by Claire Adams
"Well, it's going to be one hell of a party. Who are you taking as your date this year?" he wanted to know.
"I'm not sure I'll take anybody. These things always get splashed all over the tabloids, and then I get plagued by paparazzi wanting to know if the date I brought is my new girlfriend. I tried that once, and it wasn't for me. Never again. I'll just show up stag. I'm sure you've invited plenty of eligible young models for me to hit on all night long."
It was no secret that I went for the model type, and every aspiring star out there was always trying to hook up with me, hoping it would advance her career by landing her a spot on the cover of my magazine. Unfortunately for them, I didn't trade favors that way; but they didn't need to know that until after I'd come.
"Oh yes, there'll be tons of models there for you to choose from. Speaking of which, I sent an invitation to the launch party to that girl who did the cover shoot, what's her name? Karla Bran?"
"Kayla Brandt," I corrected him.
"Yeah, her. Well, the invitation came back as a wrong address. Can you have Angela dig up her number out of her file and give her call? It would look good for the press if she was at the launch party."
"Sure, will do," I said. A few minutes later, Keith left, closing my office door behind him. I picked up the phone and immediately dialed Kayla myself. I'd been looking for an excuse to call her for the past month that wouldn't make me seem needy or weak, and this was it.
"Hello," I heard her sweet voice and my heart leapt in my chest, only to fall again as I realized it wasn't her, just her answering machine. "You've reached Kayla Brandt. Please leave a message at the beep."
"It's Ethan Colson. We're having a party to celebrate the launch of the All-American on Friday, and as the cover girl of our magazine, it's important that you be there. Contact me at my office for details. Goodbye."
I sounded curt and businesslike. I had wanted to sound confident and strong, instead I realized that I came off as dismissive and apathetic. Shit. Would she even call me back after a message like that? I sure as hell hoped so. I missed her more than I could say—more than I'd ever missed anyone.
Chapter Thirteen: Kayla
I was exhausted by the time I got home at the end of the day. Twelve hours on my feet, posing in skimpy outfits with five inch heels that pinched my toes. The end results were well worth it, though. The digital proofs I got to see looked fantastic and were just what the director wanted. They'd make an excellent addition to my growing résumé of experience. Plus, I walked out with a hefty bonus in addition to my promised paycheck.
When I got to my crappy car, I was disappointed to see that it was full of the boxes I had picked up from Mick's place before work. For a brief moment in time, I'd forgotten they were there and wiped out the awful memory of our morning encounter.
He'd set the boxes outside of our apartment building by the dumpster, but my name was clearly emblazoned across them with a bold Sharpie pen, so I knew they were mine. Some homeless people were already digging through them and they ran off with a plastic garbage bag full of my clothes before I could stop them.
"It doesn't matter. They need the clothes more than I do," I muttered aloud as I searched for the boxes that really mattered to me, the ones full of my photo albums and memorabilia.
"Want some help carrying that to your car?" a familiar voice said, and I whipped around to face Mick.
"No, thanks. I can take care of myself." I hefted the heavy box and started carrying it across the parking lot to my car just to prove it.
"Yeah, I see that. Looks like you've managed to do just fine yourself. Got yourself a car and a place to live, all thanks to the job I got for you. You wouldn't have anything it weren't for me, you slutty tramp; but you keep telling everybody how fine you’re doing and see if anyone believes your lies. Aren't you going to ask how I'm doing without you?"
"No, Mick. I don't care how you're doing without me." We got to my car, and he tried to block me from being able to get to my trunk. He was already drunk, though, even at that hour of the morning, and I pushed past him easily. I put the box next to the others I'd already loaded in the trunk, since my backseat was already full, and slammed the lid shut.
Turning on him, I said angrily, "I stopped caring about you the moment I found you cheating on me with my best friend. I have a feeling you stopped caring about me long before that. It's been years since you treated me the way a real boyfriend should. It just took me long time to realize it. Now leave me alone. I never want to see you or my former best friend again."
"It's funny you mention Samantha because she's doing alright, too. In fact, she's moved in with me. Out with the old and tired, and in with the new and exciting. She turns me on in ways you never could, and she brings home way better money than you ever did from her tips at the bar."
"I'm glad. I hope you two are very happy together. I can't think of two people who deserve each other more," I said with a hostile edge even Mick couldn't miss.
"I'll give you what you deserve, you fucking bitch." He grabbed me hard on the arms and tried to kiss me. I kicked him in the balls with all my strength, and he doubled over in half, letting me go instantly before he puked on his own shoes. I jumped in my car, locked the door, and fumbled for my keys, shaking all over. He was shouting at obscenities at me as I started the engine and drove quickly away.
I was still rattled from the encounter by the time I got to the photoshoot, but I was a professional and they never knew. After a little while, I was able to immerse myself in the process and forget all about Mick and the ugly encounter—until I was once again faced with the boxes filling my backseat and trunk.
I lugged them into my apartment one by one and left them stacked in my living room. Then, I crashed into bed and just slept. It had been an exhausting day and I just couldn't face them.
The next morning, I awoke feeling refreshed, and after a hearty cup of coffee, I was ready to take them on. Going through the boxes one by one was strangely therapeutic. Dressed in jean shorts and a turquoise blue tank top, with my hair piled high on my head in a sloppy bun, I dug into the boxes like an archeologist on a site, exploring objects I hadn't seen in weeks, sometimes months, some of them even years.
There was the lease from our first apartment together when we had just moved to L.A. I was a kid of eighteen back then and believed every wild tale he told me about how easy it would be to make all our dreams come true in the City of Angels. There was the dress I wore to my first modeling job. Too bad the bums didn't take it; talk about ugly! I had learned to dress much better since those days and could actually afford to buy decent brands now that Mick wasn't draining all my savings.
Here was the cheap ring he had given me after our first big fight. I had thought it was beautiful and had forgiven him instantly, then a week later it turned my finger green and I had to take it off. I was too sentimental about the gift, though, and refused to throw it away. Instead, I kept it in this jewelry box. I was over such delusions of love now and had no trouble throwing the cheap trinket straight into the garbage can, along with all the other crap that reminded me of him.
Very few of the memories from my years with Mick were good, but many of them were bad. I was surprised to see just how much of a struggle life with him had been. It was easy to be blind to the misery when I was stuck living in it every day, but with a little time and distance, I had finally gained some perspective and I could truthfully say I was glad to be done with him.
A huge sigh of relief escaped my lungs as I threw the last of the boxes and unwanted objects into the dumpster behind my new apartment. I felt several inches taller from being rid of the burden of my past and moved with a lighter step. As I walked back into my apartment, I heard my cell phone ringing on my table and picked it up.
It was a message from Ethan, and my heart instantly stuck in my throat. I had secretly been hoping that he'd call me one day, even though I was the one who had slipped out on him while he was sleeping. I claimed that I didn't want him
to, that there was no hope of a relationship between us, and that it was best to leave things as a one-night-stand; but it was all a lie. Inside my innermost heart, I had been hoping that he would miss me as much as I missed him and call me, begging me to be his girlfriend.
I held my breath as I pressed one on my cell phone to listen to my voicemail messages. Instantly, my hope deflated into disappointment. He sounded so businesslike and official. It was almost as if he were being forced to make the call by some P.R. agent, or possibly even Keith Wilkes, who had been very nice to me.
He had probably bragged to them about having slept with yet another model, and they told him they wanted me at the launch party since I was cover girl for their magazine that month. They must have told him they thought it would be best if he made the call, and from the sound of his voice, it was obvious he hadn't wanted to.
My eyes were stinging, and I was forced to angrily blink back my tears. It was funny, I had been dry-eyed the entire time I was throwing out five years of memories with Mick, and the moment I got a call from the man I only spent one night with, I was falling to pieces.
The realization made me angry. I'd just gotten my independence, and here I was handing over my heart to another callous asshole and letting him determine my happiness. No more. I'd been in a relationship since I was sixteen and let a man tell me what to do, where to go, and how to live my life.
Now that I was finally free of that, there was no way I was going to let Ethan Colson think that he could just snap his fingers and I would come running to any company function that he wanted just so he could show me off when it suited him, and he could toss me aside like a wet rag when it didn't.
I dialed the number for his private cell, but instantly turned it off before it started to ring. I didn't just want to tell him off privately so he could put any spin on it that he wanted to. I wanted to march into his office and make it clear to everyone at Speed Motorcycles that this was one model who wasn't going to be taken advantage of. If he wanted me to show up at another press event like this launch party, I was willing to talk business, but if he thought he could just use and abuse me, he was in for a nasty surprise. Just the kind that Mick got this morning when I kicked him in the balls.
Fired up and ready to go, I grabbed my purse and my keys and headed for the door. Only my reflection in the mirror on the living room wall made me pause. Covered in dust and sweat, with my bun half-undone and pit stains on my tank top, this was not the scene I wanted to make. A look at my watch told me I had time for a shower and change of clothes. Glancing at my closet, I knew just what I'd wear. This was going to be a meeting to remember.
Chapter Fourteen: Ethan
I checked my cell phone and set it back down on the conference room table. Still no call back from Kayla. It had been hours since I left that message on her cell about the launch party. Why hadn't she returned my call?
"I see you've got important business to get back to. Just a few more questions, please," the reporter said, mistaking my actions to mean I wanted to get out of the interview and back to work.
He was only half right. I did want to stop answering his lame questions, but Chet Charleston hosted one of the top-rated shows on television and this would make great free advertising for the new bike.
He had come to my executive headquarters and we were filming in my brightest conference room with the All-American propped on a kick-stand in the corner. Chet decided to seat me by the window where it was sunniest, insisting that it made me look friendlier and less intimidating. He looked like a clown with his blond hair dyed nearly white and his skin tanned to an unnatural shade of orange. His bright blue suit was hard to look at, but easier on the eyes than his red, striped tie. I was glad I'd settled for a simple, gray Giorgio Armani with a black tie. The colors were dark, but so was my mood, so I thought it was fitting.
"Sorry," I said. "I'm just expecting an important call and I don't want to miss it. Please go on."
I tried to smooth the tension between us over with a grin. I didn't have Keith's natural charisma with the press, but it seemed to do the trick.
Chet returned to his list of pre-written questions provided by the head-writer for his show. He leaned right into the camera that was positioned behind my left shoulder and said, "The first bike you created, The Rebel, became an overnight success. Why did you call it that?"
"Well, I was a young man then. Fresh out of college and working my first real job for a huge corporation. Although I was stuck in a boring, bean-counter job keeping track of warehouses, I had a lot of creative vision inside me. I had always loved to ride, and I invented a motorcycle bikers would love. I just hadn't realized all the red-tape and corporate politics I would have to wade through to get it made and out in stores where customers could buy it.
“So, I quit that corporation and built it on my own. I felt like I was rebelling against the establishment when I did it and providing a means of freedom for others like me who loved to ride, but couldn't find the bike that fit their needs. The Rebel was popular because it was that bike."
"That's a great story, but there's a dark side to it, too. The hearings were closed on the lawsuit waged against you by a corporate owner claiming you invented The Rebel while under his employ, making it his intellectual property. He claimed the bike was never yours to sell and that all the profits you made from it belong to him."
"I've heard all the rumors floating around on the subject and none of them are true. I have all the company memos documenting that rejection of The Rebel's design as a viable motorcycle up for production and sale by the owner of that company. The judge agreed that he had legally given up his right to claim my design as his property with that memo and I was free to take the bike with me to develop, produce, and sell it as my own after that—which was what I did. If anybody doesn’t like it, they can see me personally and I'll be happy to explain it again."
My eyes burned like coal as I glared angrily into the camera behind Chet, making the timid television host squirm in his seat.
"Spoken like a true rebel. It explains the name of the bike, but how did you come up with the name for your company, Speed Motorcycles? It seems rather generic for a rebel of your creative spirit. Why focus on the high miles-per-hour your bikes can achieve, instead of coming up with a name that speaks more to your creative spirit?"
"Well, I'm afraid I'm out of time. I really do have a lot of business I need to get back to today," I said suddenly, hoping Chet couldn't see the racing of my pulse through the veins in my neck.
"Certainly, Mr. Colson. Just tell me really quick, it will be a perfect way to wrap up the interview. How did you come up with the name Speed Motorcycles? Is there some significance to the name? Does it mean something special to you?"
"I really am out of time. Thanks for coming in. My assistant Angela will show you to the elevator." I stood up, making it clear the interview was over. I was no good at lying, and there was no way I could tell the truth on television. My image as a CEO and owner of the country's biggest motorcycle company would be heavily tarnished, and some of my more fragile business sights wouldn't survive the scandal. I'd lose a lot of investors, especially in the Midwest, where a lot of my factories and distribution centers were held. It had the potential to ruin me, and I just wasn't ready for the media frenzy. It was better to keep it brushed under the run, like it had been all these years.
"Did you call me, Mr. Colson?" Angela stuck her head in through the doorway. She was looking as stunning as ever in a bright green dress that brought out the color of her eyes. It hugged her curves like she'd been dipped in a liquid vat of shiny silk, leaving nothing to the imagination. I knew she'd put it on for me, even though I'd lost interest in her lately. The only woman on my mind anymore was the one who still hadn't called me back.
"Yes, Angela. Mr. Charleston and his crew are ready to leave. The interview is over. Can you show them to the elevator?"
"I can do anything you want me to." She draped her arms around me and kiss
ed me sensuously, making Chet's eyes pop out of his spray-tanned skull.
"Not now," I whispered harshly in her ear and removed her arms from around my neck quite pointedly. "Any messages for me while I was interviewing?"
"No calls I couldn't handle, but Miss Kayla Brandt is waiting in your office."
"Kayla is here?" I couldn't believe Angela was being so nonchalant about keeping this from me. I wanted to slap her, but I had to keep my voice cool and even—especially in front of a reporter and his camera crew.
"Yes, I told her you were busy, but she strode into your office and insisted on waiting until you returned. Shall I have security remove her?"
The glint in Angela's eyes told me she was dying to do just that. Damn her and her jealousy. I needed to make it clear to Chet Charleston that there was no animosity between me and my cover model or the scandal would be all over the television before the end of the day.
"No, of course not. I invited Miss Brandt here to discuss arrangements for the launch party tomorrow. I'll be escorting her myself."
"As her date?" Angela was fiercely angry, but I didn't care. We'd made no commitments to each other, and she'd gone out of her way to make Kayla look bad to the reporter and make it clear that she and I had been intimate. Well, I wasn't going to let some office assistant with an over-willingness to spread her legs dictate my image to the press.
"Yes, as my date," I stated matter-of-factly. Then I turned to Chet and shook hands with him and then each of his crew in turn. "Thank you for the interview. Make sure my assistant gives you special press passes to the launch party on Friday. It's going to be one hell of a bash. Unfortunately, she won't be there. Only executives, investors, and special guests, no support staff. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting with our newest cover-model. She's going to be the next big star—trust me. She's got what it takes to make it all the way to the top."