Survival of the Fiercest Read Free Page B

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.”