Sexy As Sin (Filthy Rich 2)

One

Ava

* * *

Ava Winters, you are a mess.

I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, feeling the throbbing pain in my skull. The air was stuffy and smelled heavily of sweat, and the sound of the train vibrated through my head. The New York subway was definitely not a good place to have a hangover.

Too many margaritas with my roommate last night. Whose idea was it to go drinking on a Tuesday? I couldn’t remember. I also couldn’t remember much after the third drink. Or was it the fourth?

And why hadn’t I stayed in bed today instead of getting on this godawful subway, which was hot and reeking in a New York summer? Oh right, because my brother wanted to see me.

My rich, perfect, successful brother, Aidan, who was the CEO of his own venture capital company. He made more money in an hour than I made in a month, and he lived in a gorgeous penthouse on the Upper East Side. He never had to figure out exactly how he was going to make his half of the rent on a tiny Brooklyn apartment. He never had to figure out where the next check was coming from, and he never ate ramen noodles when the bank took a few days to clear the funds. He never ate ramen noodles at all. Oh, and he had a beautiful wife named Samantha, who was as successful as he was. Did I mention Aidan was also gorgeous?

I didn’t hate my brother, really. We were close. He’d offered me money plenty of times, and no doubt if I asked him he’d gladly pay my rent. But just because he could didn’t mean I wanted him to. I had my own career—sort of—and I wanted to pay my own way. Be my own success. I was determined to make it by myself, rich brother be damned.

Okay, so being a fashion stylist and blogger didn’t earn as much as a CEO. At least I was following my passion.

I rubbed my forehead. Why had I gone drinking on a Tuesday again?

I opened my eyes to see the man across from me was staring at me. He was about sixty, wearing baggy jeans and a dirty sweatshirt. When he noticed me open my eyes, he smiled. His teeth were yellow. His hand moved slowly to his crotch.

I didn’t even think about it. In my loudest voice, I said, “If you take your dick out, I swear I’ll scream.”

The other people in the crowded car turned to look. “Don’t do that, man,” a black guy said. “Just don’t.”

“Yeah,” said a woman with big, teased hair. “Take your hand offa your pants right now.”

The man paused. The train screeched to a halt at my stop, and the doors opened. I grabbed my bag and got off.

As I climbed the stairs to the street, I dug two aspirin out of my bag and dry-swallowed them. “Jesus, Aidan,” I said out loud. “This better be good.” No one looked twice at me, talking to myself.

I felt a little better when I got outside. The summer city air wasn’t exactly fresh, but since I’d been born in Chicago and had left it for New York, city air was the air I was used to. Besides, this was Tribeca, away from the noise and bad-pizza smell of Times Square. I put my shoulders back and pushed my hangover down. I’d just had my hair done and it was extra blonde now, almost platinum, tied in a knot on top of my head. I was wearing a sleeveless dress over a lacy camisole, the outfit completed with a narrow, bright red belt and high heels. Most of the clothes I wore were designer, though on my laughable income I didn’t pay full price for them. Not even close. I knew some of the right people in the fashion world and I wrote the right things about them. So I had access to designer clothes for next to nothing, a perk I took advantage of as often as I could.

The only thing that made it difficult for me to get designer clothes was my figure. To put it bluntly, I had tits and an ass, and no one in fashion made clothes for tits and asses. But I was creative, so I could usually put a few pieces together, or alter the clothes I got, or take a simpler piece and dress it up with designer shoes, accessories, and jewelry. No one looking at me would guess that I slept on a futon at age thirty and that my bank account was so empty I had to use a spatula when I needed money.

“How are you today?” the security guard in Aidan’s office building said when he saw me, giving me a wave. I didn’t come here very often, but the staff knew who I was.

I waved back. “Hung over,” I replied. He laughed, and I wanted to say No, really, I’m hung over, it hurts. But I smiled at him and got in the elevator.

“Ava!” said the receptionist on Aidan’s floor when the doors opened. Her name was Mina—no, Tina. Definitely Tina. She was five feet nothing, a tiny pixie in her early twenties who weighed a hundred and ten tops. I felt old, fat, and tragic when I looked at her, but I smiled and waved.

“Is he in his office?” I asked. When she nodded, I said, “Go just an inch shorter with your hem. It would suit you better,” and walked past her across the open office space.

“Thanks!” she said after me. Everyone was used to me dressing them when I met them. If they weren’t used to it, they got used to it quick. It wasn’t a criticism on my part—I wasn’t telling anyone they looked bad. But those of us in fashion critiqued each other, and ourselves, all the time.