Just The Tip: A Manning Brothers Novel

by Cassandra Dee

  I haven’t heard from Rafe in six weeks. I haven’t eaten, drank, or slept, and my body’s looking haggard, although of course industry rumors are that I’ve lost weight because people won’t hire me.

  At one fitting, they didn’t even try to disguise their comments. The atelier employees spoke Italian, thinking I couldn’t understand, but actually I’d studied the language during college and understood every word.

  “She looks fabulous, doesn’t she?” said one gay guy, giving me a charming smile. “Emaciated, just the way we like it.”

  “She does, but look at the poor thing,” clucked an older woman while draping a length of fabric across my chest. “Bags under her eyes, her skin is dull, and this hair! That blonde hair she was always known for, it’s now like straw, we’ve got to tell her agency she’s got some serious psychological problems.”

  “She’s not our responsibility,” scoffed the gay guy, turning me around this way and that, as if studying a piece of meat. “The agency should be keeping tabs on her, and what do we care? As long as our clothes look good and fly off the rack, why should we give a shit if she dies?”

  I almost cried then, this was how people talked about me when they thought I couldn’t understand. Again, as my old self, I would have raged back at them in fluent Italian, telling them to fuck off, I was going to tell my boss, his name was Rafe Connor and wasn’t he their boss too?

  But the new me was different. Knowing my place, I bit my tongue even as a flush rose up my chest, my cheeks flaming.

  “Would you mind if I went to the bathroom for a moment?” I murmured. “I’ve been standing here for an hour and really need to use the loo.”

  “Of course not, honey,” said the older woman through a couple of pins in her mouth. “Let me just get this off you.”

  Of course the gay guy was shooting daggers at me with his eyes, but I was beyond that. I needed a moment of privacy to re-group, to steel my shoulders against this new assault.

  Because I felt like I’d been at war for the last six weeks. Not that Rafe ever fought back, it was the wall of silence that was killing me. I’d left countless messages on his cell, on his work phone, with his secretary, and all for nothing. All I got was a polite murmur of acknowledgment from his personal assistant, and one day a package came in the mail.

  It was astounding. I’d been feeling down in the dumps when my doorman called upstairs to inform me that something had arrived. “Yes, just send it up please,” I’d said weakly.

  “No,” said Herberto. “This requires your signature, they won’t take mine.”

  “Alright,” I said with a sigh. I rolled off the couch, looking my worst. I’d had no jobs today and had spent hours alone in a dark apartment, feeling miserable, re-running the sensual times I’d had with Rafe over and over in my head. My bedhead was disgusting and I probably smelled, I was wearing last night’s sweats with a very visible tomato stain on the knee.

  But I didn’t care. Since Rafe ghosted me, I was a mess psychologically. I couldn’t focus on anything and had become the type of model that designers look for – a clotheshanger with no personality, a sullen expression, caved in cheeks and a penchant for moodiness. It was nothing like the public persona I’d built for myself, sparkling, bouncy, healthy, a real California girl.

  So I schlepped downstairs in my slippers. Who cares if my neighbors saw? There were other celebrities in this building too, they could stalk Taylor Swift or Blake Lively instead.

  And when I got downstairs, the delivery man gawked a bit. I use the moniker Angela Adams, so I’m sure he wasn’t expecting to see top model Jenna Walsh appear, even in a disheveled state.

  But Herberto hurried it along.

  “Pen, Ms. Walsh,” he said. And I signed, taking the package into my arms. It was small and flat, covered in brown paper with no indication of the sender.

  But once I got back to my apartment, I scrutinized the package suspiciously. As a public figure, I need to be protective of my identity, but it’s actually pretty easy to figure out where famous people live in New York. There are celebrities walking around all the time and it doesn’t take much effort to trail someone back to their home. In fact, some of the male actors I knew were pretty careless, never wearing wigs or disguises, going about their business like they were regular people.

  But dammit, if this was a bomb, I was kind of okay with it at this point, life was so painful. The gray pallor that had taken over was stifling, like I was being drowned in a deep sea of murky water, unable to breathe, unable to lift my head even and open my eyes.

  With resigned fingers, I opened the seal to the brown paper, listlessly pulling out the box within. With uncurious eyes, I noted that it was from Harry Winston. Again, in my past life I would have jumped with joy because Harry Winston only meant one thing, and that was money, money, money.

  As I opened the beautiful plush purple velvet box, I saw how bony my fingers were, how my nails were ridged from malnutrition and dehydration, only partially obscured by my fancy manicure. God, I needed to take care of myself better.

  The box snapped open, and there it was. A beautiful diamond tennis bracelet, probably thirty carats total of perfect, emerald-cut stones. I lifted it to the light, and the bracelet flashed with fire and life, each diamond a perfect gem in and of itself, priceless in value.

  I reached listlessly for the card. There was no note, just a card with the word “Rafe” written in a cursive hand. Of course that wasn’t his handwriting, it was probably his secretary or worse, some nameless peon who worked at the jewelry store. Feeling sick, I hunched over, my shoulders heaving up and down as I took quick gasps of air.

  I should have felt happy. I should have felt elated, lucky even, for receiving a six-figure piece of jewelry, even if the relationship was now over. But instead I felt miserable, the sadness overwhelming. I hated the jewelry on sight, letting it slip through my fingers to clatter to the floor, uncaring where it landed.

  Rafe couldn’t even bother to talk to me, to end our relationship in person. I was the recipient of a pay-off, intended to silence me, some poor consolation prize. And I still had no idea what had ticked him off. One day we’d been fucking three times a day, enjoying each other’s bodies and company, and the next he was gone with the wind, a mystery of the ages. Was I so unlovable? Did I deserve this somehow?

  Like a bad memory, my mom’s voice rang in my head.

  “Jenna, look inside yourself,” she’d urged. “The world won’t do what you want just because you’re pretty so don’t take it for granted. Be nice, be kind to people, you never know what will happen.”

  I’d scoffed then, throwing my hair over my shoulders, disdaining her advice. The world had been at my fingertips thus far, I only had to smile at men and they did my every bidding. Who wasn’t to say that it wouldn’t last forever? Okay, maybe not forever, but a good twenty years more at least.

  “Whatever Ma,” I’d dashed off carelessly. “I know what I’m doing.”

  But the shake of her head and the sad look in her eyes were reproachful.

  “Look at me Jenna,” she said. “I was once a pretty girl, even prettier than you, and where am I now? A single mom with four daughters, struggling to make ends meet. I don’t want you to be like me.”

  I’d sighed exasperatedly. My mom’s mistake had been that she’d hooked up with my dad, who’d turned out to be a deadbeat loser. I knew better than that. Find a rich man, get married with no pre-nup, and boom! My problems were solved for life.

  “I’ll be fine, Ma,” I said shortly. “Go worry about someone else, like Tina. She needs to lose weight before she becomes a sack of potatoes, no one’s ever going to want her,” I’d sneered.

  My mom had sighed and turned away, but looking back, there was an uncanny element of truth to her words. Now it was Tina married to a rich man and I was getting dumped with a diamond bracelet as the consolation prize.

  I cried in the bathroom, grateful that atelier’s restroom had plush, fabric-covered wall
s, the better to muffle my sobs. Not knowing who to turn to, I dialed Deborah on my cell phone.

  “Deb, I can’t,” I cried into the phone. “The wardrobe folks have been so nasty to me, they say I look terrible and ugly. They say it right to my face, they think I can’t understand.”

  “Oh ignore them,” soothed Deborah. “Pepe is known for having a sharp tongue, you know how gay guys are, they’re jealous of women as if they were women themselves.”

  “I can’t,” I cried. “I can’t go back out there,” I said pitifully, sniffling into the phone.

  But Deborah, who’d been kind to me in the past, did a one-eighty.

  “You can and you will,” she said nastily. “Because you know what? The shit’s about to hit the fan.”

  “You can’t scare me with Rafe Connor,” I said woodenly. “I know I signed a contract with Levant Corp. but contracts get broken all the time, I’ll pay whatever penalties are required.” At least my legal training was coming in handy.

  “No, you dumb bitch,” said Deborah, her voice like nails over the phone. “It’s that video you did … the video plus the nudie pix.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked slowly. “I’ve done nude photo shoots, I mean, you were there during one, but I’ve never done any video. What are you talking about?” I asked confusedly.

  “The porn!” screamed Deborah. “The porn you did is about to hit the wire!” Her voice lowered. “I heard it’s already got ten thousand streams on some seedy website, people watching you get pummeled every which way in some dirty gang-bang.” She continued. “Did you like it Jenna? Did you like being a slut in front of the camera? I suggest you finish this job because your career is about to be over.”

  The woman slammed the phone with a clack and I stood frozen in the tiny bathroom. What video? a voice screamed in my head. Was I being blackmailed? I had no idea what was going on and my only thought was to call Rafe for help.

  12

  Rafe

  I watched the stream dispassionately on my computer. It was coming from the Green Guys, a website known for its hardcore POV porn, gonzo shots where the girls are routinely humiliated, shamelessly fucked in public, that sort of thing.

  Jenna was gorgeous. Her blonde hair covered her face, but the moans were familiar, the sensuous body, the way her pussy twitched and squeezed as she was pummeled from behind.

  “Please,” her breathy voice moaned. “Do me, I need it hard,” she sighed as a big dude obliged, reaming her with his ten-incher, another guy feeding his cock into her mouth, muffling her moans even as her ruby lips parted willingly, eagerly even, to suck the glistening rod.

  I slammed the cover of my laptop down, the snap a vicious crack in the silence of my office. I didn’t need to see more. Everything I’d believed about the girl was true, and then some. Not only did Jenna lie by omission, but the omission had been greater than what I’d believed.

  Sure there were the nude photos, but a lot of starlets do that shit when they’re young and penniless. They don’t know any better, they’re victims of predatory photographers, guys who convince teens to take it off, blowing compliments to make the girls feel better.

  Little do the girls realize but those photos last forever and the rights are almost impossible to buy back. Look at Jennifer Lawrence and Ariana Grande. Their phones had been hacked and private photos released, with the only recourse being a lawsuit to end the ordeal.

  But this was a thousand times worse. This video hadn’t been taken from Jenna’s private stash. These weren’t personal sex tapes, for a special someone’s eyes only. This was full-on porn for an audience, professionally produced with cameramen, lighting, a director, marketing, advertising, all that shit.

  “Get me press relations,” I growled into my phone. And I was immediately connected to Harold Komansky, head of PR.

  “Rafe, get a load of that Jenna Walsh video,” he crowed after picking up. “She’s one hot babe but so dumb! What was she thinking, making a dirty gangbang like this? How much do you think she was paid? Shit, wasn’t she a law student at the time or something? Man, this makes no sense but at least her pussy is gorgeous, as beautiful as the girl herself.”

  All the words I’d been planning to say flew out of my mind.

  “Do not, DO NOT, talk about Jenna Walsh that way,” I roared into the phone. “She is a human being who’s made bad decisions so look away from that pussy, that’s not your fucking business.”

  “Geez boss, I’m sorry,” mumbled my PR man. “I mean, I knew you dated her for a while but all the tabloids said it was over, that you ghosted her leaving her high and dry. I didn’t think it mattered … I’m real sorry, boss.”

  I could hardly stop myself from reaching through the phone to strangle this dude, he was so fucking clueless and inept. The debacle mattered because Jenna was still in contract to Levast, still modeling clothes for our stable of designers, showing up at promo events and the like. But I just couldn’t bear the thought of another man seeing that beautiful snatch, seeing the sweet way she moaned, her boobs swaying as she took dick up her ass.

  “Shut the fuck up,” I said furiously. “Draft a press release announcing Levast’s termination of the Walsh contract for breach. Send it up here the moment you’re done.”

  “Sure boss,” replied Harold tremulously. “Do I still have a job after all this is over? I swear I didn’t know,” he said, his voice wavering.

  “Shut the fuck up, just do it,” I raged again before slamming down the receiver. I cursed myself for hiring that nincompoop but my anger was misdirected at Harold. The problem was Jenna, the girl still ruled my mind although I’d cut her off.

  How could she have? How could she have betrayed me, her career, and most of all, herself by doing this video? Was there more film out there? I shook my head, the red still blurring my vision, making the air in my lungs catch, breathing painfully difficult.

  I’d never been affected by a woman like this and cursed myself. Get it together Rafe, I snarled internally. She’s a manipulative slut, just leave it at that.

  13

  Jenna

  I was sobbing on my sister’s couch, the damask material darkening with my tears.

  “I don’t know how this could have happened,” I cried, my voice muffled by a decorative pillow. “I can’t understand what’s happened.”

  “Jenna,” said my twin quietly. “What don’t you understand? You did some porn and now that you’re famous, people have taken an interest. The porn’s always been out there, just no one realized it was you.”

  “No, it’s not me!” I wailed. “I never did porn, it’s someone who looks like me with blonde hair and blue eyes, but it’s not me!”

  My sister shook her head confusedly.

  “But Jenna, I’ve seen the pictures. It’s either you or the best photoshop job in the world,” Tina said slowly.

  “Yes, that’s me, I admit,” I said brokenly. “I took some nude photos when we were in law school, tuition was due and I had no options,” I said. “I’d maxed out my credit cards so took a gig I found off Craigslist, but it was just me posing naked with cars. They definitely didn’t film me, and I’ve never even heard of Green Guys,” I said, referring to the porn production company.

  “But are you sure there were no videocameras?” asked my sister slowly. “I mean, it’s totally possible that someone stood in the corner and filmed you on the sly, right?”

  That really hurt. I turned to her, my voice scathing.

  “You think I’d forget if I did two guys, let them spurt all over me, coating me with seed and not remember? Seriously Tina, I knew you didn’t like me, but I never thought your hatred went this far,” I spat.

  “No, I’m just saying,” said my sister tiredly, shaking her head, bobbling the baby in her arms. “The old you … the old you was unpredictable and flighty. A threesome wasn’t out of the picture at all.”

  My cheeks colored as I remembered my past. Yeah, I’d done threesomes before, heck I’d done a lot dirtie
r so long as the boys did my homework and paid my bills. There had even been a time when I did the football team on a whim, as a passing fancy.

  But that was the old me. I was different now and my cheeks flushed at memories of my past, heat suffusing my entire being. I shook my head, my efforts to turn a new leaf thwarted. Because the moment the video had hit the mainstream, my career was dead on arrival.

  “UP AND COMING STARLET BARES HER BOOBIES!” “EXPOSURE OF YOUNG AND SWEET SENSATION JENNA WALSH UNTHINKABLE!” screamed newspaper headlines.

  I’d recoiled with horror, dumbly forcing myself to look up the video. Oh god, the Green Guys site was the first one that popped up after entering my name, and I clicked numbly. The mass of writhing bodies was explicit, the girl in the video bearing an uncanny resemblance to me, so good that I could see how no one would question the likeness.

  Even worse, the video had already been viewed twenty million times, with two million thumbs up. It was a nightmare, and I could hardly believe what had happened, the pressure on my chest crushing, my breathing shallow and fast.

  Things were only made worse when a nameless employee from my modeling agency called to let me know that Levast had terminated my contract.

  “Alright,” I’d said woodenly. “I’ll deal.” I’d expected that one because Levast represents high-fashion brands, they wouldn’t want a pornstar on their roster. I just needed a bit of time to prove my case, and then Rafe would hire me once again.

  But what I hadn’t expected was every single one of my other bookings calling within a day to let me know that I was no longer needed.

  “Really?” I’d gasped when Young, Broke and Fabulous notified me that I no longer needed to fly to Malibu next week. YBF is an up-and-coming LA brand known for its sexy, daring beachwear, and they’d walked on the wild side a couple times. Their last show was modeled entirely by Playboy centerfolds, so I’d figured their creative head would keep me on.