, but so was I. He’s getting more and more bold in what he asks of me. What he wants me to do with him. To him. I’m becoming a more willing participant. I need to be. All the signs are pointing toward him getting close to leaving his wife for me. She’s a raging bitch, who’s fat and old—forty already. That’s a huge reason why Chase loves me. I’m young and nubile, and I’ll be able to give him the children he deserves. He married his wife because he had to—not because he wanted to. I guess her family has more money than God himself, and Chase was trying to break into the business. I don’t even know exactly what he does. When Chase starts talking about it, I stop listening. I mean, it’s sooooo boring. He drags me to all these functions with his co-workers and colleagues. They’re terribly tedious, but Chase makes it up to me for sitting through them. The whole thing is a big show. Lots of people, bullshitting each other about how fabulous they are. I fit right in.

  If you think about it, which I avoid doing at all costs, it’s sort of bizarre that all these married men have no qualms about parading around their girlfriends like property. In a way, I guess we are.

  We don’t pay for much—anything, really. We’re showered with gifts and luxuries and given privileges we’d never earn on our own. And in return, we do as we’re told. We make our men look good. We’re happy with whatever they give us. We never want more.

  I don’t want more from Chase. I just don’t want to share him. That’s what I try to tell myself.

  I want him to belong to me, the way I belong to him.

  And when push comes to shove, I know it’s more the sense of belonging that I yearn for.

  Pulling my hair back into a messy bun, my lightened ombre ends fanning out, I’m finally ready to go to the gym. Without even seeing what she’s wearing, I know Meadow and I will be in coordinating skintight capri leggings and racer back yoga top. It’s the unofficial, official gym uniform. Living in the city is such a conundrum. You try as hard as you can to blend in, and then strive for attention. It doesn’t make sense.

  My life doesn’t make sense.

  But rather than think for myself, I go with the flow. A lemming, following the others to their certain death.

  *******

  “What time do you have to be at work?” Meadow puffs. The spin class is ramping up and soon we won’t be able to breathe, let alone chat.

  “Four,” I mutter, “just like every Saturday.”

  The overly perky instructor hollers out instructions, and the pace picks up. I hate this part. I hate spinning. I know, exercise is supposed to make me feel good and shit, but I’d rather be doing something else. Like Zumba. But that is “so suburban” according to Meadow, and we are adamantly opposed to anything that might be popular in the suburbs. Zumba’s fun. It reminds me of the aerobics classes I used to go to with my mom when I was growing up. This is like torture. I guess I should consider myself lucky that Meadow doesn’t want to bulk up. Otherwise, she’d be killing me with CrossFit. Kettlebells and dead lifting three times my body weight? No, thank you.

  Finally, the agony ends. We’ve still got to do our ab workout. Five-hundred crunches. And then we can go.

  By the time my gym penance is paid, the clock reads one p.m. Ugh. I’ll barely have enough time to go home, shower, and eat before I have to go to work. No rest for the weary.

  Meadow and I part ways. She’s going tanning and to get her extensions tweaked or fixed or whatever. She’s got a gig working as a shot girl at a club’s grand opening tonight. She’ll make a killing and no doubt come home with a crapload of phone numbers. She’s in between boyfriends at the moment, which is unusual for her. She typically doesn’t trade one in until the next one is solidly lined up. She miscalculated with her last boyfriend, Scott. I think she was trying to make him jealous to push him into more of a commitment. He, apparently, wasn’t having any of that manipulation and walked away. When she gets drunk, Meadow still booty calls him, or at least attempts to. He’s been brutally rebuffing her. I think her ego is hurt. Maybe even her heart. If she has one.

  Once upon a time, I used to have friends that I cared about. I mean, it’s not like I want Meadow to get hurt—I don’t. I’m more sort of … indifferent … about her. We’re friends of convenience. She did take me under her wing when I first arrived. Dumb, naive me, thinking I would hop off the bus and be offered a fantastic job right away. That it wouldn’t matter that I’d dropped out of college. What an idiot I’d been.

  Meadow needed a roommate, I needed a room. I had a little money left, and it was enough to keep me going until I got this job. Meadow took odd jobs here and there to supplement her modeling career. I think, somewhere in the recesses of my brain, I’d thought that I could always model to make ends meet if I couldn’t find a “real” job. Again, what an idiot I’d been.

  I don’t think Meadow cares about me either. I think she keeps me close so that I’m not competition. She did introduce me to Chase. It’s a fact she never lets me forget either. “I practically gave him to you on a platter. You owe me.” If Meadow’s said that once, she’s said it a thousand times. In reality, I think she pushed me toward him, knowing he was truly unavailable, but would still get me off the market. So that men she was interested in wouldn’t be tempted by me. I’d be attached—it didn’t matter to whom—and wouldn’t be in her way of the desirable men. And, I don’t think she wanted Chase for herself. She doesn’t want to be the arm candy for a married man. In other words, two birds, one stone.

  Meadow is one of the most superficial people I’ve ever met. I think Scott is the only person who Meadow’s actually cared about in a very long time. She won’t be making that mistake again. I’m not proud to say that I’ve become just like her. In some ways, it’s much easier to care about my hair and shoes and who-said-what than actual things that matter. Convictions. Morals. Ethics. Family. Not that I have any family to care about.

  Work is uneventful. It’s a job. It pays the bills. Sometimes, it even does more than that. I wear a low-cut black scoop neck T-shirt that shows more than enough of my cleavage. It skims my midriff, showing just a hint of skin. Skin tight black pants and black ankle booties complete the look. I graciously accept under-the-table tips from those eager for a better table, as well as from those business men who think they’ll actually get somewhere with me. Yeah right. Like I’d go slumming with the likes of anyone who would try and hit on the hostess.

  That’s why I’m glad I have Chase. He has so much class. He’s refined.

  While being the Saturday night hostess at Crush has its advantages, it’s certainly not where I pictured myself. Even celebrities are beholden to me, if they want that private table, or if they want the one that will get them seen. It’s all a game with them, and I’m the referee. Hell, I’m the coach, calling the plays. I know it sounds cocky. Maybe it is. Apparently, men wi
ll do anything to sleep with me. Like, anything. And we all know that men think with their dicks. How else do you think I landed this job?

  I’m the worst kind of girl there is. Even worse than a whore. I’m a cock tease. I know I have no intention of putting out, but I don’t let the guy know that. I’ll keep it going until I get what I want, and then I cut him loose. But the fitted shirt, exposed cleavage, and a butt wiggle go a long way. Yeah, I know it’s wrong that I trade in on my looks. But frankly, it’s the only commodity I have at this point. No family. No home. I dropped out of college. Not by choice, of course, but I’m a dropout nonetheless. I hated my major—business administration. It wasn’t my cup of tea. Doesn’t matter either way. No money, no tuition, no place to live. College was last on the priority list.

  I never wanted to be a business major in the first place. When I was a kid, I wanted to own a fabric store. Silly, I know, but the solace I found surrounded by bolts and bolts of fabric was virtually indescribable. Even now, if I watch Project Runway or some bridal show, all I can think about is running my fingers over the fabric. When I was in high school, I thought I’d go to nursing school. That was before my mom got sick, and I realized I don’t do well with sickness. My guidance counselor took one look at me, told me I was too pretty to be a nurse, and that business was a “more appropriate” field for “a girl like me.” It took me a few years to figure out that he meant I was only good for my looks and should be a pretty hood ornament for some bigwig somewhere. Maybe he thought I’d meet someone in college. Yeah, no.