Page 49 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
“The wine, then. You’re having wine for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, right? They push it on you over there like it’s Vitamin Water.”
“I’m completely sober.”
“Wonderful,” he says drily. “That means you’re serious, which means you’re seriously deluded.”
“I’m not deluded!”
Ignoring me, he sighs. “You’re really starting to worry me, darling. First it was moving to Florence, now it’s crashing an exclusive invite-only event that will be crawling with security. The next thing I know you’ll be telling me you want me to model one of your dresses on the catwalk or some such nonsense.”
When I remain silent, Jenner says, “Oh no. No, no, no.”
“If you love me, you’ll do this for me.”
“That’s emotional blackmail!”
“I need you, Jenner. Not only are you a professional model—an amazing model—you’re the prettiest person I know. No one has cheekbones or a pout like you.”
He grumbles something, but I know I’ve got his attention. Flattery works on him every time.
“I know how you love making a spectacular entrance, and what I’ve got planned will be super spectacular.” I don’t have anything planned yet, but I’m appealing to his sense of drama and love of the limelight. I’ll work out the particulars later. “And you’ll already be in Milan next month for the shows, so it’s perfect.”
He laughs. “Oh, Poppins. You’re delightfully bonkers.”
“So you’ll do it?”
“Prance around in one of your daintily exquisite, frothy creations and make an utter fool of myself while simultaneously jeopardizing my career by being involved in an ill-conceived and quite possibly illegal harebrained scheme to disrupt one of the most prestigious fashion shows on the planet? Of course not. One of us still has his sanity.”
I grouse, “Danielle would do it for me.”
“Please. No one would let that woman near a catwalk with those enormous boobs of hers. I’m not even sure they’d let her in the front door—they’d turn her around and shuttle her off to the nearest Hooters! Honestly, how you people can walk around with those things, I’ll never know.”
“I’ll have you know my boobs are my favorite part of my body.”
“That’s because you have lovely little B-cups, darling. They’ll still be perky when you’re in the old folks’ home. I can just see you now, shakin’ your moneymakers for all the drooling old gents in their wheelchairs! Oh, I can hardly wait. We should pick out your stripper name now so we’ll be ready. How does it go, the name of your first pet and the street you lived on growing up? Yes, that’s it.” He laughs, delighted. “My stripper name is Frisky Broadmoor!”
This always happens in a conversation with him. We’ll be discussing politics or current events and wind up on boobs or blow jobs. It’s like his superpower.
“Getting back to the matter at hand . . . I also need a few of your model friends.”
Silence.
“Befor
e you say no, you should know that the pay will be great.”
More silence, except for in the background, where Jenner’s friend is giggling. I hear rustling noises and try not to imagine what might be going on under the sheets.
“Okay, not great great, but . . . um . . . actually, how much does a model make per hour?”
“You can’t afford me,” he says flatly, then says to his friend, “Stop batting at it, love, it isn’t a cat toy. Here. Like this.” He comes back on the line sounding practical. “Listen to me now. I know this is a terrible time for you. A terrible, trying time. It’s normal that you’re a little off-kilter.”
Crushed, I close my eyes. Of all the people in the world, you’re the last one I thought would ever patronize me.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he says when I’m quiet too long.
“No you don’t.”
“You’re thinking I’m being patronizing.”
