Taming Blake (A New Adult Romance): The Complete Trilogy (18 page)

Blake had assured me a number of times that all the staff in his building — Collins, the receptionists, the maid service — had been made fully aware that I now had an office here, and I was free to come and go whenever I pleased.

“Very good,” Collins replied, taking a small step into the lobby to collect Blake’s bag.

Finally, it was time for him to leave, and when we met eyes to say goodbye it felt like my heart briefly stopped.

“Be good,” Blake said softly, taking a step back towards me, then planting a soft, gentle kiss on my lips.

“You too,” I replied, again wondering just what he was going to get up to in Milan. I was pretty sure that whatever he was going to get up to, I wouldn’t want to know about it.

What an idiot you are, Jessica.

We’re not exclusive.

We’re not even
together
.

Of course he’ll have other women. 

Because this was Blake Matthews we were talking about, wasn’t it? The very same man who’d held my trembling body in place, kissing me hungrily while a complete stranger toyed with my pussy just a few short weeks ago; the very same man who’d thrown that whole damn party in the first place.

“Have a safe trip,” I said, kissing him hard and forcefully, not caring if Collins saw, shivering a little as Blake reciprocated, his  intensity matching my own.

And then he pulled away, turning and stepping into the elevator, fixing me with those piercing grey eyes before the doors slid closed. 

§

I turned the key in the lock, feeling it click softly, before I pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped into my brand new office.

My brand new office.

This must count for something, mustn’t it?

He can’t have given
every
girl he slept with her own workplace.

And certainly not one right in his apartment.

I still couldn’t get over this amazing room that was now mine: the beautiful rug, the Tiffany lamp, the bare brick walls. It was clear that, while I was getting to know and understand Blake’s tastes, he was getting to understand mine, too. And the cherry on top was that sumptuous view, right in front of my desk.

Even if Blake couldn’t be mine, standing right here, it felt like New York was.

I took a step forwards, ready to start my week afresh, to work extra hard — my favorite technique for pushing any doubts from my mind. But as I sat down, I felt particularly distracted. It was hard to focus on the screen of my iMac, and my gaze kept drifting out of the large window in front of me.

From up here I could see tourists’ cameras flash on top of the Empire State Building, and the movement of the downtown traffic down below, the cars small as toys.

But just then I caught something else out of the corner of my eye— a small, plain white envelope laying on the far edge of my desk, with my name written on the front in Blake’s elegant handwriting.

What could this be?

I felt a pang of nerves as I picked it up and tore it open, wondering if perhaps it contained some kind of letter explaining that this whole week had in fact been a mistake and that he didn’t have the heart to tell me in person but our little fling must now come to an end ...

Instead, inside the envelope was a familiar black ticket with
ADMIT ONE
printed on it, a small, sleek memory stick, and a note, just four words long:

See you on Friday.

If I was finding it hard to concentrate before, now I’d seen the envelope I couldn’t work at all.

I’d hastily stuffed the note and ticket back inside the envelope and shut them away, but even so, it felt as if the words it contained were whispering to me from the desk drawer.
See you on Friday
, the note teased and taunted, like some kind of challenge.

And as for the memory stick – whatever was on it, I couldn’t handle it right now. I shut it in the drawer, too, deciding to deal with it another day.

But the most frustrating thing of all? I hadn’t actually
got
any work to throw myself into, had I? I’d finished Blake’s apartment and I hadn’t yet lined up any new projects.

I knew I was supposed to set up meetings with all the people Blake had introduced me to at the ball, and some did seem genuinely interested in talking to me and hearing my ideas, but I just didn’t know quite where to start. I’d landed the Matthews account the same way I’d landed my first real job with Marianne: by total fluke. And I didn’t have the confidence to start ringing people up and setting up lunch meetings to tell them how great I was. I just wasn’t that kind of a girl.

There
was
Blake’s business partner, Alex Wiltshire – I’d met him a couple of times now, and he’d seemed interested in me and my work. Maybe I could start with him? After all, he’d said he was expecting to hear from me, and so it wouldn’t be totally out of the blue. Except I didn’t just want to get
all
my work through Blake. I wanted to be truly independent and get jobs through my talents, not just because I was Blake’s latest ... whatever I was.

I pushed myself up from the desk, so angry and annoyed that I felt like I could tear out all my hair.

See you on Friday.

With everything that had been going on this last week, I’d completely forgotten that this coming Friday was the last of the month. But Blake obviously hadn’t.

Why did he leave a cryptic note?

Why didn’t he just
speak
to me about the party?

Was he playing some sort of psychological game? Was that the idea? Was I some sort of plaything for him now, caught in a ridiculous cat-and-mouse game? And was he actually
intending
to make me worry and stew all week long while he was off in Milan, doing God-knows-what?

Or God-knows-who.

I took a few deep breaths and paced the room, trying unsuccessfully to empty my head of all this swirling nonsense and worry. I knew that if
work
wasn’t enough to distract me, then I’d have to try Plan B ...

§

Bloomingdales was surprisingly busy for a late Monday morning in November, and as I headed up to the second floor I passed a wide-eyed, nervous-looking girl about my own age, bustling past me in the opposite direction, her cellphone clutched tightly to her ear as she carried on her conversation. “No, no, I’m sure you said… What? But I thought, I thought… Okay, well anyway I’m here now, and I’m sure they can exchange them for that other color… No, I’m sorry it must be my fault, I must have misheard you…”

As I watched, she stopped on the stairs, laying down a couple of the bulky items she was loaded with and about to drop, obviously preparing to head back to the Homewares department to exchange them.

I wondered if it was Marianne on the other end of the line, and I felt a flash of relief that at least
I
had escaped the wicked witch, even if my new existence seemed just as wracked with problems, albeit very different ones.

Up in the shoe department, my eye was immediately drawn to a pair of black Gucci over-the-knee boots. I ran my fingers across the butter-soft leather, not even really totally sure I
liked
them, not even sure they would suit me – or whoever
it was I was trying to become. They were just so
sexual
and powerful, but was that really the kind of woman I wanted to be? And was it the kind of woman Blake wanted?

If I was trying to change, was I doing it for him? Or for myself?

Just then my thoughts were interrupted by a loud female voice. “Those would look
fabulous
on you! Totally
fabulous!”

“You think?” I asked honestly, looking up into the tanned, overly-made-up face of the shop assistant.

“Sure honey. You’ve just
got
to try them on at least …”

And I found myself letting the girl have her way, dashing off to bring out the boots in my size, putting on a little show of delight when I tried them on, and eagerly encouraging me towards the registers, insisting that I wouldn’t find a prettier, more ‘me’ pair of boots anywhere in the whole entire world …

It was only as she was ringing the price up in the register: just over
twenty five hundred dollars
, that the thought hit me:

Is that what I’m worth to you, Blake?

Is that what a week of my time costs?

A week of ‘services’, not as your interior designer, but in your bed.

So what does that make me to you exactly? 

Just another girl to grace your bed, quietly paid off so she won’t make a fuss?

I’m no better than a hooker.

“I’m sorry,” I blurted to the baffled shop assistant, as I felt the hot prick of tears in the corners of my eyes. “I think I’m gonna leave them actually ...”

And with that, I quickly turned and ran out through the store towards the exit, my heart pounding, and it felt like the whole shop was staring at me. Who am I kidding? Of course people were staring at me: I was crying and running out of the store like some kind of hysterical woman, quite the spectacle for a quiet Monday morning.

Back out on the street, I took a few deep breaths of the crisp, cool Autumn air, trying to calm myself down.

I pulled out my phone, figuring if anyone was going to be able to help me feel better now, it was Fallon. It was her apartment I was
supposedly
staying at, even though I hadn’t actually been there all week.

I held the cell to my ear, frustrated when it reached an engaged tone.

Typical, just when I need somebody the most, everyone in my life is busy with someone else.

§

“
OhmygodJessicayoutotallygottaseethis!
” Fallon practically screamed, the second I set foot in her apartment.

Her eyes were wider than I’d ever seen them before, her hair was sticking up wildly in all directions, and it was pretty much impossible to tell whether something amazing or awful had just happened to her.

“Oh my God? What?” I asked, following her through to the living room. “Everything okay? You’re acting kind of ... different.”

“Read this!” she exclaimed, thrusting her iPad excitedly into my hands. “We made the front page of Pitchfork! Can you freaking believe it?”

I stared at the hip music website – I didn’t know much about music, and indie-rock especially wasn’t quite my scene, but even
I
knew that to be featured on a site like this was a huge deal for a band like Fallon’s.

It was an in-depth review of their first self-titled album:
Circles
, put out on their own tiny record label. I skim read it; the review seemed pretty positive. Amazing! But the more I read, the
more
complimentary and gushing it became, the journalist calling them ‘original,’ ‘mold-breaking,’ ‘fierce,’ and about a hundred other adjectives. The page-long article concluded by crowning Circles ‘totally essential’ and urging the reader to seek this album out ‘at any cost’.

“Fallon!” I gasped. “This is absolutely incredible!”

I was so proud of her. I knew she was talented, but on top of that she’d worked
so
hard and
so
long for this.

“And that’s not even the best bit!” she replied, brimming with such energy and excitement she seemed like she might burst at any moment. “We’ve been offered tour dates supporting St. Vincent, too!”

“No way!” I screamed.

This was a massive deal.

St. Vincent was one of Fallon’s all-time favorite acts, so I knew just how much something like this meant to her. They had been on Letterman, and I imagined that meant they’d be playing some pretty big venues. But best of all, Fallon had put such a lot of time and energy into her music, playing dive bar after dive bar for little or no pay for years, it was fantastic to see all that hard work finally paying off.

I hugged her tight, both of us jumping and screaming for joy in her tiny little Ocean Hill apartment.

“I don’t care what you’ve got planned for this evening, Little Miss Stopout ... I’m not even gonna ask where you’ve
been
all week,” she said once we’d finally calmed down a little. “Tonight we’re going
out
!”

§

We ended up in a cocktail bar called The Counting Room, on Berry Street in Williamsburg. As cool as Fallon was, even she hadn’t been here before. The basement bar had a masculine, industrial kind of vibe, but was actually really cozy, too. And most importantly the drinks were delicious. Before I knew it, I found myself on my third La Vie de Boheme cocktail: a beautiful infusion of prosecco, gin, fennel and spiced orange syrup.

The lighting was low, the music was fun, and as I bought us round after round of celebratory cocktails, I felt relieved to have something else to focus on, instead of my troubles with Blake.

Fallon was talking mile-a-minute about the places she was going to get to play on tour, and all the new opportunities this might open up for the band. And as we drank away, I’d almost forgotten about Blake completely, until Fallon said, out of the blue, “So anyway, time to spill the beans, where the hell have you
been
all week anyway? I thought you were supposed to be crashing at mine. You’re not back with Greg, are you?”

“No, of course not!” I reassured her.

The truth was, despite us leaving things amicably, I’d not given Greg a second thought since the break-up.

“Alright then, International Woman of Mystery, where
have
you been?”

I looked at her, her right eyebrow raised, her mouth curling in a wry smile, and I knew for definite there was absolutely no point hiding it: she knew me far too well. I was gonna
have
to tell her about Blake; it was probably already written all over my face anyway. And I felt glad for the low lighting, as I was probably blushing.

“Well, you remember Blake, you know, my boss? I was working on his apartment, and well ... we ...”

“I knew it!” Fallon exclaimed, before I’d even had a chance to tell her the full story. “Come on then,
spill
. I’ve always wanted to know what a guy like that is really like in bed!”

And so I began to tell her everything. Well, almost. Because, how exactly do you say:
Right, so it turns out my new guy also runs this exclusive private sex party once a month, where the rules are simply sleep with whoever the hell you like ...
even to your best friend?

I took a deep breath, and what I said next was, at least, the truth:

“I know what you’re thinking, Fallon. Because that’s exactly what I was thinking when I first met him,” I began. “Sure, he looks like a typical rich guy asshole, who only cares about money, only ever dates models. But you know what? There’s so much more to him. He’s funny, he’s smart, and he’s kind, too – he’s already helped so much with my career, for instance, and he really seems to care about me.”

It was such a relief to finally say it out loud, to say to somebody, anybody, that I was actually with Blake. Because honestly, I wanted to shout it from the rooftops. I couldn’t believe that I was seeing such an amazing guy.

But no sooner had I talked her ear off about how
great
Blake was, and how much I liked him, I found that there were other things I had to off my chest as well. So I also began to pour out all my doubts and worries and insecurities. I knew all women got anxious about their partner’s ex-girlfriends, but they weren’t able to scan Page Six and see that
exactly
who he’d last been with. I just couldn’t silence the nagging doubt that I was nothing more than the next girl in a long line of conquests, and for all I knew, I was already on the scrap heap. Perhaps he’d already moved on ...

What are you doing in Milan, Blake?

“You want my honest opinion?” Fallon said, decisively.

I nodded.

God, I really, really did.

“Honestly? He sounds like bad news. He sounds like a player. Guys like that are fun for a weekend or two, sure, but they’re not for life. You need to make sure you don’t get hurt here, Jessica.”