Stripped Raw (2 page)

The mystery guy’s sexy voice flies back in my mind. Focus! I can’t be distracted by anything right now, especially men. The very last thing I need is another man wreaking havoc in my life. Just thinking about that makes me nervous, and I’m nervous enough about going on live television in a matter of minutes. Besides, the dating market is closed to me and has been for almost two years. I fell hard off that damn horse, and I’m not climbing back on. It’s time to focus on the task at hand—nailing this interview, not nailing the hot guy with the panty dropping voice.

Deacon glides on set during the commercial break, his jet black hair slicked back like he bathed in a Texas oil field. “MacKenzie Scott?”

“Kenzie,” I correct, shaking Deacon’s hand and watching his eyes slide straight to my cleavage as the production assistant comes back to see me, adjusting my mic and offering me a mirror and a water bottle. When Deacon plops down in his chair, she begins touching up his makeup, but he waves her away.

“So,” Deacon says, “panty designer?”

“Lingerie.”

“I’d love to see your lingerie sometime.”

This guy is such a player, exactly as advertised. Does he think I’m stupid? Do women actually fall for this crap? Is he banging the microphone chick? I decide he probably is, but I’d let the human race die out before I allowed him to touch me. I hand him my catalog, hoping he can take a hint. “Here’s my lingerie. Feel free to look all you want.”

Deacon tosses the catalog on a table and leans forward, touching my knee. “Do you wear your own designs?”

What makes him think he can put his hand on me? Prick! I smack his hand hard, and he pulls it back, stung, just as a producer somewhere behind the cameras calls out, “Live in ten, nine, eight. . . .”

Deacon adjusts his posture, slicks a hand over his hair and slips right into character, flashing his newsman smile as he begins reading an introduction on the teleprompter. How can he do that? Just slip in and out of work mode so easily?

This is obviously a game to him. He knows just when to turn on the charm, just the right facial expressions to make to suck in the viewers. It makes me sick, but I’m not going to let him throw me off or get the best of me. This needs to go well. I put every ounce of my tiny nest egg into Kenzie Lingerie, saving every cent since college hoping to make my dream a reality. I’ll be damned if I’ll let some spoiled self-obsessed manwhore ruin it. Plastering on my best smile, I’m ready when he turns and introduces me.

“You’ve designed for some pretty elite companies,” he says. “What makes Kenzie Lingerie different?”

“First of all, everything is custom-fitted for each individual woman,” I say. “And secondly, the average woman, myself included. . . .”

“Now, don’t sell yourself short,” Deacon interrupts with a grin.

Is he flirting with me? It’s hard to tell. He’s probably pissed I smacked his hand. I offer a tight smile in return, which seems like a safe response. It’s hard to believe this thirty-something guy gets such awesome ratings. It’s probably best just to talk over him. Clearing my throat, I begin again. “The average woman, including me, can’t afford French or Italian lingerie. I try to make feeling sexy easy on the wallet without sacrificing quality.”

“A moment ago, you said
custom-fitted
. Can you explain that?”

“I meet with each woman individually whether in person or through a Skype appointment. It’s important I have a relationship with my customers. Each woman is treated as an individual, and I create a garment designed just for her. So, ladies who may be small or bigger up top, or curvier around the waist, can always have their specific needs met. Sexy isn’t about a size on a label or a number on a scale. The idea is that every woman, no matter her body issues, has the right to feel sexy, pretty, confident, and supported in her lingerie.”

Deacon nods as if he’s in perfect agreement, but I’m sure he doesn’t give a damn about anything I just said. There’s no way he was listening. He’s probably thinking about my breasts, or what he’s going to do backstage with the microphone chick during the next commercial break.

He picks up the catalog and holds it up to the camera. “I see there are women of all shapes and sizes in the catalog. Why don’t you use professional models?”

Did he just wrinkle his nose? Did the camera catch that? I reach for my water and take a small sip before answering, reminding myself to stay calm and advocate for real women. Kenzie Lingerie is about celebrating
real
women’s bodies, not bodies by Mattel—more plastic than flesh and blood. “I do occasionally use professional models, but I won’t airbrush anyone. We use good lighting, good hair and makeup teams, but no Photoshopping. Since I design my lingerie for real women’s bodies, I prefer to use women who aren’t professional models in my catalog.”

He holds up a particular page, his nose
definitely
wrinkled up this time. “Who is this bald woman?”

It’s time to put this guy down a few notches. “That
bald woman
has breast cancer, Deacon. She had a double mastectomy and wasn’t feeling very pretty. Some women aren’t candidates for reconstruction or simply choose not to go that route. There is no reason cancer survivors can’t feel sexy and beautiful. I know the shoot helped the woman.”

“That sounds fantastic, very noble,” Deacon says and quickly closes the catalog. “But isn’t lingerie supposed to be about fantasy, not the harsh reality of life?”

“It can be an escape and should be fun and flirty, something every woman deserves—no matter what she is going through in life. I hope Kenzie Lingerie can help any woman feel sexy. That’s my goal.”

“That is a great goal,” he says. “You know, I think a lot of our viewers this morning are asking whether Kenzie Lingerie has helped
you
feel sexy.”

My eyes pop. What did he just say? I look behind the cameras, hoping someone will intervene and shut this down, but all I see is an army of producers waving their hands, urging me to continue. “Deacon, is that
really
what viewers are wondering this morning?”

“Oh, I think they are! I know my viewers. It’s a special relationship we have. It’s why our morning show has been number one in the Dallas market every year for the past decade, and I haven’t met a woman who didn’t have some sort of issue with her body.” He leans forward in his chair. “So I’m wondering if your lingerie has helped you
personally
.”

God, I hope this is almost over! How much longer? If he says or does one more rude, crass, or obnoxious thing, I’m taking this jerk down. I tuck my hair behind my ear and put my game face on, urging myself to keep it together for just a few more minutes. “I won’t lie. Some mornings I wake up having a total ‘fat day,’ so putting on a nice pair of panties and bra can make me feel a little better.”

“That’s good to know,” Deacon says. “It’s good to know your lingerie works.”

“I hope everyone who puts on a piece of Kenzie Lingerie feels better, no matter what kind of day they’re having or what type of body they have, what size they are, what age, whether they’ve lost their breasts to cancer or wear a colostomy bag.”

Deacon picks up the catalog again. “Now, Kenzie, you mentioned
size
, and you’ve told us most of the women in your catalog aren’t models. I’ve noticed that some of the women are, well, obviously a little overweight, or
fat
, to use your word.”

“What? I didn’t call anyone
fat
!”

“That was your word a moment ago.”

“It’s not
my
word!” I cry, my blood pressure rising.

“You used it.”

“About
myself
, not my models!” Red-faced, I look out to the producers, but they’re not helping.
Again
.

“So you’re not glamorizing obesity?”

“Are you serious? These women are not obese! They are normal, everyday women! And my catalog glamorizes
them
!” I think about reaching for my microphone and disconnecting from this nonsense, but I feel obligated to stick around and defend the women in my catalog—and maybe all women in the world. If Kenzie Lingerie had a mission statement, it would be the Madeleine Albright quote, “There’s a special place in hell for women who don’t help other women.” I mean, we all have to stick together, especially against assholes like Deacon Barnes!

“I see,” Deacon says, now scratching his chin like he’s some kind of serious newsman. “I think I understand now. It’s just that we had this whole series last week on obesity and the dangers it can pose. It’s still just so fresh in my mind. It was very powerful.”

“I must’ve missed it.”

“It’s on our website if you want to catch it,” he says before turning to the camera. “Same for all you out there, if you go to our website, you can watch the series. We’ve gotten a tremendous amount of positive feedback on that series—so many emails, calls, letters. I think we helped a lot of people. We’re very proud of that here at the station.”

I look down for a moment, hoping not to add vomit to my already-stained shoes. I’ve had enough. My patience has run out, and I’m not sure why I’m still here. Picking up my head, I look Deacon straight in his eyes. “Maybe next week you can run a series on what your problem is with plus-size women. I’ll be sure to tune in for that. I’m sure a lot of women will.”

Deacon gives a nervous laugh. “What? I have no problem with plus-size women! You can ask any of our viewers. . . .”

“I don’t need to ask them. It’s obvious. When you wrap up that series on why rude, obnoxious wannabe journalists feel like it’s okay to criticize women who struggle with their weight, please post it on your website. I’d happily watch that series over and over again.”

“How dare you. . . .”

“How dare
me
?”

“Yes, you!”

Standing up, I reach for my microphone as the army of producers swoop down on set. “How dare
you
treat me the way you have! You obviously have an issue with women who have a little meat on their bones, though that certainly didn’t keep you from talking to my breasts when we were introduced!”

“I do not! I did not!”

“Do curvy women make your pencil dick look even smaller than it normally is?”

“You little. . . .”

The producers let out a frantic cry for a commercial break.

*

KANE

I’ve done this
a hundred times before. It’s what I’m good at, what I do best. In fact, it’s the only reason I’m in a Texas courtroom today, sitting in this hard wooden chair at counsel table, listening to the prosecutor question potential jurors. This isn’t even my case. My law partners specifically called me in to help pick a jury, a winning jury because I never pick wrong. I can do all the other law stuff—brief writing, oral arguments, trying cases—but this is where I really shine.

I have a knack for reading jurors, for picking up on things. It doesn’t always work in my personal life, but I never miss a detail in here. Glancing across the jury box, I note one potential juror is a smoker. I can tell from the wrinkles above her lips, the way she’s holding her fingers, how often she glances at the clock. She clearly needs a cigarette. Another woman isn’t wealthy but wants to be. Everything from her shoes to her purse is a knock-off. She’s definitely got some aspirations of the designer variety.

Then there’s this older man—military service, the picture of an American hero, no wife and kids. It’s his turn in the hot seat, and I can tell the prosecutor wants him, thinking he’d be sympathetic to the government. But I know better. The man is likely gay, a small rainbow pinned to the back strap of his bag, probably forced into the closet for many years while he was serving his country. I hope the prosecutor picks him. The man won’t do the government any favors. It hasn’t served him.

But I won’t have my answer today. I glance down at my dad’s vintage Rolex, the one my mom saved for me, the one she gave me when I graduated law school. It’s almost lunchtime. The judge will call a break any minute. I wish we could just keep going through lunch and dinner, too, if necessary, but the potential jurors have lives. There’s nothing waiting for me at home, nothing but a frozen dinner or a takeout menu in my cold, empty house. That house is just another reminder of the life I don’t have.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I ignore it. No quicker way to get on the wrong side of a judge than to pull out your phone in court. But it continues to vibrate over and over again. I glance around, making sure the coast is clear and smoothly slide it out of my pocket to take a quick peek at the screen. Deacon! All it says is “emergency.” I’m sure it’s not a real emergency. Deacon is a bit dramatic. My stepbrother seems to have the best life, though he apparently got himself into some sort of mess again, and clearly it’s up to me to fix it, as usual.

KENZIE

What just happened?
I slump home to my crappy apartment, in the back of my start-up shop. The whole place is small, kind of a mess, out in the middle of nowhere. It’s the best I can do since I’m just starting out. Usually, I don’t care how it looks—nobody sees it because most of my business is by phone or online—but it’s bothering me now. It looks worse than ever, and I just want to hide.