My heart skipped about three beats at that, and my breath hitched.
Was that it? Was he looking for me? We hadn’t exactly exchanged numbers in China, most likely because I’d hightailed it out of there before he could suggest anything like that. And while I suspected he could probably have his agent call my agent and get my contact info, or at least pass a message along, there was something a whole lot more him about just showing up.
But then I remembered the girl he’d had sitting next to him. The one who had been glued to his side like she might disappear in a cloud of smoke if she let go of him.
Stupid. He wouldn’t have brought her with him if he was looking for me. That would have been the height of insensitive—to both her and me. He hadn’t been there to find me. It was just an appearance for him and his girlfriend—Haley, wasn’t it?—probably for the start of the coming tour. I knew they were gearing up soon; I’d seen billboards for it all over town. He was probably just starting the round of publicity that ran up to starting a new tour.
He probably hadn’t even realized that I would be there. Probably hadn’t been actively looking for me.
At that, my heart started beating at its regular pace again, and I tried to stamp down on the disappointment I could feel building. Hell, I’d known that he had a girlfriend. Known I couldn’t get involved with him. Known that I couldn’t afford to lose my heart to someone like him. And I’d been stupid and careless and done it anyhow.
When my eyes fell on my phone, though, I frowned. He could have had his agent call my agent and pass me a message. And if I wanted it to, that route could also work in reverse.
The question was: did I want to gamble with my heart again, in reaching out to him? Did I want to act on those days we spent in the jungle, when he touched me the way no one ever had before, and somehow wrapped my heart up in warmth and safety?
Or was I smarter now than I had been two weeks ago, and able to resist the temptation that was Rian Cassady and that damn smile?
Alexis
I awoke gasping, hot and wet and yearning from a dream about my night with Rian in The Jewel. I could feel his kiss on my lips, his hands on my breasts, his cock between my legs. I could feel the echo of his breath against my skin, almost hear him whispering my name in my ear.
I arched up into the darkness, my body screaming at the sudden lack of his presence, at the suddenness of the dream being yanked away from me, and my brain cried out. It had been so real that I could still feel the press of his skin, the tickle of his tongue. I closed my eyes, trying desperately to go back to that place, to fall asleep again and dive back into the dream, where he was.
Then, I came to a shuddering stillness on my bed, my breathing starting to return to normal. It was no good. The dream was fleeing, along with my need for sleep. I’d never get it back. So, I dragged myself out of the dream and back into reality, hating every second of it.
It wasn’t the first time I’d had the dream. Wasn’t the first time I’d spent the day having dreamt of him, feeling like I’d just seen him and that he would be around the next corner. But I’d never awoken so hot and bothered before, ready for him in all the ways that mattered. I’d never been able to hear his voice still echoing through my mind.
These dreams were getting stronger—and I knew what that meant. I’d been working my ass off since I returned to New York, and pretty much failing at what I was actually trying to do. There was a hole in my life that was Rian-shaped. A big, gaping, stupid hole. I hadn’t wanted to fall for him. I’d been so careful about it, tried so hard to protect myself.
Okay, that was a lie. I hadn’t tried that hard at all. I’d practically thrown myself at him, and then let him lead me right down the path to trouble. And in the process, I’d fallen for him, way too hard.
Dammit, dammit, dammit.
I turned and grabbed my phone from off the nightstand next to me. The poor thing had definitely seen better days. It had gone to China already pretty banged-up, then been nearly drowned—twice—and still somehow come out of the whole thing working. I knew I needed to get a new one, but there was something about knowing that I was still using a phone that Rian had been near that made it hard to think about getting rid of it.
Stupid. I know. Overly sentimental. Totally unlike me. I had told myself all of those things. And they hadn’t changed the way I felt.
Glancing at the time, I saw that it was already seven in the morning. Plenty late enough for Sophie to start answering some questions for me. I grinned at that thought and started typing.
Lex: Hey, wondering if you can do me a favor. I was in that hotel in China with a guy that I’d love to see again. Not for anything special, just b/c we were the only two there, basically, and had fun talking. He’s famous so I’m sure he has an agent and I’m sure you can figure out who that is. Name is Rian Cassady. Lead singer for 858.
I waited a beat, and then the answer came buzzing through.
Sophie: And why exactly do you want to reconnect?
I snorted. Like that was really any of her business. Still, there was an easy answer.
Lex: Like I said, we connected. Had a good time. Aren’t you always telling me to make more friends? I made one. I want to reconnect with him.
Sophie: Not a good idea, kid. I know who you’re talking about and he’s got a girlfriend. You don’t want to step on any toes.
Lex: I can’t see how there’s any problem with us being friends. I don’t want to fuck him, Sophie. I just want to say hi and see how he’s been.
Sophie: And I’m telling you it’s not a good idea. You’ll jeopardize his career—and you could do the same to yours. Have you thought of that? What it will look like if you’re seen drooling over someone like that? What will people say? You’re supposed to be older now, wiser. People think you should be settling down, not playing around with a rock star. Better yet, keep yourself available. Maintain that sex symbol status as long as you can, kid. It’s not going to last much longer. One or two more years and you’re going to be too old for this industry.
I blew out heavily through my nose. Sophie had to be the only person I’d ever met who could call me ‘kid’ and then tell me that I was getting too old in the same breath—and do it without any self-awareness or irony whatsoever.
And that didn’t even touch the bigger issue, which was that she was completely cockblocking me. Well, not cockblocking. I didn’t want to reach Rian to try to sleep with him. Again.
Seriously.
I wanted to talk to him because he’d understood me in a way I didn’t think anyone else had ever really understood me. He’d treated me like a human being rather than a clothes rack or a piece of meat. He’d appreciated me for who I was. And that time in the jungle, that quiet space without the buzz of reporters or traffic or cameras clicking…it held a soft spot in my heart. A spot that also held him.
I wanted to experience that again. Wanted that closeness. I didn’t think that was out of line.
Still, I could already see that Sophie wasn’t going to help me. Which meant I’d have to take things into my own hands. In the meantime, I tapped away from our conversation and to the schedule of classes for the photography college. I thumbed through, looking for the ones that interested me.
There. Photography 101, Composition. Photography 102, Black and White. Photography 103, Portraits.
That was the series I wanted. Those were the classes I wanted. And they were starting soon. If I could manage to get most of my contracts satisfied within the next month, and Alvaro gave me the go-ahead…
I might be able to take the entire winter off and go to school for the first time in my professional life. I’d quit school at sixteen to become a model, had gotten my GED from home, and had been keenly aware of it ever since. Keenly aware of that gap in my education.
I turned my imagination to that dream, planning out my future and where I would start my photography career, and put the Rian question to the side. I had a plan brewing in my head there, and I didn
’t think it was going to be too difficult. But it was going to take exactly the right timing.
And some excellent hiding on my part. Because Sophie liked to have me followed when she thought I was doing something she didn’t approve of. And boy oh boy, was she going to disapprove of this.
I glanced out my window at the sunlight starting to stream down the street and saw that the guys who put up the billboards had been out in force last night. The one right outside my window, which had been a car ad when I went to bed last night, was now advertising a new rock tour coming up. And it had a familiar face on it. It was from a familiar shoot, actually.
Rian, looking up at the camera through kohl-lined eyes, the jungle bright and green behind him. I could practically smell the rain in the air, feel the humidity on my skin. See him on one side of that clearing while people milled around with cameras and phones and clipboards on the other side.
Hear the sound of his voice in my ear.
I flopped over onto my other side, forcing my thoughts back to photography classes—and the plan I was making to see that very face again.
Alexis
The next day, I had one of the biggest gigs of my life. Or, rather, I had the same biggest gig of my life again this year as I’d had every other year since I was sixteen. Fashion Week in New York City. It wasn’t Fashion Week in Paris or Milan, but man was it a big deal in my industry. Particularly for the three million and one models living and trying to make it in the city itself. This was the big kahuna, the golden ticket, the thing we all strived for.
It was where I’d first made it, at sixteen, walking for one of the biggest and most established labels the industry had to offer. I remembered my first time walking down that catwalk, my eyes wide with fear and my heart practically pounding its way out of my chest. I hadn’t known what the hell I was getting into, then.
I still didn’t know, half the time. The industry still scared the hell out of me, and at this point, I was a ten-year veteran. And a lucky one at that. I’d stuck. I’d beaten the landmines of creepy photographers and agents, eating disorders, and drugs. I’d kept on the straight and narrow and come out on the other side to actually consider this more than just a career, but my business.
And, through all of it, New York’s Fashion Week had been my steady date. The one I could always count on, the one who never let me down.
Yeah, I’d walked in Paris. Milan. London. Tokyo. Bigger markets, bigger runways. But this was still where it had all began, and this was still where my heart beat the hardest.
I was up at four in the morning, my face cleanly scrubbed, dressed in my most comfortable sweats and tennis shoes and out the door by 4:30. The first rule of Fashion Week was to arrive as early as possible and get into hair and makeup before the hair and makeup artists got tired or bored. The second rule was to wear the most comfortable street clothes you had, so you could fall back into them once the day was over. I was going to spend the rest of the day in the tightest, most ridiculous clothes possible, along with heels that no one should ever be forced to wear for more than thirty seconds. Hell, I’d been in heels women shouldn’t have to wear for ten seconds.
But it was all worth it to be part of this show again.
I hailed a cab and gave the driver the address, then took another sip of coffee from my thermos and let my mind wander to the day ahead of me. There were going to be important people there today—really important people—and I had some important connections to make. Sophie was right that I wasn’t going to be able to stay in my current position forever. Sure, I was still doing just fine. My body was fit and toned, thanks to too many hours in the gym and a sometimes-ridiculous diet. My face was holding up quite nicely—thanks to an equally strict beauty regimen—and I had plenty of fans both inside the industry and out.
But I wanted to move upward. And to do that, I needed to start letting people know my plans. Today was going to be a step in that direction. I was there to model, sure. But I was also there to start talking to other photographers, agents, and reps from the labels. Reps from the magazines and retailers. It was time to start telling people that I had plans to become a photographer. Which meant I’d be expecting them to hire me in an entirely different capacity. To give me a chance in something new.
Many models never got that chance. Many industry sorts didn’t want to see models moving on to different careers. Or they didn’t trust them to be able to do anything more than stand around looking pretty.
I’d been studying the industry for a long time, though, and I was planning to scale that wall and hit the ground on the other side running.
“Manhattan Center,” the cabbie announced over his shoulder, bringing his car to a screeching halt.
I braced myself against the front seat, blinking in surprise at how quick the trip had been, and noticed that my coffee had spilled on the back of his seat. Dammit.
Deciding quickly that worse things had probably happened to this cab—and in it—I gave the guy his fee and jumped out, dragging my duffel bag with me.
The second I was out of the car, the rush of Fashion Week hit me. The tents spread out before me in all their white glory, billowing out in the midwinter wind, the area lit by spotlights and independent standing lights, and heated by those freestanding heaters. I went to stand under one, and just watched for a moment.
The place was already jumping with action. People were rushing around like they were running late to a party, microphones strapped to their heads, their phones to their ears. Everyone was wearing some form of puffy jacket, thanks to the early hour and time of year, but it was easy to see which were models—tall and willowy beneath the puffy down—and which were organizers, makeup artists, or assistants—shorter and quicker in their movements.
I saw that almost everyone was moving either to or from a tent to my right, so I turned in that direction. That was the first show, and that was where I needed to be. If I was lucky, I would be earlier than most of the other models and get my favorite of the hair and makeup people. They also happened to be the first people I wanted to tell about my career change idea.
If I got my absolutely favorite makeup artist, I could also ask him for some advice about the change. He’d never hesitated to give me advice before, and he’d helped me make some of the best moves of my career. He’d also done a lot in terms of warning me against certain moves—and certain people.
Hey, I’d been in the business a long time. After a while, you started to figure out where to look for contacts, even if they happened to work behind the scenes. You started to get a feel for who you could trust to tell you the truth, and who would lie to you just to make you smile. Or make money off you.
But Jerome, the magician makeup artist, was someone I could trust. Someone who would tell me the truth. And make me smile at the same time. Speaking of someone that could also do all those things and more…
If I’d known Rian was going to pop into my mind at all the most inconvenient times, I would have been a lot more careful about how much time I’d spent with him. Because it was damned inconvenient to miss someone so much when you’d only had a few days with them and didn’t even have their phone number. Or the first clue whether you’d ever be able to get it.
Rian
I slid my feet into my shoes and walked to the mirror in the bathroom to run a comb through the mess I currently called hair, my phone to my ear. My agent was on the line, saying something or other about the tour we had coming up and the big plans the label had for me—for the band—but I was hardly listening. Honestly, I’d heard all of it so many times that I probably could have recited it verbatim at that point.
None of it meant anything. None of the promises. None of the ideas. This tour, I knew, would be just like every other tour had always been. A blur of cities that we never even got to see, flights every day—sometimes two in one day, depending on how closely the shows had been booked—huge stadiums with thousands of faceless fans, each of them holding a phone to either take pictures or light up
for one of the few ballads. Signings that should have taken place at record shops but now happened at small clubs where I wished we were playing.
And the people. My God, the people. All of them screaming your name, wanting selfies, wanting your autograph, telling you about their cousin who was so talented with a guitar and if you would just give him a chance, he would blow your mind. And those were the good ones. That didn’t even bring into account the ones who would do the opposite. Tell me how much we sucked. How much we’d disappointed them with our last album. What sellouts we were. How we should quit the business entirely and go work at a gas station.
Yes, people actually said that. More often than you would think.
I was exhausted just thinking about it.
But I was also well aware that this was what paid the bills. This was what had made me famous, and this was what kept me there. I didn’t know who I’d be without it. Didn’t even know where I’d be—or what I’d be doing. So, I nodded and said yes or no when my agent needed me to, added a couple of ideas for some of the graphics, and even suggested adding some smaller clubs to the bill.
That was shot down, of course. Every venue was already booked and the tickets sold. We didn’t have time for any additional stops. Hell, I wasn’t even going to get time to go visit my parents while we were in San Diego. They were going to have to come to the show, where they’d get backstage passes so they could come back and give me a hug.
“That’s it, I think,” John finished up. “You got all that?”
“Well, you’re going to send me an email, right?” I asked, already knowing the answer. “Something that lays out the whole schedule for me?”
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