Polly Ticks

By Mary Nova

Perfect for fans of Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale, Polly Ticks is a blazing indictment of sexism and male privilege, with an astonishing ending that will leave you wide-eyed and gasping.

It's a man's world and she was just living in it. Or rather, hiding in it. Assistant fashion-photographer Polly Ticks had settled perfectly into her self-silenced life. Invisible amongst the most beautiful people on the planet, mousy Polly was content. Life was perfect.

Until the day of the plane crash.

Polly and the three mega-star male models never did make it to their photo shoot. The private jet went down on an uninhabited island in the South Pacific.

And Polly’s wallflower days were over.

It didn’t happen all at once. For a while, the men were satisfied with bossing her around, taking charge as if by right. They: Tarzan - She: Jane. But soon that wasn’t enough, and the men's eyes began to rake her body with lust.

What had she expected? It was hard to blend when you were the only woman in sight. Suddenly, Polly wished she were more like her mother, Janine. She always had the upper hand. That woman could’ve taught a master class on taking control.

Well, maybe Janine had...

One Woman. Three Men. Sexual Politics.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary Nova
• Release date: Jun 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311137050

Mary Nova

Welcome to Mary Nova's Author page!MARY NOVA writes in a variety of genres.Romance: The Scorched Series.Women's Lit: Polly Ticks.Fantasy: The Bag: Believe. It wants to belong to you...Mary is a native Mid-Westerner, currently ensconced in Rochester, MN. She’s a die-hard, bleed-purple Vikings fan, and spends the untenable Minnesota winters watching football and playing Texas Hold ‘em...when she’s not writing.​But what really roots Mary in Minnesota are friends, family, and lively conversations with lots of laughter and a nice glass of wine.​Mary invites you to write her at [e-mail] because it’s you, whether a one-time-reader or a superfan, who keeps her going. It also warms her frigid winters!

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Polly Ticks sat on the semi-circle window seat in her bedroom, foot tapping with anticipation.

As she waited, she surveyed her surroundings for the thousandth time. The room was an explosion of pink. Pink walls, pink bedspread, white furniture edged with pink, even dark pink carpeting.

With a snort, she lowered new sunglasses from atop her head. She’d never get to redecorate. Mother loved pink. But, splurging the money from her recent twelfth birthday on the expensive sunglasses had been worth it. She smirked wickedly behind the special darkening lenses. Problem solved; riotous pink muted.

Turning from her cotton candy cocoon, she focused on her vigil. Edging aside a frilly pink curtain, she watched, waiting.

The sun lowered, suspending perfectly between the Canary Island date palms lining the driveway. The sublime scene was an invitation graciously extended by Mother Nature. She accepted. Grabbing her camera from the desk, she took multiple shots.

When the sun shifted off-center, she set down the DSLR camera and curled up in the alcove. In the sun-warmed arc of glass, she dozed.

Tires crunched on gravel, waking her. Her heart spiked as their Mercedes limousine glided up the long, sweeping driveway.

She whipped off the glasses to get a clear look, confirming the long-awaited arrival. Dropping them onto the window seat, she streaked across her bedroom as tires rumbled onto the circular, cobbled drive in front of the house.

Flying down the grand staircase, she skidded on the marble floor of the entrance hall toward her mother, Janine. With a wide-eyed gasp, and wind-milling hands, Polly stopped short of Mother’s impeccably-postured back.

She opened her mouth to apologize, but her mother hadn’t noticed the close dust-up. Polly ignored the pang of hurt that Janine never really noticed her. It was for the best. Did she want to be scolded again for her wild running about? No, she did not. She tiptoed the last few feet, taking her position behind Mother.

The sun set on the family estate, beaming through the beveled-glass front doors, creating prisms that lit her golden mother like a sparkling jewel. None of the light touched Polly. Mother swallowed it up.

Crossing her wrists in front of her, locking her fingers in a backward grip, Polly shrank into the long, dark shadow Janine cast.

A car door chunked, and she risked a peek around Janine. The driver opened the passenger door, his rotund body shielding the occupant. Precious moments passed before she glimpsed the wave of thick, dark hair. Daddy’s home! She bounced on the balls of her feet wishing she could burst around Mother as he bounded up the slate stairs. But Janine’s greeting needed to come first.

She grinned as Daddy opened the beveled double doors. With a dynamic sweep of arms, he strode into the hall, crossing straight to his wife.

Janine, he lifted her, twirling her in a circle.

Polly stopped bobbing, lowering her eyes as Janine wiggled her pelvis intimately against his stomach. As they twirled cheek-to-cheek, she heard Mother purr in his ear.

Did you bring me anything from Switzerland?

Polly’s heart skipped. Would there be presents?

Next time, honey, he kissed her ear. "I honestly didn’t have time this trip.

Polly repressed her Aw, but her mother’s face soured next to her father’s, rearranging in a plastic smile. She made herself small, shoulders slumping as Janine extricated herself from the embrace.

The second Mother’s toes touched ground, she pivoted away.

Alfred has a scotch for you in the den, she said, coolly. I’m going to fix my lipstick. You’ve probably smeared me.

Mother retreated up the stairs, extinguishing the glow on Daddy’s face.

Janine, come back, he begged. Your lipstick is fine. You look gorgeous, my love.

The compliment stopped Janine in her tracks. She paused in front of the single piece of art gracing the sweep of stairs; a formal portrait Polly had taken of her, enlarged sufficiently to fit right in at the White House presidential gallery.

The glow reignited on her father’s face, Look, why don’t we have a shopping spree tomorrow? We can have lunch anywhere you want, and then shop ‘til you drop.

Polly’s heart stung hotly with pity. He kept trying to appease Mother, but how could he be so gullible? He should know better by now.

Mother hadn’t turned on the stairs to face them, but the extreme rigidity of her back made Polly’s pulse pound. Janine’s head tilted back and Polly couldn’t tell if Mother was exasperated or admiring her enormous portrait.

I can’t tomorrow, Richard, Janine’s use of his name was withering. I’ve got a spa day planned.

Can’t you reschedule that, my love?

Janine turned, smiling. Polly held her breath. That closed-mouth grin wouldn’t contain the spew of bitterness for long. Janine parted her lips. Here it comes.

You’ve been gone awhile, my love, Janine mockingly mirrored his term of endearment. You aren’t suggesting you just swoop in with nothing but your luggage and expect I’ll rearrange my schedule, are you? That seems a little… she let the sentence hang, shaking her head, nose crinkling.

Of course. You’re right. That was presumptuous. We can go whenever you want.

Maybe you could shift your schedule. Day after tomorrow…? she tested. Oh, but you’ve got the big J-Tech meeting…

I’ll make it work, sweetheart, he obliged.

That’s fine. But…I still want to fix my lipstick.

As mother retreated, misery sagged her father’s face. Compassion overcame her disappointment in his gullibility as he turned, managing a wan smile.

Hello, Polly, he finally greeted her. Were you a good girl while I was away?

She nodded.

Yes? You listened to your mother?

She nodded vigorously, smiling, as her father knelt, reaching for her. Finally, it was her turn! She giggled, laughing louder, more happily, as her father’s face brightened.

Her laughter stopped with a gasp as Janine turned at the commotion. She stiffened at the quick rage clouding her mother’s face. Shoot. Darn it. She shouldn’t have been laughing like that.

Before her father could embrace her, Janine called, Polly? Come here. I may need you.

Yes, Moth…Janine, she answered, relieved to have made the switch in time. Parental labels upset Janine.

Turning toward the stairs, her dad slumped and she whispered, It’s okay, Daddy. I’ll come down as soon as I can. I want to.

I’ll be upstairs, Janine asserted, trotting lightly up the stairs. Don’t keep me waiting, Polly.

Bye, Daddy. I missed you, she leaned to hug him. He looked like he needed it.

A frightening look twisted his face and he grabbed her forcefully by the upper arms.

Polly, Polly, he shook her. Always stand up for yourself. Don’t ever allow someone to toy with you. Promise me, Polly.

She froze, startled at the unaccustomed rough contact. Her body jerked as he shook her again. Tears sprang to her eyes, Daddy…

Promise me, Polly!

The grave desperation haunting his eyes echoed to her soul. She’d do anything to end his anguish.

I promise, Daddy, she burst out in tears, not fully understanding what it was she was promising.

He let go of her arms, and hugged her tightly. She wept, burrowing into his arms, his chest. She inhaled deeply, comforted by the familiar smell of her daddy, cedarwood, orange, and black pepper. She sniffled his scent, her tears drying up.

He released her, I’m sorry, honey. Better?

She sniffed, nodding, but she wanted to crawl back into his arms, his smell. He was still on his knees in front of her, but his thoughts had carried him worlds away. He didn’t seem to realize she was still there. She didn’t know what to do.

Daddy…?

His posture deflating, he muttered, You’d better not keep your mother waiting.

She turned and ran, scrambling up the stairs.

Polly peeked tentatively around the doorway in the upstairs dressing room. Janine sat on her plush, pink-velvet settee. She fluffed her liquid-gold hair in front of an ornate vanity, pursing full, dark-rose lips.

Polly employed a method she’d been practicing for use around her mother. She called it ghost mode, and when she did it, it seemed to be accessed by way of a voice in her head. Unfortunately, the speaker didn’t have a cool, military whisper. He sounded like Beetlejuice.

The burpy snarl, Going ghost mode, triggered a wince before her silent advance. Undetected, she approached and knelt beside Janine. Moments ticked by without acknowledgement. She’d gotten good at this.

The moments ticked into a full minute, trouncing her capacity for tense silence. She had to break it, Why do you make Daddy sad?

She flinched as Janine’s head whipped toward her, instantly regretting she hadn’t worked on prolonged silence. She didn’t have time to think of a cool name for that skill, or hope that the trigger voice would be more like James Earl Jones’ before her mother cried out.

Your Daddy made me sad! He broke my heart.

She held her breath, incredulous, as tears formed in her stolid mother’s eyes. Janine’s dramatics didn’t affect her anymore, but her crying? In fact, both parents crying? Her stomach roiled uncomfortably. What was going on today?

Janine balled her hand into a fist, pressing it tightly against her chest. Her eyes squeezed shut, body tensing. She whispered to herself, "I vowed never to open myself to that kind of pain again. I can’t go through that again. Never again." She inhaled deeply and exhaled, I close myself off from it. Moments later she muttered, He deserves everything he gets, now.

With a deep sniff, Janine opened her eyes, shaking her head briskly.

Polly recognized the gesture. She did it herself to expel sad thoughts. But, why was Mommy so sad? She had everything. Couldn’t she see that as she stared at her own reflection?

Polly turned to the mirror. What it would be like to meet that rare, violet-eyed gaze? She shook the mouse-brown hair out of her eyes. The scraggly mane fell back into place. She swatted at the long bangs impatiently, revealing pale, pea-green eyes. She sighed. They reminded her of stagnant pond water. Algae-filled water.

Janine stroked her flawless, high cheekbone, a smug smile tugging the corners of her lips, You have to keep up…maintain. A woman’s flaws are viciously catalogued.

Polly imitated the stroke, caressing her puffy, young cheek, but there was no comparison. She wanted to leap forward in time to see if she’d ever possess a fraction of her mother’s beauty.

Sucking in her cheeks and puckering her lips, she tried to catch a glimpse past the baby fat. She turned sideways and back in the mirror. Was there any hint of Janine’s defined cheekbones and plump lips? It didn’t seem like it. She looked like a carp.

She gave it up. It was hopeless.

She turned to her mother’s profile. Her heart tightened with longing for something she couldn’t name. She reached out to touch her exquisite mother, flinching as Janine unexpectedly whirled to face her.

I tell you, Polly, women get run over in this world! Obliterated. And there are only two ways I know for a girl to survive. Either you maintain total control of those around you, or you blend into the background and hope for the best. Well, I’m no wallflower, Janine smiled stunningly.

Polly gazed up adoringly, swiping the unruly bangs from her opaque green eyes.

Abruptly, Janine’s smile vanished. Examining Polly’s face, her mother sighed resignedly, You may have to blend.

CHAPTER

12 YEARS LATER

Wugga-wugga-wugga. Polly winced at the wobbling front wheel of her suitcase as she schlepped it up the wide hallway of the fashion magazine’s luxurious headquarters. Eyes ping-ponging between the glass-walled offices, she beamed at the astonishing display of genetic superiority within them.

This was where she belonged. Amongst human perfection. She’d found her rightful place.

A man breezed by, bumping solidly into her shoulder. She caught her balance as he continued up the hall without reaction.

It didn’t faze her, happened all the time. She mumbled after him, Oop, sorry. ‘Scuse me.

She continued up the hall, her noisy bag garnering attention. Maybe she should’ve treated herself to a new one, but luggage was spendy. Although this one had logged a lot of miles and was pretty beat up, it served just fine.

She lifted the suitcase off its raucous wheel. The extended plastic handle twisted awkwardly in her hand and the suitcase banged against a glass wall. Grimacing, she flinched as several people looked up from their desks, but no one’s eyes landed on her. They scanned right past her, brows furrowing as they failed to locate the source of the racket.

She blew out a breath. Wallflower status intact. Surrounded by such perfection, she blended with confidence, like the invisible woman. This was definitely the place for her. No one noticed the overweight, mousy woman in the purposely unfashionable jeggings, and baggy, thigh-length peasant blouse.

The tight cap of curls added to her anonymity, but that hadn’t been intentional. She’d fallen asleep while her perm had over-processed. She made it work, though. Adding a dark smear of lipstick, she had a look that was an actual thing, even though it wasn’t flattering or eye-catching on her. She had a Lorde vibe, without the Lorde.

Reaching the end of the hall, she pushed through the glass doors of a packed-full conference room. Parking her wobbly suitcase near the door, she kept her back against the wall and slid sideways toward the farthest corner.

She tuned in to the deep bass of the distinguished managing editor, Edward Sutton, as he addressed the assembly. Standing at the head of a long conference table, he definitely looked like the editor of a fashion magazine with his gajillion dollar bespoke suit and impeccable grooming.

She glanced down at her baggy outfit and shrugged. It was a travel day.

We got the whole island, as per our esteemed photographer, Maxi’s requirements, Sutton smiled at the snickers in the room. Okay, okay. He’s a diva, but he’s right. Considering who he’ll be shooting, we don’t need any distractions.

More snickers accompanied the comment, and she snorted softly.

The location is remote, Sutton continued, "but it’s secure. I know the South Pacific is a jaunt, but Maxi’s shooting in Australia, so it’s a meet-you-half-way situation.

So, we’ve locked up the location, we’ve locked up the talent. And I don’t have to tell you that all of it is hella expensive…

She turned her head, smiling tentatively at the chucklers.

…We’re going for a multi-page layout, and expectations are high. So, no fuck-ups. Where is Maxi’s assistant for this shoot?

She jerked. Sutton’s eyes swept the room. She shrank as they panned across her.

Where is she? Edward scanned past a second time.

The girl beside her sneered, nudging Polly in the ribs. She sheepishly raised her hand waist high. Her slight movement caught the editor’s hawk eyes.

Oh, for Christ’s sake, there you are. Are you all set?

She nodded.

Yes? he pressed.

Yes, she squeaked. She cleared her throat, Uh-um, yes, yes. I’m all set.

A man sitting at the table snorted derisively, the bald patch on the back of his head shiny with sweat.

She fidgeted as Sutton continued.

Maxi will meet you there with the rest of the crew. Of all our photographer’s assistants, Maxi asked for you specifically.

She lowered her eyes, hiding a prideful glow. She and the celebrated photographer shared a kind of symbiosis on shoots. She’d always anticipated Maxi’s needs, and had made a couple of suggestions on shoots that had added to the overall artistry. She wasn’t surprised he’d asked for her.

It’d gotten quiet in the room. She tightened instinctively, her inkling confirmed when she looked up. All eyes were on her. She bit her lip, turning to Sutton. His frank stare held doubt, the purse of his lips skeptical.

This is an important layout. We’re getting the Three Fuckateers together for the first time, Sutton earned another chuckle at his use of the Internet’s snide nickname for the mega-models. He stared the assembly down, the chuckles dying quickly. He stressed, "They all need to look perfect, no one upstaging anyone else, especially Dexter and Ethan. You’ve heard about their little Twitter war. They’re playing who has the biggest dick. It’s the usual alpha-male bullshit, but I need all egos intact. All of them equally shiny and pretty. Understood? Ms. Ticks?"

Yes, um, yes. I’m definitely set, she reiterated.

She didn’t know what else she could say. She was thoroughly prepared, as always, and he didn’t need to worry about a thing, but she couldn’t say that. It sounded so cocky.

She cringed, wishing he’d move on, but he pinned her with a raised-brow look that was begging for some assurance of her competency. She cleared her throat, hoping to utter something confidence-inspiring. Or something intelligible…

She frantically searched a blank mind.

The editor saved her, Great. Good.

Her knees buckled slightly with relief even though his hesitant tone and pained expression made the feigned conviction obvious. At least she was off the hook.

She’d rather show him than tell him anyway. He’d be thrilled with the shoot. She’d make sure of it…as always.

Sutton gathered his notes and swept from the room to a cacophony of stirring papers, chairs, mouths. But, he turned at the door, the clamor stopping mid-beat.

Her knees stiffened as he pointed his sheaf of papers at her.

The usual is expected, Ms. Ticks. Babysit the talent, and snap to Maxi’s every beck and call.

CHAPTER

Polly trotted through the LAX airport terminal keeping sight of the broad backs of her three charges as they strode before her, unencumbered by most of their luggage.

As a joke, Dexter had hung his personal duffel on her shoulder after passing through security. Laughing, the other two weighted her down with theirs. Then Dexter set his carry-on suitcase beside her, placing her hand on the handle. More laughter.

The joke ended when they actually walked away.

The straps chafed her shoulders through the thin peasant blouse. Pausing for an awkward shuffle of bags, she felt a new sympathy for mules. With the straps temporarily set more comfortably, she looked for the men. They’d gotten several gates ahead.

She hurried to catch up, wheeled suitcases trailing behind, including her own, wugga-wugga-wugga. The faulty wheel caught on raggedy carpeting, and she tripped. Her alarmed Oh! came as the heavy shoulder bags dragged her down. There was no way to save the fall.

She landed hard on her knees, the thin, cheap, airport carpeting doing nothing to cushion the jolt. Embarrassed, she looked up, but none of the men she traveled with noticed her go down. No one noticed. In fact, the foot traffic continued flowing around her.

She was a rock in a stream.

She repositioned the shoulder bags and struggled to her feet. The moment she regained her balance, she saw a young man on a collision course, eyes glued to his phone.

Oh no, she murmured, spreading her feet wide to absorb the shock.

The teenager bashed into her, but she kept her balance, rolling with his momentum as the bags shifted precariously.

Oop, she called after him.

The oblivious kid continued on as she was turned full-circle toward the departure gate. With a final hoist-shift of bags, she ran to catch up to the men.

The guys had stopped at a beverage cart, and each drank from their choice of designer water.

You want anything, Ticks? Dex asked. Before she could answer, Nah, kidding. How would you carry it? He gestured to the suitcases, laughing.

Another joke. He was on fire.

The three chuckled, showing perfect, white teeth. Passersby couldn’t help but notice the incomparably gorgeous men. They were drawing attention. Dreadful attention.

It didn’t surprise her. These three were the absolute rock stars of the modeling world. They had no way to blend in. Not that they wanted to.

She cringed as the stunning models strutted toward their boarding gate enjoying the effect they were having on the women…and some men.

People turned to stare. As she passed, the whispering became a buzz, mouths dropping. She weaved through the scattering of startled, dazzled people.

It was no relief at all when they reached the departure gate for their first leg, the Hawaiian flight. Fellow travelers crammed the gate, filling every plastic chair in the long rows. The overflow of people stood in random clumps or tethered to the walls, focused on their plugged-in phones.

She blinked tightly at the gasps as she and her charges entered. The guys immediately claimed an unoccupied stretch of wall, Dexter donning Gucci sunglasses, which did nothing to disguise his celebrity.

She dropped the heavy bags. Once they landed in a tumbling pile, she pulled out her ticket and travel itinerary, focusing on that rather than the murmuring crowd.

Her ticket placed her in coach; middle plane, middle seat. She wished she had a window seat, or better yet, was in first-class with the guys, but it was fine. The Hawaii leg would be better. They’d be catching a private charter to their final destination.

The human hum became louder, harder to ignore. Jason braced for the inevitable screams. Hands at his sides, his thumbs cycled anxiously through quick touches of his fingertips.

She felt a stab of sympathy for him. She gritted her teeth, knowing the dam was about to break. She shrank into her body. Bowing her pale face, she was glad for the unfortunately permed hair; the tight cap of hair fell forward, curtaining her as it began.

"Oh, my God… Dexter Harris…Dexter Harris…"

It’s Ethan Garner!

Is that...? Jason? Jason Moss… It’s Jason Moss!

A teenage girl with braces kicked things into high gear, "Oh, my God. It is! Jason! Jason!"

She rushed him and a mélange of voices penetrated, yelling the men’s names.

No use hiding from it. She parted the hair drapes, embracing the horror.

Jason got it first. Poor Jason, the Swedish-American idol with silver-blonde hair. She couldn’t imagine having strangers recognizing you wherever you went, rushing you, assuming a right to personal interaction. And for the skittish Swede, it’d be almost as excruciating as it’d be for her.

As the teenager reached him, his hands flew up to protect his perfect face, his delicate features almost too beautiful to be manly.

Careful, he pleaded.

As the girl shoved her pen and plane ticket at him, Jason reluctantly lowered his hands to sign, sapphire-blue eyes squinting anxiously.

Distracted by compassion, she didn’t notice the crowd jockeying toward the men. Pushed roughly aside in the shuffle, she stumbled over a suitcase. Her hands flew out to save another painful tumble and she righted herself against a shark-suited Wall Street type.

Watch it, he snapped.

Oop. Sorry.

Somehow, she’d ended in a corner near the guys. Dexter Harris smirked next to her. He had no problem with attention.

He whipped off his sunglasses, All right, lovely ladies. Just a few autographs, we have a plane to catch.

As if they weren’t all getting on the same aircraft. She rolled her eyes.

Dex grabbed a pen, signing with a flourish. Expertly, he stopped between pen-strokes, striking perfect poses for fans huddling closely for selfies.

Ugh. He was so…practiced. But, to be fair, he’d been modeling since he’d been in diapers and she supposed this was normal to him. It had to be, with his looks.

His hair shone, so impossibly black it gleamed with blue streaks; his eyes glimmered, starbursts of gold shooting from the emerald green irises. He reminded her of a comic book drawing.

Dexter smiled, his blinding white teeth so perfectly aligned they didn’t look like individual teeth. His broad grin completed the picture of someone drawn, not real.

In contrast to Dexter, Ethan Garner signed and posed magnanimously, his wavy blonde hair falling forward, beautifully tickling the long lashes of his sky-blue eyes.

He reminded her of a comic book drawing, too. Maybe Captain America. She sighed. Her hero.

But his looks were more than comic book handsome. He was a work of art. He should be painted and hung in a museum. His skin glowed, perfect peach cream. His high, sculpted cheekbones indented dramatically, broadening to a strong, chiseled jawline. His full lips held a natural rosy tint.

She’d worked with all three of the men before, but the moment she’d first seen Ethan, she’d been in love. Or maybe just in lust, with a good dose of infatuation.

She visually devoured him. If her gazes were fingers, she’d be arrested. And, if the gazes were her lips, they’d throw the book at her.

She’d fantasized about him often, managing to wrangle as many assignments with him as possible, never letting on how she felt. He was way