2. Gemma
Chapter two
Gemma
I t’s been a week since I gave Eoghan the brush-off at the gym. It's adorable how he thought I didn’t see him there or feel him staring at me while I was working out with my trainer. Eoghan is many things, but incognito isn’t one of them. I don’t think the man could be even if he wanted to. Which he doesn’t. I’ve always had a knack for attracting good-looking guys, the ones that turned heads every time we went out. Guys who were charismatic and fun. All the things that Eoghan Monaghan is. That’s why I need to stay far, far away from him. He’s a perfectly nice guy to look at, and he even makes me laugh. And I can’t forget charming. He’s all of the things. And it’s all bad for me.
After my last “date” at one of the fight nights held by the Monaghans, I’ve decided I can do without the charmers and the fighters. Sorry, but I have better things to do with my time than watch a group of guys snort a bunch of lines and ogle every woman in a skirt who walks by.
I’ve had it up to my eyeballs with the dating pool in Boston. If this is what’s out there, I’d rather stay single with a menagerie of cats. I miss having a kitty since Alessia took Lucian home with her. After we graduated from college and she decided to attend Wharton for her MBA, I moved into an apartment building that doesn’t allow animals. But I miss that little fucker, even if he did tear apart the old couch we had in our small two-bedroom apartment. He’s an asshole cat, but at least he’s consistent—more so than any man I’ve dated in the last five years after I split with my ex. They’re all nice one minute and then chasing tail the next.
Actually, not so different from a cat, then.
When I graduated from college, moving to Boston seemed like a more logical choice than going back home to my mom. I worked my ass off at Yale for my fancy marketing degree and was determined to work in the fashion industry. There weren’t exactly many opportunities back in Virginia where me and my mom had lived since I was born. There were many late nights I’d be awake—since I never had a set bedtime—that would be spent flipping through the magazines my mom left lying around. I loved looking at the pictures of beautiful women in exotic locations wearing fancy clothes and imagining myself in them. As I got older, I recognized the ads as some damn good marketing. Those people looked like they were having the time of their lives, and I wanted to be a part of it. I never considered myself a particularly creative person. I wasn’t one to sketch elaborate dresses, and I didn’t have an eye for photography, but I had an innate sense of what it took to sell a feeling. Even those damn car commercials with a dad sending his daughter off to college in the same type of car he took her to her first day of school in would get me every time. But the fashion world was my first love, and that’s where I wanted to work.
When I landed an internship at a premier fashion house right out of Yale and eventually got hired on full time, I was shocked. My boss, Natalie, saw the fierce determination in me when I started, and she wanted someone she could mold into a version of herself. I was willing to be just about anything she needed in order to work for her, so that’s what I did. I dressed the part, showed up earlier than everyone, and was usually the last one to leave. And it paid off. Now, I’m one of the youngest marketing executives in the industry. It’s a far cry from the depressing childhood I fled when I left Virginia Beach at eighteen.
“Knock, knock.” Sami, one of the models who regularly works on campaigns with our company, pops her head in my office. “It’s been a minute, lady.”
I wave her in and stand from my desk. “Sami, how are you?” I walk around to meet her in the middle of my office and wrap her in a tight hug.
The plus side of working at Aubine is I’ve gotten to know some of the sweetest girls. Many people think models are vapid women who don’t care about anything other than being photographed at the most exclusive parties or clubs, but the girls Aubine hires are the exact opposite—at least most of them, Sami included.
“I was in the building for some fittings and wanted to come say hi.”
“I’m glad you did,” I tell her, releasing her from my arms and waving to a white leather chair before I step back behind my glass desk and have a seat. “You have a shoot coming up with us next week, right?”
We’re launching a new campaign that’s geared toward the new ready-to-wear line. Aubine Couture made its mark in fashion years ago and was the one-stop shop for the rich and beautiful to get the latest in all things high fashion. I remember being in high school and looking at the magazine spreads when Jean first made his splash into the fashion world. He came from nothing, just like me, and reinvented himself, just like I wanted to. I knew right then and there that if Jean Aubine could do it, so could I. Now, he wants to offer the feeling I had when I was a kid looking at all the gorgeous people in beautiful clothes to those who can’t necessarily afford an Aubine exclusive. And that’s where I come in. It’s my job to sell the dream, and fortunately for everyone in the company, I’m damn good at it.
“Yup. I just got in last night for my fitting, and I have a whole two days here before I take off for a shoot in the Caribbean, then to Belize for Aubine’s shoot.”
“What are you going to do with all that free time?” I ask with a tilt to my lips. Sami is one of the most in-demand models in the industry. Free time is a long-forgotten notion for her.
“It’s not what I’m doing. You should be asking what we’re doing.” Her grin matches mine, and I shake my head.
“Girl, I am so damn busy with this new campaign, and I just took a bunch of time off for my best friend’s wedding and—”
“And, and, and,” she says, waving her hand in front of her. “We both know what your idea of taking time off is. Instead of working a twelve-hour day, you work ten. We’re actually in the same place at the same time, and we’re going out tonight.”
Sami has always been the kind of person where, whenever I see her, it’s as though no time has passed. The company started booking her when she was fresh off the bus from Nowhere, Indiana. This gorgeous woman with long black hair and eyes so green it looks like she’s wearing colored contacts has never lost the carefree and kind spirit I've come to love. She’s one of the few who understands this is just a job, and it’s fleeting. There is a limited lifespan to a model’s career, and it’s not particularly long, which is why she makes the most of her time and the opportunities her beauty has afforded her. She doesn’t take it too seriously, unlike some of the other models I’ve had the displeasure of working with.
“I mean, I suppose it is part of my job to make sure the models are happy working with Aubine…” I shoot her a smile and hers widens, knowing I can’t resist a night out with one of my favorite people. “Just tell me Camille isn’t coming.”
Sami winces at the mention of her name. Camille is one of the models working on this campaign, and I know she’s here for a fitting today as well.
“She was in the room when Brit and I were talking about going out tonight. I couldn’t very well not invite her.”
That’s the thing about Sami. She’s too damn sweet for her own good. Camille is nothing but a whiny headache who uses her beauty and status to make other girls feel inferior. I really wish Natalie would stop hiring her, but her pretty face sells clothes, even if her stunning outside doesn’t match her rotten inside.
I let out a groan, but the thing with being friends with someone who is just as busy as you is sometimes you have to concede. I guess spending an evening with Camille will be my concession this time.
“Okay. I can put on my big-girl panties and deal with her for the night.” I wouldn’t normally subject myself to Camille’s company, especially since I know how sore my tongue will be with all the biting I’ll have to do. But Jean loves having her in his clothes, which means I’ll have to play nice for the evening. “I hope you know how much I love you.”
Sami smiles wide in my direction and stands. “Meet me at the hotel. Your boss hooked me up with a suite as a thank-you for fitting Aubine into my schedule this week.”
“My boss will also be hooking us up with bottle service since I have to deal with Camille tonight.” The smile I give Sami matches hers as she laughs on her way out the door.
“See you tonight,” she calls, then blows me a kiss before shutting the door behind her.
When I get home it’s already after seven, and I need to shower this day off. It was meeting after meeting after Sami came and insisted on going out. Honestly, if I had known my day would turn into what it did, I would have opted out of anything other than a bath, a glass of wine, and a steamy romance novel to get my mind off the day.
The photographer for the shoot next week is having some sort of existential crisis about something or other. From what I gathered during the twenty-minute conversation Natalie and I had with him on the phone, he wants to leave a mark on the world. He’s frustrated that all anyone seems to want are staged pictures of beautiful people and how he’s contributing to the ideals of a materialistic society. He swore he was quitting the fashion business and going to live in a hut somewhere he could meditate and become one with the earth or some shit. That was until Natalie offered him thirty percent more money than his usual rate and promised Aubine would make a donation to the charity of his choice in his name. When the phone call ended, she said she was glad to pay it since finding a new photographer on such short notice would have cost a lot more than a few thousand dollars.
Then, two members of my team got into a very heated debate over typography. Yes, it was a real thing, and at one point, I thought it was going to come to blows. I get it—I do. We work our asses off for the company, and sometimes that stress can manifest in… unusual ways, shall we say. But it was like separating kindergartners who would not stop poking each other.
I close the door to my modest two-bedroom apartment and flip on the light. After slipping out of my heels, my feet meet the plush cream carpet, and I let out a long exhale. Tossing my bag onto the cream leather chair, I head into my kitchen. I pull open my freezer, grab a bottle of vodka and some ice, and splash a healthy amount into a glass. I’ve always had a taste for good vodka, and the familiar burn hits just right as I take a sip. If I sit down now, I know it’s going to take a monumental effort to get back up, but my light-gray chenille couch is calling my name. Giving in to temptation, I trudge into my living room and sink into the soft cushion. I love this couch. Hell, I love everything about my apartment. It’s light and comfortable. I don’t have to worry about beer stains on the rugs or cigarette burns marring the expensive fabric of my furniture. So unlike the apartments I grew up in.
When I was hired full-time, I moved into a nicer place, but not so upscale that if I lost my job tomorrow, I’d be on the street within the month. I think I’ll always carry around that fear of financial insecurity that had been ingrained in me from childhood. My mom and I moved into a nice apartment once when I was little. I had my own room and everything. She’d met a guy and swore it was love.
It wasn’t.
Turns out, he was married, and his wife didn’t appreciate him keeping an apartment for his mistress and her bastard daughter—her words, not mine—with her money. The guy was filthy rich as long as he was married. She held the purse strings, and he thought he could get away with renting an apartment for us. I don’t know if my mom knew the whole story or if it would have even mattered to her. Probably not. The only thing she ever cared about was having her bills paid by someone other than her. It was a real treat being home and getting to witness that train wreck when the guy's wife showed up. We were packed up, tossed out, and back to her sister’s before she found us another run-down one-bedroom like she always did.
Now I keep my space tidy and clean. I have light-colored furniture because I’ll be damned if I ever look at another brown-plaid couch that’s been kept around long past its prime just so it’ll hide the dirt. And there isn’t a cigarette burn or a stain of questionable origin in sight.
Taking another sip of the vodka in my nearly empty glass, I haul myself off my couch and head into my bedroom. The lamp next to my bed is on, as it always is, even when I’m sleeping; it’s just another habit left over from a fucked-up childhood. Bad things happen in the dark when you think you’re alone. Obviously, I don’t have to worry about strange men wandering in here looking for my mother, but I also can’t sleep in a pitch-black room.
Setting my drink on the nightstand—under a coaster, thank you very much—I open my closet and pull out a dress I bought last week. I shrug out of my work clothes and put them in my dry-cleaning bag. When I lay the dress on the bed, my mind flits to Eoghan. The way the look in his eyes made me feel like I was the sexiest woman in my workout gear. He had a gleam of appreciation in his gaze when he came over to the ring I was working out in. What would he think if he saw me dressed to kill in the little sequined black number on my bed? Whoa, where the hell did that thought come from? It doesn’t matter what he thinks. I have never been, nor will I ever be, a woman who dresses to impress a man. And I certainly have no intention of trying to impress my best friend’s playboy brother-in-law. I shake my head as I style my long blonde hair into a topknot and head to my bathroom to wash the day—and all thoughts of Eoghan Monaghan—down the drain.
The line to get into the new club Sami insisted we go to is a hell of a lot longer than I would have expected, even for a Friday night. When one of the security guards walked the line, he spotted the four of us and either recognized the three models I was with, or he saw four beautiful women and decided to bring us to the front. Most likely the latter since the beefy man doesn’t look the type to pour over fashion magazines in his off-hours, but hey, I could be wrong. Either way, we were brought to the front, and the velvet rope was opened for us immediately, much to the disappointment of the others waiting in line if the grumbles and groans we heard were anything to go by.
Now we’re in the VIP level of the club, looking over the balcony at everyone dancing on the lower level and enjoying bottle after bottle of champagne. Blue laser lights flash throughout the dark space as music pumps through the speakers. Our section is lit with thin blue rope lights running along the railings, and the glass tables scattered throughout the floor have large smoked-glass bases with blue lights inside; it makes them look iridescent and dreamy. The name of the club, Blue Oasis, is definitely on brand.
Some people may think I’d feel inadequate or somehow dimmed by the stunning women I’m surrounded with, but they would be dead wrong. I don’t suffer from low self-esteem or subscribe to the beauty standards that I can admit the people in my industry are responsible for creating. You don’t have to be nearing six feet tall and weigh barely a hundred pounds to be beautiful. I’m not, and I feel damn good about myself. Being five-eight, I’m relatively tall for a woman, and I've always been on the thinner side—that tends to happen when you grow up without enough to eat on a regular basis—but I work hard to stay in shape. Not for anyone other than myself, though. The tight black dress I donned for the evening, along with the sky-high heels, accentuate my long muscular legs that I spend a lot of time working to keep toned and strong.
Years ago, when my best friend was assaulted by her boyfriend, she and I started training in a few different martial arts practices. I found my stride in kickboxing, while Alessia found her passion in boxing. Doesn’t hurt that her husband trains with her now. He's quite the fighter himself, though I’ve only seen him in the ring once, and that was just for a minute before he knocked out his opponent to get to his wife. That was certainly a night for the books. As much as I’ve come to appreciate the relationship my best friend has with her new husband, and I love that she's finally found not only her match but someone who deserves her, I have to say, I’m not sure how I’d handle someone being so…possessive. Not that I’ve ever dated a man who would care enough, but I wasn’t raised in the same life as Alessia. To her, it’s normal, but it sounds stifling to me. At the same time, I’ve never been married to a hot-as-sin Irish mob boss, so there’s that.
“I love that necklace,” Sami says, plopping down on the couch next to me while she takes a sip of champagne. The other girls are dancing with a few guys who are in the VIP area with us, enjoying the attention.
“Thank you,” I reply, my hand touching the aquamarine necklace I bought myself after my last raise.
Growing up, my mom never had money to spend on expensive jewelry, and while I’m hardly making millions, it’s more than I could have thought possible sitting in the run-down one-bedroom apartment my mom and I shared while she was at work. My mom had other priorities for the money she earned while dancing in bikini bars, and it certainly didn’t include anything for her daughter.
“Are you having a good time?” Sami asks, turning her big doe eyes on me.
“Of course,” I reply, though it’s a bit of an exaggeration. Am I having a bad time? No, but I’m not quite comfortable. Maybe it’s the dress—though I do look fabulous—or maybe it’s the heels, though again, they’re amazing. There’s just something I can’t shake.
Two of the guys the other girls were dancing with come over to us with broad smiles on their faces as they look from us to the dance floor below.
“What are you ladies doing sitting all by yourselves over here?” the one on the right asks in a flirtatious way that gives me the impression he doesn't really care about the answer. He just wanted an excuse to come talk to us.
“Well, you were over there”—Sami points to his other two friends, still occupied with Camille and Brittany—“and you weren't paying us any attention.” Sami gives him a playful pout, and his grin gets impossibly wider, showing off teeth so bright they must be veneers.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I won’t make that mistake again.” The man holds out his hand to her. “Let’s dance.”
Sami pretends to consider his offer, but it’s a coquettish act. When she slides her hand into his palm, the guy looks like he won the lottery. They head over to the other dancing couples and begin swaying to the beat of the heavy bass.
His friend has a seat next to me, and I eye him from behind the rim of my champagne flute. He’s not bad looking by any stretch, but he looks like every other man I’ve met in places like this. His dark hair is slicked back, and the gleam in his brown eyes tells me he’s not necessarily here for anything more than a good time. And honestly, good for him.
“What about you?” he asks. He’s not giving off creep vibes; he seems like a guy looking for a fun time and hoping I’m it.
“What about me?”
“Would you like to dance?”
I look to the dance floor on the lower level and nod. There’s no reason for this black cloud hanging over my head. So what if the guy is the same as any other man in this club or any other man I’ve met in the last ten years? We’re here to have fun, and I need to shake myself out of this funk I’ve been carrying around with me all night.
I set my glass on the table and return his smile. “I’d love to. But let's go down there,” I say, pointing to the floor packed with writhing bodies and people enjoying themselves. That’s what I need. To be surrounded by people living it up. Hopefully some of that energy will rub off on me. This morose feeling that settled into me when I got home from work needs to fucking evaporate ASAP.
He holds out his hand, and I slide my palm into his. “Ronny.” He flashes me another smile.
“Gemma,” I reply.
Ronny leans in close and whispers, “You are absolutely gorgeous, by the way.” His breath tickles my ear, and I feel…absolutely nothing but the desire to swipe the feeling away.
I give him a bland smile and lead him out of the VIP area to the dance floor. What the hell is wrong with me? It’s just some dancing with a perfectly attractive man. Granted, his eyes don’t carry the same sparkle of mischief as the ones I was thinking of earlier, but he also isn’t part of a powerful criminal organization in Boston with women falling all over him, if the rumors are true. Yes, I did a little digging into Eoghan since the wedding. No, I am not proud of myself. What I found out about him from various sources is that he likes to party. He likes to be seen at the clubs around town, and he definitely likes having a beautiful woman or two on his arm. He’s the Irish mob party boy, and that’s the last thing I’m looking for.
When Ronny and I get to the lower level, he immediately starts grinding all over me like every other musclehead in the place. I take a step back and think he finally gets the hint that there should be at least a couple inches of space between us. Thank God . It doesn’t take long for the beat of the music to envelop me and a smile to overtake my face as I dance to the ramped-up pop remixes playing through the speakers. This is what I need. A night of dancing and letting loose. After a couple more songs, I’m absolutely parched, and Ronny is decidedly less interested in being down here with me. I can’t exactly blame him. He’s realized that I’m here for fun, but not the kind he probably had in mind.
“Let’s go back!” I yell over the loud music and point my finger to the VIP area.
Ronny nods and we make our way out of the crowd of bodies and back up the stairs. It’s when we get there that I realize something is drastically different from when we left. The girls are still dancing, but it’s not with Ronny’s friends. I don’t recognize these guys, but his friends have retreated back to the other side of the roped-off area and are chatting up a group of completely different women.
Then my gaze turns to the blue velvet couch I’d been sitting on just a few minutes ago.
“Hey there, blondie. Fancy meeting you here.”