Survival of the Fiercest (3 page)

“You’ve got great style, dolly. It’s hip, and it’s New York. But you’re in California; you
have
to look like a slut.”

She’s insane. “I have to wear that tangerine dress. It’s the only one I have with me.” And just then I think to call Randy, my style editor who works out of Los Angeles. As a stylist to some of Hollywood’s elite, he can get me some pretty hot dresses. Maybe I can also get him to do stills and video of the club.

“No. No, that dress is for a wedding. When is the last time you got laid?” Tina’s voice slices through my thoughts.

“I get laid,” I snap.

“By who, that Puerto Rican guy from the Bronx you were trashing at Christmas?”

“Pete. Yeah.”

“I thought you broke up?”

“We sorta still see each other.” I cringe at how stupid I sound.

“Sorta?” I hear a huge sigh. “We’ll talk later about how you need to start focusing on your love life,” she says offhand. “Listen to me. Please go buy something fabulous.”

“Yes, Mom.”

“And wear your hair down,” she says.

“No, it’s going up. It gets too hot and frizzy at clubs.”

“Ya think I don’t know frizz? I’m Jewish. My niece has a head of hair like steel wool. Once a week she’s at the Dominican salon getting a wash and set. It’s a line of black girls, and her.”

I laugh some more, then swipe the pencil and pad from the bed. “That’s a good post. Jewish girls’ hair care.”

“Focus, Lex. Buy a dress and work it tonight. I gotta go. Good luck.” Tina hangs up.

A thirty-seven-year-old slut, I think as I pull out my orange dress. Cute, hip, maybe not as sexy as I thought? Sexy in my twenties is not the same sexy in my thirties—cough—almost forties. Sexy to me is a healthy, fresh, feminine look. Boring…that sounds bo-ring.
When did I lose the sexy?

My ex-husband was a black conservative hedge fund manager from the South who was born in a suit and liked me in one as well. He bought me J.Crew outfits for Christmas and had frowned when I wore the blazers with a pair of skinny jeans or the skirts with a slouchy top. He was almost embarrassed when I wore a red, sleeveless Diane von Fürstenberg dress to a dinner party at his boss’s house. My hourglass figure was poppin’, but he wasn’t comfortable with the attention I got. At first I thought his jealousy was cute, but after a long, angry car ride home—and similar fights throughout our relationship—I realized it wasn’t cute, it was controlling. After three years together, I filed for divorce.

Then there is Pete, who loves my curves but gets embarrassed when I wear something too flashy or expensive.

It’s like I can’t find someone who is proud of my assets, all my assets.

I make my way to the mirror again and hold up my dress, but my reflection looks…tired. I snatch my phone from the bed and call Randy. Tonight I’m bringing sexy back.

* * * *

Hours later I am showered and on my laptop reading the dossier Tina sent. Tonight I’ll be interviewing Evan Cain, former corporate lawyer now entrepreneur. Mr. Cain is thirty-four years old, born in San Francisco, a major contributor to several children’s charities…blah blah blah. USC undergrad and Berkeley law school pepper his profile. There is a black-and-white head shot that must have come from his last firm. A very clean-cut man with dark, slashing brows and a tight grin is looking back at me. He’s cute in a nerdy, preppy sort of way. Not quite a chick magnet. He probably built the nightclub to get girls.

I have no doubt I can get Mr. Cain to give me some information on his bestie, Jared Waters. I’m conducting a web search when a barrage of successive knocks rattles my hotel room door.

There is only one person this obnoxious.

Steadying the towel on my head, I quickly shove my feet into the new black open-toe lace-patterned booties I bought during lunch.
Hipster my ass
. Spreading my legs wide, I bunch my white robe around my thighs, whip open the door, and channel my best Marilyn Monroe.

“Do you think these shoes make me look…slutty?” I ask in a high, breathy whisper.

Tall, dark, and skinny, Randy gasps and clutches at his V-neck tee. He has a huge garment bag flung over one lanky arm. “Are those what I think they are?”

“If you are thinking expensive, then yes.” Shifting onto one foot, I flash the bloodred sole of the other.

“You do look slutty, but it works!”

“It was an impulse buy—a painkiller for a shitty morning. I don’t even know what I’d wear them with,” I say.

“Um, everything.” Randy nods, following me inside. “You need to wear these every day.”

With a dramatic turn, I sashay on my booties to the bed, stretch out on my stomach, and bend my knees to swing my heels in the air like a pinup girl. “I am going to wear them every day. You know why?”

“Whyyy?” Randy’s Southern drawl comes out as he hefts the bag over the desk chair.

“I met the board of Viper Media today, and I’d rather die than hand Fierce over to them.” I give Randy the short version of the meeting. “If I don’t pull this off, I may have no choice but to become a hooker.”

Randy sucks his teeth and shakes his head. “We’re all going to be out on our asses, and you’re buying shoes?”

“I needed something to cheer me up, and Tina hates my orange dress.” I hold it up.

“So do I,” Randy murmurs under his breath. “But have no fear,” he says, pulling out a slew of glittering, colorful dresses from the garment bag. As if handling glass, he carefully drapes them on the bed and unrolls a small cloth full of accessories, all ending with a sweep of his arms and a jazz turn. “Randy…is here.”

For four years, Randy has shaped our Fierce style section into a digital mini
Vogue
. I’m pretty sure I can find him another style editor job if it comes to that, but I need to make sure it doesn’t come to that.

Randy pulls one more dress from his bag of tricks. Before I can see it, he turns his back to me and lets out a whoop, holding one hand up to praise the Lord. I suck in a breath when he whips around, holding a black fitted dress draped across his body. The pale gold front panel is covered in a sable-colored lace pattern that teases the neckline, which is cut straight across to accent bare shoulders and collarbone.

“This is it,” Randy says in an intense whisper. “This…is…the one.”

Wide-eyed, I sit very still, as if any sudden movements would scare away the dress. “Is that…?”

Randy nods, looking like a live mannequin.

“That must be two thousand dollars.”

Three thousand
, Randy mouths.

I look warily at the dress with its body-hugging fit that stops just above the knee. “I don’t know… It looks small.”

“It’s an eight,” says Randy

“I’m a ten,” I say.

Randy narrows his eyes. “You are an eight; you just think you are a ten. Your skinny jeans are loose!”

I ignore Randy and slide my gaze from orange faithful to the designer one in his hand.

In a flash, Randy snatches the orange dress with his free hand and holds it behind his back while shielding himself with the fitted one. “I don’t care which dress you choose, but big orange is
not
going out tonight,” he says.

“Gimme that. I am your boss!”

He cocks his hip and bats his eyelashes at me in answer.

I grab the black-and-gold dress from Randy and charge into the bathroom.

“You better leave in that tag!” I hear him shout.

Chapter Four

It’s almost midnight when our town car pulls up to the curb into what can only be described as pure chaos. A mob scene is gathered in front of a massive two-story warehouse with rows of tinted windows. Ribbons of multicolored light that spell MUSE scale the gray concrete walls.

Amid honking and flashing headlights, Randy and I jump out of the car and are suddenly immersed in the sea of people gathered to watch who is appearing on the red carpet.

“There is supposed to be a VIP entrance,” I shout.

Standing on the tiptoes of his velvet loafers, Randy pops his head up over the crowd and begins scanning right and left. He can sniff out VIP like a dog sniffs out kibble.

“Hold on to me!” Randy shouts. I reach under his pinstripe vest, grab the waistband of his sable slim jeans, and we start moving through the crowd. The velvet rope of the entrance is manned by five large bouncers in designer suits. I wave over six-foot-five inches and 250 pounds of dark-skinned muscle, who steps up with a clipboard in his hand. Randy’s shoulders go back, and his chest pops out.

“How you doing, beautiful?” the bouncer says in a deep, smooth voice. Randy swoons, and I give the bouncer my business card. After a quick check on the list, he unclips the rope and motions for us to follow him. I catch him eyeing my booties, now accented by my red lacquered toes. I smile, hoping my red lipstick is still perfect. I feel like a million bucks…or three thousand bucks.

We follow him down a dark hallway, through a velvet drape, and into a romantically lit carpeted lounge area. The full-force hip-hop beats fill my chest. I can’t remember the last time I was at a club. Plush furniture is arranged in front of a stone wall that holds a crackling gas fireplace, and a small private bar sits in the corner, manned by a beautiful Asian bartender.

The bouncer takes us up a few steps to the main floor, where gloss-black walls are covered with neon tags and graffiti art. A purple mist hovers over the dance floor, making the crowd look like they are dancing on a cloud. Randy and I slide into a semiprivate booth by the bar.

“So who is here tonight?” I ask the bouncer. He names a string of professional athletes, actors, and musicians. Hmmmm… Jared Waters wasn’t mentioned. “Any reality TV stars? Or porn stars?” The bouncer’s eyes widen. I shrug. “My readers like porn.”

“A few of the Kardashians are runnin’ around here somewhere,” he says with a grimace. “And Josie Pink is in the upstairs VIP lounge.”

Bingo. “Where is Mr. Cain’s office? I am supposed to interview him there in about an hour.”

“Upstairs, through the VIP lounge,” he says, pointing to the stairs across the dance floor and then to a skybox with opaque windows just above the dance floor. With a nod, he leaves.

Models and actors are milling through the crowd with posses in tow. Several professional athletes part the crowd like gods looking for their thrones. Randy and I look at each other, pull out our notepads, and sail through the crowd.

I approach the downstairs lounge area with the fireplaces and
OMG!
Angela Gasher, a 1970s blaxploitation film actress, is standing in a small clique of three, looking gorgeous. Recently, she not only got a twenty-million-dollar divorce settlement from her ex, the premier of the Cayman Islands, but she is getting her own reality show.

I don’t usually get starstruck, but she is a legend of fierceness. I head straight for her, and, after a swift introduction, I ask her what brings her out tonight.

“Just a little celebration,” she says, raising her champagne glass. “To whatever the future will hold.”

“I hear that future is a reality show. Can you give me a hint of what we are going to see?”

“Drama, girl. Drama, drama, and more drama.”

“Will that drama include your recent divorce?”

She pins me with an intense stare. “Count on it. When it airs, that man won’t know what hit him!” Her entourage laughs and clinks glasses with one another.

“Well, I hope you have fun tonight. What do you think of this club, by the way?”

“Oh, I’m having a lovely time. Evan has been such a dear.” Angela waves a bejeweled hand. “I love the concept—’the street.’” Angela holds up her hands and mimics a banner in the air. “You may not be from it, but at some point you’ll find your ass out on it.” Angela and her crew erupt into hysterics.

After getting more quotes from a fire-eating trapeze star, a former boy-band member, and a runner-up from a previous season of
Top Chef
, I head upstairs to find Josie Pink. I survey the dark, crowded hallways that seem to veer off in several directions and walk toward the skybox.

My feet are barking in my new heels, and I tug at the strapless top of my dress, feeling exposed every time I take a step. A young blonde walks by in a skirt that stops just at her ass cheeks. Tina told me to slut it up. Now I see why. Ahead of me, an appreciative glance from a guy on his cell phone tells me that I’m doing something right.

His gaze travels up my legs before quickly flicking back to my face.
Whoa!
White guys don’t usually flirt so boldly. Not with me. My hair is too wild, my hips too curvaceous, and my mixed nationality too intimidating.
Should I look up and flirt?
I think of a slide show I ran on Fierce.
Three Steps to Hook a Man. One: Eye Contact. Two: Show Interest. Three: Open Body Language.

Taking a deep breath and affecting my most coquettish look, I glance at him, but he is furiously texting. Ugh, flirting sucks! I reprimand myself for getting sidetracked. I don’t need a man right now; I need to focus on Fierce.

After turning a corner, I’m suddenly standing in a Moroccan-inspired room bathed in red lighting, where a half-nude dancer executes a sensual routine on several stripper poles. She is surrounded by a crowd lounging on giant pillows.

Wrong way.

I turn back and am swallowed by a group of loud, giggling girls who are marching down the hall in their heels like Clydesdales. They seem to know where they are going. Attaching myself to the group, I follow them around another corner, and we come up to a bouncer who immediately waves us by. Breaking away from the girl pack, I stop and get my bearings. It’s a large speakeasy-style room with a full bar, floor-to-ceiling windows facing the crowd below, and black leather booths filled with laughing and drinking patrons. I recognize an actor and a few athletes. Must be the VIP room, but Josie Pink is nowhere in sight.

A beautiful dark-haired girl emerges from an almost invisible door across the room and stomps past me. That has to be Mr. Cain’s office. Checking the time, I decide that I’ll introduce myself and see if he can start a little early. I knock. No answer. With a soft push, I slip through the door. “Mr. Cain?”