by Vivien Vale
He's staring at me now in that way of his—the one that makes me need to go change my panties—and I wonder if we'll even make it to the beds tonight or if he'll have to fuck me in the powder room of the Inner Sanctum first.
I pretend I don't notice his gaze that's trailing me as I make my way to the bar. My silver dress hits the floor just right, making it look like I'm floating, my perfect goddess filthy only for me.
As soon as I order my very dirty vodka martini, he's at my side whispering about all the dastardly things he plans to do to me tonight.
"No, Leo, I'm trying to work." I pretend to give him the rub off.
"But I want you in the penthouse wearing nothing but that garter belt I know you have on. I want to rip it off with my teeth."
His whispered words almost make me come right here. Having Leo talk to me that way, when he tells me what he'll do, well, I have to press my legs tightly together just to avoid making a mess of my new silver dress.
"Leo,” I say with a teasing wag of my finger, “I have to take care of Emily, my new charge. Besides the night's hardly begun."
I wave at someone, Andrea—the CEO of a new cosmetics line called Flash that's making waves in the beauty industry. It's nice to have connections. I've previously set her up with one of my male escorts and she wasn't disappointed.
My guys can make any woman ruin their panties upon first sight. They're all dazzling, ripped, and most of all, they know how to show my women clients the time of their lives. Many a girls’ trip happens here if they're exclusive enough to get in.
I'm taking in my success, the business, everything—it’s beautiful, and yet I have Leo here impatiently growling in my ear that he's ready to fuck.
"Fine, baby, let's go upstairs. I can hardly wait myself."
He leads me out of the Sanctum through a back exit, and all the while his fingers are tracing the line of my ass.
"Get ready for a long night, Sienna. I’m going to make you mine."
"It always is, Leo. With you it always is. And don’t you know yet? I’ve always been yours."
Hard Pressed
Don’t just get pressed.
Get hard pressed.
You thought being the popular girl in high school would get you through life?
You didn’t realize that the nerdy guy would come out on top, did you?
Well, baby…he did. That’s me.
Billionaire media mogul. Owner of the largest tabloid newspaper in the country.
I make or break careers at the drop of a hat.
And now you work for me.
Find that hard to believe?
Because the moment I saw you, the past came rushing back.
Everything I thought I forgot came back.
How all I could think of back then was you.
How you didn’t even know I existed.
And when you did, it was to torment me.
Of course you have no idea that loser in high school is the biggest alpha male on the block.
How could you?
You see a successful billionaire with the body of a Greek god.
You don’t realize who I used to be.
But I’m going to make you remember. You can bet on it.
You’re going to realize what it’s like now that the tables are turned.
You’re going to realize what I went through.
And by the time I’m done, you’ll love me as much as I loved you.
Xavier
I try not to do this too much. ‘This’ being whisking people up and away, taking them to far-off lands for multicourse dinners. It’s a little too Aladdin . It’s a little much and, honestly, not the glamorous fun it seems in the movies.
Here’s the basic truth: I drop more than a hundred grand to make people feel uncomfortable. They’re rarely enjoyably wowed. This might be my fault.
I don’t tell people to bring their passport, bustle people into my private (but shared) plane, and get a last-minute reservation to a Michelin-starred restaurant overseas all because I love them and want more of their company.
I do it only because I see doubt in their eyes. Or, no. It’s not doubt I see, but a look of discovery when they suddenly realize who I am is not what I seem.
Like this one sitting across from me. Her name is Jane, but she seems like an Amber or Topaz. Someone either born into luxury or someone so hungry they grab at opportunities, determined to make one stick.
We met at an event at a TriBecA gallery yesterday. She handed me a glass of sparkling wine and when I went to grab a cocktail napkin, she handed me her headshot folded into a sharp square, small enough to slide into my trouser pocket.
She winked at me. I laughed. Chutzpah can be sexy, but mostly it’s annoying.
Later, I followed her as she walked around the room with a tray full of canapés, each one capped with perfect mounds of shining caviar. When she stopped and turned to look at me, I took one and, before I popped it into my mouth, I asked if she’d get a drink with me when she got off work.
Jane-Amber-Topaz smiled and then she nodded. She turned on her heel and walked to the back of the gallery and through the doors hidden behind a towering sculpture of a faceless man carved in onyx.
A minute later she was next to me. She was wearing dark lipstick and her navy trench was belted tight.
“Let’s go,” she said. I arched a brow and smiled down at her; she was tall, maybe six feet, but I’m taller still and bent slightly toward her.
“Your boss is okay with that?” I asked, my voice low.
“I’m hoping to convince you to be my boss,” she said.
We left, slid into a cab. I let my hand brush her thigh.
“This is about work,” she said, so I removed my hand and nodded, looking out the window. I brushed my hair out of my eyes and tried not to be annoyed. “Ok, let’s start with work. Which one of my businesses are you trying to break into?”
“I’m an investigative reporter,” Jane said, “and Hard Pressed has one of the best teams working right now: the Russian dossier, the CH Jones scandal…well, I guess, I don’t have to tell you about the scoops your team has racked up over the past few years.
I nodded curtly.
“No,” I said, “You don’t.” Jane’s forefinger pulsed on her thigh. She was nervous, but her eyes gleamed with excitement. I asked her, “Are you good? Where have you published?”
“Mostly in mid-market newspapers, but yeah. I’m really good. I’ll send you my clips. But also consider the facts: We didn’t just run into each other, obviously. I sought you out. I hope it doesn’t make you uncomfortable,” she said. She wet her lips with tip of her tongue and continued. “In order to find you, and get you to talk to me, I had to do a small investigation.”
“You could have just made an appointment with my assistant,” I said, feeling fascinated and wary. The air in the cab had gone still.
“We both know you wouldn’t have seen me,” Jane said.
The cabbie leaned on his horn. The moment broken.
The evening went on. We didn’t talk about her investigation. I planned to leave her at the bar and head back to my apartment alone. But she was beautiful and tenacious. I found myself fascinated and curious about what she wanted to happen next.
I listened to her talk and answered some of her questions. We both drank our bourbon neat. When the server brought the bill, I put down my black AmEx card over the bill for our drinks.
“I’m not going to hire you,” I said. “Not like this and not for that team. You want me to admire your gall and I do—to an extent. But finding out where the CEO of a major media group will be on a Wednesday night isn’t a deep dive investigation, a two-penny PI could have done just as well.
“On our investigative team, there are five Pulitzers between them. By asking questions and digging through thousands of files, they brought down one major bank and an online sex trafficking ring. What do you know about these kinds of investigations? You’re a cub reporter, tenacious but green.�
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Even in the dark of the bar, I could see the blood rush to her face. At first, I thought she was embarrassed, and expressing it like a kid by blushing from her toes to the roots of her hair, but as the moment stretched I realized she was furious.
“I haven’t told you what I know about you, Stanley,” she said.
I was getting up from the table, but sat back down when I heard her.
“I changed my name,” I said, trying for nonchalance. “I’m not exactly the first person to do that.”
She nodded, smiling slowly.
“Sure, Xavier, that’s true. People change their names and you absolutely look the part of a debonair business god throwing around his black card in a dive bar in the East Village. Xavier is something else, but Stanley is…nothing much.”
I forced a laugh.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said, taking care to keep my voice so low she had to lean slightly forward to hear me.
A slight look of surprise flashed across her face.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
I smiled coolly.
“To your house to grab your passport,” I said. “I assume you have one, Jane.”
She looked me dead in the eye, and belted the last of her bourbon. A sharp nod and then she took off for the door.
We didn’t talk much and then we both slept on the plane. I had the flight attendant bring out Dom Perignon and a bowl of caviar from the Caspian Sea. I told her to use the crystal champagne flutes.
When sudden turbulence caused the plane to jolt, I watched Jane’s full champagne glass fly and smash against the side of the plane. I smiled and asked the flight attendant to bring her another crystal glass filled close to the rim with champagne.
“Let’s try that again,” I said.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Rome,” I said.
I watched her swallow the wine, the caviar in front of her untouched. She looked out her window and I, finally feeling calm, looked out mine.
Once we landed, I deposited her in the penthouse of the Ritz. Then, later, I sent a chauffeured Rolls Royce to pick her up.
I didn’t prepare her for the luxurious glamor of the dinner. I didn’t offer to buy her a wardrobe full of designer dresses. I was dressed impeccably, tailored suit, cufflinks, a square of silk tucked into my pocket.
Now, she’s seated across from me in a dress that looks like it was bought in a Midwestern mall in 2003. She’s still beautiful, but she’s lost her cocksure attitude.
“You’re not eating, Jane,” I remark, taking a sip of the rare vintage I ordered for us. “Is it okay? Should we call the chef over?”
“It’s perfect,” she says, a note of bitterness obvious.
I incline my head.
She picks up her fork and puts it down again.
“You’ve made your point, Xavier,” she says.
I lift my eyes to hers.
“Let me be very clear, little girl,” I say. “You may think you know me and understand some part of who I am or where I’ve come from. You learned I came from a small town, was raised by a single-mother. You might know every fact of my life, but I am and will always be more than you are: smarter, richer, more powerful, more accomplished. If you cross me, threaten me, follow me, I will—” here I pause and lean back in my chair for effect, “crush you.”
I watch her wilt. I feel both shame and satisfaction.
“Now,” I say, dabbing my lips with the napkin. “We have a few minutes before the plane will be ready to take us back home, should we get dessert?”
I watch her as she lifts her head and squares her shoulders.
“Whatever you like, Xavier.”
Back on my plane, she’s staring out the window while I’m smiling to myself.
Allie
I’m not sure why I’m here again, sitting on the black leather chair in this stuffy, cramped waiting room. The guy sitting at the back of the room looks like the receptionist, but he isn’t.
His name is Brock, a douchey name for a douchey guy. He’s the youngest talent agent in this three-person outfit and the one who didn’t get a private office with a door. Everyone who walks in and treats him as if he might be helpful in connecting them with another agent in the office is rudely and pointedly ignored.
Or, if he’s in a playful mood, he looks you up and down and says something like: “My clients are all animals, but I might make an exception for you and your horse’s face” or “you and your bullfrog’s mouth” or “sloth’s hands” or “hippo’s grace” or “cow’s titties” or whatever animal part comes to his mind in the moment.
The poor person who makes the mistake of thinking he’s a decent human being, mostly innocent teenage girls, blink stupidly at him, and then sink into the other chair in the room to wait for their actual agent to stick their head from behind the door and call their names.
The smart ones, however, turn and take off, speeding out the door.
You better run , I always think, but Brock never acknowledge their reactions and goes back to barking into the mouth piece on his headset.
In all my years, sitting in this chair in front of his desk, I’ve never seen him meet with a client himself or close a deal. He must do something, though, because I’ve noticed his clothes have stopped hanging off his body. He looks like a man who eats good food regularly and he carries himself like a man who has a trainer, a masseuse, and a tailor.
I know all this about Brock because I sit here forgotten for hours by my agent, Cheri. I know all this because years ago I was the green and hopeful kid, still sporting my cheerleader-perfect ponytail.
The first morning I walked into this place, I was going to meet with my agent—my agent !—for the first time. I’d tied a red ribbon in my hair that morning, but before I opened the door of my car to walk into the building, I changed my mind. I pulled off the ribbon and slipped it into my black Longchamp bag, a present from my aunt on my nineteenth birthday.
That was years ago—how many? Seven? Ten? Who knows. That was the last promising day of my career. Since then I’ve wasted days of my life on this black plastic chair watching people walk past me with big confident smiles and leave with watery eyes.
Those of us who are veterans of this life will nod at each other. I’ve watched so many of them change from having that snappy walk of an eager dreamer to the more measured clipped movement of the determined, to the resigned forward motion of the person trapped in a tortured loop.
There’s nothing glamorous about this life.
Today, for example, I’ve been waiting for an hour and forty minutes to see a woman who won’t look me in the eye for the whole of our 15-minute meeting. She won’t waste her words on me or help me when I tell her that I haven’t worked as an actor in months. I’ll tell her that I’m starting to lose my will to go on.
I’ll tell her in no uncertain terms, that I wish I was with an agent who took time to work with me or send me to auditions for interesting roles, and she’ll nod along, all the while shifting piles of papers from the left side of her desk to the right. A headset will hang around her neck and she’ll smell like Chanel and stale cigarettes, and I’ll leave without a job and get into my car and drive to Eastern High School where I’ll put in a few hours as the assistant cheer coach.
I shift in my chair and the plastic sticks to the back of my legs. I’ve been here too long, I think. I’m hungry and will be late for practice, so I grab the handle of the old Longchamp bag and get up just as Cheri sticks her head out the door and says, “Allie?”
I lift my hand in greeting, but it feels like sign of defeat. She opens the door a little wider, enough for me to slip around the door into the room filled to bursting with boxes and papers. She gestures at the chair.
“It’s good to see you,” she says to me, but doesn’t look up from her computer screen.
“You too,” I say flatly.
“How’s it going?”
“Well, I wanted to ask you,” I say
, bending forward with my elbows on my knees trying to get her attention, while glancing at the computer screen.
“Uh-huh,” she says. “Go on.”
“I haven’t been out for a real audition for a while. It’s been more than two months. The last one was for the commercial for the body spray, remember? Remember, I was allergic to the spray and broke out into hives? Ruined my chances to go out for anything for weeks, but I’m better now.”
I pitch my voice lighter and say lamely, “Look at me; hive-free!”
Cheri doesn;t look at me. She speaks a “ha” sound, because it was a lame joke but she can’t be bothered to pretend to laugh.
“Anyway,” I push on. “Is there anything else? Anything at all? I need to work—things are a little tight right now.”
The noise of keyboard keys being tapped grates on my already frayed nerves.
“I’m just checking something,” she says to me. “There was something I saw and thought of you right away. Ah, yes, here it is.”
She turns her chair and, finally , glances my way. I sit up straighter.
“Have you heard of Hard Pressed ?”
“The cat-list people?” I say, confused.
“Yep,” she says, “same folks. The company is owned by that guy Xavier Baldwin. Super rich and slightly brilliant when it comes to the Internet. For the past couple years, they’ve been in the process of expanding their media brand from cat-lists and clickbait to quizzes and news, and now they’re doing video content. A lot of video content, actually.”
I nod, but I’m not sure what I’m nodding for.
“They’re going to start doing things like humor shorts and entertainment news clips, but they’re also looking for someone to be the face of their new food show. They say it has the potential of being a regular gig, which would be great for you. Tons of exposure and a hot brand behind you, the whole bit.”
“That sounds great,” I say, trying not to get excited. I’ve seen too much disappointment. “I don’t know a ton about food, but I’m a TopChef super-fan.”
“Uh-huh,” Cheri says. Now she’s the one nodding.