The Help. A group I was now part of. I nodded politely, watched her exit, and performed a cursory sweep of the room. Decorated in three different shades of pink, the en suite included a miniature treadmill, a puppy closet that rivaled my own, and dressers stocked with supplies and toys. Unsure of what exactly Getting to Know Chanel meant, I settled into a leather chair and waited for her to wake up, the gentle snores from the crib creating a soothing lullaby.
I may or may not have fallen asleep. But we could pretend that I diligently watched over Chanel’s sleeping form without a single head droop. That was me. Best New Assistant EVER.
At 4:05 PM, I nodded a goodbye to the maid, pulled on my coat and stepped onto the street, the afternoon sun minimizing the chill as I pulled the door tightly shut behind me. Success. I wanted to dance—right there on the street, strangers brushing by—in celebration. I wanted to wave my arms and revel in the fact that I, Chloe Madison, was officially independent. I had my own job. Would not become homeless. Would not fail. It was liberating, exciting in a way that my privileged upbringing could never afford. Yes, a thousand a week would barely make a dent in my mountain of debt. Yes, I’d be eating Ramen noodles and taking the subway. But still! I was on my own and, for the first time, it didn’t feel scary; it felt manageable.
I moved down the street, swinging my purse from my shoulder and dug for my cell, the phone to my ear by the time I hit Park Avenue.
“Hey beautiful!” Cammie’s voice rang through the phone, her greeting seconded by Benta, and I could imagine the two girls, faces together over a pitcher of margaritas, the phone held between them.
“Hey you tan goddesses,” I teased. “Enjoying the Florida sun without me?”
“We’d be lying if we said we weren’t.” In the background, I heard music start. “How’d the interview go?”
I delivered the good news, the girls squealing with an excitement that rivaled my own, a laugh spilling from my mouth at their reaction. “I wish you guys were here to help me celebrate.”
“Woman, hop on a plane and get down here! We’ll save one of these beautiful men for you.”
“Don’t tempt me,” I warned. “I’m so sick of New York men I could scream.” A vision of Clarke Brantley appeared in my mind’s eye, his hand against the window, his masculinity screaming through every line in his body. I closed my eyes briefly and fought the urge to check my lower lip for drool. “Anyway, I’ve got to run. I’m going to check out apartments, try and find a place to live. I just wanted to let you guys know the good news.”
“That’s great news, babe,” Benta called out, her voice overshadowed by the background noise. “Go have fun tonight! Celebrate without us!”
I smiled at her order, said my goodbyes to both of them and ended the call before dropping my phone into my purse and jogging down the subway steps, the mild warmth of the afternoon sun fading as I stepped into the dark underground.
My phone rang as I hit the bottom step, the muted song chiming from my purse. I stepped out of the way, digging frantically as my ringtone neared its end. I followed the glow of the screen, pulling out my cell just in time. My finger froze mid-swipe, and I stared down at my screen at the name.
I smirked. Straightened the strap of my gown and looked out the window. “Shh. The driver will hear you.”
“The driver’s job is to hear me. Now, get on your knees.” Vic’s hand landed on the back of my neck, pulling me toward him. I twisted away, shooting him a warning look.
He leaned over, whispered in my ear, his breath tickling the wisps of my chignon. “Do it, and tomorrow I’ll fly us to Paris.”
That got my attention. I turned, sliding across the seat, his hand immediately traveling up the slit in my dress, teasing the skin on my thighs, my legs obediently parting as he did what he did best and ran his fingers over the silk of my panties. “Private?” I asked, the negotiation eliciting a chuckle from him, his eyes darkening when my hips curved into his fingers, the steal of a digit sliding under my panties turning everything—for one exquisite moment—beautifully black.
“Yes, we’ll fly private, you spoiled woman. Now, let me feel that delicious mouth.” His fingers gently played on my neck, a light reminder, and this time, I didn’t resist, sliding down, the limo’s carpet stiff against my knees, the beaded dress snagging on the edge of the seat before breaking free.
I unbuckled his belt and looked up into his eyes, dragging the zipper down. Heavy and hooded, they stared at me as if drugged, his handsome mouth opening slightly when my hand stole into his tuxedo pants and wrapped around him.