Nia, Jenna and I had been friends since we’d met at design school and we’d all been lucky enough to land jobs at MNY; the hottest new fashion house in New York City. We’d been there since September but it had quickly become clear to us that the job was hardly what we’d been dreaming of.
The three of us had been assigned to the office of Carly Sioux; the creative director of the company. All we’d done for three months was sit at reception, answering calls, escorting visitors to various departments and sorting mail. Carly was an Anna Wintour wannabe but with a Southern accent that often broke through when she got stressed.
We’d been planning the night of the party since the day Connor Dean had casually mentioned he needed one of us to transfer to his office since his assistant would be leaving in the New Year.
“I’m sure you can figure it out between yourselves,” he’d said.
We’d stared at each other, momentarily stunned. Working for Connor was everything we’d ever dreamed of. We’d openly fantasised about answering his calls while watching him walk in and out of the office. What more could a lowly receptionist want? Connor was late-night-fantasy attractive and he was always pleasant, even if it was in a mildly amused way.
Besides, we were bored out of our goddamn brains. We hadn’t spent time and money at the NYC School of Design to answer goddamn phone calls. Of course, working at MNY was only meant to be temporary. Work experience. Something to put on our CVs. A little fun along the way didn’t harm anyone, right? It didn’t take long for us to come up with a fair way to decide which of us would get to move to Connor’s office.
The annual Christmas party was to be a hotly anticipated masquerade and of course, we didn’t have invites. What we did have though, was our friend Courtney in the HR department who slipped us duplicate ID’s for some of the lower-key attendees on the guest list. Since it was a masquerade, we figured we wouldn’t face much scrutiny.
We were right. We slipped into the party in short dresses, high heels and silver masks, supressing conspiratorial giggles. The masquerade was being held in the large open-plan office on the top floor of the MNY building and it had been fittingly transformed.
Desks and chairs had disappeared and the lighting was dim and mysterious. Fairy lights and tinsel hung between the exposed beams overhead and the view out onto the city was breath-taking. Champagne poured freely. The long table against the wall was artfully arranged with delicate festive-themed canapés. A model of the MNY building had been built out of gingerbread, exuberantly decorated and stood in pride of place.
Nia elbowed me surreptitiously.
“Lois, I don’t even know what to say to these people.”
“Say what you want. Nobody’s gonna recognise us.”
It was true. A lot of the guests were from outside of the company; corporate donors, models, fashion photographers and well-placed journalists. Of course, most of the directors were there, as well as a handful of in-house designers and writers. We were the least qualified but who knew?
I adjusted my mask. My heart was beating a little faster than usual. I imagined another year of working for Carly; taking the blame for mistakes I’d had no part in, answering marketing calls, fetching goddamn coffee in the goddamn rain with no budget for a goddamn umbrella. I’d have done anything for a change, even if it meant still doing the same job only for a different person.
The game was simple. One point for first base. Two for second. Three for third. Four for fourth. It didn’t matter who we hooked up with, so long as it happened. The three of us were close enough to trust each other. All of us were single, free and wanted shot of Carly badly enough. Honestly, I quite liked my odds. Nia was confident and sassy, but around men she was almost painfully awkward. As for Jenna, her legs were pressed so tight together, she may as well have been a mermaid.
I sipped champagne and looked for a target. I decided on a journalist. Marc Collins was British and wrote for High magazine. Whilst answering calls at reception, I’d read every single one of his articles. Surely, that gave me enough ammunition to hold a conversation. I walked over, belatedly wondering whether he might be gay. It was too late. He’d already seen me approach, had already smiled, was looking me up and down and trying to recognise me. Game fucking on.
“Marc Collins? It’s such an honour to meet you!”
His smile became a little wary. Overkill. At MNY parties, people were pretentious and aloof. I’d just paid him a goddamn compliment. Fuck.
“And you are?”
I quoted the name of my fake ID.
“Jessica Lee.”
His eyebrow went up.
“Designer?”
“That’s right.”
He shook my hand.
“I didn’t recognise you with the mask.”
Thankfully, the real Jessica Lee wasn’t in attendance. She was a minimally talented designer who’d only hit the limelight by creating the most ridiculous outfits I’d ever had the misfortune of seeing. But in a world where art is so out of touch with real people, she was lauded as a visionary.
“I’m sure you’ve been asked a thousand times,” Marc was saying. “But what’s your inspiration?”
“People.”
He smiled. “Specifically?”
“I couldn’t tell you. It’s very personal.”
“Oh? Not even off the record?”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m extraordinarily secretive.”
Marc nodded, like I was challenging him. He was fairly attractive, with the James Bond tailored tuxedo thing going on. First base. Huh. I could go there. Second too, maybe.
“You know, I’ve always been very intrigued by your use of colour.
The three of us had been assigned to the office of Carly Sioux; the creative director of the company. All we’d done for three months was sit at reception, answering calls, escorting visitors to various departments and sorting mail. Carly was an Anna Wintour wannabe but with a Southern accent that often broke through when she got stressed.
We’d been planning the night of the party since the day Connor Dean had casually mentioned he needed one of us to transfer to his office since his assistant would be leaving in the New Year.
“I’m sure you can figure it out between yourselves,” he’d said.
We’d stared at each other, momentarily stunned. Working for Connor was everything we’d ever dreamed of. We’d openly fantasised about answering his calls while watching him walk in and out of the office. What more could a lowly receptionist want? Connor was late-night-fantasy attractive and he was always pleasant, even if it was in a mildly amused way.
Besides, we were bored out of our goddamn brains. We hadn’t spent time and money at the NYC School of Design to answer goddamn phone calls. Of course, working at MNY was only meant to be temporary. Work experience. Something to put on our CVs. A little fun along the way didn’t harm anyone, right? It didn’t take long for us to come up with a fair way to decide which of us would get to move to Connor’s office.
The annual Christmas party was to be a hotly anticipated masquerade and of course, we didn’t have invites. What we did have though, was our friend Courtney in the HR department who slipped us duplicate ID’s for some of the lower-key attendees on the guest list. Since it was a masquerade, we figured we wouldn’t face much scrutiny.
We were right. We slipped into the party in short dresses, high heels and silver masks, supressing conspiratorial giggles. The masquerade was being held in the large open-plan office on the top floor of the MNY building and it had been fittingly transformed.
Desks and chairs had disappeared and the lighting was dim and mysterious. Fairy lights and tinsel hung between the exposed beams overhead and the view out onto the city was breath-taking. Champagne poured freely. The long table against the wall was artfully arranged with delicate festive-themed canapés. A model of the MNY building had been built out of gingerbread, exuberantly decorated and stood in pride of place.
Nia elbowed me surreptitiously.
“Lois, I don’t even know what to say to these people.”
“Say what you want. Nobody’s gonna recognise us.”
It was true. A lot of the guests were from outside of the company; corporate donors, models, fashion photographers and well-placed journalists. Of course, most of the directors were there, as well as a handful of in-house designers and writers. We were the least qualified but who knew?
I adjusted my mask. My heart was beating a little faster than usual. I imagined another year of working for Carly; taking the blame for mistakes I’d had no part in, answering marketing calls, fetching goddamn coffee in the goddamn rain with no budget for a goddamn umbrella. I’d have done anything for a change, even if it meant still doing the same job only for a different person.
The game was simple. One point for first base. Two for second. Three for third. Four for fourth. It didn’t matter who we hooked up with, so long as it happened. The three of us were close enough to trust each other. All of us were single, free and wanted shot of Carly badly enough. Honestly, I quite liked my odds. Nia was confident and sassy, but around men she was almost painfully awkward. As for Jenna, her legs were pressed so tight together, she may as well have been a mermaid.
I sipped champagne and looked for a target. I decided on a journalist. Marc Collins was British and wrote for High magazine. Whilst answering calls at reception, I’d read every single one of his articles. Surely, that gave me enough ammunition to hold a conversation. I walked over, belatedly wondering whether he might be gay. It was too late. He’d already seen me approach, had already smiled, was looking me up and down and trying to recognise me. Game fucking on.
“Marc Collins? It’s such an honour to meet you!”
His smile became a little wary. Overkill. At MNY parties, people were pretentious and aloof. I’d just paid him a goddamn compliment. Fuck.
“And you are?”
I quoted the name of my fake ID.
“Jessica Lee.”
His eyebrow went up.
“Designer?”
“That’s right.”
He shook my hand.
“I didn’t recognise you with the mask.”
Thankfully, the real Jessica Lee wasn’t in attendance. She was a minimally talented designer who’d only hit the limelight by creating the most ridiculous outfits I’d ever had the misfortune of seeing. But in a world where art is so out of touch with real people, she was lauded as a visionary.
“I’m sure you’ve been asked a thousand times,” Marc was saying. “But what’s your inspiration?”
“People.”
He smiled. “Specifically?”
“I couldn’t tell you. It’s very personal.”
“Oh? Not even off the record?”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m extraordinarily secretive.”
Marc nodded, like I was challenging him. He was fairly attractive, with the James Bond tailored tuxedo thing going on. First base. Huh. I could go there. Second too, maybe.
“You know, I’ve always been very intrigued by your use of colour.
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Using prints as blocks? D’you think we could set up an interview to discuss it in more depth?”
My heart thumped in alarm.
“We’re discussing it now, aren’t we? My schedule’s a traffic jam, Marc.”
He smiled when I said his name. Taking my empty champagne glass from me, he replaced it with a fresh one. Our fingers touched.
“Five minutes?” he asked. “Is there a place we could talk? It’s really for my own curiosity. I’m fascinated by you.”
Was he flirting? I wondered if he really believed I was Jessica. We did both have dark hair. Besides, the top half of my face was covered and Jessica was a highly private person. She usually wore hats and glasses. He couldn’t know.
“Your dress is quite – ordinary for a designer of such flair,” he said, as we headed into one of the side offices.
“I know. But there’s a time and a place.”
I shut the office door, purposefully not switching the light on. I sat on the edge of the desk. Marc’s eyes went from my high heels up my long, slender legs to the hem of my dress. He swallowed.
“I wanted to know about your inspirations,” he said. His voice sounded deeper all of a sudden.
“I told you,” I said. “People.”
“What people?”
“Anyone. You. Celebrities. Doctors. Teachers. Carly.”
“Carly?” He laughed. “I don’t see anything there.”
“’Cause you don’t look hard enough,” His hand was resting on the desk and I covered it with my own. “Carly’s a walking contradiction. Desperate to have her name engraved somewhere. Well, anywhere except her Kentucky hometown.”
He leaned closer. “What else inspires you?”
I bit my lip.
“I don’t want to shock you, Marc.”
Again, his mouth curved when I said his name. So easy.
“Nothing shocks me,” he murmured. “I’ve been from Oxbridge to Hackney to Hollywood to Detroit.”
Our eyes met. Neither of us blinked.
“I’m inspired by sex,” I breathed. “Fucking. Bodies. Violence. Man and woman. Sweat. Losing control.”
He inhaled slowly.
“You’re inspired when you fuck?”
“Yes. Even thinking about it.”
“Are you thinking about it now?” he breathed.
I looked up at him. His mouth was inches from mine.
“I can’t think of anything else, Marc.”
He kissed me before I kissed him. His hand went into my hair and I had to catch hold of it to stop him moving my mask. I distracted him by opening my mouth against his and letting his tongue wrestle mine. He was an excellent kisser.
“You really are something,” he breathed.
His hand caught the hem of my dress, and delved under, stealing a path up my leg and over my hip. I felt it curve into my narrow waist and then he was gripping my breast. It came as such a surprise that I let out a little gasp. It only turned him on more. His tongue moved sweepingly and with a firm assurance. His hand moved down between my legs and pressed hard against my snatch. I bit his lip in shock but it didn’t deter him. His fingers moved searchingly, feeling my heat and massaging me expertly.
I caught his wrist, aware that things were moving far too fast.
“Marc -”
“D’you want me to stop?”
His mouth dragged down to my neck and I leaned my head back, basking in the feel of his rough, insistent kisses. I let go of his wrist and his strong fingers pushed inside my panties, stroking my wet snatch. Third base. I should stop, right?
I didn’t. I let him pull me up off the desk and bend me over it, heard the quick downward tug of his zipper. He pushed my dress up, tugged my panties aside and pushed inside me with one possessive thrust. I let out a long, aching gasp. He was hard and fit inside me perfectly.
“Violence?” he breathed. “Like this?”
He pulled almost all the way out and I gasped, terrified he’d detach but then he slammed back in with an animal ferocity. It felt incredible. I hadn’t been with anyone like him before and he used me urgently, taking what he needed from me, spurred on by my stifled moans.
“You’re – so – fucking – tight,” he growled.
I pushed back against him, clenching hard when he buried himself deep and soon enough, I was rewarded. He jarred inside me, fingers digging painfully into my hip and then he was coming, his harsh grunts drowning out my gasps. It was enough to tip me over the edge. I shuddered, eyes shut tight as it spilled over me in long ebbing waves.
We didn’t move for a couple of seconds. The sound of the party faded through the door, music, conversation, the clink of glasses and the tinkle of fake laughter.
I straightened up. Marc busily adjusted his clothing.
“Maybe we should… get together another time,” he said. “In a more – leisurely environment.”
I laughed.
“I’ve got all the inspiration I need.”
***
Needless to say, I ended up winning the game. Nia had made out with a photographer and gotten to second base while Jenna had kissed three different people. I happily packed up my desk and rode the elevator to Connor’s floor.
On my first day, I was sorting through mail when I came across a large white envelope, addressed to none other than Jessica Lee. The return address stated Marc Collins’ office at High magazine. I felt my stomach churn apprehensively.
I opened the envelope. Inside, was the latest glossy edition of the magazine. On the cover was a picture of Jessica. I blanched. It took me a few seconds to focus on the words.
Jessica Lee
On her inspirations, and Carly Sioux’s origins
by Marc Collins
A handwritten note was stuck on top.
Thanks for the ‘five minutes’. I left out the intimate details, but thought you should have the first copy. Call me. Marc.
I closed my eyes, fervently wishing that I was dreaming. I wasn’t. When I opened them again, Connor was strolling past. He winked at me. All of a sudden, he didn’t seem very attractive anymore.
My heart thumped in alarm.
“We’re discussing it now, aren’t we? My schedule’s a traffic jam, Marc.”
He smiled when I said his name. Taking my empty champagne glass from me, he replaced it with a fresh one. Our fingers touched.
“Five minutes?” he asked. “Is there a place we could talk? It’s really for my own curiosity. I’m fascinated by you.”
Was he flirting? I wondered if he really believed I was Jessica. We did both have dark hair. Besides, the top half of my face was covered and Jessica was a highly private person. She usually wore hats and glasses. He couldn’t know.
“Your dress is quite – ordinary for a designer of such flair,” he said, as we headed into one of the side offices.
“I know. But there’s a time and a place.”
I shut the office door, purposefully not switching the light on. I sat on the edge of the desk. Marc’s eyes went from my high heels up my long, slender legs to the hem of my dress. He swallowed.
“I wanted to know about your inspirations,” he said. His voice sounded deeper all of a sudden.
“I told you,” I said. “People.”
“What people?”
“Anyone. You. Celebrities. Doctors. Teachers. Carly.”
“Carly?” He laughed. “I don’t see anything there.”
“’Cause you don’t look hard enough,” His hand was resting on the desk and I covered it with my own. “Carly’s a walking contradiction. Desperate to have her name engraved somewhere. Well, anywhere except her Kentucky hometown.”
He leaned closer. “What else inspires you?”
I bit my lip.
“I don’t want to shock you, Marc.”
Again, his mouth curved when I said his name. So easy.
“Nothing shocks me,” he murmured. “I’ve been from Oxbridge to Hackney to Hollywood to Detroit.”
Our eyes met. Neither of us blinked.
“I’m inspired by sex,” I breathed. “Fucking. Bodies. Violence. Man and woman. Sweat. Losing control.”
He inhaled slowly.
“You’re inspired when you fuck?”
“Yes. Even thinking about it.”
“Are you thinking about it now?” he breathed.
I looked up at him. His mouth was inches from mine.
“I can’t think of anything else, Marc.”
He kissed me before I kissed him. His hand went into my hair and I had to catch hold of it to stop him moving my mask. I distracted him by opening my mouth against his and letting his tongue wrestle mine. He was an excellent kisser.
“You really are something,” he breathed.
His hand caught the hem of my dress, and delved under, stealing a path up my leg and over my hip. I felt it curve into my narrow waist and then he was gripping my breast. It came as such a surprise that I let out a little gasp. It only turned him on more. His tongue moved sweepingly and with a firm assurance. His hand moved down between my legs and pressed hard against my snatch. I bit his lip in shock but it didn’t deter him. His fingers moved searchingly, feeling my heat and massaging me expertly.
I caught his wrist, aware that things were moving far too fast.
“Marc -”
“D’you want me to stop?”
His mouth dragged down to my neck and I leaned my head back, basking in the feel of his rough, insistent kisses. I let go of his wrist and his strong fingers pushed inside my panties, stroking my wet snatch. Third base. I should stop, right?
I didn’t. I let him pull me up off the desk and bend me over it, heard the quick downward tug of his zipper. He pushed my dress up, tugged my panties aside and pushed inside me with one possessive thrust. I let out a long, aching gasp. He was hard and fit inside me perfectly.
“Violence?” he breathed. “Like this?”
He pulled almost all the way out and I gasped, terrified he’d detach but then he slammed back in with an animal ferocity. It felt incredible. I hadn’t been with anyone like him before and he used me urgently, taking what he needed from me, spurred on by my stifled moans.
“You’re – so – fucking – tight,” he growled.
I pushed back against him, clenching hard when he buried himself deep and soon enough, I was rewarded. He jarred inside me, fingers digging painfully into my hip and then he was coming, his harsh grunts drowning out my gasps. It was enough to tip me over the edge. I shuddered, eyes shut tight as it spilled over me in long ebbing waves.
We didn’t move for a couple of seconds. The sound of the party faded through the door, music, conversation, the clink of glasses and the tinkle of fake laughter.
I straightened up. Marc busily adjusted his clothing.
“Maybe we should… get together another time,” he said. “In a more – leisurely environment.”
I laughed.
“I’ve got all the inspiration I need.”
***
Needless to say, I ended up winning the game. Nia had made out with a photographer and gotten to second base while Jenna had kissed three different people. I happily packed up my desk and rode the elevator to Connor’s floor.
On my first day, I was sorting through mail when I came across a large white envelope, addressed to none other than Jessica Lee. The return address stated Marc Collins’ office at High magazine. I felt my stomach churn apprehensively.
I opened the envelope. Inside, was the latest glossy edition of the magazine. On the cover was a picture of Jessica. I blanched. It took me a few seconds to focus on the words.
Jessica Lee
On her inspirations, and Carly Sioux’s origins
by Marc Collins
A handwritten note was stuck on top.
Thanks for the ‘five minutes’. I left out the intimate details, but thought you should have the first copy. Call me. Marc.
I closed my eyes, fervently wishing that I was dreaming. I wasn’t. When I opened them again, Connor was strolling past. He winked at me. All of a sudden, he didn’t seem very attractive anymore.
