Seduced By The Mogul. Pamela Yaye
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problem. That’s what friends are for.”
Minutes later, Dante left the apartment with Matteo in tow, carrying a container filled with vegan brownies. As they boarded the elevator, Dante noticed Jordana waving at them, and he smiled in return. He loved her energy, how bubbly and effervescent she was, and as the elevator doors slid closed a curious thought—one he’d had many times in recent months—popped into his mind. Why couldn’t I have married someone like Jordana? Someone warm and loving and caring who puts others’ needs above her own?
It’s not too late, said his inner voice, drowning out the doubts playing in his mind. Make your move and let the chips fall where they may.
Dante rejected the thought, refusing to consider it. Jordana was smart, with a great head on her shoulders, but they could never be a couple. There were just some things a man didn’t do, especially a man of his stature, and hooking up with a friend’s ex was one of them. He desired her, sure, but some rules weren’t meant to be broken.
Jordana was miserable, more depressed than a high school senior without a prom date, and her telemarketing job was the reason why. Only three hours into her shift, and she wanted to go home and crawl into bed. Massaging her temples, she kicked off her gold ballet flats, and took a moment to gather herself. Ringing telephones, animated chatter and country music filled the air. The incessant noise inside LA Marketing Enterprises made it hard for her to think.
Her thoughts wandered, returning to the conversation she’d had with the loud, hostile Texan minutes earlier. Making fundraising calls on behalf of charitable organizations was an honorable endeavor, something to be proud of, but Jordana was tired of being a human punching bag. People insulted her on a daily basis, calling her horrible, vulgar names. But she couldn’t defend herself. She’d worked numerous jobs since moving to LA, everything from waitressing to babysitting and tutoring, but nothing was more intolerable than being a telemarketer.
What have I done? What was I thinking? Why did I leave my cushy job with the Robinson family? The weight of her despair was crushing, but there was nothing Jordana could do about it. Not unless I want to be homeless, she thought glumly, feeling her shoulders sag. A year ago, she was a live-in nanny, taking care of an autistic child in Bel Air, and although she loved the two-year-old boy as if he were her own, she hated the long hours. She couldn’t attend casting calls, lost touch with her girlfriends and rarely had days off. For that reason, she’d resigned, moved in with her best friend, Waverly Burke, and decided to pursue her dreams wholeheartedly. Her agent, Fallon O’Neal, was sweet, but tough when she had to be. Jordana knew the former child star had her best interests in heart.
Jordana straightened in her chair, and adjusted her headset. Slapping a smile on her face, she greeted the caller. “Hello, Mr. Okafor,” she said, with fake enthusiasm. “How are you doing this morning?”
“Who’s this?” croaked a male voice, with a heavy Nigerian accent. “What do you want?”
“I’m glad you asked. My name is Jordana Sharpe, and I’m calling on behalf of—”
“Damn telemarketers,” he grumbled, interrupting her. “Why are you harassing me? Don’t you have better things to do than ruin my day off?”
Jordana pressed her lips together to trap a scream inside. No matter what he said, she’d remain on the line. She had no choice. If she hung up, she’d be sent home without pay, and Jordana needed her paycheck.
“I understand that you are busy, so I will keep this brief.”
“Don’t call here again, stupid.”
Click.
Swiping off her headset, she dropped it on the desk, and slumped in her chair. Jordana released a deep breath, reminding herself not to take the caller’s comments personally. Her job was mentally and emotionally draining, and Jordana didn’t know how much more she could take. She had to put up with being verbally abused—all day, every day—and no one cared. Last month, she’d met with her supervisor, Mr. Lundqvist, but instead of being sympathetic, he’d told her to “suck it up and quit complaining.” Each week things got worse. Jordana wanted out.
But how? If I quit, I won’t be able to pay my rent, or enroll in acting classes. Staring up at the ceiling, with tears in her eyes, Jordana wondered if and when she’d ever get her “big break.” She’d been in LA for six years, and had nothing to show for it except debt, heartache and stress. Maybe her father, Fernán, was right; maybe she was fooling herself. Maybe it was time to pack it up and head home. He had said I’d never make it in this town, and I’m starting to believe him.
Tears pricked her eyes, and emotion clogged her throat, making it hard to swallow. The thought of leaving Los Angeles and returning to Des Moines saddened her. Everything she’d ever wanted was in LA, and she wasn’t ready—or willing—to concede defeat. At least not yet. Jordana snapped out of it, willing herself to be strong. She had an audition tomorrow and a meeting with her agent on Monday. If everything went according to plan she’d be one step closer to fulfilling her dream. She wasn’t giving up now, or ever. It didn’t matter what her dad or anyone else said. She would make it.
A tear spilled down her cheek, and Jordana slapped it away. Needing a moment to compose herself, she put on her shoes, and stood. At times like this, when she was feeling emotional and upset, a change of scenery helped improve her mood. A five-minute break was definitely in order.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Glancing over her shoulder, she noticed her supervisor standing in the hallway, and strangled a groan. Mr. Lundqvist was a control freak, with bad breath, and his toothy grin made her skin crawl. “I’m going to the ladies’ room.”
“Again?” He raised a thick, bushy eyebrow. “You just went.”
No, I didn’t. Even if I did, what’s it to you? He was in her cubicle, questioning her no less, and had the nerve to look pissed, as if she was giving him the third degree for leaving his desk. Making a conscious decision not to raise her voice, she forced an easy-breezy smile, and spoke in a soft tone. “That’s not true,” she said calmly, resisting the urge to kick him in the shin. “I haven’t left my desk since I arrived this morning.”
“Fine.” Scowling, his face twisted in anger, he tapped the front of his watch with an index finger. “Hurry up. You have two minutes, not a second more.”
Glaring at him, Jordana wondered how many times he’d been dropped on his head as a child. She wanted to tell Mr. Lundqvist to jump off the nearest bridge, but remembered her rent was due at the end of the mouth, and bit the inside of her cheek.
“Get going, Sharpe. I’m timing you.”
Jordana grabbed her tote bag and fled her cubicle. Walking through the office, she noticed how bleak the mood was and stared out the window. Thick clouds covered the sky, and smog cast a dark haze over the city. The dreary weather mirrored her disposition, but Jordana was determined not to wallow in self-pity. She had a lot to be thankful for. She had great friends, auditions coming up, and the best news of all, her mom was healthy again. Painful memories surfaced, but she quickly shook them off, making up her mind to focus on the future, not the past.
In the washroom, Jordana touched up her makeup and assessed her look. Peering into the mirror, she adjusted her leather beaded headband. Her tunic-style dress skimmed her hips, and her fringed sandals drew attention to her legs. Thanks to her Cuban father and Haitian mother, she had wild, unruly curls, a complexion smoother than honey and more curves than a winding road. Dante told her she had an exotic, one-of-a-kind look, but in a city overrun with beautiful women, Jordana didn’t know if he was telling the truth or just being nice.
Images of him filled her mind and a smile overwhelmed her mouth. Dante was one of her best friends, someone she could count on. Jordana felt fortunate to have him in her life. On the surface, they seemed to have nothing in common. She was a small-town girl from a broken home living