Page 5 of Brutal Promise

What could be better than designing costumes for the dancers? I imagine my boss would be the latest version of Amanda Priestly from the movieThe Devil Wears Prada, but I have to start somewhere. I’ll suck up what little pride I have left and hand out coffees and sandwiches to the most popular designer’s staff if it means I can work with the best. I will do whatever it takes to get my foot in the door. I can’t go back to Connecticut with my tail between my legs.

Besides, I needed a paycheck a week ago. Even if I got this job by some miracle, it would take time to get my place between the limited housing available in NYC and the exorbitant deposits required.

But here I sit, sipping a foamy drink while Alena digs through a closet overflowing with clothes. I watch her with amusement from my perch at the end of her bed. It’s like watching a feral Jack Russell terrier look for their favorite toy.

She pulls armloads of dresses still clinging to hangers for life support and tosses them on the bed. Some end up on my lap, and I run my hand across the exquisite fabrics. The way she’s fussing over what to wear, you’d think she was preparing to walk the red carpet at the Academy Awards.

“What are you doing?” I cajole her.

“I need the perfect dress. We’re meeting some guys tonight. One of them works for my dad.”

She ducks back into her closet and returns with an armful of designer stilettos. Her shoe collection is one that Imelda Marcos would envy.

“What? I’m not going,” I say as my eyebrows practically join my hairline.

“Fine.” She huffs. “Do you have plans tonight?” She drops the shoes and puts her hands on her hips as if I’ve done something wrong.

“No.” Of course not. She knows I’m a homebody.

“Then you’re going. Kirill has a friend with him, and it will be perfect,” she explains matter-of-factly as she picks up a dress and gives it a second of attention before tossing it on the discard pile.

“Hm, let me guess, a friend of your dad’s? No, thank you.”

“Don’t be such a stick in the mud. He’s nice.”

“I’m sure, but I don’t need to know more about them.”

“It’s fine. You’re my best friend. We’ve graduated, and you need to mingle. It’s a new club. Everyone who’s anyone will be there. You might make connections. My family knows people, and these guys know people. You need to realize the mafia has their hand in every pot, especially fashion.”

Fuckity, fuck. She’s right. I’m sure her father could find me a job in a New York minute, but I’d never ask. I have enough problems without getting into bed with the mafia.

Right then and there, I decide to get in bed with something other than the mob. I want tonight to be a night of debauchery. I take life too seriously, and maybe a good fuck is just what I need to turn my luck around. What would be the harm in a one-night stand? It has to be better than hooking up with my silicone appliance every night.

Why not get royally fucked by a hot man? The city is full of them. How difficult can it be to get one to take me to his place and make me come on his dick?

NYC is where the buzz on the street makes or breaks an establishment. Posting yourself on social media and getting into a club with an impossible waiting list is newsworthy. It takes status and power to open those doors. Maybe I’m going about this all wrong because Alena has a valid point. I’m not in Connecticut anymore. It’s time to reap the rewards of living in NYC.

“It’s new. We’ll never get in,” I point out, knowing full well she or her dad will make sure we get the red-carpet treatment.

“Oh, pish posh.” She flips her wrist in a don’t-worry gesture. “We’re in. Dad is a silent partner with the owners.”

I should have known. This is her life. Her family name opens doors, or if necessary, her family kicks them down.

Fuck. This club will undoubtedly be full of wannabes with over-inflated tits and asses and lips. What is it about wanting to look like Jessica Rabbit? No one stops to think about the liposuction required to keep that cartoon waistline. Or how much booze and pills they need to numb themselves from the constant scrutiny of public opinion.

I’m not about to give up solid food to be that thin. I hear champagne has the least number of calories, which is why all the A-listers drink it. I make a note to drink that tonight when they bring it to the VIP table.

I do enjoy being Alena’s wingman. She protects me from the snooty socialites who have no clue what it’s like to work for a living. I’ll never fit in, and I’m fine with it because I know what they have comes at a price.

Alena’s father pressures her to make family appearances and attend social events when she’s the youngest in the room. All she wants is to be carefree and live like an immortal. Hell, we only live once. She has plenty of years to do her father’s bidding, in my opinion.

“Before you say you have nothing to wear, pick something. I have tons. In fact, I haven’t worn half of these dresses.” She dumps an armful onto my lap.

I set aside my drink and run a hand across the textured lace fabric of the dress on top. I lift it, eyeing it with interest. It’s a cream-colored minidress with lining on the inside. It’s gorgeous and elegant. The price tag dangles from the designer label, and I can’t resist the temptation to peek. I turn it over and gasp when I see all the zeros.

“I’m too afraid I’d ruin this, Alena. It’s very expensive.”

“Oh, that dress,” she says upon seeing my choice. She dismisses my concerns. “I’ve never worn it, and if it gets ruined, I can buy another one. That color is perfect with your skin tone.” She eyes the dress and then me. “You’ll look amazing in it. I’m so jealous of how your skin looks tanned even in May.”

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