by Toby Neal
“And what’s that Harley in the garage?”
“Mine. Decided it was time you knew.”
“Oh, Pearl, they’re so dangerous!” Ruby puts her hands up to her cheeks like the kid in Home Alone. “And now what’s wrong?”
“I broke up with Magnus Thorne. Again.”
“Dammit, sis.” Ruby props her chin on her hands on the edge of the tub. “What’s with him? You waited the two years and everything! It’s not like you don’t have other options.”
“I don’t care about my options.” The cool ice cream is soothing on my abraded throat. “But I do I need to get over him. Move on. I think I need to go see Dr. Rosenfeld again and figure out why I pick men who can’t love me.”
“What about Brandon? He seems like a good guy. Genuinely smitten with you.”
“I can’t date him. Melissa’s orders.”
“Come on, Pearl. It’s been two years and Brandon’s still hanging around. Maybe it’s time both of you stand up to his mother.”
“I would if I felt about him like I do about Magnus.” I fumble for a washcloth, blow my nose. “Maybe when I’m over Magnus. If I ever get over Magnus.” And my throat spasms with sobs, and I hand Ruby the ice cream carton and slide all the way under the water again.
Magnus
She left in the earliest dawn today, getting up out of bed, slipping into her leathers, sneaking outside. I know she rolled her bike down the driveway, away from the cabin to start it, because I hear its throaty roar in the distance, and that’s when I finally sit up, feeling like I’ve been sandbagged.
I pretended to be asleep beside her, but the truth was, I didn’t sleep all night. I just lay holding her and listening to the soft sound of her breathing. Feeling her in my arms.
Wondering how the hell I’m going to survive giving her up.
Pearl Moon Michaels. Literally one of the most beautiful women in the world. ln my arms. Loving me, even if she doesn’t say the words.
What a travesty my life is.
I get out of bed in slow motion, knowing I’m feeling sorry for myself, that I can hardly move I’m so sledgehammered by pain of a kind I don’t know how to deal with.
Physical pain I can take. Bring it on. Been there, done that, got the scars to prove it. But this pain? And no drugs, no drinking to take the edge off? It’s asking a lot; it’s really fucking asking a lot.
Dammit. This head trip isn’t helping.
I get the coffee going with Whiskey watching me accusingly. “She had to go, Whiskey. She would never fit in here. Never fit in with my lifestyle.” Whiskey blinks his eyes. Doesn’t wag his tail. Puts his head down. Snuffles into his paws.
He liked her, too.
Pearl’s amazing hair, perfect body, that stunning face—all famous, all known by the world. But it’s not the obvious, show-stopping things about her that I treasure. No, it’s the little things no one else knows.
The curve of her ear, so tender and pink, and that little hollow behind it where her scent hides. She jumps and giggles when I put my nose there to breathe her in. And just above her absolutely stunning ass, in one of the dimples just above it, is a tiny brown mole like an accent mark.
I love that mole.
I think I might have a tattoo of it done somewhere that I can look and remember.
I fire up the chainsaw as soon as I get my work clothes back on, trying not to think of the expression she had on her face as she watched me get those same clothes off yesterday afternoon.
She looked at me like I was the best thing ever she’d seen in her life, and I know that can’t be true.
I tear into the half-cut tree from yesterday, and the total focus required drives her out of my mind for a few hours that I extend by working my way down the long rutted road. Loading the logs, I’ve cut into the truck, trimming the branches, then moving and stacking them to dry for firewood takes the rest of the day, during which I blast rock music through my headphones so I don’t think of her.
I’m exhausted and numb and finally, almost done with the work. Branches still litter the dirt road, but things are looking better when Mom’s battered white Ford turns in.
I’m thankful she was away at a council meeting yesterday or she’d have seen Pearl ride her shiny new bike up to me in those leathers. And she’d have been aware of what happened after.
Raven stops beside me and rolls down her window. She’s in full tribal regalia, her own leathers and beads, and I’m doubly glad she didn’t run into Pearl. I know Pearl’s afraid of her, and she should be.
“You got a lot done.” Her eyes are sharp on me. She reads me like tea leaves, always has, and she sees something in my face and pounces on it like the raven she is. “That woman doesn’t belong here.”
“She isn’t here,” I snarl. “Mind your own damn business.”
She puts the truck in gear and drives past without further comment.
Mom doesn’t like that Pearl’s white. She’s been on my case since I brought Pearl here so briefly two years ago. “So many nice girls from our tribe and you have to bring home a white woman.” She’s been relentless.
But that’s not why I resisted Pearl two years ago, or why I sent her away, now. No. It’s a much darker reason.
Chapter 28
Pearl
I stop going to my noon meeting. I’m afraid to run into Magnus there. Instead I throw myself into work, and when I’m not at a shoot, I’m working out at the gym. Only when I’m really, savagely pounding the weights and running on the treadmill, am I exhausted enough to sleep.
In the three weeks since I made my play for Magnus and lost, I lose ten pounds.
This is good news. I’ve always been on the edge of too-curvy, getting scoldings from my personal manager, Odile, who will actually grab my waist and pinch if she thinks I’m getting too big. Now she smiles. “Finally you can do more runway work.”
“I’m still too big for that.” I don’t really like runway work. It’s hectic, and I don’t enjoy the experience of being an exotic creature, prancing up and down like a show horse—because that’s what I feel like, swishing my mane and tail as I sway and stomp back and forth.
Not really me. The idea of me. Which has always been easier to tolerate in front of a camera than an entire roomful of critical people.
Odile must have told Melissa about my weight loss because my agent summons me for a meeting. She has my portfolio open on her desk when I enter the inner sanctum, and she’s leafing through the various spreads. She looks up and smiles, her hazel eyes almost warm.
“Have a seat, Pearl.” I park myself on one of the silk-covered chairs in front of her desk. “I’d like to review your progress with the agency so far.” She looks me over assessingly.
I didn’t wear makeup today, and my hair is down and loose. I dressed in a black turtleneck and jeans, my default outfit. I loop my interlaced fingers around one knee.
“I’m still happy with your management of my career.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” She takes retro-looking reading glasses out of a little crystal holder on her desk and puts them on. She leafs to a spread from a lingerie show, gestures for me to look at it.
It’s the show where I debuted the bra and panties set I wore to seduce Magnus Thorne.
That set is now wadded into a ball, way in the back of my underwear drawer. I washed them, but I can’t bear to wear them. Or throw them away.
“This.” She taps a photo of me striding out in the underwear, rhinestone-covered heels sparkling on my feet. “This was the apex of your career so far. You were in a few shows with the Big Six, but you haven’t broken in to the point that you’ve made it the Big Seven.” She’s talking about the Big Six supermodels, the “women of the nineteen nineties” so famous that they’re only known by their first names: Christy, Linda, Naomi, Claudia, Kate, and Tatjana.
“I’ve been happy to do what I’m doing. I don’t need to be Big Seven. I don’t really like runway work.”
“They don’t do m
uch runway work. Just a couple of shows a year—but those shows are important. And even if you’re not ambitious for yourself, I’m ambitious for you.” She taps her glossy nails together in that way she has. “Congratulations on your weight loss. It brings out your eyes even more, and your bones.” She extends a fingertip to touch my collarbone ever so lightly. It’s a possessive touch. I know she uses words like “copyrighted look,” “product,” and “asset,” to describe me and the other models in her stable, and I know she thinks of us that way.
It doesn’t bother me. I get it.
Melissa goes on. “I think we need a dramatic new look for you. A haircut. Something really cutting edge. Everyone associates you with Rapunzel hair. What if you didn’t have it? What would you be known for then? Your features are special too.”
“I don’t know if I like that idea.” I feel a quaver in my belly at the thought of losing my hair. It’s been my trademark. And something to hide behind, if the truth be known, when I need to.
“I’m thinking about a whole rebrand. So far we’ve pushed you as the sweet, WASPy, milkmaid American girl. This new look would be edgier. You’d be saying, in effect, that you have this stunning hair and you’re so beautiful you don’t even need it. You can whack it all off and still be one of the most beautiful women in the world. I wonder if you’re up for that. If you believe it yourself.” Melissa cocks her head as she looks at me. I’m reminded of a blackbird eyeing something shiny.
“I don’t have to believe it. The camera has to.” I know that now, from my time in front of the camera so far. I can act, true, and I have a gift for projecting my emotions, but I don’t always need to feel them for them to translate. The camera still seems to love my face, and sometimes my ambivalence translates to a hypnotic charm.
“You’re my manager. If you think this is the way to go, let’s do it,” I say. Now that I don’t have Magnus to look forward to, I find myself constantly pushing to feel something. Riding too fast. Staying out late dancing. So far I’ve kept it under control and nothing’s happened, but the possibility of disaster somehow perks me up. And this haircut could be a disaster.
Melissa leans back and smiles. “You’ve always had guts, Pearl. I like that about you.” She pushes a button on her desk. “Send in Chad and Francine.”
A few minutes later Chad Wicke, whose test shots first “discovered” me, arrives with Francine, the stunning hairdresser I met on my first day at the Melissa Agency.
Melissa gestures to me. “Stand up, Pearl. Everyone, I want you to take a good look at her. She’s been flirting with the edge of the Big Six for the last year, but things are going stale for her lately.” I didn’t know that. I keep my face carefully blank as she goes on. “I’d like your opinion on a radical styling and rebranding change. She’s lost weight recently, and my idea is to give her a short, edgy haircut. Make a big event of it. Auction her hair for charity or something. Film the whole thing. Then, debut her as the blonde who’s so beautiful she doesn’t even need that hair.”
Both Chad and Francine circle me. I gaze into the middle distance, unfocused, the place I go during shows. Chad pouts, pushing his lips into a little moue as he considers me. Today he’s in lime-green stovepipe trousers and a horizontally-striped shirt that reminds me of a mime. Meanwhile, Francine lifts handfuls of hair and inspects me. Her skin is the rich color of creamy coffee, and she smells like gardenias.
“You sure about this, Melissa? I mean, this is good hair.” She sounds regretful. It makes the quaver in my belly deepen.
“I’m sure. We need something drastic to kick her to the next level.”
“Well, then, I’m thinking a really short cut. No halfway measures. She’s got natural curl, so if I do an allover buzz on her, the curls will coil up all over her head like a little lamb.” Francine is still sifting my hair thoughtfully as Chad leans in.
“That will really bring out her bone structure. I can redo her portfolio shots. This will be fun.” He rubs his hands together in anticipation.
“I’m glad you all are enjoying this. Tell me where and when to show up,” I say.
We set up a date and time and Melissa picks up the phone. “I’m calling Vogue and some other magazines for coverage. I’ll have my assistant find the right venue to donate to.” She meets my eyes and cocks a finger. “Enjoy your last few days of hiding behind that hair.”
Melissa always sees too much.
Magnus
It’s been three weeks since Pearl spent the night. I’ve kept busy around the place doing repairs, painting, cleaning up the barn. It’s never looked so good, but my next deployment could come any day. Memories of Pearl ambush me and make the nights long. I’ve stopped going to the lunchtime recovery meeting where I met her, afraid to see her again. But every time I think of the meeting I should be going to, the first time I saw her there replays in my mind.
Pearl’s long legs in black jeans were thrust into the circle, crossed at the ankle. A worn hoodie concealed and engulfed her. Under the hood, I could see a shadowed, stunning face, the lush mouth sad and angry.
She gave me a long once-over when I sat down, and then began to put on moves, batting huge blue eyes of a light crystalline color like a tropical ocean, fringed in ridiculous lashes. She twisted her legs together and wriggled on the seat in that way that told me she was aroused. Of course that got a response going, which I suppressed with the thought of how young she was. Just a messed-up kid at her first recovery meeting, trying to pass the time by yanking my chain.
When I didn’t give her any encouragement, she unzipped the hoodie so I could get a load of the curves I was trying to ignore. Tossing back the hood, she let a waterfall of silver-blonde curls out of hiding. Her mouth was pouty as hell, and she licked her lips, staring me down. This girl knew what to do with her mouth.
I managed to leave her in the dust that day, but staking out the drug action in the park for one of my little off-the-books takedowns, I spotted her making a beeline to score, and I had to stop her.
I distracted her with a kiss that was playing with fire, and I got hooked on the feel of her behind me on the Harley, her sleek thighs tight on mine, her breasts pressed against my back as she begged for motorcycle therapy. Truth was, it would have taken a saint to resist Pearl when she wanted something, and I’ve never been a saint.
Mom tries to take advantage of me being home to get me involved with tribal crap. She drags me to meetings where I endure the rhetoric and bickering, and afterwards, the set-ups she’s engineered with this cousin’s daughter’s best friend or that auntie’s stepdaughter. On the third of these “just wanted you to meet someone” attempts, I’m nice to the girl because it’s not her fault, but I confront Mom in the car.
“I’m not dating anyone, Mom. My job.”
“You won’t be doing that job forever.” Raven doesn’t know what it is, but she knows better than to ask. “And I want you settled.”
“Mom.” I’m driving the truck this time, and I squint at her. “Getting me settled isn’t up to you. Because I won’t settle. When I’m ready, when it’s the right time, I’m going to be with someone I want to be with. Period.”
“We have to preserve. . .”
“Like you did?” I can’t believe she’s harping on this, when my father was an American Samoan of mixed heritage she met while they were both in the Marines. She got pregnant; he died in a military accident. She’s had a hard road raising me on her own, but I’m hardly a pureblood anything.
“It’s because I did what I did that I want something different for you.”
“Well, give it up. It turns me off on anyone you’re throwing at me the minute I get that vibe.”
She subsides, staring moodily out the window. We often don’t get along, and I wonder if I should move to Boston proper as I’ve considered numerous times. I’d be out of her reach and that would be good.
But it would be hard to find a place where Whiskey could have the care and space he needs, and I like the solitude of the
country and access to my training course.
I’m so irritated with Raven I don’t say goodbye, just park the truck and jog into the house. Whiskey’s waiting, and he senses my mood and watches eagerly as I change into my workout wear. Donning my backpack and running shoes, I head out into the forest with Whiskey at my side.
It’s a distance from the house to the training ground I built, and we settle into a good run. I need to burn off the negativity that seems to attach to me whenever I slow down, and this afternoon’s meeting, with its argumentative dickering over the plans for the tribe’s new casino, counts as slow.
The girl Mom sat next to me was small, with a nice body. Nothing like Pearl. Nobody’s like Pearl, and it’s really not fair to other women to compare them. Her name began with an S. Sherry? Sheena? I shake my head. I don’t give a crap what her name was.
I remembered to pick up some weights at the last minute as I hit the trail, and I’ve been pumping two twenty-pound dumbbells this whole time. Reaching the training area, I’ve finally broken a sweat. I set down the weights and swing off the backpack. Whiskey noses around the bases of the trees, lifting a leg and finding good smells.
He’d hate living in the city.
And I’d be closer to Pearl. That’s not a good thing.
I tie Whiskey to a tree so I don’t accidentally hit him while working the course. I screw silencers on my weapons—no sense drawing attention to what I’m doing out here.
The training area is set up over a square half-mile area. Obstacles. Targets. Different hazards. I open my backpack. I get on the various holsters and holders I need for throwing knives, ammo, arrow quiver, the rifle and sidearm. I even use a blowpipe sometimes. Nothing better for quiet disabling of a close target.
I drink some water. Do some stretches.
As I hoist the distance rifle to my shoulder, I feel that mindless calm descend, that place of detachment where I go. It’s a peaceful place mentally, and I need that ever since she came and disrupted everything. In that place I’m alert, processing all the sensory input from around me, but not engaged with it.