Say the Word (18 page)

Do me proud, sis.

Chin up. Smile through the tears — it helps them pass faster. (Coincidentally, I use that same strategy when trying to pass certain other bodily fluids with Nurse Charlene standing right outside the door.)

Love you.

Jamie

I smiled as I reached the bottom of the page. There was no one in the world who could cheer me up like Jamie — even now, when he was gone. I folded the letter with care and placed it back in the box, taking one last glimpse at the photo of us inside before the lid snapped closed.

In some ways, I was lucky. Not everyone who lost a loved one got to say goodbye; unexpected losses do little in terms of delivering closure. Jamie’s letters had allowed him a semblance of immortality. His body might be gone, but he’d left his heart behind with me —
small pieces of himself, enmeshed in handwritten letters and imprinted on my spirit.

Every sacrifice I’d ever made for him had been worth it. I just wished they’d been e
nough to keep him here with me.

I was up well before sunrise the following morning, unwilling to be late on my first day working for Sebastian, and hoping to avoid any further incurrence of his wrath.  Slipping into a sleek navy pencil skirt and a flowing white silk top, I topped off the outfit with peep-toe Louboutins and simple silver jewelry — Vera’s bracelet included. I pulled the top layer of my hair up away from my face with a clip but left the majority hanging loose around my shoulders, and applied my makeup with more care than I typically bothered with.

I might not be in Cara’s league, but that didn’t mean I had to arrive looking like the fashion-illiterate schoolgirl I’d once been. The clothes, the shoes — they were my battle-armor for the gauntlet I was about to run. I stared at myself in the mirror and tried to summon the cultured, city woman who exuded confidence, walking around
Luster
like she’d been raised shopping at Bergdorf Goodman, rather than the local Goodwill. I searched for her in my reflection, assuring myself this would be no different than any other day at
Luster
, but she was nowhere to be found. In her place, I saw the same insecure girl who’d worn a brave face each day of high school. The girl on the outskirts. The subject of every whispered rumor that left the venomous lips of Amber and her minions.

I groaned, dropping my forehead into my palms and wishing I’d taken Simon up on his offer to pick out my outfit and do my makeup before I faced the firing squad.
Sure, he had a penchant for turquoise 1980’s inspired eye-shadow, but at least he’d have been there to kiss my cheeks, slap me on the ass, and tell me how fabulous I looked.

The sound of my phone ringing made me look up. Speak of the devil…

“Simon?”

“Baby! Just calling to tell you good luck and, even without my expert fashion advice, I’m sure you look divine. That man of yours won’t know what hit him.”

“He’s not my man,” I told him, rolling my eyes. “And I’m pretty sure he’s dating a model, so…”

“Baby,” Simon chided. “You’ve got boobs and booty. Trust me — those skinny little skanks have nothin’ on you, honey.”

“Thanks, Simon.”

“Thank me by telling me all about it over drinks tonight before your date with Desmond,” he said. “Now go, or you’ll be late and sexy Sebastian will have to spank you.”

“Simon!” I protested.

“Kisses!” He clicked off.

I laughed at his antics, feeling monumentally better than I had before his call. I squared my shoulders, grabbed my travel coffee mug, and was out the door before I had time to psych myself out again.

Maybe today wouldn’t be so bad after all.

I was wrong.

Who’d have predicted that a ring of hell could be contained within the walls of the fourteenth floor of a perfectly innocuous looking skyscraper in Midtown Manhattan? Not me. Yet here I was, damned to an eternity of servitude in a place of nightmares. All that was missing were the fiery pits and ghoulish architecture. Satan was here, though — in the form of a buxom brunette, no less.

Cara: the devil incarnate.

I’d arrived with fifteen minutes to spare, but there were already several people milling about the office. A flurry of activity was in progress — assistants rapidly scribbling notes as their superiors tossed out concepts for photo shoots and set designs. Three men, each carrying several large photo canvases of famous
Luster
spreads from past decades, exited the elevator behind me and immediately began setting them up on easels around the room perimeter.

I stood near the
wall, taking it all in as my stomach clenched with nerves. The floor was one large open space, with several work stations set up around the room and a conference table long enough to seat thirty by the far windows. There was a space cordoned off with racks of clothing and a small, mirror-enclosed platform, which I assumed was used for model fittings.

Recognizing no one, I had absolutely no idea where to start and, like a stream around a rock in the riverbed, people filtered by as though I were invisible. Which, at first, wa
s fine, but after a few minutes began to piss me off. I was Lux Kincaid. No longer the high school wallflower, unsure of my place in this world. If Sebastian wanted me here to work, I was going to work. I didn’t wait around for orders like a meek intern. I was a professional, successful, career-driven woman. And if he didn’t like that, well, he could send me back to
Luster
and this whole ordeal would be over before it began.

Pulling my shoulders back, I threw procedure out the window, strode toward the center of the room, and jumped into the fray. I’d never been particularly good at following the proper decorum
rulebook, anyway. After introducing myself as the
Luster
writing correspondent for the Centennial issue series, I’d immediately become engrossed in a conversation with two friendly designers — both of whom, coincidentally, were named Jenny. We were so enmeshed in our discussion of a possible 1960’s revolution-themed photo shoot, we didn’t notice our audience until it was too late.

“I think just focusing on the hippie, flower-girl angle is going to limit us. It’s tired, it’s been done before,” I told them, impassioned as the idea bloomed in my mind. “We need a fresh angle — something that focuses on the huge changes that happened in society during that decade.”

The two Jennys nodded in unison, their eyes thoughtful as they absorbed my words.

“Clothing evolved with the culture — we could explore the fashion revolution theme. From the refined elegance of Jackie Kennedy and Audrey Hepburn — arguably two of the classiest 1960’s icons — to the sexually liberated culture of the late 60’s, where everyday women were finally free to wear what they wanted — from mini-dresses to go-go boots,” I prattled on, foolishly unaware of the reason my two conversation partners had grown wide-eyed and silent. “I just think that would be more interesting than a photo spread of the same frizzy-haired, headband-wearing model, running through a field of tall grass in a flowing floral print dress.”

“Well,
thankfully
,” an icy voice snapped from behind me. “No one cares what you think.”

Shit. That tone of unparalleled bitchery was unmistakable.

I turned slowly, dreading the encounter, and came face-to-face with Cara, who dwarfed me ridiculously in her five-inch stilettos. I tried to shutter my annoyed expression but was likely unsuccessful, given the fact that Sebastian was standing immediately to her left, gazing at me stone-faced and giving me heart palpitations.

“You’re a nobody,” Cara sneered. “No one here wants your opinions. Why don’t you stop breathing my air. Oh, and go get me a latte while you’re at it. Double shot espresso, skim milk, extra foam, no whip.”

Bitch.

I felt my cheeks heat with embarrassment, and I could practically feel the sympathy radiating off the two Jennys, who had front-row seats to my humiliation. My gaze moved from Cara to Sebastian, who was staring at me with an unreadable look in his eyes. Obviously, I’d be getting no help from
that
front. I turned to leave, but stopped when I heard Sebastian’s voice.

“Wait, Ms. Kincaid.”

Ms. Kincaid?
There was that forced formality again. I pivoted in place, meeting his eyes, which were as inscrutable as ever. Sebastian sighed and raised one hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Cara, Ms. Kincaid is not here to fetch your coffee. She is not an intern. She’s a consultant and will be treated with the respect normally afforded one. She also reports to me, not you.” He didn’t bother to look at her, but his tone was cold, nearly scolding, as he spoke.

My eyebrows lifted in surprise and I heard Cara’s displeased huff, but didn’t tear my gaze away from Sebastian’s face. It was still fixed in what seemed to be a permanent frown.

“Cara, don’t you have a fitting to get to?” He may’ve phrased it as a question, but it was clearly an order. She cast one last scathing look at me before stomping away to yell at whatever poor soul had been assigned to do her fittings.

“Everyone!” Sebastian yelled, causing the thirty or so people in the room to fall instantly silent. “Huddle in for a minute. Morning meeting.”

I watched, fascinated, as designers, artists, assistants, and consultants all dropped what they were doing and rushed to the center of the room where we’d gathered. Sebastian commanded a lot of respect around here, that much was apparent. And though this wasn’t what Jeanine would consider an official meeting, considering we weren’t jammed into a small conference room listening to her drone on needlessly for a half hour, Sebastian’s short and sweet, informal approach seemed equally, if not more, effective.

“We’ll be working chronologically through the decades: the 1910’s through the 2010’s,” Sebastian said, once everyone was close enough to hear him. “Each decade gets a unique set, costumes, everything. Brainstorm new ideas, seek out fresh angles,” he said, locking eyes with me for a brief moment.

I felt my breath catch in my throat, but his eyes were fleeting, moving away to scan the rest of the crowd. 

“Use the old shoots for inspiration.” He gestured toward the room perimeter, where a series of easels displayed a multitude of shots from
Luster
history. “We’ll get this done as quickly as we can, shooting two or three sets each week, if possible. Angela, my production manager, has split you into teams for this week — see her for your assignments. Use today and tomorrow to develop ideas. Wednesday, we’ll meet as a large group to finalize the plans for the first few shoots. Thursday and Friday we’ll do sets and trial runs. Next week we’ll begin shooting for real,” he explained, his tone brisk and to-the-point.

“Any questions?”

The pervasive silence in the room gave him his answer.

“This is a unique project. Try to have fun with it, guys,” he said, nearly — but not quite — smiling with tight-pressed lips. “Thanks.”

At his dismissal, everyone except the two Jennys and me hurried over to a beautiful petite Asian woman in her mid-forties — Angela, I presumed — who was handing out color-coded badges and assignments. I was about to follow suit when Sebastian spoke again.

“Jenny S. — you’ll be working with Philippe on the 20’s set design concept. Jenny P. — you’ll be with Sam over in costumes. Ms. Kincaid — you’ll be with me.”

With that, he stormed away toward the large conference room table on the opposite side of the room. People scurried out of his way and trailed in his wake — he was the epicenter of activity and attention for every worker in the room. I stood in a daze, my eyes trained on his back, until I realized that everyone else had scattered as soon as he’d doled out their duties and I was now alone in the middle of the room. Hoping no one had seen my momentary Sebastian-stupor, I hurried after him.

I came to an abrupt halt when I reached him on the far side of the room by the windows. He stood with his hands planted against the conference room table, looking over a wide array of photographs from previous
Luster
shoots. It felt foolish to interrupt him by announcing my presence, so I simply hovered by his elbow unsurely, staring out the glass panes at the skyline below. I wasn’t even sure he knew I was there, until he spoke.

“It’s funny,” he muttered in a serious tone that undermined his words. “I thought I knew exactly what I’d say to you if I ever saw you again, after all these years.”

He pushed up from the table, turning to face me. His hazel gaze immediately captured my own, and in a fraction of a second the air between us became tense, growing thick with seven years of unspoken words and unkept promises. I fought the urge to move a step back from him, wary of whatever he was about to say.

“But now, with you standing here in front of me, all my words seem to have fled.” He laughed, but it was mirthless, bitter. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

He might’ve been looking at me, but I’d swear he was talking to himself. When his words trailed off, we simply stared at each other until the silence became unbearable. I had to say something — anything — to smooth things over between us, even if it was only on a superficial level. Otherwise, we were both in for several weeks of torture while the Decades project came together.

“Maybe we can just start fresh?” I asked naively, holding out my hand for him to shake. “Clean slate?”

It was the wrong thing to say.

He flinched back from me, staring at my hand where it hung in the space between us with a mixture of disbelief and disgust. I’d been wrong — very, very wrong — to assume things with us could ever be wiped away with a few pleasantries and some misguided wishful thinking.

“Why don’t you go get that latte for Cara after all,” he bit out in a cold tone. “After that, report to Angela. I’m sure she’ll find some use for you.”

He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving me staring after him in near tears. I’d been dismissed. Snatching my hand back from where it was still suspended in midair, I headed for the elevators. In the future, I’d have to tread more carefully. With Sebastian, each conversation would be like walking through a field of live
land mines without a guide — make one wrong move, and things would explode.