by Mary
The thought makes me frown. Her face was sincere when she asked to take my picture, even though every other word out of her mouth was a direct hit.
I chuckle, remembering the look on her face when she said she knew I wasn’t a model. So full of chagrin and embarrassment. An oddly sweet mixture.
While no one should be shocked that I’m not a model, it’s equally unshocking that Gwen is a former model. She has the trademarks of someone who stepped off the runway, all long and lean—except not quite as waifish—with perfectly sculpted features.
When I asked Marissa why Gwen was bad news, she only said Gwen was flighty and naïve and Brent was better off without her. But Gwen didn’t come off that way, not in the few minutes we spent chatting.
Marissa’s warning piqued my interest enough that I took the time to google Gwen McDougall. A bunch of old articles came up in the search feed. She was the hot new thing for a fashion line one year, and in the next she had moved behind the camera and one of her shots was front and center in Times Square. Then a few months after that, an article in Stylz, Marissa’s magazine, stated that Gwen had had some kind of meltdown and couldn’t handle the pressures of her new job. Sources close to her had said she was unreliable, perhaps faking her success—no information about how she pulled that off exactly, which made me think it was bunk. Though, her boyfriend and best friend were quoted saying that she’d cracked and gone off the deep end.
I can’t quite fit the allegations in the article with the woman I met. Then again, this article is over a year old. People change. Besides, everyone is entitled to a little meltdown every now and then. I don’t know why this one thing makes Marissa so concerned about Gwen and Brent but . . . whatever.
I shrug the thoughts off and focus. I have to get this work done so I can get out of here.
Over two hours later, I’m done fixing the report numbers and charts and everything else. Dad really needs to retire, but as long as he’s having fun partying, I don’t think he’ll ever give it up. Which means I’ll be spending the next however many years trailing behind him with a virtual DustBuster, cleaning up his mess.
Anxious to be home, knowing Marissa is waiting, I call down to the lobby for a company car.
I wave to the security guards as I jog past them to the elevators.
I’m in such a hurry that I don’t realize until I’m halfway down Lexington that I forgot my cell back at the office.
“Dammit.” I didn’t call Marissa to let her know, but it’s too late now.
I nod at the doorman while speed walking to yet another elevator. The ride up is twice as long as normal.
Everything feels off, but I can’t pinpoint the reason.
When I get to our floor, instead of rushing into the apartment, I take my time and open the door quietly, stepping inside and shutting it behind me without a sound.
Voices come from the living room.
“Come on Brent, Marc will never know.” It’s Marissa, speaking with a teasing lilt I haven’t heard before.
I freeze in the hallway. I can’t see them, but I can hear Brent’s response.
“Marissa. Stop. Marc is my brother. Besides, I’ve told you before. I’m not interested.”
Before?
And immediately after that thought, Again?
I should have seen it coming. Maybe a part of me did see it coming, hence the creeping in the entryway like a stalker.
The problem is that I always want to believe that this time . . . this time, a girl will want me for me and not my attractive and athletic brother.
When will I learn?
I shake my head and take a deep breath to thaw out my frozen limbs.
“Hey, guys.” I stop in the doorway from the entry to the living room.
Brent is standing, arms crossed, behind the recliner in the corner. His jaw is tense and his eyes swing toward me, full of apology and something else I can’t stand. Pity.
Marissa is on the recliner, facing him, and she’s naked. Her head spins around and her mouth gapes opens. I half expect her eyes to pop out of her head and roll away like a cartoon.
“You were supposed to call before you left the office.”
I almost laugh. “Well. I’m real sorry about that, Marissa.”
I wait to see if she’s going to get the irony of my apology, considering she’s sitting there naked and propositioning my brother, but the moment doesn’t come.
Instead, it’s just silence. They’re both looking at me and I’m looking around the room. “Where are your clothes?”
“What? That’s all you have to say? You don’t even care that your brother, that he, that he—”
“That he what? Turned you down?”
She stands and crosses her arms over her chest. It’s not a bad chest, I’ve enjoyed it myself a few times over the last couple of months, but at this point I can barely stand to look at her. Even my inner caveman, who loves looking at boobs, won’t take a minute to enjoy the view. My stomach is churning.
“Put your clothes on and leave.”
“You can’t tell me what to do. No one can,” she snaps. But she does move, stomping down the hall in the direction of the bedrooms. She left her clothes in there?
“Marc . . .” says Brent.
“Not now.” I take a few steps into the living room and drop into the plush leather sofa, resting my elbows on my knees and my face in my hands.
I want nothing more than to go hide in my room, but I have to wait until Marissa gets dressed and I have no idea which room she left her clothes in, Brent’s or mine. And how did she ever think I wouldn’t find out? Although, Brent did say he’d told her before. How many times has she thrown herself at him? And why didn’t he tell me?
The clomping of her feet heralds her return. Her clothes have been yanked on, topped with a scowl on her face. “You guys suck.” She stomps toward the door and I wait to hear the door slam, but instead there’s silence for a few long seconds. Brent and I lock gazes, waiting. Then there’s a big crash right before the front door opens and then slams shut.
“She broke the Japanese vase,” Brent says.
“Yep.”
“I need a drink.” He disappears into the kitchen and a couple moments later reemerges with two open beers in his hands.
He passes me one and I take a long drink. “I need something stronger.”
He moves to the small bar in the corner and opens the scotch, bringing me a small glass before sitting next to me on the plush couch.
Dad’s designer furnished the apartment for me. Brent moved in when Bella left and he couldn’t stand being alone. It made sense, since we’re both rarely here anyway. There are three bedrooms and every amenity you could ever need, including a gym for Brent to work out in the off-season. It’s wasteful to have two barely used apartments when we can comfortably live in the same one and still rarely see each other. I’m rethinking that decision, though.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m sorry, man. I was going to, but the last time she tried something, she was drunk and I thought it didn’t mean anything. I shrugged it off and she never mentioned it so I thought she forgot. It was not like this. And after Cynthia . . .” He runs a hand through his hair and grimaces.
He won’t say it outright, but the last girlfriend I had was also using me to get to Brent and didn’t even bother hiding it after the first couple of dates.
“At least you know now,” he says. “Better to find out someone’s true colors early on. She’s gone for good.”
The words are supposed to make me feel better, and in a way, they do. But another part of me is supremely disappointed. Not necessarily that Marissa is gone. We’d only been dating a couple months, and thanks to my work, we barely saw each other as it was.
My heart’s not broken because of her.
What hurts more are the self-defeating thoughts. Will I ever find someone who wants me and not him? Will I always be in my broth
er’s shadow? Will I always have to worry that anyone I end up with would rather be with him? I’m not as hot as he is. I know it. I’m not as athletic, famous, or even as wealthy as Brent.
Why would anyone pick me?
~*~
The next morning, I’m in the kitchen making a cup of coffee when Brent appears in the doorway, holding his laptop. “Remember how I said Marissa was gone for good?” He turns it around so I can see the screen. “I lied.”
“What is that?” It’s some kind of web article. There’s a picture of him at the top of the page, but I can’t make out the words.
I walk closer and read the words out loud. “Brent Crawford—Superman or super sexual . . . predator?” My brows lift and I meet his eyes, taking in his pale face and shocked expression.
“The picture is from that night she was drunk and came on to me.”
It’s not a clear shot, but from all appearances she’s passed out and he’s leaning over her.
“Based on the angle, her phone must have been on the table by the couch. She hit on me and then I helped her into an Uber. I had to practically carry her downstairs. That pic must have been taken when I was helping her up.” He sighs and shakes his head. “The article says that I came on to her and then blamed her when you walked in on us.”
I grab the laptop and put it on the counter so I can skim down the words, my heart pounding with the implications. This could ruin Brent’s career. And tank the company. The amount Dad’s insisted we sink into this retail rollout is not something I want to contemplate right now, but if I don’t, who will? “This is all my fault.” Marissa planned these shots, weeks ago. How did I not see what she was really about? How could I miss it?
“It’s not your fault she’s crazy. You didn’t publish these pictures.”
“No, but I decided to date her and let her into our lives. I should have seen it sooner. You saw it sooner. Why didn’t you say something?”
“I didn’t see this. I knew she wasn’t the one for you, but I didn’t think she would stoop to something so . . . damaging to our whole family. There’s no one to blame here but the real culprit. Marissa.”
He’s not blaming me, but the words hurt because they’re true. “I’ll contact the paper.”
“It won’t matter. Even if they print a retraction, it’ll be in fine print on the last page.” He winces. “Starlee is going to kill me. Dad is going to kill me. I’m supposed to be the all-American poster boy for the company, not . . .” He runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “Whatever this is.”
“I’m surprised Starlee hasn’t—”
Brent’s phone chirps. He pulls it out of his pocket and looks at the display, lifting his brows.
“—called yet.”
As he turns away to answer the call, I turn my focus back on the coffee maker. “Hi, Starlee,” he says.
Brent winces and holds the phone away from his ear while Starlee screeches on the other end. I can’t quite make out the words, only the volume. The shouting stops suddenly.
“She’s coming over,” Brent explains. “She said don’t talk to anyone.”
Within minutes she’s at the door, fresh-faced and raring to go.
We’re still sitting in the living room in our robes and underwear, silent, too shocked to process anything.
“We need a plan, like now, like five minutes ago, like three days ago.” Starlee is five feet two inches of terror packed into a smart black suit. She operates on only two levels of emotion. If she’s not at a ten, she’s at a twelve. But I guess, being one of only a handful of female sports agents, she doesn’t have much of a choice. It’s always about proving herself.
“Three of your sponsors are already talking about pulling out and the Sharks issued a statement that they’re going to open an internal investigation, which could result in a suspension.” She puts her briefcase on the counter and clicks it open. “What did you do to piss off crazy-pants Marissa Reeves?”
“Crazy pants?” Brent asks.
“Yeah.” She pulls out her copy of the magazine and flips it open to the article in question. “It’s what everyone calls her. She’s nuts. Why didn’t you tell me you were dating her?”
“I wasn’t dating her, Marc was dating her.”
“Marc,” she barks.
I shrug. “I didn’t know she was crazy. I don’t put much stock into rumors and hearsay.”
“Well. Done but can’t be undone. Now we have to fix it. What happened?”
Brent explains the details of our evening and how he thinks she got the photo.
“Okay.” She taps a finger against her lips. “I’ll issue a statement. We’re going to say that you fully support and will cooperate with any investigation the Sharks want to pursue.”
“Of course,” Brent says.
“I’m also going to mention that Marissa hasn’t filed any charges and get some people tweeting about that little nugget to help sway some of the media in your favor.” She shakes her head and sighs. “I doubt she’ll go there. Knowing Marissa, she doesn’t want legal fees, just media attention. And then we need to work on recovering your good boy image. You need a girlfriend quick. A good girlfriend. Someone famous, but not too famous. Hot, but likeable. Someone people like a lot. America’s-sweetheart type. You know anyone?”
Brent glances over at me and then back at Starlee and shrugs.
I clear my throat. “I think I might.”
Chapter Five
A thing that you see in my pictures is that I was not afraid to fall in love with these people.
–Annie Leibovitz
Gwen
“Holy crap,” I murmur and take a sip of my coffee, skimming the article about Brent in Stylz. “Sexual predator?”
I only met Brent once, but he was . . . not smarmy. I can’t believe it. The man could get anyone he wants with his fame and money and good looks alone, plus he’s funny and nice. It’s like finding a rainbow-colored unicorn in the middle of Manhattan.
Not that that means anything. I shouldn’t let my own issues with Marissa affect my thoughts about an allegation of this nature. Crappy people get assaulted, too. But I can’t help wondering . . .
Is Marissa lying?
Why would she lie?
I grimace at the photos in the article. He’s just standing there. How did she get these shots anyway? It looks like a camera phone, maybe with some kind of timer.
There was a B-list actor, a couple years ago, that she became obsessed with. Lucky told me the story, so I have to take it with a grain of salt, but apparently she followed the guy one night when he was on a date, all the way back to his apartment and listened to him hooking up with someone else at the door.
She had a weird thing for Lucky, too, which is why I think she printed the article about me. There’s no doubt she’s got a screw loose.
Did she switch her fixation to Brent? I’ve never seen her print something like this, though.
I don’t have time to think about Marissa very long because my phone and email start going crazier than she is. I’ve already responded to some of the jobs I can’t do—mostly the personal shoots, I need more professional jobs to bulk up my portfolio—and I schedule out the stuff I want to work on for the next two weeks.
Things are finally taking off and I have my own little fifteen minutes of fame to thank.
Except . . . I got yet another rejection. I’ve been trying to get someone to listen to my idea for a photo essay and I keep getting doors shut in my face.
It’s bad enough that editors take one look at me and assume I’m a ditzy blonde; toting around nothing more than celebrity shots and models in my portfolio is like having herpes. I guess I should be grateful they even took the time to respond with their rejection.
I’ve been pitching the idea of an inside look into endangered cultures around the world. I want to start with the Kalash, an indigenous people who’ve managed to retain and practice their unique religion, custo
ms, and traditions despite being nestled in the middle of predominantly Muslim Pakistan. There are only three thousand Kalash left. And that’s just a jumping-off point. There are so many cultures around the world that are rapidly disappearing under an onslaught of technological advancement and encroaching settlements. Someone has to capture them while we still can. And I want that someone to be me.
I was hoping since the Wonder Woman article went viral that I would have a better chance for an interview at least.
No matter, there are other magazines and I’m going to apply to all of them. Someone will listen, eventually.
In the afternoon I’m running from one job to another when I get yet another call.
“Gwen McDougall,” I answer.
“Gwen, this is Starlee Miller. We’ve met before, at a charity event a couple years ago.”
I mentally rack my brain. Starlee Miller. Petite, dark hair, her husband works for News Weekly, a popular political rag. I only remember her because of her spouse, actually. His best friend is Warren Bateman, a Pulitzer Prize–winning photographer.
“Right. The Children’s Hospital gala.”
“Yes.” She sounds surprised that I remember her. “I was wondering if we could meet sometime today. I have an offer for you that I need to talk to you about in person.”
I have to admit, I’m curious. And even though she’s only indirectly associated with someone I greatly admire and would love to meet, in this industry, it isn’t only about talent. It’s about who you know, regardless of what people like to say in interviews and print. If I could get someone to put in a good word, maybe I’d have a chance.
“I’m heading to a shoot this afternoon, but I can meet you after. Say six?”
“Great. McClaren’s on Fifty-Fifth, you know it?”
“I do.” An Irish pub with your typical bar fare, but nice ambience.
We agree to meet and then hang up.
I don’t have much time to ponder the conversation or what Starlee Miller might want from me because my afternoon is filled with shoots for an article in Page Seven and a few personal photography sessions I scheduled prior to the viral article.