Frannie stood at the door, silently clapping her hands and looking as happy as Jim Lange making a connection on The Dating Game.
Really? Two steps forward, one step back. I finally get a modeling gig, and an opportunity at a nicer place to live than the roach motel, but a girl roommate? One who didn’t want me around? Me? Jack Stevens? Even this small town boy has standards.
“I have to think about it,” I said in my most grown up voice, taking the piece of paper.
Great. I’m being backed into a corner and given some punk kid to be my babysitter. Jack Stevens. Even his name wreaks country bumpkin. Bet he hasn’t even graduated high school. Some dropout wanna-be. I’m twenty-fucking-five years old! Not that I look a day over nineteen. I’m a successful supermodel. My face has been on Cosmopolitan and Vogue magazine covers and billboards in Times Square.
And now, because Dan walked out on me this morning, and with my history, the powers that be are putting me between a rock and hard place. Forcing me to have a roommate. Or I’ll have to find another agency. Bet they’ll turn this pretty boy into their own personal narc. I don’t need one. Just because the love of my life has left doesn’t mean I’m going to fall apart and run to the dealer on the next corner. I may run to the liquor store, but that’s it.
CHAPTER 6
I woke up around ten o’clock on Saturday morning. Sleeping in felt great. I stretched and grabbed a smoke. As I lit up, I spotted the scrap of paper with Rebecca’s address that she had given me last night. Park Avenue. Suddenly, I burst out laughing. The theme song for Green Acres ran through my head and Eva Gabor, or was it Zsa Zsa? I always got those two confused. Da-dah Da-dah-dah something about Park Avenue, I hummed in my head. Man, I sucked at lyrics. Good thing I didn’t come to New York to be a singer.
Right. I’m gonna move in with that arrogant bitch. Not happenin’. She was so full of herself and she clearly didn’t want me moving in. Why did Frannie think this was a good thing? But looking around the shit hole that I’d been living in for the past three months, maybe it wasn’t a bad thing. I’d been ignoring the peeling paint, the thin walls, and the stale stench of the carpeting. I mean, it was pretty much all I could afford, and I didn’t have another choice. But now, another choice was literally handed to me last night.
I finished my smoke, ran all of my laundry, and four hours later checked out of the motel. Fighting the famous New York City traffic and cabs, I found myself parked in a parking lot collecting a ticket from some guy who smelled like the urinals at Folsom Field. I silently prayed that my truck would be okay. My 1973 Ford F-100 was my baby. My brother Jim helped me rebuild the engine, I’d lost my virginity in it, and gotten laid more times than I could count in it. She’d gotten me all the way to New York.
I stuffed the ticket in my back pocket, and pulled out the address Rebecca had given me. I looked at my map, made a couple mental notes then slung my duffle bag over my shoulder and headed in the direction I thought I was supposed to go. It wasn’t until a few blocks later that I realized the numbers were going up, not down, so I turned around and back tracked. Half a mile later, and nearly getting run over by a taxi or two, I finally found her building; a large, dark red awning looming over a heavy-set doorman standing guard.
He looked me up and down, and warily eyed my duffle bag as I walked up. I had half a mind to head back to my truck and go back to Colorado. The snobby attitude of the doorman and the dirty smells of the streets and car exhaust were making me homesick for the sweet smelling air of the Colorado Rockies. But I had a contract now. I had to stay.
I reached for the handle of the door, but was effectively blocked by the uniformed man. “Can I help you?” he asked, bringing me back to New York.
“Um, yeah, I’m here to see Rebecca. I’m moving in.” I started to walk past him to the open the door.
“Sure you are. Look kid, you should move along.”
“No, I swear.” I pulled out the scrap of paper that she’d scrawled her address on. “She gave me her address. This is her building, right?”
He smirked at me. “Don’t make me call the cops, kid.”
“Can you call her or something?”
With a face of stone, he calmly replied, “I don’t even know if she lives here.”
My jaw dropped. He had to be messing with me. She was beautiful. You didn’t miss a girl like that. “Seriously? She’s about my height. Long blonde hair? Gorgeous eyes? She’s a famous model.”
I looked at the paper again and saw her phone number. “Do you have a phone? I’ll call her. You’ll see.”
Without even looking at me, he said, “Pay phone is on the corner.” He jerked his head to the opposite corner where there was a phone booth.
I trudged off, adjusting my bag on my shoulder and digging out a dime to call the number on the scrap of paper. Three minutes later, the doorman was holding the door open for me looking more than a little annoyed.
I got off of the elevator onto the 22nd floor and saw a door wide open, just as Rebecca said she would do. Light and music was flooding into the hallway. Hesitantly, I walked to the door and stepped inside, then closed the door behind me. I leaned back and looked around—stunned.
The song Hot Stuff by Donna Summer surrounded me, making me laugh remembering that this very song was playing on the car radio after I had talked to Penny and quit Thompson’s Market. I looked over at the giant speakers that were blaring the tune; a high end stereo system. And right next to that, a huge record collection. Nice! Looking around the apartment, it was like something you’d see on a prime time TV drama that Jenny used to watch. Yup, Rebecca was loaded. She was an inspiration. I hoped I’d be able to afford something like this next year on my own.
Everywhere I looked, white, modern furnishings were meticulously placed and everything was as neat as a pin. Low, white, leather sofas with straight lines that looked rather uncomfortable. And the arms of the chairs were wooden, more like end tables attached to the piece of furniture. Funky shaped, white plastic chairs with circles punched in them arranged around a glass dining table. The floor was a thick white carpeting. Silver domes were attached to the wall with light coming out from behind them. This was a far cry from the roach motel, or my parents house with paneling, peeling paint, and wallpaper, furnishings that were broken or worn to within an inch of their useful lives. I decided to slip my boots off and leave them by the door.
Suddenly, Rebecca was walking into the room, and seeing her was almost more shocking than the apartment. She was wearing low slung, loose pants and a lacy, black bra. Nothing else. Her hair was wrapped up in a towel propped up on her head. Presumably, she’d just come out of the shower and had no makeup on, yet was perhaps even more beautiful than when I had seen her both times before. She was sipping on a martini glass as she entered, and dancing to the music.
I was suddenly desperate for a cigarette. I reached into my pocket, pulled out the box, and started to shake one out.
“Nuh-uh. Not in my place you don’t. I’m not a smoker, and if you want to live here, you won’t be one either. Those things will kill you, ya know. Find another vice—a clean one,” she scolded, boring her eyes into the pack of Marlboros in my hand.
What? She was one of those people? Yeah, smoking was on the decline, but seriously, what was the big deal? All those movements to stop smoking because some Surgeon General said it’s bad for you and a group of people had this idea that breathing in the air from my cigarette would make them sick. My whole family smoked and we’re all fine. But the look on Rebecca’s face said she was not going to back down.
“Um, sorry,” I muttered, shoving the pack back into my pocket. Fuck! Now I had to find a way to quit. This whole New York thing was just getting better and better.
“And, I’m not sure what ideas you may have socked away in your head, but there will be no sex. So, if your overactive eighteen year old brain has any designs in that arena, you can turn your cute ass around and get out.”
“Yes. I mean no. I mea
n, I wasn’t thinking that at all. I mean you’re beautiful and what guy wouldn’t want to—but, no. I like brunettes anyway.”
A bizarre smirk hit her lips, which she quickly tucked away, resuming her stonewall face.
“Your room is the first door on the right. The bathroom is across the hall from there. Keep your bathroom clean, and the toilet seat down.”
Yes, sir!
“Can I get you a drink?” she offered, pointing behind me to a long table loaded with every kind of liquor you could imagine.
Okay, I have whiplash now. Scolding me and barking orders one minute and offering me a drink the next? Is this what it’s going to be like living with her?
“Um, I guess, yeah? What have you got?”
“Whatever you’d like,” she said, knocking back the rest of her martini. She sauntered over and started to make herself another one. The song on the record changed and now Donna Summer was belting Bad Girls, and Rebecca was in full rockin’ mode acting like Ms. Summer herself, oblivious to me.
I grabbed a can of Budweiser from the tiny fridge under the table that held all the booze and headed off to check out my new room. I was about to say something to Rebecca, but she was in her own little world.
As far as bedrooms went, this one was good. I mean real good. It was much like the rest of the place, modern and clean lines. But where the living room was whites and light color woods, this room was dark woods and creams. The bed was on a solid dark-wood box, and looked to be very sturdy. I dropped my bag on the floor next to the matching dresser and set the can of beer on the bedside table. I laid down on the very comfortable bed for a minute and considered my incredibly weird last few months.
I had been a stock boy in the grocery store of a town where I didn’t get the most respect, due to my family’s status of less than smart kids, and a couple of bitches. Some chick sees me and gives me this crazy notion to come out to New York City and try modeling. I’m knocked down for a few months while bussing tables and fixing shit in a crappy motel. I finally got a break which lead to an offer to stay with a model who seemed perhaps more than a little off-balance. Now, here I was in a very chic place, and being pushed around by said off-balance woman. Seemed like a fucking wild dream. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to wake up or not.
CHAPTER 7
Not sure how much time passed, but I had apparently fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew, Rebecca was at the door calling my name. I sat up and rubbed my face.
“Yeah? What? I’m up,” I said, trying to adjust my sight to the now dark room and light spilling in from the hallway.
“Next time, use a coaster. Please,” she said, marching over to the bedside table, picking up the beer can, and wiping the ring of water off.
“Yeah, sure. ‘Course. Sorry,” I stammered. Why was I letting this girl intimidate me? Oh yeah, she was nearly as tall as I was, a successful model with a bank account to match, and knew how to throw her weight around. And it was her place.
“I’m ordering take out. Do you like Chinese? Or pizza?” she asked, a hand perched on her hip.
“Um, whatever you want,” I answered, dragging myself out of bed.
“Fine. Chinese it is,” she said, and walked out.
What was this chick’s problem? She offered me a place to stay, and was being a total bitch. I dragged myself out of the room and pulled my pack of Marlboros from my pocket before I remembered that I wasn’t allowed to smoke in her place. Maybe I’d run downstairs and grab a quick one. I was beyond edgy. Or maybe I should just fucking quit cold turkey now. I was a man. A strong man. I could do it. I made my way back to the living room, where Marvin Gaye was now singing on the stereo system and I found Rebecca hanging up the phone.
“It should be here in about twenty minutes,” she said.
I nodded and then grabbed myself a fresh beer and took a seat on a wooden chair that was all bent up and looked to be incredibly uncomfortable. I was pleasantly surprised to find it quite the opposite. “So, how long have you been modeling?” I asked, trying to make small talk.
“Since I was about eight. My first gig was for a Barbie ad in the magazines. You?”
“Oh,” I laughed. “I’m not really a model. I mean, I am—now,” I corrected myself, realizing how it might sound. “Some chick spotted me back home in Colorado and suggested that I come out here. I had nothing else going on, maybe community college, so I said why the hell not. Things didn’t work out with that agency, but I didn’t give up, and well, here I am.”
“Who spotted you?” she asked casually.
“Penny Paulson. But it was a bust.”
“Ah, Penny. From Ford?” she asked. I nodded. “She knows her shit. And if she saw something in you, then you made the right choice coming out here. So, if you’re not with Ford, who are you with?” she asked, sipping something blue out of a glass now.
“William from WMW Modeling? I think they’re new,” I shrugged.
“WMW…” she muttered. Then her eyes grew wide. “Oh right, William Westerly! I heard he broke free from those—” she glanced at me quickly. “Well, good on William. But you mean to tell me you’ve never modeled before?”
I shook my head. “In fact, I’m hopin’ to keep this whole thing quiet. I just want to make some money for college.”
Rebecca threw her head back, laughing hysterically.
“What?” I shot at her.
“You know that William is kind of a legend in the industry, right? He’s from one of the biggest, and most successful modeling agencies in the world. He’s got connections up his sleeve as far as that sleeve goes, which is like your height and mine combined. You’re not going to go unnoticed. Your look is very fresh, and if William sees your potential, you’re going straight to the top.”
I absorbed what Rebecca had said and downed half of my beer. I should just turn this crazy train around now and head home before I became the laughing stock of Charter Oaks.
“You seriously had no idea?” Rebecca asked, studying my face.
“No,” I said, shaking my head, running my hand through my hair, feeling dumb. Should I have known?
“Where in Colorado are you from? Denver? Boulder?”
“I’m from Charter Oaks, Colorado. I’m from a family of ranchers outside of Boulder.”
“Wow, a country bumpkin. Far out, Penny!” Rebecca slid off the sofa and headed over to the bar. I watched her assemble and shake up another blue martini. How much was this girl going to drink?
“So, you’ve been modeling since you were eight. How long have you been modeling?” I asked trying to figure out as much about Rebecca as I could.
“Now that’s a clever way of asking a woman her age.”
I shrugged.
“I’m twenty-five. Basically a ‘has-been’ in this business.”
“What?” I choked. “No way you’re twenty-five. And what do you mean, a has been?”
“This is a short-lived industry, kid,” she stated, settling back into her spot on the sofa.
“So, am I your first roommate?” I asked.
Her features darkened. “No,” she replied flatly.
We sat in silence. I totally needed that cigarette now. I had no idea how to dig myself out of the hole I’d inadvertently dug. Rebecca just stared out of the window at the lights of New York City, draining half of her freshly poured drink. I racked my brain for something to talk about, to change the subject, but came up empty.
“Danny moved out three days ago,” she said quietly.
“Oh. Sorry,” I managed. He must have broken her heart big time. Maybe all this drinking was a bender from his leaving her.
“We were together for six years. Then one fight… a stupid fight. My fault really. And it’s over. Fuck!” she spit out through clenched teeth, then she opened up and drained her glass. She gritted her teeth some more, her jaw muscles throbbing. A tear sprung from her watery eyes and ran down her beautiful cheek.
Suddenly, the phone on the wall by the door rang, interrupting
the awkward silence. Rebecca sprang off the seat, practically running to the device while wiping the tears away, and picked up the phone. “He’ll be right down,” she said after a second of listening, hung it up and walked over to her purse. She rummaged around and handed me a ten dollar bill. “Run downstairs and pay the delivery guy. I’ll get the dishes.”
I stood and set my beer down on the glass dining table, avoiding wood surfaces, and made my way down to pay the delivery guy in the lobby. Five minutes later, I was eating the best Chinese take out food I’d ever had, which was a nice change of pace from the diner food. The whole time we ate, Rebecca told me wild stories of jobs she’d done and the exotic places she’d traveled for work. I told her about growing up on a ranch in rural Colorado.
“Well,” I said, standing and picking up my plate to bring to the kitchen. “The last week with getting ready for that show last night really kicked my ass. But Rebecca,” I stopped. She looked up at me and blinked, a new softness on her features. “Thanks for the place to stay. It sure beats the motel.”
“No problem, kid,” she said, her stellar smile crossing her face. “And Rebecca is my professional name. My friends call me Becca.”
Okay, it might not be so bad having him around. He’s nice. Polite. Funny even. He hasn’t said one word about my decorating or my drinking. And he didn’t push me about the break up.
I cleared the table, marveling at how there weren’t any left overs. When Dan was here, even between the two of us, there were always left overs. Jack’s got quite an appetite. He’s going to have to start quite a workout routine if he’s going to keep that up. But then again—he’s only eighteen.
I thought about back when I was 18. I was already on the cover of a dozen magazines. I was already earning five figures for a day long photo shoot. I’d met Danny when I was 18 and we started seeing each other “officially” just a year later. And then we moved in to my place a few months after that. And then the accusations, and name calling, and… Margot!!!! Lock it up, Becca! Memory lane will get you nowhere!
Not In My Wildest Dreams (Dream Series) Page 4