Chapter Forty

I feel a strange sense of loss when Braden and I leave New York. We leave behind the lifestyle he introduced me to, though I’m not ready to.

I want more of the bondage. I feel whole when I’m tied up, though that makes no sense at all, given what I know about myself.

“You don’t seem like yourself,” Tessa says to me at lunch later in the week.

I can’t fault her observation. “I’m okay.”

“You should be freaking ecstatic. This new contract is amazeballs.”

Again, I can’t fault her observation.

“I’m grateful,” I say.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Skye, but you seem about as grateful as a pig going to slaughter.”

I smile. Sort of. Tessa always has a way of putting things into perspective.

“Come on,” she says. “Dish. What else went on in New York?”

If only I could tell her! That damned NDA I signed is eating at me. I understand. I truly do. Braden isn’t the only high-profile person at the club. The clientele need to be assured their confidentiality will be respected.

But I tell Tessa everything.

And I can’t tell her this.

I can’t tell her that I, Skye Manning, Kansas farm girl, went to a leather club in Manhattan.

I’d never tell her what Braden and I did there, but how I wish I could describe the ambiance to her.

“Hello?” she says.

I swallow my bite of sandwich. “Yeah?”

“You going to answer my question?”

What was her question again? “Not much else went on. Braden was in meetings most of the time, though we did have some amazing meals.”

She nods. “I’m not buying.”

“You’re not buying what?”

“You’re keeping something from me.”

I stiffen.

“Either that,” she continues, “or something else is bothering you.”

Something is, but I can’t talk about it to her or anyone. It’s so innately personal.

How do you tell your best friend of the last six years that you’re losing something you can’t even put into words?

I’m supposed to sell a new cosmetics line.

Me.

Skye Manning.

Except I’m no longer Skye Manning.

I’m Braden Black’s arm candy.

“Skye…” Tessa urges.

“I’m fine,” I say, a little more harshly than I mean to. “Can you come to my place? I’m expecting a package from Eugenie. Samples of the cosmetics. They launch next week, and I start my posts tomorrow.”

“Uh…no, I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Skye…I’m on my lunch hour. Work. Remember?”

Shit. I feel like a bitch. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. Tomorrow, then? It’s Saturday.”

“Sure. After yoga. You still do yoga, don’t you?”

Indeed, I’ve been picking up extra classes without Tessa since I no longer have a day job, but I missed the last Saturday with her.

“Of course. I’ll see you there. Tomorrow morning.”

Tessa excuses herself a few minutes later. “I’m meeting Betsy for drinks tonight. Want to come along?”

As much as I love them both, I’m not in the mood for hearing all about their antics with Garrett and Peter when I can’t tell them anything about mine. “No, thanks,” I say. “Maybe next time.”

“Sure. Next time.” Tessa leaves without meeting my gaze.

And I have a really bad feeling.

…

Lip gloss. Blush. Foundation. Eye shadow. Mascara. Nail polish. Daily moisturizer. Tinted moisturizer. Night cream. Toner. Finishing spritz with SPF fifteen.

These and myriad other Susie Girl products lie on my floor after I opened the package from Eugenie.

Tomorrow, I post for the first time under my new contract…and I don’t have a clue what I’m doing.

I have a lot of leeway. I post what I want, as long as I mention a product. I can be out and about—doing yoga, having coffee, eating brunch, taking a walk…whatever. I have a few guidelines, but for the most part, I’m on my own.

They’re putting a lot of stock in me.

Rather, they’re putting a lot of stock in Braden’s arm candy.

I sigh. Time to get hold of myself. Whether they want me or someone else, I’ve got the contract. I signed on the dotted line.

I must do the work.

I decide to begin with the cosmetics line. I want to use the skin-care line for a week or so before I post about it.

I find a good spot in my apartment, adjust the lighting, and take a selfie. This is my “before” shot. After I’ve used the skin care for a week, I’ll take another selfie, and I hope I see a huge difference.

My skin has never been a big problem. I had a few bouts of adolescent acne, but in the last five years, my complexion has been clear as a bell. My skin does tend to be a little dry, though, so maybe I’ll see a difference. Even if I don’t, I must post about the products. I’m under contract.

I check out the colors Eugenie sent me. I have to hand it to her. She’s good. Each color she chose will work for me.

Those first three posts, though… How am I going to top them? Especially the last one, where I stood in front of Braden’s window wearing a sheet, a black mask, and Cherry Russet lip stain?

I have to top them. I have no choice.

I’m an artist. A photographer. This is what I do.

So why do I feel so inadequate?

Easy.

I know the answer, and I don’t feel like dwelling on it.

Braden and I didn’t make plans for dinner this evening. Maybe I should have accepted Tessa’s invitation to have drinks with her and Betsy. I could use some time with friends—with people who know me and accept me for being simply Skye. So what if I can’t dish about my boyfriend?

Too late now.

I jerk when my phone buzzes. Hmm. Not a number I recognize, but I don’t hesitate to answer. It might be opportunity knocking.

“Hello.”

“Hi, is this Skye?”

“It is.”

“Great. This is Kathy Harmon. We met at Bobby Black’s. Remember?”

“Oh, sure. How are you, Kathy?” And why are you calling me?

“I’m fine, thank you. This may sound a little out of the blue, but I was wondering if you were free for dinner tonight. My treat.”

If only Braden and I had made plans…

Now what?

“Sure. What did you have in mind?”

“I just want to bend your ear a little. About influencing.”

“I’m pretty new at it,” I say.

“Oh, I know, but you certainly know more about it than I do. How about Ma Maison at seven? I’m in the mood for some escargots.”

“Sure. Sounds good. I’ll see you there.”

“Looking forward to it. Ta!”

I text Braden quickly.

Your father’s girlfriend, Kathy, invited me to dinner tonight at seven. Will I see you later?

The three dots move.

Be at my place by ten. Don’t be late.

Okay, I text back.

Three hours for dinner with Kathy will be more than enough. Especially once she finds out I don’t know shit about influencing.