Gloria's Revenge (Gloria Book 2)

by Nelle L'Amour

  Half way through the station, a sharp tug from behind me followed by a forceful shove sent me crashing to the filthy Penn Station floor. Dazed, I caught my assailant, a skinny Latino youth, running through the crowd with my bag. My life! My cell phone! My wallet! My identity! And the cash I needed to get through the weekend!

  “Little fucker!” yelled my companion, taking off in hot pursuit.

  Staggering to my feet, my eyes could not believe the speed with which his long legs carried him. It was like watching a scene from Mission Impossible with Tom Cruise or some stunt double running after the bad guy. My assailant glanced back at Trainman, panic washing over his face as he saw my action hero gaining ground. Even as the bad guy picked up speed, the gap narrowed until Trainman pounced on him, sending him crashing to the floor. He lay sprawled on the floor, between Trainman’s powerful steepled knees, his face frozen with fear.

  I hurried toward them. Gripping the lad by a clump of his greasy, ebony hair, Trainman yanked him to his feet. The boy was shaking and near tears, and I was taken by how slight he was compared to my tall, mighty, broad-shouldered hero. The boy surrendered my bag and defensively raised both hands, clearly afraid that his captor might strike him. Still clasping his hair, Trainman lifted the youth until his Nikes no longer touched the ground. The boy grimaced in pain. And then Ari lowered him. I was close enough to hear him growl, “Now, get the fuck out here.” He released the boy, who, wasting no time, sprinted through the crowd without looking back.

  Ari wheeled around, his eyes searching the crowd until they landed on me. I stopped dead in my tracks. I was shaking—unsure if it was from the shock of being violated or the shock that this gorgeous man had risked his life for me—I mean, the kid could have had a knife. Taking long strides, he headed my way.

  “You okay?” he asked, his blue eyes surveying every inch of my body.

  “Yeah,” I managed. Glancing down, I noticed that there were patches of dust on my calf-length beige skirt. My right knee hurt from the fall. I lifted up the hem of the skirt to check it out. No blood. Just a large hole in my pantyhose—though it was a mere fraction of the hole between my crotch. Embarrassment crept through me.

  Ari handed me my bag, intact and in one piece. “Hold on to this,” he said, his frown curling into a wry, but oh-so-sexy smile.

  I flashed a quick smile back. My gaze met his once again, and I was immediately aware of the waves of ecstasy crashing again my pelvis. My heart thudded. Thank goodness the hum of the crowded station drowned out the sound.

  “I’m having drinks with someone,” he said.

  He needed to say no more. He was meeting some gorgeous supermodel. The type of woman he belonged with. My heart sunk. It was time for my exit line.

  “Um, okay,” I spluttered. “Thanks for everything.” Yes, everything.

  Without saying good-bye, I hastily headed toward a sign that said Exit. I walked blindly through the throng of rush-hour commuters and homeless, brushing up against more than I wanted. It was over. My scenes from a movie were over. I didn’t even know a thing about him. His last name. Where he lived. What he did. What did it matter? I’d probably never see him again. It was just a fluke thing that wasn’t supposed to happen to me. I shrugged my shoulders and inwardly sighed. Yet, there was so much of me that kept hoping I would feel his strong hands on my shoulders, stopping me dead in my tracks. Spinning me around. Pulling my head back with a yank of my ponytail. Sinking his lips into mine and then parting them with his tongue, inviting me for a smoochy dance right in the middle of Penn Station. That’s what happened in movies. With wishful thinking, I stole a glance backward. Trainman was hugging a tall, shapely, drop-dead gorgeous redhead in a chic suit. Just his type. I hastily pivoted around and quickened my pace. Why was I fooling myself? My West Side Story was a dream. My life was a reality show. A really lame reality show.

  2

  I decided to walk home from Penn Station. The furnished apartment I was subletting on West Forty-Fifth Street between Eighth and Ninth Avenues on the edge of the theater district was not far. Besides, it was a warm May night, and I needed the air to clear my head. Unfortunately, the intense throbbing between my inner thighs kept me in a fog. Ari’s beautiful face filled my mind while his beautiful dick filled every other part of me. And then the image of that stunning redhead made it all go away faster than losing my virginity. The reality that I was no longer “the twenty-five-year-old virgin,” as Lauren sarcastically called me, made me shudder with disbelief. It had to happen sometime, but now I had twinges of regret that it had happened with that Adonis. A stranger on a train.

  Mounting the five-step landing that led to my brownstone apartment, I dug deep into my messenger bag in search of my keys and sighed with relief when I found them. Had it not been for Trainman, I would have had no bag or keys. For all I know, that kid, having access to my identity and address, might have vandalized my apartment and wiped out everything. And if I happened to be home at the time, who knows what else might have happened. I trembled, thinking about the possibilities.

  I jiggled the keys into the double metal locks, one after another. It was a royal pain in the butt to open the front door, but one could never be too safe in this big city, especially in my neighborhood, which was still considered a little seedy.

  Once inside, I used a tiny key attached to the chain to open one of three tarnished metal mailboxes that lined the chipped entryway. Two other tenants lived in the building—Mrs. Blumberg, on the second floor, a retired Broadway actress who always had a story about her song and dance days to tell me and was convinced she was related to the mayor, and Mr. Costanzo, on the ground floor, who owned a pizzeria and was always trying to feed me. My apartment, identical to theirs, was located on the third floor.

  Bills. Bills. And more bills. And a letter from The Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania. I would deal with all of them later. Right now, I had to hurry and get myself ready for the Black Eyed Peas concert in Central Park. Perhaps some good music and food would get my mind off my sick mother and the sick feeling I had about never seeing Trainman again.

  Usually the trek up the steep three flights of stairs was effortless for me, but this evening it was challenging. I was worn out, my insides torn—both physically and emotionally. As I mounted each step, the image of my mother, wan and frail, life ebbing out of her alternated with the image of Ari, tan and fit, putting life into me. I could still feel his hot pulsing cock deep inside me. I wanted it to go away and move on. Liar. I wanted more of him.

  Breathing heavily, I unlocked the double locks of my apartment door after several attempts. Jo-Jo, short for Josephine, the sweet black cat I was caring for while his (her?—I wasn’t sure) true owner, a flamboyant, singing-dancing transvestite, partook in year-long tour of La Cage Aux Folles, immediately brushed up against my ankles and meowed.

  The flat, a railroad apartment, was small but pleasant. I was lucky to have found it on Craigslist. It was rent-controlled, so I wasn’t paying much, and the tenant even gave me a small break for looking after Jo-Jo. The only thing odd about the apartment was that the walls were painted hot pink, and there was a large framed photo of Josephine Baker (obviously the inspiration for kitty’s name) above the pseudo-Victorian sofa. The other flea market finds that filled the apartment gave it a je ne sais quoi charm that appealed to me.

  Jo-Jo followed me into the small galley kitchen, where I proceeded to open a can of Fancy Feast and put it into his special bowl on the Formica counter. I’d better check my phone messages; it had been a while.

  I pushed play on the answering machine that sat on the other end of the counter. Lauren: “Where are you?” CLICK. Lauren: “What are you wearing? Remember, my cotillion friends are coming.” CLICK. Lauren: “Where are you?” CLICK. Lauren: “Guess what! Taylor is taking me to The Hamptons.” CLICK. Lauren: “Call me!” CLICK. Lauren: “FYI, your cell phone is turned off.”

  No more messages. My heart sunk. So much of me wanted to hear Trainman’s
sultry voice. “Saarah. Call me. I want to make you wet and fuck your brains out.”

  Stop it, Sarah! I silently chided. He was probably already bedding that beautiful redhead. And he had no idea where I lived or how to get in touch with me. Chances were I’d never see or hear from him again. Yet, the raw aching I felt for this man continued to consume me.

  Enough. I’d better call Lauren and let her know that I was back in town and that I would meet her at the Seventy-Second Street entrance to the park at 7:30. As I reached for my phone, the buzzer on my intercom sounded. Lately, any time it did, my heart dropped to the floor, thinking it might be someone serving me for non-payment of bills. Or even worse, some messenger with the news of my mother’s passing. Nervously, I pressed the button and talked into the intercom. “Yes?” My voice trailed off.

  “Delivery for you,” said a male voice with a heavy New York accent.

  That was strange. I wasn’t expecting anything. Unless my new evil boss had decided to send a stack of her expenses to take care of over the weekend. I had taken the day off to visit my mother, and she was not one bit happy about it. So, this was her revenge.

  I pushed the button on the intercom that unlocked the front door. “Just leave it on the stairs.”

  “You need to sign for it,” said the invisible voice.

  “Fine. I’ll be right down.”

  Grabbing one of the loose pens that I kept in a tin can on the counter, I galloped down the three flights of stairs. The aftershocks of my orgasm measured 6.0 on the “I can come” scale.

  Waiting for me at the base of the staircase was a twitchy man holding a box that must have measured five feet in length. It was magnificently wrapped in violet paper and topped off with a white bow the size of a basketball. This could not possibly be for me.

  “Sign this,” said the man, handing me a receipt. Sure enough, my name, Sarah Greene, was printed on the paper along with my address and apartment number. Huh? And then it hit me. Of course, it was a gift from my mega-wealthy, debutante friend Lauren, who probably sent me something nice to wear to the concert tonight so I wouldn’t be an embarrassment in front of all of her high society friends. She had threatened to burn my entire wardrobe once, and this was her way of sending me a message.

  Grabbing the receipt, I plastered it against the hallway wall and signed my name. The deliveryman promptly left, and I humped the stairs with the large package in my arms. What did Lauren pick out for me? Knowing her over-the-top expensive taste, I’m sure it was something like Seven for Mankind tight-ass jeans and some Roberto Cavalli bold print halter-top cut so low you could see my navel. Trendy things that flat-chested, straight-as-an-arrow, bohemian me had no right wearing. And would not look good in.

  Once back inside my apartment, I gently laid the massive package on the couch and carefully unwrapped it. I’d never seen such a meticulously wrapped present, and the dazzling bow must have cost a small fortune. Lauren could afford it. Her father, Randolph Hoffmeier, was a major Wall Street CEO, and she already had a substantial trust fund from her Mayflower-descended family.

  The box was from Bergdorf’s. Wow! The only time I’d ever set foot inside that store was the one time Catherine, my new bitch boss, sent me there at lunch to pick up a tube of her favorite Chanel red lipstick. Dressed in my cheap version of bohemian whatever, I stuck out like a sore thumb among all the expensively dressed and scented women and couldn’t wait to get out of the place. I spent the rest of my lunch break down the street, consoling myself at T.J. Maxx.

  I carefully removed the box top. Layers of delicate tissue paper lined the interior of the other half. I peeled them away, and then I gasped. Facing me was a beautifully folded black silk dress with two sparkling spaghetti straps. A tag hung off one of them. Marc Jacobs. Size 6. No price. I lifted the dress by the straps and held it up in front of me. It was gorgeous. Simple, but elegant. But certainly not the kind of thing one would wear to a rock concert in Central Park. What was Lauren thinking?

  My eyes returned to the box and came upon a small, white envelope with my name printed on it. Draping the dress over an arm, I reached for it and pulled out the contents from under the unsealed flap. My eyes grew big as I read the note and so did the explosions that were rocking my body.

  Ms. Greene~ Please wear this tonight. I shall collect you at 8 p.m. Please be downstairs. ~ Ari

  PS Please do not wear pantyhose.

  A mixture of holy cow and damn him saturated my brain. How the heck did he know where I lived? Wait. Of course, he must have gone through my messenger bag while I was waiting to use the restroom on that damn train. He got my address from my driver’s license. He must know everything about me. My height. My weight. My checking account number with my home phone number. My social security number. What kind of gum I chewed (Big Red). Crap. I bet he even thumbed through my sketchpad and read the journal I kept with my favorite sayings.

  One of them flashed into my head. “When in doubt, leave it out.” Damn it! I should have never let him sink his cock inside me. None of this would have happened. None of it. Except… there was no doubt. I had wanted him as much as he had wanted me.

  And now there was another problem. I couldn’t see him tonight. I had plans with Lauren. Trust me, she rubbed it my face that she was able to get those reserved-seating Black Eyed Peas tickets because her father’s investment company managed Fergie’s assets, and that I was lucky that she counted me as one of her best friends.

  The shrill ring of my phone hurled me out of my thoughts. It must be Lauren. I dreaded answering it because she got super mad if I didn’t call her back right away. For a friend, she was very high maintenance.

  Finally, after the fifth ring, just before the call went to my answering machine, I ran over to it and picked up the receiver.

  “Saarah, do you like your dress?”

  Fuck. It was him. The temperature in the kitchen suddenly rose ten degrees.

  “It’s very nice.” Who was I kidding? It was the most fabulous dress I’d ever owned. And the most expensive.

  “I’m looking forward to seeing you in it.”

  Shit! How the hell was I going to tell him that I had plans? That I couldn’t see him tonight.

  CLICK.

  I wasn’t. I immediately dialed Lauren’s number. Her answering machine was on. Beep.

  “Lauren, something’s come up. I can’t go to the concert tonight. I’ll explain tomorrow. Have fun.”

  CLICK. Phew! That saved me from having a nasty, drawn-out conversation with her. I suppose I could also try her on her cell, but truthfully, I didn’t want to. And I wasn’t feeling that guilty. She had her entourage. I’d still pay the consequences tomorrow, but right now, I had to get ready for my date with Trainman.

  Taking my new dress with me, I loped toward the bedroom that was adjacent to the living room. A loud knock at my door stopped me in the hallway. Retracing my steps, I peered through the peephole. Mrs. Blumberg. She was rather entertaining, but quite frankly, I had no time for her right now.

  I unbolted the door.

  Chewing a big wad of gum, she said in her thick “New Yawk” accent, “I was just on my way to shul when this came for you.” She handed me a shopping bag. Inside was another gift- wrapped package, this one significantly smaller, maybe a foot long by six inches. My heart fluttered. Now what?

  Mrs. Blumberg’s crinkly eyes fixated on the black dress that was still folded over my arm. “Hot date tonight? I hope he’s Jewish.”

  God, she was nosy. And so annoying. I didn’t respond.

  “So, how’s your mother doing?”

  Sadness swept over me. After I left the hospital, my mother was scheduled for another treatment. They always made her feel sicker than she already was. I fought back tears.

  “She’s hanging in there.”

  “Oy!” She shook her head, a bright-orange ball of frizz. “I’ll say a prayer for her tonight.”

  “Thanks.” Mrs. Blumberg meant well. It was hard not to like her even th
ough she could be annoying.

  “So, what are you waiting for? You gonna show me whatch’ya got?”

  God, she was being difficult.

  “Mrs. Blumberg, I’d love to spend time with you but—”

  “I know. I know. It’s okay to hurt an old lady’s feelings. You got a hot date.”

  Her voice trailed off as she shuffled to the door to my apartment. Closing it behind her, she got in her last two cents. “Make sure you wear clean underwear. And don’t let him touch you there.”

  I sighed; if she only knew. “There” tingled with the thought of being touched by “him” again. Wasting no time, I reached into the shopping bag and tore the package open. Two words on the lid of the shiny white box blazed in my eyes: JIMMY CHOO. I lifted the lid to find another note, the sexy, bold handwriting identical to that of the note that accompanied the black dress.

  Wear these tonight. Remember, no pantyhose.—A

  Holy cow! He bought me shoes? The kind you see in Vogue and the copy says: “Price on Request.” A creamy white duster bag encased the shoes. My heart thudding, I removed the shoes. I gasped. A pair of six-inch high black satin peep-toe pumps. Size nine and half, double A. How the hell did he know my crazy shoe size? Did he remove my two-sizes-too-wide combat boots stuffed with inner sole pads to make them fit while I was dozing on the train?

  A horrifying thought crossed my mind. I was born wearing combat boots. How was I going to manage to walk in these sexy beasts? I took off my boots and placed the high heels side by side on the floor. Placing one hand flat against the wall, I stepped into them, right foot, then left. Sarah, plain and tall, was suddenly taller. Six inches taller. A six-foot-two pillar.