Page 39 of Miles Apart
I can’t afford for anyone or anything to throw me off my game.
Chapter 16
Emma
The lights dim, and a cotton candy glow rises from the all-black stage. Flashing lights go off as MHYSA’s “power cuts” featuring Chino Amobi booms from hidden speakers. Models walk the runway in padded jackets, boiler suits, and low-crotch pants. Some strut in metallic heels, others in laced-up leather boots. Each look is different, but one thread unites them: Rêve, my new collection at Soie.
Working with in-house designers on high-end lingerie has been my longest commitment. Soie keeps me on the move and has ever since I was a wide-eyed intern out of college. I put in twelve years, running errands to work my way up to senior creative director. With no formal fashion training and an international business relations degree to appease my father, I worked hard to prove my eye for design wasn’t a hobby, but an instinct.
And it’s paid off.
My breath catches, and my chin lifts in pride when I see embroidered tulle and pearls roped together in intricate patterns and paired with Rustin designs. When I got the call asking to useour pieces for the fashion show, my yes was instant. I love the brand and its vision.
The theme, “Dystopian Uprise,” centers models from historically excluded communities—often cast aside entirely or only sprinkled in by mainstream fashion houses—during the aftermath of the world’s converging crises. There’s darkness but also a resilience that Kojo, Rustin’s founder and principal designer, will amplify in his upcoming spring/summer collection, “Utopian Promise.”
A model steps on stage in a steampunk mad hatter corset and sky-high heels. She’s wearing our sheer mesh thong adorned in crystal rhinestones, and it shines against her almond skin. Her hips sway in front of the photo pit before she spins on her stilettos to give photographers a view of her toned ass and pear shape.
Perfection.
Kojo takes his place and marches down the runway to a symphony of applause and whistles. We catch eyes, and I smile up at my friend as he winks and takes a bow. He’s had his head between the pages of a comic or an Octavia Butler book since our sophomore year of college, and it shows in his work.
The lights come on to signal the end. An escort ushers me away from the growing crowd at the main door and into a small hallway beyond the backstage area. It’s curtained off to conceal the chaotic shuffle of models and staff. It takes three minutes for a black car to pull up, and twenty minutes in traffic to reach my hotel in Gramercy.
My flight from California arrived late last night. I enjoy trips to big cities, but I’m thankful I requested a boutique accommodation tucked between quieter side streets. Well, as quiet as you’ll get in New York. Everyone needs to recharge at some point, and my battery is hovering at low.
Kojo’s after-party is at a cocktail parlor only a few blocks away. He swears it’s a coincidence, and I won’t argue with him. But I know he chose the location to keep me out past ten. He knows that when I’m not on vacation, I’m in for the night once I make the rounds and take photos.
I swap out my black balconette bra that crisscrosses at my ribs, the one I paired with heels and Rustin cargo pants. In its place, I slide on my dress.
Time to shine.
The coat check attendant does a double take and runs into the door after accepting my jacket. I expected to turn a few heads tonight, but I don’t want anyone in the hospital.
“Careful, sweetie,” I say with a wink. “You’re too cute to have a bandage around your head.” He nods rapidly, shaking long stands of brown hair over his face. Then the young Josh Hartnett replica scurries away.
I’ve always appreciated shy men. They’re quiet, eager to please, and do what they’re told. Unlike some men. One in particular, who shall remain nameless.
Two weeks is the longest I’ve gone without sex of any kind.
Stressed? Get good dick.
Frustrated? Dick.
Happy? Angry? Lonely? The same answer applies.
I told myself the reason for my dry spell is because of the endless meetings I had once I got home. Not the man whose face I rode into the land of ecstasy, who’s probably circling my waterfront property, hoping to slide inside. I don’t have a welcome mat for a reason. My space is my space. Miles and his sexy ass need not bother me.Temptme.
What we did can’t happen again. Yes, he made me come so hard I damn near convulsed. If he wields power like that over my body without the D, I’m afraid to find out how he works that joystick between his legs.
It’s a risk I can’t take.
The fact he’s still on my mind is both a problem and uncharted territory. It’s not good etiquette to get eaten out and ghost, but there’s only so much temptation I’ll avoid before I let that man access my walls from the four corners of the earth. I’m living out of my suitcase for the next several weeks anyway. I need to get over him.
So here I am, in desperate need of a caffeine hit, ready to try out another distraction to pluck me from this damn coochie desert.
Aged chestnut flooring is my runway between sofas and chairs separated by crystals hanging from the black-lacquered ceiling. The intro to Missy Elliot’s “She’s a Bitch” kicks up. Heads pivot with every step my ankle-strap heels take. Minus the opaque cups covering my breasts, my corset midi dress is completely sheer, showcasing the curves of my hips in a high-waist thong. It’s thick enough to cover most of my round cheeks but still gives more than a glimpse.
Kojo is in a Victorian room on one of a handful of velvet, button-tuft sofas. Gold sconces frame him and his company in a warm glimmer that bounces between ornate mirrors. Models, influencers, and press mingle with an occasional sip of their cocktails. The only person not drinking is my friend, who motions for me between his entourage of ass-kissers.
