I lugged them into my apartment one by one and left them stacked in my living room. Then, I crashed into bed and just slept. It had been an exhausting day and I just couldn't face them.
The next morning, I awoke feeling refreshed, and after a hearty cup of coffee, I was ready to take them on. Going through the boxes one by one was strangely therapeutic. Dressed in jean shorts and a turquoise blue tank top, with my hair piled high on my head in a sloppy bun, I dug into the boxes like an archeologist on a site, exploring objects I hadn't seen in weeks, sometimes months, some of them even years.
There was the lease from our first apartment together when we had just moved to L.A. I was a kid of eighteen back then and believed every wild tale he told me about how easy it would be to make all our dreams come true in the City of Angels. There was the dress I wore to my first modeling job. Too bad the bums didn't take it; talk about ugly! I had learned to dress much better since those days and could actually afford to buy decent brands now that Mick wasn't draining all my savings.
Here was the cheap ring he had given me after our first big fight. I had thought it was beautiful and had forgiven him instantly, then a week later it turned my finger green and I had to take it off. I was too sentimental about the gift, though, and refused to throw it away. Instead, I kept it in this jewelry box. I was over such delusions of love now and had no trouble throwing the cheap trinket straight into the garbage can, along with all the other crap that reminded me of him.
Very few of the memories from my years with Mick were good, but many of them were bad. I was surprised to see just how much of a struggle life with him had been. It was easy to be blind to the misery when I was stuck living in it every day, but with a little time and distance, I had finally gained some perspective and I could truthfully say I was glad to be done with him.
A huge sigh of relief escaped my lungs as I threw the last of the boxes and unwanted objects into the dumpster behind my new apartment. I felt several inches taller from being rid of the burden of my past and moved with a lighter step. As I walked back into my apartment, I heard my cell phone ringing on my table and picked it up.
It was a message from Ethan, and my heart instantly stuck in my throat. I had secretly been hoping that he'd call me one day, even though I was the one who had slipped out on him while he was sleeping. I claimed that I didn't want him to, that there was no hope of a relationship between us, and that it was best to leave things as a one-night-stand; but it was all a lie. Inside my innermost heart, I had been hoping that he would miss me as much as I missed him and call me, begging me to be his girlfriend.
I held my breath as I pressed one on my cell phone to listen to my voicemail messages. Instantly, my hope deflated into disappointment. He sounded so businesslike and official. It was almost as if he were being forced to make the call by some P.R. agent, or possibly even Keith Wilkes, who had been very nice to me.
He had probably bragged to them about having slept with yet another model, and they told him they wanted me at the launch party since I was cover girl for their magazine that month. They must have told him they thought it would be best if he made the call, and from the sound of his voice, it was obvious he hadn't wanted to.
My eyes were stinging, and I was forced to angrily blink back my tears. It was funny, I had been dry-eyed the entire time I was throwing out five years of memories with Mick, and the moment I got a call from the man I only spent one
night with, I was falling to pieces.
The realization made me angry. I'd just gotten my independence, and here I was handing over my heart to another callous asshole and letting him determine my happiness. No more. I'd been in a relationship since I was sixteen and let a man tell me what to do, where to go, and how to live my life.
Now that I was finally free of that, there was no way I was going to let Ethan Colson think that he could just snap his fingers and I would come running to any company function that he wanted just so he could show me off when it suited him, and he could toss me aside like a wet rag when it didn't.
I dialed the number for his private cell, but instantly turned it off before it started to ring. I didn't just want to tell him off privately so he could put any spin on it that he wanted to. I wanted to march into his office and make it clear to everyone at Speed Motorcycles that this was one model who wasn't going to be taken advantage of. If he wanted me to show up at another press event like this launch party, I was willing to talk business, but if he thought he could just use and abuse me, he was in for a nasty surprise. Just the kind that Mick got this morning when I kicked him in the balls.
Fired up and ready to go, I grabbed my purse and my keys and headed for the door. Only my reflection in the mirror on the living room wall made me pause. Covered in dust and sweat, with my bun half-undone and pit stains on my tank top, this was not the scene I wanted to make. A look at my watch told me I had time for a shower and change of clothes. Glancing at my closet, I knew just what I'd wear. This was going to be a meeting to remember.
Chapter Fourteen: Ethan
I checked my cell phone and set it back down on the conference room table. Still no call back from Kayla. It had been hours since I left that message on her cell about the launch party. Why hadn't she returned my call?
"I see you've got important business to get back to. Just a few more questions, please," the reporter said, mistaking my actions to mean I wanted to get out of the interview and back to work.
He was only half right. I did want to stop answering his lame questions, but Chet Charleston hosted one of the top-rated shows on television and this would make great free advertising for the new bike.
He had come to my executive headquarters and we were filming in my brightest conference room with the All-American propped on a kick-stand in the corner. Chet decided to seat me by the window where it was sunniest, insisting that it made me look friendlier and less intimidating. He looked like a clown with his blond hair dyed nearly white and his skin tanned to an unnatural shade of orange. His bright blue suit was hard to look at, but easier on the eyes than his red, striped tie. I was glad I'd settled for a simple, gray Giorgio Armani with a black tie. The colors were dark, but so was my mood, so I thought it was fitting.
"Sorry," I said. "I'm just expecting an important call and I don't want to miss it. Please go on."
I tried to smooth the tension between us over with a grin. I didn't have Keith's natural charisma with the press, but it seemed to do the trick.
Chet returned to his list of pre-written questions provided by the head-writer for his show. He leaned right into the camera that was positioned behind my left shoulder and said, "The first bike you created, The Rebel, became an overnight success. Why did you call it that?"
"Well, I was a young man then. Fresh out of college and working my first real job for a huge corporation. Although I was stuck in a boring, bean-counter job keeping track of warehouses, I had a lot of creative vision inside me. I had always loved to ride, and I invented a motorcycle bikers would love. I just hadn't realized all the red-tape and corporate politics I would have to wade through to get it made and out in stores where customers could buy it.
“So, I quit that corporation and built it on my own. I felt like I was rebelling against the establishment when I did it and providing a means of freedom for others like me who loved to ride, but couldn't find the bike that fit their needs. The Rebel was popular because it was that bike."
"That's a great story, but there's a dark side to it, too. The hearings were closed on the lawsuit waged against you by a corporate owner claiming you invented The Rebel while under his employ, making it his intellectual property. He claimed the bike was never yours to sell and that all the profits you made from it belong to him."
"I've heard all the rumors floating around on the subject and none of them are true. I have all the company memos documenting that rejection of The Rebel's design as a viable motorcycle up for production and sale by the owner of that company. The judge agreed that he had legally given up his right to claim my design as his property with that memo and I was free to take the bike with me to develop, produce, and sell it as my own after that—which was what I did. If anybody doesn’t like it, they can see me personally and I'll be happy to explain it again."
My eyes burned like coal as I glared angrily into the camera behind Chet, making the timid television host squirm in his seat.
"Spoken like a true rebel. It explains the name of the bike, but how did you come up with the name for your company, Speed Motorcycles? It seems rather generic for a rebel of your creative spirit. Why focus on the high miles-per-hour your bikes can achieve, instead of coming up with a name that speaks more to your creative spirit?"
"Well, I'm afraid I'm out of time. I really do have a lot of business I need to get back to today," I said suddenly, hoping Chet couldn't see the racing of my pulse through the veins in my neck.