What’s more, I actually can’t stand the Boudoir brand and what they stand for. Their lingerie is uncomfortable, unattainable, and just downright sleazy on most occasions. There is nothing high-fashion about it, which is why I originally got into this industry … to visually represent my love for innovative clothing and material.
That’s not what this brand, or its founder, is about, though. Cheap materials and lazy designs peddled for the masses at a ridiculously inflated cost. Models done up to the nth degree so that anyone trying to achieve the picturesque idea of sex Boudoir is selling couldn’t even come close. I don’t even look like this, I think to myself as I turn my face side to side in the mirror before me.
But being a Boudoir Bombshell made your résumé shine. When I went on other casting calls or was approached by a design house to possibly walk for them during fashion week, having this show and its notoriety in my look book was priceless. It’s why I keep coming back.
Thankfully, it’s over now. I’ll have to deal with the press dogging me about the flirty, jaw-dropping runway for weeks, but at least the worst of it is through.
Not that this will be the last of the jobs I don’t want to work on. But because I was gifted with height, and a body that others envy, why not use them while they served me?
My mother was all about using what we had to serve ourselves. I’d tried to reiterate her own words back to her when I excitedly explained to my parents about the first makeup campaign I’d ever landed, but she told me I had used that motto to my own benefit. Modeling wasn’t a sound choice, in either career or modesty. Maybe she meant our brains, or our ability to help those in the church; she was nothing if not devoutly religious.
Still, I went for it. At fourteen, I signed myself up for a local commercial casting call, and landed the gig. I’d fraudulently signed the release with my mother’s name, appeared in the advertisement for a semi-popular fried chicken franchise in the part of England I grew up in, and the rest is history.
So, here I sit, as the Boudoir Bombshell. It’s both the best, and worst, part of my life.
Backstage is swarming with people, from the other models to their friends, to reporters, to other celebrities trying to start the party early. Honestly, I think I see someone lighting up a joint in the corner and the champagne has already popped several times.
Don’t they get bored of it all? I’m deathly bored.
Movement out of the corner of my eye, and a ripple through the crowd, has me sneaking a glance under my eyelashes.
Ah, the golden boys have arrived. Kingston Phillips commands the attention of everyone in the room, sucking it in and puffing out his chest like he’s just stolen the helium from a balloon. Jude Davies looks more reserved beside him, but he still sparkles and shines just the same.
It’s the newest member of the Rogue Football Club who has me almost doing a double take, though. Not that I’d admit it, or let anyone see me do so, but …
Bloody hell, the man is by far the most ridiculously good-looking specimen I’ve ever seen. Tonight, he’s decided on a charcoal gray suit with a black button-down underneath, and he looks like some younger, sexier version of Daniel Craig as James Bond, if that’s even possible. He’s way overdressed compared to the douchebag singers and billion-dollar techies in here, but of course, he pulls it off. Half the girls in this room are already drooling over him. His coloring, his bone structure, the sheer brawniness of him; it’s a mix of Swedish and Italian heritage. And the combo? It’s impossible not to acknowledge just how gorgeous the man is.
Even if Kingston Phillips is the crudest, slimiest bugger I’ve ever met.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” I deadpan as soon as he spots me and begins his prowl over to me.
Better to have the first, and last, word when it comes to Kingston. Our few brief encounters have left me shaken, even if he’s had no idea of my inner trembling. But, fake it enough and soon you’ll start believing it yourself.
Our eyes connect, a clash of my clear blue and his emerald-hued greens, and a flutter works its way from my stomach to my throat. He drapes his arm over the back of my director style chair, the one I’ve had my arse planted in for hours while a team of five does my hair and makeup to the point where I’m almost unrecognizable.
“Well, love, I made it to the first squad. Now, how’s about that shag?”
No preamble, no congratulations on the show, it’s all about the pussy and the cock with this one. Isn’t that the modus operandi for most men, if not all in this shade of limelight? It’s why I avoid them, and especially why I avoid him. Because as much as I’ve tried to put him in the sleazy, dangerous column in my mind, he keeps popping into my dreams—ones I can’t control and wake up in a cold sweat from.
Of course, he made it to the first squad of the Rogue Football Club only about two months after I’d ribbed him in that posh club where our booths had sat side by side. But there was still one thing I could tease him about.
Not bothering to actually face him, but rudely looking at him in the mirror while I fix my lipstick, I bite back, “Oh, did I say first squad? I’m sorry, I only go to bed with starters.”
It’s widely known that Kingston Phillips has ridden the bench for a good part of eight months and that he is a disgrace to his legendary mum and dad. I don’t know the whole backstory, honestly, I have tried to avoid getting to know anything about the slick-tongued superstar, but his mum is some kind of Olympic football legend from Sweden, and his dad … well, everyone knows who Edward Phillips is, even if you don’t follow sports at all.
Edward Phillips is the Roman Stallion, the most handsome football legend to ever grace Italy’s pitches. He was the heartthrob my own mum used to swoon over whenever he’d commentate games for Sky Sports.
It’s always struck me as odd, that they have the last name Phillips. It’s not very Italian, but apparently Edward’s Welsh father fell in love with a Sicilian duchess or something … there are always rumors of her abdication to be with him, but I’ve never studied them thoroughly. Though, it explains the dark, Italian features with the British surname.
And it’s no damn wonder how Kingston was graced with his annoyingly good looks.
That face, the one that’s almost pretty except too lean in the cheekbones and jaw to be considered boyishly handsome, wears a sour expression as it glances back at me in the mirror.
Then, it splits into a wide smile, revealing a set of teeth that had to have been bought. “You’re a hell raiser, I just know it. It’s what I like about you, Poppy.”
“Good night, Kingston.” I can’t stand to be in this room one more minute, not when my skin feels like it’s crawling, and the claustrophobia is kicking in.
Especially, since the last person I care to break down in front of is him. Just like all men, he’s the type to capitalize on weakness. I just know it.
My legs carry me away from him, away from the mass of people that are about to turn the night into a powder keg, and out to the car that I specifically detailed, in my rider, to be waiting for me minutes after the show.
The streets of London are alive with the merriment of a Saturday night as the driver whips my private car through roundabouts and past double deckers. The cheers and hoorah’s of locals outside pubs can be heard even through the tinted, bulletproof glass. Part of me is glad I have the barrier between us, it makes my heart rate decelerate from grand prix speed.
A total of twenty minutes door to door and the door of the car is being pulled open by the driver who bids me a good night and passes me to the doorman of my building. The inside of my new home beckons with its crystal chandeliers and spotless marble floors.
The lobby in Charlton House is almost empty when I enter it, save for the night receptionist and the lone doorman who both greet me amicably, but keep their distance. The building is an establishment for the elite, and the staff are trained to abide by the highest standards.
As I ride up in the elevator, and then walk to flat number 602, the b
reath I didn’t realize I’d been holding whooshes out of my lungs.
This flat was my first monumental purchase in the six years I’ve been in the modeling business. Yes, I’ve made more than my weight in money, but I never thought about putting down roots because I’m typically on an airplane or a different city every other day. Who needs a pad when they’re not even home half the year?
But then I’d returned to London for a month-long campaign with a popular chain makeup store, I was offered a three-lipstick deal named after me, and my agent set me up in model housing. I don’t mean that the housing was model, that it was impeccable or some top-of-line penthouse. No, I mean that there were seven other models living in this brownstone in Chelsea and I had to listen to girls shagging and barfing up their food half the time.
That put me on the market for my own place right quick. I knew I wanted to be in the Belgravia neighborhood of London, and there was no better building here than Charlton House. Lucky me that one of the four flats on the top floor of the building was vacant, and I’d bought it without hesitation.
I moved my things in a week ago, and I know now that I’ve never made a better decision. There is still so much work I want done, and design options I have to nail down, but the space is purely, safely, mine.
My palm connects with the door as soon as I swing it closed behind me, and as hard as I try, I still slam it shut. It’s a habit, one that makes me feel marginally better as the night closes in around me. I twist the first deadbolt, and then the second and third, before letting out a measured breath.
And the tension slips out of me like air in a balloon as I feel fur rub against my shin. Josephine, my Scottish Fold cat, nuzzles her fuzzy white body against my leg and purrs. I like to think she’s telling me she loves me whenever I walk in the door, but in all reality, she probably just wants her food dish refilled.
“Hi, Jojo.” I bend down, picking her up and planting a kiss against her velvety head.
She purrs again, and a sense of deep loneliness goes through me. Is it sad that my cat is the only person in the world I feel understands me? Gosh, I sound like one of those nutters who hoards felines in their apartment until the health department evicts them.
It’s true, though. Modeling, and the celebrity stratosphere in general, is so competitive, none of those people can actually be called your friends. Sure, we schmooze and rub elbows and play nice, but those bitches would cut you down or sell you out in a minute to land a job everyone was vying for. Although I’m not proud of it, I’ve done the same thing.
So, industry types are out. But so are friends from back home. Not that I had many solid ones, since I’d left Wrexham before secondary schools. Though if I did, many of them didn’t know how to properly associate with me once I’d been in the spotlight. They’d either sold stories about me and my family to the tabloids or become wildly jealous. It was a double-edged sword, and not one I wanted to encounter, so I cut most ties.
That left my parents and my sister, the only sibling I have. Since my parents have never been keen on my modeling anyway, it’s been difficult to confide in them about problems, or even triumphs. And my sister is too busy sitting on their pedestal, running the youth program at their church and becoming engaged to a nice local boy. Most parents would be incredibly proud of the career I’ve carved out for myself, of how much money I make or how I have supported myself from a very young age. My parents aren’t most parents.
All in all, that left no one but me. And Josephine. I guess that is rather fine, then, since I can tell her my secrets and she has no voice to judge them, or spill them to anyone else.
Because the things I tell her are the scary kind that go bump in the night. The kind that ruin psyches and brand someone as an outsider.
As a victim.
3
Kingston
“The woman bolted from me like I had asked her to stick needles in her own eyes!”
My words are sloshed and delayed, even I can hear it in my own ears. The room began spinning some time ago, and it’s only by the grace of my body weight and height that I’m still standing. Not many people can down eight shots in one minute, a dare given by one of the models, but I just did and lived to tell the tale.
For how long? That was still to be determined.
Jude smirks where he sits nursing his second beer on a retro-looking orange lounge chair. “Poppy Raymond is out of your league. Face it.”
“Out of my league!? Mate, I love you, but you’ve gotta be more pissed than I am! No one is out of my league. I’m Kingston Bloody Phillips!”
“That’s right, baby,” the blonde I forgot was resting in my lap purrs in my ear.
Sweat trickles down my neck and past my shirt collar, and suddenly, my buzz turns. It’s that instant where you go from happy, party smashed to annoyed at everyone and everything. I push the girl off my lap and she stumbles with a whine but marches off with a pout when I cross my leg over the other, making it clear she’s not welcome to sit back down.
It’s all right, I’m too legless to fuck anyway. My dick is about as useless as a penguin in Tahiti right now.
“And if you spent half as much time proving that to yourself as you do to other people, maybe you wouldn’t be so lost. Or benched,” my best friend mumbles.
His words hit me somewhere deep, but I’m too far gone on the liquor to analyze them. So instead, I just flick my middle finger up at him.
“Suck on this,” I jeer but lose my footing as I move past him to reach for the half-empty vodka bottle in a bucket on our VIP table.
Stumbling, I try to grab hold of anything solid, but end up mowing down two toothpick models on my way to the floor. My elbow connects with the hard surface of the dance floor, and I’m lying in a puddle of spilled drinks and sweat before I realize what’s happening.
“That’s enough for tonight.” Jude stands over me, a disapproving look on his face.
But before I can make a joke out of my fall, or protest, a surly looking bouncer drags me up, supporting my sagging weight on his shoulders and practically pulling me from the club.
“Bombshells forever!” I throw up a yell and a fist, and a swell of cheers follows me out of the after-party that moved to the club an hour ago.
There. I’ve left on top, even if I’m not getting on top of anyone tonight.
I’m somewhat aware as the bouncer deposits me into the back of a car and Jude slides in beside me as I rest my head against the cool window.
“King, are you all right?” He poses the question as if he’s trying to ask about me past this present moment.
I pretend not to hear the note of worry in his voice. “Mate, I’m fine. Just sloshed.”
“I just mean—” he tries again, and I cut him off.
“Jude, let’s not talk about it now.”
My brain pounds against my head with every jolt of the car, and I can feel the hangover looming over the bridge of my nose, squeezing down on it in threat of a migraine. That sober cloud of doom hangs dangerously low, and I know that soon, I’ll have to think about the Pandora’s box Jude is trying to open.
It’s been almost nine months since I was called up to the first squad, and I haven’t started one game. Riding the bench is for small league players who are brought up, or for academy players plucked for their first taste of a real match. I’m a Phillips, I should be on the field from the first whistle every single game.
Of course, the journalists and commentators haven’t been kind. Lazy, clown, wash-up … you name it, it’s been slung at me in the press the past couple of months. But nothing compares to the wrath of my father.
Silence is worse than any insult. He comes to the games, visits with my mum, but for four months now, has yet to utter a single word to me. I can practically feel the flesh melting off my back as I sit in the RFC player’s section and he glares at me from a couple rows back.
I don’t want to think about that, though. Brush it under the rug, play the hurt off with a joke or a smile. T
hat’s what I do best. A showman, that’s the worst nickname they could give me. It allows the shite to slide down me, for embarrassment not to make a mark on the outside. Even if it’s corroding me, eating at my organs like poison. Until it leaves me empty as a bottle that’s been drunk to the last drop.
Jude helps me out of the car, says something that doesn’t register, and I push him away, dragging myself toward my flat.
The familiar lobby of my building swims in my vision, with the night receptionist asking if I need any assistance. I wave her off, only wanting to crawl up to my flat and sleep this bloody night off. The elevator smells like its typical fusion of clean cotton sheets and sharp pear. Usually, I love this scent. It’s crisp and reminds me of how carefully the building is taken care of. It reminds me of why I chose Charlton House to lay down my London roots.
But right now, all this smell makes me want to do is toss up the free food I ate at the after-party. A ding indicates that I’ve made it to the top floor, and it takes me a good three minutes to steady my hand and properly insert my key into the door of my flat, number 603.
Only a little farther before I flop myself face down on the Egyptian cotton sheets; the bed unmade from this morning. I forgot it’s a Saturday, the maid won’t be back until tomorrow night. Not that I’m anywhere near the state of mind to care that I’m sleeping in unwashed bedding. It’s just that I’m used to people picking up after me, for my life being run by a staff of many that are as unseen as the fairies in the children’s stories my nannies used to read to me.
See, I was born into privilege. Into stardom and all that comes with it.
When you’re born into this world, it’s almost worse than striving to make a name for yourself in it. Because everyone already knows your name, already has expectations and is secretly biding their time, hoping you fail. It’s easy to fall when you’re not doing so from a pedestal. But start from the top, and you shatter that much more on the way down.
The Lion Heart (Rogue Academy Book 2) Page 2
