But for the first time in a very long time, I feel something besides anger and hopelessness and shame.
I feel a spark and I don't get many of those, so no matter what happens, I'm gonna see where it takes me.
It's windy for mid-May and by the time I make the old warehouse building containing the photographer's studio my hair is a freaking mess. I try to smooth it down a little after the heavy lobby door swishes closed behind me, but it's pretty useless.
I climb the stairs to the fourth floor and arrive at Antoine Chaput's translucent glass door very winded and in complete disarray. There are two names on the door. Antoine Chaput, Photographer, of course. But underneath it says Elise Flynn, Stylist.
I can hear yelling inside.
And crying.
And then things are breaking and I sink to the floor in fear as Jon's fists come into my mind. But it's like a bad car accident on the freeway—something terrible is happening. I refuse to move my feet, I refuse to plug my ears, and despite the fact that I'm scared shitless by whatever is happening behind that door, I can't turn away from my stolen appointment with Antoine Chaput.
A half-naked young girl bursts through the door, wearing only a pair of pretty panties and matching bra, pulling on her expensive designer jeans as she hops down the hallway, and then before she even buttons them up, she tugs a sweatshirt over her head and spies me on the floor in the corner.
"I'd hide from him too! He's such an ass**le! I hate you, Antoine!" she screams. "And I will never," she picks up some anger here, "never let you photograph me again, even if you beg me!" She slips on some cute ballet flats, hopping once again to maintain balance, and is about to leave when she has a thought. I can see her thinking because her eyes roll up a little and her head tilts—like she's a cartoon character with a comment bubble coming out of her mouth. "And I'm keeping the lingerie. Asshole!"
She already said he was an ass**le, but I suppose when you're that angry a varied vocabulary isn't the first thing on your mind. The irate girl turns back to me then. "You better be ready. He's in a fit today and I'll never work for him again!"
And then she storms down the stairs, dragging her large bag behind her, still swearing and punctuating her one-sided conversation with the occasional, "Ha!" as she descends.
I stare dumbfounded at the empty stairwell wondering what the hell I'm doing here.
"She's overreacting. Don't let her get to you."
I look over at the man with the deep voice and my mouth drops open a little. He is even more beautiful than the girl who just left. To call him well-built doesn't do his body justice and I can see quite a bit of it because he's only half-dressed. In fact, he's still buttoning up his jeans, tucking in his pockets as he stands there next to me.
He catches me eyeing his fingers and laughs. "Sorry, today was supposed to be a sexy shoot." He shrugs it off like he comes out in the hallway buttoning up his pants all the time.
"Uh"—I clear my throat a little—"yeah."
Oh my God, I am so dumb. Uh, yeah? That's all I can think of to say?
He raises one eyebrow at me and reveals a slow smile that climbs up his face. His eyes are an electric blue and they remind me of my own. I've never seen anyone who had blue eyes like mine—I'm not bragging or anything, it's just a feature that I was born with, something that sets me apart. One of the few things actually.
He notices me studying his eyes and then he bends down to me. I instinctively scoot away from him, pushing myself back into the corner as my heart starts to race. He takes the hint and stands back up. "Sorry, didn't mean to invade your space or anything."
Another voice snaps my attention back to what I'm doing. "OK, let's go, girl. Get in here, you heard Clare, he's in a fit. So let's just humor him and maybe we can all go home early, what do you say?"
I nod, still cowering on the floor.
"Oh, come now." A petite woman with short-cropped blonde hair pushes the half-naked guy out of the way and continues talking. "He's already cooling off. Clare pushes his buttons, everyone knows she's difficult. Do you have your invitation?"
She's looking at the card in my hand so I stand and thrust it at her. Half-naked guy is still watching me and just as I'm about to brush past his bare chest, he stops me with a hand on my arm. I pull it away quickly. "Don't."
"Sweetheart, you won't get far here if we can't touch you."
I scowl at him and swallow hard.
"It's a test shoot, Ronin, don't get her worked up." And then the woman takes my hand and leads me inside.
Ronin mumbles out a response as he follows and then the door closes behind me and I expect all manner of terrible things to start happening, but all the woman does is push me over to what looks like a shampoo station. She takes my bag, tucks it into a corner, and then motions me into a changing area and tells me to take off my hoodie.
I look around for Ronin, but he's disappeared. "But I don't have anything on underneath."
"Nothing?"
I shake my head.
"Well, that's not very smart." She rummages through a drawer and throws a tank top at me. "Put that on."
I do and before I can even turn the corner of the little screened-in changing area, she's pushing me back into the chair. "I don't know who your stylist is—what did you say your name was?"
I feel a spark and I don't get many of those, so no matter what happens, I'm gonna see where it takes me.
It's windy for mid-May and by the time I make the old warehouse building containing the photographer's studio my hair is a freaking mess. I try to smooth it down a little after the heavy lobby door swishes closed behind me, but it's pretty useless.
I climb the stairs to the fourth floor and arrive at Antoine Chaput's translucent glass door very winded and in complete disarray. There are two names on the door. Antoine Chaput, Photographer, of course. But underneath it says Elise Flynn, Stylist.
I can hear yelling inside.
And crying.
And then things are breaking and I sink to the floor in fear as Jon's fists come into my mind. But it's like a bad car accident on the freeway—something terrible is happening. I refuse to move my feet, I refuse to plug my ears, and despite the fact that I'm scared shitless by whatever is happening behind that door, I can't turn away from my stolen appointment with Antoine Chaput.
A half-naked young girl bursts through the door, wearing only a pair of pretty panties and matching bra, pulling on her expensive designer jeans as she hops down the hallway, and then before she even buttons them up, she tugs a sweatshirt over her head and spies me on the floor in the corner.
"I'd hide from him too! He's such an ass**le! I hate you, Antoine!" she screams. "And I will never," she picks up some anger here, "never let you photograph me again, even if you beg me!" She slips on some cute ballet flats, hopping once again to maintain balance, and is about to leave when she has a thought. I can see her thinking because her eyes roll up a little and her head tilts—like she's a cartoon character with a comment bubble coming out of her mouth. "And I'm keeping the lingerie. Asshole!"
She already said he was an ass**le, but I suppose when you're that angry a varied vocabulary isn't the first thing on your mind. The irate girl turns back to me then. "You better be ready. He's in a fit today and I'll never work for him again!"
And then she storms down the stairs, dragging her large bag behind her, still swearing and punctuating her one-sided conversation with the occasional, "Ha!" as she descends.
I stare dumbfounded at the empty stairwell wondering what the hell I'm doing here.
"She's overreacting. Don't let her get to you."
I look over at the man with the deep voice and my mouth drops open a little. He is even more beautiful than the girl who just left. To call him well-built doesn't do his body justice and I can see quite a bit of it because he's only half-dressed. In fact, he's still buttoning up his jeans, tucking in his pockets as he stands there next to me.
He catches me eyeing his fingers and laughs. "Sorry, today was supposed to be a sexy shoot." He shrugs it off like he comes out in the hallway buttoning up his pants all the time.
"Uh"—I clear my throat a little—"yeah."
Oh my God, I am so dumb. Uh, yeah? That's all I can think of to say?
He raises one eyebrow at me and reveals a slow smile that climbs up his face. His eyes are an electric blue and they remind me of my own. I've never seen anyone who had blue eyes like mine—I'm not bragging or anything, it's just a feature that I was born with, something that sets me apart. One of the few things actually.
He notices me studying his eyes and then he bends down to me. I instinctively scoot away from him, pushing myself back into the corner as my heart starts to race. He takes the hint and stands back up. "Sorry, didn't mean to invade your space or anything."
Another voice snaps my attention back to what I'm doing. "OK, let's go, girl. Get in here, you heard Clare, he's in a fit. So let's just humor him and maybe we can all go home early, what do you say?"
I nod, still cowering on the floor.
"Oh, come now." A petite woman with short-cropped blonde hair pushes the half-naked guy out of the way and continues talking. "He's already cooling off. Clare pushes his buttons, everyone knows she's difficult. Do you have your invitation?"
She's looking at the card in my hand so I stand and thrust it at her. Half-naked guy is still watching me and just as I'm about to brush past his bare chest, he stops me with a hand on my arm. I pull it away quickly. "Don't."
"Sweetheart, you won't get far here if we can't touch you."
I scowl at him and swallow hard.
"It's a test shoot, Ronin, don't get her worked up." And then the woman takes my hand and leads me inside.
Ronin mumbles out a response as he follows and then the door closes behind me and I expect all manner of terrible things to start happening, but all the woman does is push me over to what looks like a shampoo station. She takes my bag, tucks it into a corner, and then motions me into a changing area and tells me to take off my hoodie.
I look around for Ronin, but he's disappeared. "But I don't have anything on underneath."
"Nothing?"
I shake my head.
"Well, that's not very smart." She rummages through a drawer and throws a tank top at me. "Put that on."
I do and before I can even turn the corner of the little screened-in changing area, she's pushing me back into the chair. "I don't know who your stylist is—what did you say your name was?"
