Page 98 of Triggered By Love
She was a pretty girl who grew to be a pretty woman.
“She’s so beautiful. She should be a model,” was spoken from the time she was in a bassinet to her awkward braces and knock-kneed preadolescent stage. As she blossomed in her teens, it was the path she was predestined for.
Beauty had its stiff price, even in the rarified and privileged world of a general’s daughter.
Her parents socialized heavily, and her young life had been dominated by hiding in her room during dinner parties. The boys tormented the guests, played pranks, and got away with it. Her baby sister was cute and noisy enough to be sent to the nanny’s house.
Guests wandered the hallways, mistaking her bedroom for a bathroom or making some other excuse to invade her private space.
Some were embarrassed, but others leered like they’d won a prize. When she was ten, she made the mistake of sitting on a hard lap in exchange for a chocolate bar.
She learned not to fight or scream or the hand would clamp harder over her mouth. She learned to play dumb and allow the touching and groping, the sniffing of her hair, the fondling of her budding breasts, the slimy lick slathering her ear, and the light suck on her neck that didn’t leave marks.
No one left DNA on her.
They were smart men—ambitious men—and they gave her candy, concert tickets, or favors, like admission to a competitive dance academy when she was twelve, a modeling contract when she turned sixteen, injections of cash into her trust fund, and introductions to agents who dolled her up and introduced her to the chic elite.
That was when she met Richie Overton.
Avery hated the drugged-out daze she’d existed in while perfecting her walk and throwing off whatever energy or mood the designers hoped to evoke.
Modeling was a lot like acting, complete with the casting couch and meet and greets with influential people. When beauty became a commodity, and glamour wasn’t enough, those who did favors got the big bookings—with their agents getting a finder’s fee.
Lighting the candles at a senator’s birthday party.
Sitting on the lap of a foreign dignitary.
Being seen around town with a visiting prince.
Decorating the cocktail parties of an ambassador.
Dating an athlete needing an image makeover.
She hadn’t progressed as far as she’d thought.
Throwing aside the thin sheet that covered her, Avery noticed she’d fallen asleep in her clothes—her jeans still on. She felt grungy, and not at all like the princess Brando had made her out to be.
The sound of the coffee maker percolating in the kitchen drove her to her feet. Had Jason put something into her coffee to loosen her lips and talk herself into exhaustion?
She tiptoed to her bedroom door and peered out into the living room. He wasn’t there. The couch looked unslept in, and her laptop was closed on the coffee table. The mugs had been removed.
“Jason?” she called as she crossed into the kitchen.
No answer.
He left a note on the counter.
Ave, hope you slept well. I brewed you some coffee. Set the timer and hope it’s still warm when you wake. I went to the precinct to check on some things. Call me.
She picked up the canister he’d left on the counter and rolled her eyes, laughing at his mistake.
He’d used decaffeinated beans.
No wonder she’d been out for the count.
Yawning, she poured the decaf down the drain and found her light roast Kenya AA beans.
Her phone rang as she poured her first cup.
