by Lexi Black
“Get a scoop?” She turns to Jordan, brushing me off as the unworthy commoner I am.
“She filled me in on August’s ideas and schedules. Nothing earth shattering,” Jordan answers her, walking away from me and clearly enthralled with the new arrival. I realize that even though my body is present, I am no longer in the room.
“Your driver is in the main suite,” Dagney tells me, pointing at the door because I am either too star struck or stupid to figure out it is time to leave. Jordan gives me a hasty goodbye, while motioning for Dagney to sit down. I’m sure they have a strategy meeting of some kind scheduled.
Chloe stands when I come out, and guides me to the car outside. She never seems to be troubled or impatient. She was just waiting by the door as if in a trance. I’m so full of sexual tension and confusion I can barely walk.
“I hope you didn’t have to wait long,” I say in the elevator. “I wasn’t aware you were here.”
“About an hour. Waiting is part of the job,” she replies.
“How do you sit so still for all that time?” I ask. I’ve never seen her play with a cell phone, read a book or talk to others when she’s on duty.
“Meditation. I’m sure you are aware I was a model before I took this job. Well, when you model you have to sit perfectly still, sometimes for hours at a time. It’s so boring and hard on the muscles. When I got started I thought I would go mad, or turn to drugs like so many do to get through. Missy Eliott taught me about meditation. It helped me keep going.”
“I thought Missy was on drugs,” I offer. She looks at me like I’ve just skinned a rabbit with my bare teeth in front of her.
“People are better than their worst moment,” Chloe says, opening the back door. We get out of the circle of the hotel, drive for two stop-and-go blocks and we are turning around. Before I can make sense of what is happening, we are back at Jordan’s place.
Chloe opens the back door and tells me August forgot his jacket.
“I’ll get it!” I blurt, practically jumping out of the car. I’m sure Jordan’s still meeting with Dagney Dumbass (as Marcus calls her), but maybe I can catch his eye or blow him a kiss or do something to let him know that after the tour, I’m still open to receive his deposit.
“I forgot something,” I tell the intern at the door. I don’t want to tell her it’s the jacket because I don’t want her to go get it. Fortunately, she hasn’t learned Chloe’s art of meditation and she’s busy texting. She points me to the door down the hall. I crack it open slowly to see if he is locked into a deep conversation.
“How in the world did you get this?” Dagney is looking at a screen with Jordan beside her, his arm around her shoulders.
“It’s an old trick,” he chuckles mercilessly. “People get fixated by the large camera. So when you take it down and shut it off they think they are off the record and totally safe. The fact there are more cameras in the world never dawns on them.”
Oh. God. He had cameras. Other cameras. Which means he has full photographic evidence of me leaning over and…oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god....
“So what’s the angle? We could use it to say Eliott House tried to bribe you into a good review.”
“Have you even read the press review copy?” Jordan scowls at her for a moment.
“I can’t read his shit,” Dagney replies. “I like books where the girl gets the guy, the killer gets caught and the antiquity is returned to the museum.”
“Well, it’s amazing,” Jordan informs her. I hate to admit it, but Dagney Van Der Vine and I have one thing in common. I like those kind of books too. “Eliott House doesn’t need to bribe me for a good review. This book has Pulitzer, and maybe even Nobel, written all over it.”
“So we play it the other way? Show it to Little Boy Blue and see if he can snort his way out of success.”
“That’s a thought. He’s playing clean and sober but we both know he’s not that good at it. Maybe a little video of his beloved Miss Carrie sucking the corn dog out of its skin will push him over the brink.”
“You know,” Dagney says, tapping her finger on the glass. “She’s good.”
Jordan wraps his arm around her, letting his hand trace her lips and run down her blouse. “Don’t you worry, baby. The Little Emperor only does what he has to do, for us. Your mouth is the only one he loves. You’ve got the touch he goes for.”
Unable to take any more talk about the “Little Emperor” and numb from my horror and growing shame, I have to move. I close the door then knock politely. Jordan opens it, and I hear Dagney quickly snap the laptop shut.
“August left his jacket,” I explain, trying to hold my tears in long enough to get the jacket and get out. Jordon sees it on the chair back and hands it to me, winking as he walks me to the door.
“I can’t wait ‘til next week is over and I can bring you what I owe,” he whispers, his eyes flowing down the length of my body. I nod like an android and turn to leave. I hear him address the intern as she stands in the hall. “Don’t let anyone else in.”
I make it to the bench in front of the elevator before I start sobbing. I feel like I’m going to be sick all over August’s jacket. Fortunately, it’s just a few dry heaves. What have I done? I’ve put everything at risk: my reputation, my job, August, Marcus, all for a stupid crush. I’m so dumb I couldn’t see he was using me, even though Marcus has been pounding that fact in all our heads from day one. I fish out some tissues and manage to dry my eyes, taking off more makeup than sorrow and then say a prayer Chloe doesn’t ask too many questions. I need a plan before I mess up anything else.
When I get down to the car I ask her if I can sit up front. I know she has something to tell me about Marcus, and I figure maybe when she tells me what a shithole he is I’ll feel better about what I just did and what’s about to happen. She takes August’s wrinkled, tear-stained jacket from me, frowning at its appearance, and places it in the trunk. Opening the front door, she settles me in and pulls out into traffic. At the first red light she begins to speak.
“I know Marcus is falling in love with you. He looks at you the same way he did Missy. Stars in his eyes. Nothing you do is ever wrong.”
“That will change,” I mutter under my breath ominously.
“No. It won’t. That’s what I wanted to tell you.” Chloe manages the most efficient lane change that’s ever been done in the history of Boston traffic and soon we are nearing our hotel. She pulls into the limo’s spot and leaves the car running. She takes her seatbelt off and turns to face me. “Marcus is a good man.”
“What?”
“All the women who work for him owe him a great debt. Not because he got us into modeling; because he got us out. Most of us started as teenagers and some of us are from countries where modeling is the only way out. But, it’s hard, and when age, over-exposure or scars reduce your ticket — you’re left too young for assistance and too old to start school. Many are drug addicted to deal with the pressure, pain, weight loss, or boredom. Some have been raped or sexually abused. Marcus helped all of us. That’s why he keeps Dr. DeLong on staff. It isn’t just Missy he was helping. It was all of us.”
“DeLong is a quack,” I quote August, managing to say the word correctly. “And if he wasn’t, why is Melissa Eliott dead?”
“Missy messed up,” Chloe sighs. “That’s not DeLong’s fault. Addicts are a tough set of clients. But, most of us are here today —working jobs we love and living a good life — because Marcus Eliott got us the help we needed when we needed it.”
“Well, thanks for the heads up,” I say, somehow feeling even more shitty than I did ten minutes ago.
“That’s all I wanted you to know. Don’t listen to Jordan Davis and the rest of the ‘publicity’ department. Marcus is a good man. Don’t break his heart. Okay?”
I open the car door and leave, not bothering to answer her question. I have no strength left to tell her I already have.
~
Chapter 6
The next day
goes by in a flurry. I’m either sitting in my bathroom crying, waiting for the call to come from Marcus, or Jim or someone that a video has arrived, or affirming August that he can read his work from that stage without drugs and do just fine.
The night of the reading has blessedly much less chaos than Philadelphia. The biggest trauma is helping August pick out what to wear. Marcus wants him in a shirt and tie, DeLong recommends at least a long sleeve so his arms don’t show, and August wants to wear a guayabera he picked up in Mexico.
“It’s white, Auggie,” Marcus tells him, looking at the hideous Mexican wedding shirt.
“So what? It’s my favorite shirt.”
“You look like a Q-tip!” DeLong groused.
“A tie will be the noose that kills me,” August complains dramatically. Marcus throws up his hands.
“A blue business shirt, not buttoned down, sleeves rolled up to the mid-forearm, no tie. We will have the hotel wash it several times so it’s soft,” I say, taking charge of the moment. They all agree and by the night we are standing in the wings of Ritz Carlton Auditorium with one suitably dressed, shaking author. August’s stark white hair glistens in the stage light.
“Now he just looks like a blue Q-tip,” Dr. DeLong pouts.
“Don’t worry about him,” Marcus says as he holds my hand backstage. “He hates everything. You did a great job.”
“I’m not so great,” I say. No anonymous videos have shown up and nothing has been said. Part of me feels like I should confess just to get rid of the “other shoe” feeling; and part of me hopes the whole thing really will just blow over. I mean, a video like that means I can’t run for President, but it’s not really a smoking gun. Maybe Jordan and Dagney will just store it. It’s worth the risk of keeping quiet just to believe that’s true.
I see the poison couple in the audience. Dagney’s taking pictures and Jordan’s typing on a tablet when August sits down to open his portfolio. A long moment goes by where August looks out into the lights. Marcus holds his breath and squeezes my hand.
“Hello,” the author says, as if he just woke up and found hundreds of people in his bedroom staring at him. Marcus starts to move forward but DeLong puts his wrinkled hand on the billionaire’s chest.
“Let. Him. Do. This.” DeLong says. Eons of time go by (or maybe just thirty seconds).
“I am August Kalle,” the author says to a thunderclap of applause, whistles and praise. He soaks in the attention for a moment, getting used to the warm temperature. “I am happy to read to you from my new book, The Boy Who Was Made of Sky and I hope you will like the words I chose.”
Entranced with the lilting cadence and beauty of August’s work, the audience wasn’t able to hear the collective sigh of relief given by everyone in the back. By the time Marcus took the stage to announce the launch date and prominently mention Eliott House, August was getting congratulating hugs from Chloe and DeLong (even Jim shook his hand) and Jordan Davis’ seat was empty.
We got back to the hotel later than expected, and end up going our separate ways. August was exhausted and fell asleep quickly, with Jim stationed outside his door and the windows bolted shut. DeLong too claimed to be weary from the long day so he gave his congratulations to Marcus and left. The rest of us watched the Bookfeed videos and review go up. It was generous, praising August’s work and the return to the traditional format of reading. A few clips from our interviews played, but nothing out of the ordinary.
I had just gotten out of the bathtub when Suzanne, Marcus’ assistant, knocked quietly on my door. “Mr. Eliott is holding a meeting in his office. He would like you to attend.”
“At one in the morning?”
“We leave for New York tomorrow and all of our plans have to keep changing to keep Dagney Van Der Vine off our tail. He needs to talk about changes, I guess.” Suzanne yawns and shrugs. In the drama and shame over my foolish actions with Jordan, I forgot all about New York — the city I dread most on the tour.
By the time I get dressed and arrive at Marcus’ suite there are fewer people in the room than I expect. I guess he must have gone over things before I arrived. Marcus is sitting at a desk with a laptop open and he invites me to sit beside him. Chloe and Suzanne are on the couch and Talbot, the IT guy and technical advisor from Eliott House.
“As you know, Carrie,” Marcus speaks in soft tones, his hand brushing my arm. “Someone is leaking information to Bookfeed and Vineyard.com.”
“It isn’t me,” I blurt defensively. At least that’s the one thing I haven’t done wrong.
“I know. You see, I’ve had Talbot doing some surveillance and rigging up some things to help me take control of the situation. For example, for the Boston trip we put cameras in front of everyone’s door, to see when they come and go.”
“That’s a smart idea,” I affirm, thanking God Jordan never came to my suite for any reason.
“We also rigged up some cameras to see what happens when our employees aren’t at the hotel.”
Marcus gestures toward Talbot who holds up August’s jacket from the suit he wore to the Bookfeed interview. The one he left on Jordan’s sofa. He opens the cuff of the sleeve and pulls out a tiny camera on a very thin wire. Marcus taps a button on his laptop and the screen saver disappears. On the screen is a frozen still of me, with my head in Jordan’s lap, paying oral homage to the “Little Emperor.” Marcus sits back, the pain from my dagger in his back dripping sorrow through his deep blue eyes.
“I’m a publisher and I make my living telling stories,” he says, his voice is solemn and final. “I’m ready to hear yours.”
-END-
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6