I Love My Healed Heart: 4 Book Box Set/Omnibus (Erotic Romance) (3 page)

A Half Hour
Later

Amber and
I part ways in the depths of the crowded 4
^th
Street subway station;
her heading downtown to the money district, me up to Bryant Park. Fashion Week
is coming just around the corner, in a mere couple of weeks, so I have to meet
my boss, the fashion editor of a very popular magazine. I won’t name the name
– hers or its – because we’re all listed in the magazine, in print,
and online… and I don’t want to get sued. Fired is something I may become,
every day. I live on the edge of unemployment and it has been this way for four
years now.

Why do I
work for her is a question I often ask myself. She is a raving lunatic –
a she-devil I call
The Bitch
. I don’t
quit because it’s a huge magazine, very important, and I always said I wanted
to go into fashion. Why I said that, I don’t know anymore. I ask myself lately,
what am I doing here? Why do I take this crap? Do I do it because the field is
glamorous or something? I thought it was, once upon a time, but let me tell you,
it is not. It’s all about how people look; who’s talking about you, who has the
power, who is going to come up with the new IT thing/look/color/hair/makeup/attitude…
and then of course, when that trend passes and the ‘It People’ fall from grace,
ignoring them and acting like you don’t know them is the next move. It makes me
ill. My view could be tainted by my boss. It’s a possibility. Anyway, I’m too
tired to go find another job. That’s what I tell myself.

Have you
ever wondered how you got where you are, and if you want to stay here? Me too.
I don’t have the answer though. So I drink at lunch.

I’m
riding the B train to Bryant Park, avoiding the faces of the people around me
by looking at my calendar on my phone. It looks a little fuzzy from alcohol
vision. When the train stops, I step off and walk toward 40
^th
Street. Up the stairs I look to my left, longingly at Pax, the little
self-serve food chain; part grocery type store, part restaurant. (I love their
brie and apple baguette sandwiches but I already had enough bread today). I
move on.

Walking
up the street, I search for The Bitch and find her standing outside Bryant Park
Grill, barking from her cellphone. I wince at the sound of her saying, “What?!
There is no fucking way I’m using him again. His last shoot was a disaster. Not
only was it late and over budget, the girls look like they should be on the
back of a Harley, not in a Victorian ball. If it had been the 70’s, sure, but
those big-breasted models were ridiculous and not at all what’s in right now.
Who has big boobs in fashion? Name me one person!”

“Giselle,”
I say, and she throws me a look.

The Bitch
waves a freshly manicured hand at me and wafts Marc Jacobs’ latest overpriced
scent in my unwilling direction. “Those are fake. And I’m not talking to you.”
I want to gag, but I hold it back. Not an easy task.

 
“My assistant is here and I have to ask
where THE FUCK she has been for the last five minutes. I’ll talk to you later.
Make it happen, and don’t call me back until you do.” She hangs up, slides the
phone into her Birkin bag, and looks at me with head cocked grossly to the
side, attitude pouring from her. Her face would have an expression but Botox
holds it hostage. “Well?”

At this
moment, I hate my life.

“What?” I
play dumb. It’s kind of fun to watch her spaz. Plus it makes me feel like less
of a schmoe.

“You’re
late, Jessica. Do you think my time is less important than yours?”

“Is that
a new bag?” I ask, with awe that doesn’t match my true feelings.

My ploy
works. She has been talking about getting this bag in time for fashion week for
a month now, and it looks like the publicist came through. She shifts gears,
gushing, “Oh my God – isn’t it the best? I wanted it in red but they gave
me the orange one and I thought, orange is so much more of a statement.”

“Totally,”
I agree, nodding emphatically like she and her bag are amazing. “It’s
gor-geous. Looks so great on you. The orange is purrrrrrfect.”

Disaster
averted.

We go
over what we’re going to do September 5
^th
when the insanity begins.
I take notes in my phone as she rattles off a bunch of stuff I can easily
remember without the phone. It makes her feel important when I write down what
she says. I’ve learned this.

The list
is this: I’m to organize gift bags; contact the suppliers to make sure they’ve
sent the goods that go in them, email staff with instructions as to where to set
them out, which designer, which show, and no one else. Also, I’m to make sure everyone
who’s going to be there on staff is registered and won’t have problems from
security. It used to be that the designer paid for the gift bags – and
the small ones still do – but ever since the publication industry got hit
hard by the internet (people don’t buy as many magazines these days) we have
taken to publicizing ourselves. We want to be seen with the best of the best,
of course. So now, we supply the goody bags.

I’m to
hire at least two photographers to cover the event. I’ll hire Diego, who did
such a great job last year, and ask him if he knows anyone else just as good. Then
I’m to tell them both what shows we want them to pay the most attention to -
but also
insist
they cover the little
shows, too. You never know who is going to be the breakout success and lord
help us if we don’t have the best pictures. They must get a LOT of photos with
our logo in the background, with famous people in the foreground. And so it
goes. Blech. I have a bad taste in my mouth about all of it.

You know,
the thing is…I used to love Fashion Week. I did, when I was an audience member
“nobody.” It was all glamour and excitement and yeah, yeah, whatever. I guess I
wish
I still felt that way. If I’m
honest, I have to admit that I do enjoy seeing the runway shows. I am very
interested in what is coming out, what the new colors are, what the patterns
are going to be - and I
love
me a
great gift bag. I shouldn’t complain. It just sucks working for such a
prima-donna egomaniac.

I wish I
could like her. I just don’t.

Her phone
rings and she waves me off with her hand, dismissing the insignificance that is
me. She loves to do that… call me over with an impatient wave, and dismiss me
with a patronizing one.

I. Hate.
It. So. Much.

I duck my
head, turn on my heel, bite my lips in an effort not to tell her to go fuck
herself and start walking back to the subway. As I approach the entrance to
take the stairs down, my phone rings. Is it her? I look at it and am so
preoccupied by my intense frustration that it takes me a bit to make out the
name on the screen. When I see it, I can’t believe it. It’s David calling! What
the fuck does that mother fucking cheating cocksucker bastard want? We haven’t
talked in over two months. A text and a call in one day???!! He can’t have
anything good to say. I stare at it and wait until it goes through to voicemail,
my heart pounding. I almost delete the message but just as I reach to, I stop
myself. I’m curious about what he has to say. I don’t want to talk to him at
all… do I? No. Of course I don’t. Wait… do I? Dammit! I delete the message
quickly, before I lose the strength. Why do men have such a pull on us?

I stomp
down the stairs into the subway to head home, my buzz completely shattered.
Standing on the platform, I’m surrounded by a familiar scene and I take solace
in it, push the tears down. To my left and right are shut-down, closed off,
staring into space strangers of all ethnicities, styles, ages. Over in a corner
is a street-performer bearing her heart to us, largely ignored behind a beat-up
acoustic guitar. I look down to see, scurrying in the darkness of the
train-rails, a rat as it zig-zags to grab a half-eaten hot dog discarded by a
little boy who watches it from above as he holds onto his mother’s hand. I
strain to see what she’s reading – I know there’s no signal – and
see its an ebook with the sepia-toned background setting. That’s the one I use,
too. Seeing it helps me to breathe easier.

Truth?
Manhattan? I love it all. I wouldn’t trade any of it. Well… I might opt for a
larger income so I could take a cab more often. Probably. I give myself that
luxury on rare occasions, but this – everything in this city – is
so far from everything Michigan, where I’m from. I loved my childhood, but I
needed this city even when I didn’t know it. Even the dirty, dark parts of the
city, I love. I am a city girl. I was born this way, to be here.

Standing quietly,
I ignore a guy who passes by and asks me for money. When he gets aggressive I tell
him, “I don’t carry cash,” and watch him flip me off. I shrug and shifts my
thoughts to the clawing question: Would David be would be trying to get ahold
of me? First a text and not even two hours later, actually dialing and calling
me? My brain goes in circles. I gave him back all his stuff, and the things
that accidentally to packed he probably doesn’t know about, so what is it; some
mail I forgot about? I know he’s seeing that stupid twat he met at the gym. I
should have known something was up, when he started going so often. I never saw
him go to the gym more than once a month. All of a sudden, it’s three times a
week and then its spin class AND yoga AND Pilates. I’m an idiot. Especially
since when I went to yoga, he opted out of joining me and stayed home to fuck
her in our bed!! So much for healthy living.

Why
didn’t I see it coming?

Because I
would never cheat, that’s why. It sucks. It feels really shitty being cheated
on. Why? (I have given this a lot of thought.) It’s because they don’t give you
a choice when they cheat.
They
make the
decision, but don’t tell
you
about
it. There you are, thinking the life you’re living is reality, but really it’s a
fantasy created by them. You don’t know, because you weren’t told the rules
changed, that another player was being tested out to replace you. You sure as
hell weren’t told that the new player had fake perfect boobs!

Okay
stop. I can’t go down this thought-train to insanity. A real train, of the
subway not fantasy variety, arrives just in time to pull me out of my spiral. I
maneuver my way through the throng of natives and tourists, hoping for a seat.
My shoes are killing me. My mind is worse.

There is
one seat left, which means it’s official…there is a God.

Seventeen Minutes Later

When I
finally get off at 1
^st
Street, my stop in the East Village, I have
done a really amazing job of beating myself up and feeling sorry for myself. I
am totally in my head, I know, but it’s too late and I don’t know how to stop.
Whatever. I’m almost to my apartment building and I’m going to make myself a
nice big bowl of ice cream and watch
Bones
on TV. I absently reach into my bag for my keys.

Then I
hear my name.

“Jessica?”

I look
up, startled. Standing in front of my apartment with a gorgeous bouquet of wild
flowers is –

“Mark!”

“Hey you.
I changed my flight. I was going to just drop these off, but you walked up and
caught me,” he says, a little nervously. I am stunned to see him. Absolutely
stunned. He looks so sweet and so incredibly handsome. I stop walking and we
just stare at each other for a second, neither of us knowing what to say. “

“Wow.
Umm…” I instinctively take the outstretched flowers and they’re really amazing.
I’m a not a roses kind of girl, and these are not roses. How did he get it so
right? I gaze down at the beautiful wild flowers. They’re all different colors;
magenta, blue, purple, orange, yellow – and all different shapes. They
work together because they’re all…different.

I see
there’s a small card and I look at him, “Can I read it?”

He laughs
and nods. His nervousness dissipates pretty quickly because it’s probably very
obvious I’m
really
happy to see him.
“Of course you can read it. It’s for you.” His hair kind of hangs over his
forehead a bit and his eyes are smiling at me, little lines on the sides boosting
their charm. I don’t think I noticed before that his teeth are so straight and
white. While I still think he looks like Ryan Gosling’s brother, he’s starting
to look more like
Mark
; his own
person. I pull out the card from where it’s nestled. “Wild flowers for a wild
girl – Mark.”

He’s got such
an open happy expression that I wonder if this is really happening. I reach out
and pinch his arm to see if he’s real.

“Ouch!”
he says, laughing. “What was that for?”

“Oh, uh.
Nothing… um… Sometimes I pinch guys I like. My inner child is still twelve.” I
say lamely, embarrassed. Apparently he finds this sweet, because he pulls me to
him and hugs me tight. It feels so great. I needed this hug. I wrap my arms
around him and nuzzle his chest, relieved to be in the arms of someone who
appreciates me, after my bad day. The flowers are carefully held behind him. I
can’t squish them. It’s been such a long time since I got flowers. I breathe
him in. His delicious smell brings back flashes of our night together, the
steamy images making my body tingle. His scent is soap and a bit of some
cologne I’m unfamiliar with. I almost don’t want to know so that it’ll just be
known to me as his scent. I pull back and look up at him.

“What are
you doing for dinner?” he asks me.

I smile.
“Any plans I had just went out the window.”

“Good.
I’m taking you out,” he leans down and kisses my nose. So cute.

“Um,
okay.” I laugh. “I need to change, though.”

“Whatever
you want to do. I don’t have to fly out until tomorrow night. Is that okay?”

“It’s
kind of amazing, actually.” I pull away from him. It only then comes into my
awareness, this just took place on a very crowded street with about eighty
people walking by us; cars honking, busses making that loud bus-sound they
make… and I heard none of it.

I turn my
back to him to put my key into the deadbolt of my building.

“It’s
broken, remember?” he says, stepping forward and putting his arms around me
from behind. He bends and kisses my shoulder.

I lean
into him as I pull the key out. “Right. I forgot. You’ve got my brain all mixed
up. You know…I was having a pretty bad day today.” I shoot a look back up at
him as he reaches around and pushes the door open for me. “But I think it just
turned around.”

When we
step onto my elevator, there’s no one else in it. I hit button “7” and the door
closes. It’s a newer building and the elevator is nice; clean, silver, mirrored
back wall, able to hold maybe eight people. I stare straight ahead like one
does in an elevator. I have never had a conversation with this man. This ‘Mark.’
I don’t know what to say.

He stands
next to me, wearing grey jeans that look great on him, a brown belt and a
button-up shirt that’s open, and a bit of white t-shirt shows through from
beneath. I’m holding my flowers in front of me and all of a sudden it occurs to
me that I’m holding them like a wedding bouquet. Oh my God. I quickly change
positions, move them to my right hand only, more like a beauty queen, who’s
just won. This makes me want to laugh, but I stifle it. Maybe he won’t get my
humor. Better to hide that for now.

When we
slide up past the fourth floor - almost to floor five - he reaches out and hits
the stop button. The alarm goes off like gangbusters. I jump, totally shocked,
wondering what the hell? When I see his face, I swallow and just look at him.
It’s very obvious, by the desire in his eyes, why he pushed that button.

And then
he is on me.

He grabs
me and picks me up and I wrap my legs around his waist. He kisses me hard, with
the type of kisses that tell me he’s wanted to do this since he saw me. I drop
the flowers and wrap my arms around his shoulders, cradle his head in my hands
so I can kiss him harder. His thick amazingly strong arms are holding me up;
his hands are groping me, moving my dress out of the way. His fingers stretch
out and he grabs my ass, massaging it to the matching beat of my heartbeat,
boom boom boom…getting faster and faster. He tucks his fingers into my panties
as his tongue plays with mine, our kisses hungry and breathless. I arch my
back, press my breasts into his chest, throw my ass out behind me so that he
has better access to my little girl and I moan under his touch when he grants
my wishes and caresses her. I shiver.

He groans
as he feels me and leans back to watch me react under his talented touch. I
lock eyes with him and we both let each other know how much we want it. Here.
Right now. Alarm blazing loudly and who gives a fuck.

Above us
– or is it below? We hear the super yell in the distance, “Are you okay?
I’m calling the elevator company!”

I look to
Mark for what to do, but he shakes his head no. Don’t answer, his eyes beg me
as his fingers take my breath away. I see us in the mirror, his hands hidden
beneath the folds of my hanging dress, my feet, in heels, latched onto one
another, wrapped around his waist, my arms clutching his gorgeous head.

I have to
admit, I look pretty great like this. I’m a Midwest girl of normal
attractiveness, but my dress falling off one shoulder and my eyelids
half-closed and sultry – well, it’s improved my appeal tenfold. My legs
look amazing in these heels hooked around him. I smile and look back to him
thinking, wow. He nods and ravages me with kisses.

“It’s
gonna be okay! We’ll get you out of there!!” the super yells… but I don’t hear
him. Not really.

Mark
supports me against the elevator wall. With one hand he unleashes his rock hard
cock from his super sexy pants, pulls my panties to the side a bit farther so
that he can slide up into me, where I’m all slippery and welcoming. He does
this with the deftness of a man who knows how to make a woman boil. I bend as
the sensation of being filled by this man rolls through me like waves. He
captures my mouth again and takes it prisoner as his swollen pulsating cock
thrusts up into me, his hips grinding with mine so deliciously. Held by him,
shielded by the ever-present alarm, I find privacy in it and yell out. I feel
the blinding orgasm, the contractions of my pussy as it squeezes him again and
again and again. He grunts like an animal and throws back his head and yells
out, too, as he pounds one final amazing thrust. We collapse forward, onto each
other, panting, trying to catch our breaths from the tornado.

All of a
sudden the alarm is much louder than it was. We look at each other and start
laughing our asses off! I climb down and he pulls his pants up, pushes the
button to silence the noise and we are both jolted with the jerk of the
elevator as it comes miraculously back to life.

I adjust
my panties and grab for the trampled flowers, which are not looking so good
anymore. Mark tucks in his white shirt and points to the mangled bouquet with
the shards of petals that it’s left behind on the ground, from where he
accidentally stepped on it. He’s laughing so hard that it makes me laugh harder
and I realize - he has my sense of humor!

Before I
want them to, the doors open on the fifth floor. And there stands my super, Mr.
Prizzi, looking very confused and worried. It’s a nice building so his uniform
is a suit, but he looks like he’d be happier in a robe and slippers. He just
has that vibe to him.

“Jessica!
Are you okay? I don’t know what happened. We haven’t had a problem with this
elevator since we renovated. How’d it start back up?” He looks from me to Mark.
Mark, seeing the confused expression on Mr. Prizzi’s well-meaning, weathered
face, takes over.

“I don’t
know. One minute it was working fine and then bam. It just stopped. We sat on
the floor for awhile…”

“Yeah, I
accidentally sat on my flowers. I was really frightened there for a second.”

“I paid
good money for those, too,” Mark reprimands me.

“I know.
They’re beautiful. I’m sorry,” I say, and bite my lip, look to Mr. Prizzi with
a befuddled expression, nodding my head uncontrollably.

“Who
cares about the flowers! I’m glad you’re okay. The elevator company is on their
way. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again,” Mr. Prizzi announces. We both nod
and thank him.

“We
should take the stairs up the rest of the way, maybe,” I offer, to add more
weight to my whole “scared” lie.

“I don’t
blame you! You two have a good night.” Then he mumbles to himself as we head to
the staircase, “I wonder how this happened.”

Mark
holds the door open for me and we go in. On the other side of the wall he grabs
me and kisses me. I return his kisses, happily. I am so turned on by the fact
that we can have fun together! He goes for my dress and I stop him, laughing,
“No no no… I have to clean up and let me just say that, thankfully, I am SO
glad I’m on the pill.” He follows me as I walk up the stairs.

“What,
you don’t want to have my baby?” he asks.

I look
quickly back at him to find that he’s kidding. Oh good. For a second there I
thought maybe he was crazy. Men don’t say things like that when they don’t know
you. Do they?

“Yes,
absolutely, let’s have children right away.” I roll my eyes and keep walking.

“No, I
saw you had the pill when I used your bathroom the other night. You left them
on your shelves so...”

“Ha! Oh
really… well, thank you. It’s nice to know you weren’t assuming things,” I go
to open the door and he jogs up to open it for me. Nice. I smile at him, and
receive a kiss, a nice soft one, where he holds my look for a moment.

“Where do
you want to eat, Jess?” His face is inches from mine and he is open – no
walls. So refreshing.

“There’s
this Indian place I love…”

“Done.”