Delivering the Virgin(32)

"Okay but not again," said Courtney with a warning glance, like she knew  my part in that debacle. Whatever, I was providing the free tickets and  Courtney was nothing more than a bit player tonight.

The game was raucous. Frankly, I know nothing about baseball and was  much more interested in a group of cute guys seated a couple rows away.  I'd seen them looking our way and whispered confidentially to Courtney,  throwing them glances and pouting a bit. Maybe I'd get up and walk by  their aisle, sashaying my hips provocatively.

But then it came time to perform. In the fifth inning I bounced out of  my seat when they started playing "Wild Thing," the crowd roaring along.

"Come on!" I shrieked at Courtney. "Get up and dance."

"Um okay," she said hesitantly, looking at me askance. I was already up, bouncing around, smiling brightly, flaunting my assets.

And just like that, I suddenly appeared on the Jumbotron doing the  dougie. I pretended I didn't know I was on-screen, instead smiling  brightly as my body did the moves, swaying, jiggling, tilting my head  and flashing a bright smile. I knew I looked good as the crowd cheered,  the roar around us deafening, the camera zooming in on my assets, my  pretty face, a moment of relief from an intense baseball game.

"Jenna!" shrieked Courtney. "You're live, you're live, look!"

And I gazed at the big screen, feigning shock at my image and then  waving like a fan, happy to be at the game enjoying a night out with a  million other people, loyal to the Giants.

And that's what launched my career as a public figure. People said I was  too fat to be a model, too old, too curvy, too everything. But I just  kept at it. I did the Cat Daddy for a famed photographer who posted it  to his website, and got two million hits overnight. Isn't that  astounding? For a no-name blonde, not bad I'd say.

And as for being a lawyer  …  well, that was a thing of the past. I  realized I'd never pass the moral character requirement with my history  of nudie photos, so what was the point of even trying? What was the  point of even taking the bar exam, period?

"Jenna, you have to take it," said my sister exasperatedly. "You're so  close! You've already graduated from law school it's just the last thing  before you get your license."

Clearly she had no idea about my moral character problems.

"I dunno Tina," I said carelessly. "I'm not really feeling it, the bar  exam is six straight weeks of full-time study, I'm not sure if I want to  spend my summer doing that."

My twin made a face. "Seriously, don't let this stuff about Jake get you  down. I mean, engagements get broken up, it happens all the time."

"Oh right, and you're in such a great position to lecture me," I spat. "You're the one who stole my fiancé."

"Jenna, I'm sorry," said Tina. "It's way more complicated than you  think, I didn't try to steal him per se. It just happened," she shrugged  helplessly.         

     



 

But I wasn't about to let it go. "Don't tell me ‘it just happened,'" I  hissed furiously. "I know you've always been jealous and that you wormed  your way in like a fucking spy. To make up for your past  transgressions, how about you sit the bar exam for me? You've been doing  a ton of studying, you could probably pass it now already."

"You know they check IDs," reprimanded my sister, "and plus, it's just  plain amoral. What's wrong with you Jenna? I mean, I never thought you  were an angel, but you've really gone over the deep end. I mean, what  about my bar exam? Who's going to take my exam if I'm sitting for  yours?" she asked plaintively.

"I dunno," I said carelessly. "It's not like you need the money now that  you have Jake anyways," I said, nearly choking on my spite.

Because the fact was I still hadn't gotten over my immense anger at the  turn of events. I'd come so close to my goal of landing a rich man, only  to be foiled by my twin, leaving me penniless and broke once again.

So I'd taken matters into my own hands and transitioned. I'd graduated  from law school but didn't take the bar exam, forgoing membership in the  California bar. Instead, I exploited my ever-growing image and became a  public figure of sorts. My fame buoyed me, making me feel good about  myself, the ever-growing attention addictive. I was that blonde, the one  who was the flavor of the moment  …  and looking to prolong my time in  the limelight. Angling for a shot at Sports Illustrated, my agents were  already making the right calls, exploring connections, talking to their  contacts.

But I'd never counted on meeting Rafe Connor.





CHAPTER SEVEN


Rafe




I had to have her. She was delicious, gorgeous, sassy with an attitude  that you don't see in models often. Okay, so she wasn't exactly cast in  the high fashion mold, but there was a spark about her, a sense of life  that animated everything she did.

I guess some designers don't like that. They want their models to be  clotheshangers, channeling the spirit of the collection, but Jenna would  always be Jenna. That flying blonde hair, the gleaming, glowing skin  …   she was 100% herself and I loved it.

I made my way backstage even though the show wasn't over. The folks in  charge knew who I was and made way, security letting me through, not  bothering to check ID or anything of that sort. This was unusual because  there were about twenty half-naked girls getting dressed backstage,  their assets on display as they changed in and out of various outfits.  Usually it was a total lock-out, to keep prying eyes away from the  nubile female forms, but there are always exceptions for the boss.

I looked around and caught a glimpse of the blonde laughing with a  make-up assistant but before I could approach, I was accosted by a  ravishing redhead. Angelique Domaine was also a rising star, a nom de  plume for a girl with humble origins  –  Sarah Jane Moses from Dayton,  Ohio.

"Hi Rafe!" she said brightly, placing a perfectly manicured hand on my  sleeve. "Great to see you here!" she chirped. You can take the girl out  of Ohio but you can't take the Ohio out of the girl. Despite her  exotically slanted eyes and ravishing red hair, her voice was as  American as pie, her smile wide and Crest white.

"Hey Angelique," I said courteously. "It's nice to see you." I'd taken  her out a few times but hadn't felt any spark. Sure, I'd ravished her,  fucking that tight little pussy, but she just wasn't my style. Angelique  wasn't  …  tight you know? Lean, perfect body, but not snappy down there,  where it counts.

I guess I like my girls to fit me like a compression glove. I'm big and  it usually isn't a problem. In fact, a lot of women struggle, but  Angelique  …  that girl has fucked too many men or used one too many Extra  Large vibrators. It was like a bag down there, a loose leather bag  filled with warm water, no way to get to release except by using other  means.

So I'd pulled the classic Rafe Connor escape move. I'd ordered up a  sapphire necklace from Harry Winston and had it delivered to Angelique  in Paris, and then refused to pick up any of her calls, directing my  secretary to screen any communication from her. Ghosting is what they  call it nowadays.         

     



 

But the girl was persistent. That'd been months ago and she was still  calling, it was unbelievable. Someone as beautiful as Angelique could  have had a million guys eating out of her hand, but instead she was  still sending texts to my phone at night, hoping I'd respond, give her  some sign of life. The latest had been particularly sad:



Rafe, thinking of you <heart><heart><wink emoji>

<pause of 2 min>

<more typing>

Touching myself nood feels so good <heart><heart> Answer me  damn you! I can't speak French, these frenchies driving me nuts  <crying emoji>



I didn't reply. I felt sorry for the redhead, with that misspelling of  the word "nude." These girls started modeling so early that they never  finished high school, and some of them never even completed middle  school. They were still at a sixth grade level, using emojis when they  texted, their spelling and grammar horrific.

Their emotional development also left something to be desired. New  models are pulled out of school so early, at twelve or thirteen  sometimes, their limbs long but their brains undeveloped. Isn't  adolescence a critical time for advancing brain function, learning  higher level thought processes? These poor kids, they never had a  chance. Pimped out for their looks, their careers would last a few years  at best. Most would flame out, gaining weight as their figures became  womanly, maybe making it to twenty-one or twenty-two before the bookings  trailed off.

I shook myself though. This was no time to feel pity. I was the boss and  the money lining my pockets was in part from the efforts of these  teens, these girls who were scooped up young to walk in the fashion  shows on my behalf. This was a cut-throat industry and I had no business  feeling pity for what were essentially my employees.