Jaded Page 9

  She shifted in her seat and began to bob her leg. “Y’know, Christian. I’ve been thinking about school lately and . . .”

  He looked at her expectantly.

  “I’m not sure I should still be there.”

  He nodded. Took a sip and waited.

  “I’m not saying I’m dropping out or anything,” she said quickly. “But . . . I’m starting to wonder.”

  “I can’t say I’m surprised. But I think you should give it more thought, y’know? If you don’t want to be a practicing attorney it might still be helpful if you earned your law degree.”

  Now it was her turn to be silent. She shook her head and watched a couple at the counter point to the overhead menu.

  “Did I say something wrong?” he asked, brows furrowed.

  There was no way she could express herself without sounding offensive. So she just blurted it out.

  “You’re very sure of yourself, you know that?”

  He leaned back in his chair and lifted his hands as though she had a gun held to him.

  “What did I say?”

  “It isn’t what you said. It’s what you didn’t say. You think I’m giving up, don’t you? That I’m gonna get consumed in the McCanns’ world and completely forget about my future.”

  “Your psychic abilities are so not impressive.”

  “What?”

  “You need to relax. That little outburst . . . not attractive. C’mon. Get your stuff.”

  “That wasn’t an outburst,” she said while slipping into her coat. “It was an observation.”

  He slid his arm in hers as they walked back toward the park. Had she jumped the gun a bit? Even if she had, cool, calm Christian remained unfazed, arm linked in hers, smelling like a fresh ocean breeze as he walked her around the city. She bit her lip, hating herself. She didn’t want to ruin the moment. Again.

  “You can’t be serious,” she said when it occurred to her where he was taking her.

  “How long has it been since you were on a carousel?”

  She smiled, watching the nearly empty carousel glide around. A song crackled from the speakers, French lyrics sung by a woman. Syeesha had no recollection of ever riding a carousel. Surely, her father had taken them to an amusement park or state fair at least once, hadn’t he? “I was a kid.”

  “Wait here. I’ll get tickets.”

  The next thing she knew she was on a pastel-colored horse next to Christian, floating around on a carousel that played French music she couldn’t understand and wishing like hell he’d kiss her.

  And as though his own psychic abilities were highly refined and polished, he leaned over and did just that.

  ***

  Chapter 15

  On a certain level, Jade had outgrown dealing with volatile models, insecure actresses, and perfectionist brides. Yet nothing compared to the jolt of excitement that shot through her when she first inspected a client. Her heartbeat quickened at the sight of a face impaired by eyes too close together, a nose spread too wide, lips the size of a stickpin, or cheeks sprinkled with freckles, moles, and dark spots. Jade could perfect them all. It was that abiding love that kept her toiling in the trenches.

  But pop music starlets were the devil’s creation. The large majority of them were second-rate singers cursed with an overabundance of ambition. Enough so, they’d strip naked if a buck twenty-five was laid on a table before them. The one trait that usually propelled them to the top of the music charts—besides their overproduced records and the tireless marketing machine that churned vigorously in the background of their lives—was their youthful beauty. Which is why Jade was alternately exhilarated and surprised at the level of creativity she needed to employ on the set of KaCee Elliott’s current music video for her annoying number-one iTunes hit, “Baby, Read My Mind.”

  “I need you to stop with the gum, KaCee.” The pockmarked blonde shot Jade a defiant glare. Jade wanted to say, I can’t fill in all these damned pores you’ve got with your face trembling like an earthquake. But she thought better of it and said, “I can’t make you look you’re best if you don’t help me out a little.”

  “Jesus. Can you work a little faster? It’s one o’clock in the fuckin’ morning and I haven’t slept yet.”

  The music video was two hours overdue because the pop tartlet had had to be yanked out of a nightclub where she had decided to guest deejay. Stumbling into the backstage area, she’d tripped on her six-inch stilettos. Kacee yanked one of her costumes from its hanger, slicing the thin material at the seam. Her stylist, bitching into a cell phone, had stood over the seamstress working furiously, head down, shoulders hunched, over the sewing machine.

  “When’s the last time you got some sleep?” Jade asked as she applied yet another layer of concealer beneath KaCee’s light brown eyes.

  “Thursday, Wednesday? I don’t know. What day is this?”

  “You’ve been drinking?”

  KaCee snorted. “Among other things.”

  A guy with dreadlocks poked his head into their tiny area. “Ten more minutes,” he said with a West Indian accent. “They’re ready on the set. You lookin’ good, baby girl.”

  “Thanks,” Jade and Kacee said in unison.

  The repetitious beat of the song blared through the Rose Main Reading Room of the New York Public Library, where soon KaCee would writhe her body on tabletops while lip-synching to her hit song. Her natural voice was virtually unrecognizable on the song thanks to Auto-Tune, a modern technological marvel that made the nineteen-year-old sound more like a robot than a human being. The first time Jade had heard a song that relied heavily on Auto-Tune, she told the singer, who was also a client, that the audience wanted to hear her natural voice, not a computer-processed robotic imitation. Little could anyone know that the singer, Cher, would set off an avalanche of copycats, and Believe would become an international megahit. That year, the marginally talented KaCee Elliotts of the world were born.

  “Done. I need you to stand up and let me take a look at your tush.”

  “You won’t believe how many fuckin’ men have asked me that same thing today.”

  “I’m not joking, KaCee. They’re gonna do a close-up of your behind and I need to make it look good.”

  The pounding bass of the music was starting to give Jade a headache. KaCee stood up shakily and removed her ivory robe to reveal a black, sparkly leotard. Jade crouched behind her, took one look at KaCee’s ass, and had to brace herself before she fell on her behind. Ke$ha. Lady Gaga. KaCee Elliott. All the pop divas wanted to bounce around in videos wearing leotards nowadays. But only one of them didn’t have the work ethic to knock out a few hundred squats.

  “KaCee, maybe you should wear some fishnet stockings with this outfit.”

  “You’re not my fuckin’ stylist. You’re my makeup artist. Make it look good.”

  “No changes!” Her stylist snapped at Jade.

  “I’ve seen fewer bumps on the New Jersey Turnpike,” Jade spat back at the stylist, who looked as if she could’ve been Ronald McDonald’s biological daughter, thanks to her bright red hair and overly powdered face. “I specialize in faces, not asses. Think maybe next time you should find something more appropriate for your client’s figure.”

  Still clinging to her cell, Red stuck an unlit cigarette into her mouth. “That leotard was part of our vision.”

  Right vision, wrong artist, Jade thought, but decided to let the matter rest.

  KaCee looked at herself in the mirror. She turned her face to each side, inspecting it closely.

  “You’re better than my regular makeup artist.”

  “I know.”

  KaCee turned to her. “You wanna work for me exclusively?”

  That’s the business. With a single nod of her head, Jade could put KaCee’s regular makeup artist on the hunt for another fickle star client who knew nothing of loyalty. Kim probably thought Jade was equally as cutthroat. Aren’t I? she wondered. She didn’t allow her mind to linger on the question. KaCee’s
offer only reinforced to her that she needed to reinvest her love in a more stable, fulfilling environment.

  “My schedule’s already pretty full.”

  Jade set her makeup kit beside her and reached for the Preparation H.

  “Is that gonna burn?”

  With any luck . . .

  Jade snapped a pair of rubber gloves onto her hands then liberally slathered the medicine on KaCee’s behind and thighs.

  “Ouch!”

  “It’ll tighten your bottom.”

  “That’s what I pay my fucking trainer for.”

  Surprised, Jade asked, “How often do work out?”

  “Twice a week. I’m naturally skinny.” KaCee whimpered.

  You’re naturally flabby.

  “When’s the last time you ate a vegetable, KaCee?”

  “Last night.” Her glossy pout receded as her face brightened. “We had the best fried green beans ever.”

  In exactly eight minutes flat, Jade added the last touch of powder to KaCee’s legs and stood back to appraise her work. She was pleased. What she couldn’t fix, the digital editors could. However, the onus was on her to make the artist look as good as possible because even at her exorbitant rate, she was far cheaper than the computer wizards.

  After the self-proclaimed First Lady of Lyrics made her way to the set with Red trailing two steps behind her, Jade slid into KaCee’s chair and gave herself a few minutes to relax before she was needed on set to apply touch-ups. This was her life. Making pockmarked entertainers who abused their bodies look as though they had the secret to eternal beauty. And consumers bought into the illusion.

  That mass hypnosis would be her road to independent wealth. Her own cosmetics line. A prime spot on HSN. A counter in Macy’s. A settlement from Rodney would make it possible. It was time for her to broach the subject of divorce with him. Maybe he would play fair and offer her a healthy settlement outside of the prenup.

  But if he didn’t, Plan B was already in motion.

  And what if he agreed to give her money? He wouldn’t. She knew him well enough to know that. But if he did, the seduction would happen anyway, just in case he reneged on the deal.

  She plucked her cell phone from her purse and read the text message he’d sent her hours ago.

  Staying overnight in DC. Don’t wait up for me.

  “Four million bucks says you’re not sleeping alone.”

  Four million. That was the goal.

  Syeesha would be working for her soon. Jade needed to figure out an excuse to have her in the house twenty-four hours a day. It was the quickest way for the seduction to occur. Hidden cameras that only she knew about were already in place. Just once, they needed to capture Syeesha and Rodney in a compromising position. How was Syeesha going to react when Jade told her what her real job was? Jade could tell from the interview that she was quick on her feet. She had to be careful, let Syeesha fall in love with her new job first.

  Jade had wrestled with the idea of not telling Syeesha at all. Let nature take its course. But that was too risky. There might not be a mutual attraction between the two and if there was, she couldn’t wait for the results of the sophomoric cat-and-mouse games two people play before relinquishing control to their natural instincts.

  Jade was firmly in control. The puppet master. She gathered her things and headed to the set, her blood pumping with renewed hope.

  ***

  Chapter 16

  Walking through the grand lobby of the McCann’s high-rise, Syeesha felt as conspicuous as a bum pushing a cart through Saks Fifth Avenue. The lobby was empty with the exception of the attendant behind the front desk who checked her in, yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that eyes were judging her from afar. Like the very real eyes of the Korean shop owners who stood at the head of the aisles in the beauty supply stores, arms folded, eyes narrowed, waiting for her to slip a jar of two-ninety-nine hair grease into a purse the size of a can of Red Bull.

  After checking in with security, Syeesha punched in the special code on the elevator to access the McCanns’ floor. She inspected her reflection in the golden back wall of the elevator, tucking in her blouse and readjusting her belt. She caught a glimpse of her hands. The short, brittle nails hadn’t seen the likes of a manicurist in four months. She had splurged for the swanky holiday party Clarke held every year. Now they were back to looking like the nails of a working girl who either didn’t care or couldn’t afford to care about recreational grooming.

  She turned back to the elevator doors.

  The silence unnerved her. Rich people were insulated in a vacuum that sucked the noise from their environment and surrounded them in a silent void reminiscent of a baby in a womb. Syeesha’s East Flatbush neighborhood was a boisterous potpourri of Jamaican, Middle Eastern, and Brooklyn accents. The streets swelled with the sounds of African movies playing on loudspeakers from small shops and vendors yelling out the virtues of their homemade CDs and bootleg movies. The apartment buildings vibrated with babies crying, hammers pounding, common-law spouses arguing.

  But here there was only silence. The entire neighborhood was comprised of luxury buildings, upscale stores, museums. Drivers were forbidden from using their horns. Central Park would hum in the summertime with the easy-listening rhythm of a professional orchestra and solo artists hoping for a break that only a magical city like New York could deliver. And now, in the lobby and in the elevator, a whisper could echo. Syeesha felt as though there was a civilized dignity in the quietness, but still she was uncomfortable.

  When the digital display announced her floor, she hurried from the elevator, nearly knocking down a man getting on.

  “I’m so sorry, are you okay?” she asked.

  “It’s fine,” he responded, pulling his baseball cap lower on his head and avoiding eye contact.

  He and three others scrambled onto the elevator. He looked up. Syeesha was rooted in place, her mouth wide, her diaphragm working hard to push out the air that would support the words stuck in her throat. She pointed at him and managed to get out, “Aren’t you . . .” before the elevator doors closed the distance between her and his grinning face.

  Jade’s apartment was easy to find. There were only two penthouses on the floor. The heather-gray carpet muffled her footsteps. Soft, recessed lighting enhanced the sand-colored walls. Although she had been announced, Syeesha rang the doorbell. The thick mahogany door opened soundlessly like a door to a vault.

  “Hi, I’m Syeesha Green.” She extended a nervously quivering hand to the middle-aged Latina who answered the door. “Jade’s new assistant.”

  “Yes. Miss McCann is expecting you,” the woman replied in a thick accent, ignoring Syeesha’s outstretched hand. She was tall and slender beneath her baggy, white hospital scrubs. Syeesha thought it an odd choice of attire for a housekeeper and for some reason that eased her tension a bit.

  While the woman hung her jacket in the closet, Syeesha took in her surroundings. The walls were painted a glossy peach that contrasted with the muted elegance of the hallway. A chunky chandelier, a tad big for the small area, hung from the cathedral ceiling. When Syeesha swung her eyes back around she realized the woman was looking at her.

  “Shoes.” She stood with one hand outstretched.

  “My shoes?”

  “Rules of the house.”

  Syeesha slid off her small heels. “I can put them away. Just show me where they go.”

  The housekeeper looked at Syeesha as though she was testing her, waiting to see what she would do so that she could report back to the McCanns. After a moment she tilted her head toward the rack inside the coat closet. Syeesha placed her shoes next to a pair of smudged tan Keds.

  The housekeeper finally extended her hand tentatively.

  “Maria.”

  “I guess I’ll be seeing you every day.” Syeesha pumped her hand, feeling as though she had broken through a barrier. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  “You are Ms. McCann’s . . .?”

 
“Personal assistant. I was hired to help her organize her busy life.”

  “What happened to Kim?”

  “Kim?”

  Maria nodded slowly as though understanding the situation more clearly. “She did not tell me she was hiring anyone to work in the house. I’m surprised.”

  “Why?”

  “Kim never worked here. Only with Jade on assignments.”

  Maria openly appraised her, rolling suspicious dark eyes over Syeesha’s professional slacks, short-sleeved blouse, and her long, thick hair tamed into a ponytail. Her eyes pulled back up to meet Syeesha’s.

  “Bet she’ll have a uniform for you, too.”

  Uniform?

  “Look at me.” Maria continued, resting one hand on her hip. She was in her early forties but she had cared for herself well. Her skin was as supple as a toddler’s. The V-neck shirt of her hospital scrubs had two pockets near the waist, one of which had a thin, green plastic cord stick out. The matching pants were baggy but did little to hide her shapely body. Maria’s feet were covered in soft-soled, white cotton slippers that fitted her feet snugly. “She insists I wear this as my uniform. She doesn’t say why, but I know.”

  “Why?” asked Syeesha, baffled.

  Maria pointed and Syeesha’s eyes followed the invisible trail that landed on a picture hanging on the wall. She hadn’t noticed it before. It was a picture of Rodney McCann. The same regal composure Syeesha had swooned over on cancelled television shows and bad action movies. She recalled that throughout one made-for-TV movie, he had worn the same costume, despite changes in time and location. He had always been too good for the roles he’d accepted. Ironically, Hollywood was the one place where someone could repeatedly produce a bad product and still make millions. She had been a good legal secretary for years, working for peanuts, and got shown the door. Syeesha caught herself staring at him. She wrapped her arms around her torso and redirected her attention back to Maria, who was saying, “Since you’re her personal assistant maybe you’ll have an easier time collecting your pay than I’m having. A week late. Again.”