July (Calendar Girl #7) By Audrey Carlan
Chapter 1
Blonde. Blue-eyed. Tall. Goddess. Jesus H. Christ. The universe is laughing at me as I stand stock-still and look the modelesque woman up and down. She looked like she could be Rachel’s ungodly perfect sister, and I thought Rachel was stunning. Nope. Totally wrong.
The woman stood next to a shiny, black Porsche Boxster jittering around as if incredibly anxious. Her fingers tapped a solid beat against the sign she held up with my name on it. A not-so-subtle shift from one sky-high stiletto to the other only added to the fierceness rolling off her in waves. Then again, that could’ve been the Miami heat. Good Lord, it was sweltering, yet this woman was perfectly put together, as if she’d walked right out of a rock video. Skinny jeans so tight I could see the nice curve of her booty. Her tank top had me drooling, complete with a monogram across a set of well-endowed tits that said Hug Me and Die. There were at least ten necklaces of varying beads, lengths, and sizes wrapped around the smooth column of her neck. She had kick-ass, rock-star hair, pulled back into a complex system of twists and loose pieces that looked rocker-chic.
After what felt like minutes of my inspection, she fixed her steel-blue gaze on me. A puff of air left her lungs as she tossed the cardboard in the car window and sauntered over. She scanned me from my flowing black locks, over my sundress and to the simple flats I wore on two big feet. “This will never do.” She shook her head with exasperation. “Come on, time is money,” came the flippant retort over her shoulder. The trunk popped open, and I tossed my suitcase in.
“I’m Mia by the way,” I held out my hand as she slid on a pair of ultra-cool aviators, turned her head and looked at me over the top of them.
“I know who you are. I’m the one that chose you.” Her tone held a twinge of distaste as she started the car and hit the gas, not even waiting for me to get the seatbelt fastened. My body jolted forward, and I braced on the smooth leather dash.
“Did I do something to piss you off?” I readjusted the belt and watched her profile.
Her breath came out in a long, slow exhale before she shook her head. “No,” she groaned. “I’m sorry. Anton pissed me off. I was in the middle of something big when he told me to come get you because he needed our driver so he could f*ck a couple groupies in the back of the Escalade.”
I cringed. Great, sounds like my new boss for the month was a slimy douche. Not another one. “That sucks.”
She took a quick right turn onto the freeway. “Can we start over?” Her voice now held sincerity and apology. “I’m Heather Renée, by the way, personal assistant to Anton Santiago. Hottest hip-hop artist in the nation.”
“Is that right?” Wow. I hadn’t realized he was that big-time. I don’t usually listen to much hip-hop. More of an alternative and rock chick.
Heather nodded. “Yep, every album he’s done has gone platinum. He’s the “It” boy in Hip Hop and good grief does he know it.” She grinned. “Anton wants to meet you right away, but you can’t wear that.” Her gaze moved down to the plain green sundress I’d worn. It highlighted my eyes and made my hair look phenomenal. Plus, it was comfortable to travel in.
“Why not?” I tugged at the hem of the dress suddenly feeling self-conscious.
“Anton is expecting a bombshell model with curves that don’t quit.” Once more her eyes ran over my outfit. “You’ve got the curves going for you, but that dress is too Sandra Bullock girl next door. You’ll need to wear one of the outfits I bought for you. At the house, you’ve got a closet full of clothes waiting. Wear them. He’ll expect you to look like eye candy at all times.”
Scowling, I focused my attention outside as the Porsche cruised Ocean Drive. The art deco buildings overlooking the Atlantic slid by over an enormous stretch of land.
“So, there’s water on both sides?” I noticed when we had passed over one of the main bridges.
Heather made a hand gesture. “Biscayne Bay Lagoon, and the Atlantic sit on both sides of the strip. As you can see,”—she pointed up and over to sets of tall buildings—“most of these are hotels, like the Colony Hotel and other iconic landmarks. Then you have the folks”—her eyebrows waggled—“that can afford to live here, like Anton.”
Scanning each building as the Porsche jetted down the road, the wind blowing through the windows ruffling my hair, I noted the myriad of rich colors in palettes I didn’t often see. In Vegas, everything seems brown or terracotta-colored. In LA, you’ve got everything from brilliant white to a variety of muted tones that fit with the California vibe. Here though, colors seemed to burst out in pale sunny oranges, blues, and pinks mixed with white.
“See all these places...” She pointed out the businesses such as the Colony Hotel and Boulevard Hotel with a whisk of her hand into the flowing wind. I nodded and stretched over her form to see better. “...they all light up in neon colors at night. Kind of like in Vegas.”
Vegas. I’m sure my eyes widened as a steady thud picked up in my chest. A pang of need suddenly coiled around my heart. I needed to call Maddy and Ginelle. Man, Gin would be so pissed when I tell her what happened in Washington, DC. Maybe I could get away with never bringing it up? That idea certainly had some serious merit. “That’s so cool. I’m originally from Vegas so it will be nice to see the buildings lit up.” I sat back in my seat and enjoyed the breeze, allowing the tension I’d picked up from DC and Boston when I had to leave Rachel and Mason behind, to dissipate.