His back is to me as he walks down the hall to the elevator. “I’ll see you on Monday, bright and early.”
I slam the door closed even though I know it won’t give me the same satisfaction it used to. Shoot! I didn’t get my key. Beyond being physically tired, I’m now emotionally drained. I’ll get a reference from the doorman next time I’m down there for a locksmith. Pulling my robe tighter around me, I get a large glass of water and retrieve my phone from my purse. The decision has already been made—binge-watching a cop drama series will commence as I spend the day recovering. Maybe they’ll teach me how to hide a body in Manhattan.
Two episodes in, my phone buzzes with a new text. When I pick it up, I notice I’ve missed several. All from Danny.
14
DANNY
“You were never reluctant before, Danny. Kiss me.” Laylah—twenty-eight, blond, green eyes, face perfectly symmetrical with cat eyes and best known for her killer body and walking for Victoria’s Secret—is pinned against the wall, my arms trapping her between and all I can think about is what Reese has been doing and hoping she’s not been doing anyone at all.
Is it too hopeful, too soon to want that?
Maybe.
Probably.
Definitely.
I kiss Laylah’s neck like the photographer has been demanding. Laylah’s breath covers my ear as the clicking of the camera is heard—quick, several per second. Her hands run down my side under the intricately-designed smoking jacket I’m wearing and I angle my shoulders so the camera gets a clear shot of the watch against the silk pajama bottoms. She pushes the jacket back to show off my abs while we try to appear intimate.
“Tilt your hips forward, Laylah,” the photographer says. “Yes, just like that. Danny, flash the face of the watch toward me.”
I turn my arm, but my shoulder remains tension filled.
She whispers, “Relax, Danny.”
The photographer suggests, “Maybe change places.”
I swirl Laylah around and try to get into her. It’s not working, so I fake it. An hour later, I’m leaning against a brick wall outside staring at my phone. Maybe I shouldn’t have texted Reese the other day…
Me: I have a question about the shoot.
Me: I lied. I don’t have any questions. I’ve just been thinking about you.
Me: The problem is I can’t stop thinking about you.
I can’t even blame alcohol for sending those during a late-night texting session. Maybe the wheatgrass was going to my head, making me see things too clearly. Sometimes it’s easier to hide behind the façade than face reality. The liquid cleanse I did for two days touted clarity. I’m seeing it as a bad side effect as regret sets in.
Reese hasn’t replied. I must have scared her. I definitely scared her. But damn, I’m not over-confident about us. She’s gotten under my skin. I imagined what would happen if we ran into each other a thousand times or more over the years. Then it happened and it didn’t play out anything like I expected. I never expected to still feel so much for her the second I saw her. I foolishly thought some anger that had lingered over the years would surface, the hurt I felt revealed in an acquired immunity to her beauty, her quick wit, and stubbornness.
Nope. That didn’t happen.
The exact opposite did.
I still have feelings for her—whether new or reminiscent of long ago, I have no idea. They’re there though because I can’t get the woman off my mind.
Her independence is sexy. The way she looks at me drawing me in, capturing my heart just like she did before.
The photographer’s assistant tosses the cigarette to the alley and grounds it in. “We should get back. One more setup to do.”
I watch him walk inside, then check my phone one more time. Nothing.
Giving my best James Dean, I hold the sports coat by the lapels to show off the $15k gold watch I’m modeling while tilting my head back to show some good jaw. The camera clicks as the shutter opens and closes in rapid succession. Laylah is watching in the distance as her makeup is removed since she’s wrapped. I avoid that direction. She’s gorgeous, just not Reese gorgeous.
I’m booked because I’m not affected. I believe in my work and let my emotions show, so I work the inner turmoil that’s building and let it show.
The photographer eats it up. “More, Danny. Yes, brooding. Dangerous. Give it to me. Just like that. Yes. That’s it. Hate the camera. Love the camera. You just fucked the camera and now want nothing to do with me. Make it about the camera. Give it to me and flash the watch.”
A pro at giving up everything during a shoot, I have no idea what he’s talking about so I do it my way and watch him practically orgasm as he watches me through the lens.
Bypassing the tray of champagne flutes, I grab a beer from the bar when we walk into the party. We fit in here. In a trendy home in the Hollywood Hills we’re just another group of models. Photographers, designers, and artists dot the landscape, immersed as deeply as we are into the fashion world.
From 2Xist to Abercrombie & Fitch male models, this party is filled with my competition. I don’t stress. I’ve got experience over youth. And I’ve never heard any complaints about my abs.
I don’t pretend people don’t recognize me, that I’m not a big deal. It may not seem like it, but our industry is small and everyone knows everyone or you’ve heard the rumors. I gave up my chosen path of my degree for one that sidetracked me. Luckily it paid off. Big time. I’m one of the exceptions. I’ve broken through beyond face recognition. I have name recognition—Fame. Being an exception, I’ve earned a level of respect.
I live with few regrets, though I often wonder how my life would be different if I had chosen to use my bachelor’s degree in Geography. I’d be married. For sure. I’d probably have a couple kids. Plural. Wow. Wonder if Reese still wants kids?
“There’s a free couch over there,” Laylah says, walking in next to me. She doesn’t mind the added attention. She never did. It doesn’t hurt the photographer to be seen with us either. I toss my jacket on the leather couch as I sit down. The Vargo photographer sits next to me, his assistant and Laylah across from us.
His assistant points to the food out by the pool. Pretending to be hungry, I excuse myself before any conversations keep me here.
The sleeve of my shirt is tugged. Laylah smiles, and for a minute I see that girl from Ontario again, the one who showed up knock-kneed and nervous eight years ago. “You’re coming back, right?”
I reassure her, “I’ll be back.”
She smiles and sits back on the couch, one long leg crossing over the next. I head outside. The view of LA is awesome from here. Lights appear to glitter, making the city magical again. Most people are inside the house and I find it strange that the view, this view in particular, is taken for granted, but I appreciate the solitude.
My phone buzzes with a text.
I pull the phone from my pocket and smile. It’s from Reese. I don’t even care what the text says. That I heard from her at all feels like a victory. That in itself is a win.
Swiping the screen, the full message appears.
Reese: I can’t stop thinking about you either.
My smile grows. Instantly, my fingers are on the keyboard ready to text back, but I stop, wondering if I should. Or should I wait? I hate games and here I am playing one. Reese is a delicate operation. One false move and we’re set back ten years when she walked away from everything we had.
In the middle of the master debate I’m having, I receive another message from her.
Reese: Looking forward to seeing you again.
We have Marfa in a few days. Seeing your ex-girlfriend in the middle of West Texas—isn’t that how all great stories… all great love stories, start?
“What are you smiling about?” Laylah sidles up to me, empty glass in hand. When I look at her, she keeps her eyes steady on me. “You’ve had something on your mind. All day.”
“Someone,” I volunteer.
; Her eyes widen in surprise, but a small smile appears too. “Someone?” She turns her gaze to the distance and her mood turns melancholy. “Relationships don’t bode well in our business. Even less of a chance if you’re a model on top. We’ve both been around long enough to know this.”
Turning back to the lights of Los Angeles, I want to say I met someone who would be worth reevaluating my long-term career goals. I want to share the ridiculous details of how Reese makes me feel alive and yet, vulnerable and exposed. But I don’t because she’s not someone I just met and I don’t want to get into a past that’s better to keep to myself for a while longer.
“Danny?”
Then I think of the woman Reese has become, and no matter how I feel I might know her, I’m not sure I do, and the implications that come with that, make me hesitate answering. I shake it off and run my hand through my hair, loosening the stiffly moussed strands. “It’s warm tonight.”
She gets the hint that I’m not going to give up anything, but warns, “Don’t let a temporary distraction ruin the empire you’re building, the legacy you’ve built. I learned that lesson the hard way. Don’t put yourself through the heartache. I’m going to eat. I’m starving.” Laylah leaves me with that advice… or is it a warning?
I flip the phone in my palm over and over wanting to read the messages from Reese again, the ones that make me smile and give away my secret. I don’t. I tuck my phone into my pocket and go to the bar to refresh my drink.
An hour is enough to know I can’t be here. I don’t want to party; I want to sit in a dark bar and lose myself in someone else’s life for a while. Luke picks me up and we drive to a dive in Hollywood. I’ve never seen a celebrity in here, though I’ve heard rumblings about “this one time Matt Damon and Ben Affleck” shared a pitcher here.
The vinyl booths are ripped, smoke has infiltrated the red velvet wallpaper, though cigarettes were banned in bars a few years back. It’s dark, the only natural light seeping in through an octagon window carved into the front door. The bartender doesn’t greet us. That would be a waste of his time as he cleans thick pint glasses and lines them up along the bar. This is why I like it. There are absolutely no pretenses. Nobody here gives a shit about me, my problems, or anybody else’s.
Luke gets a pitcher and comes back to the booth by the jukebox we’ve taken ownership of. While he pours, I complain, “That’s too much head.”
He glares at me, so I correct my statement, realizing how I set myself up. “Learn to pour a beer. Give me that.” I take the empty glass and fill it myself.
“So, let’s go back to the fact that you left a party full of hot models to come drink with me?”
“Aren’t you lucky?”
“But why again?” This is lost on him. He thinks like everyone else: I lead a life of luxury, fast cars, and sexy women. Okay, he’s right there, but he knows me better. He knows me. Period. No one at that party does.
“She’s vexing me.”
“Okay, Commodus, you’re not Joaquin Phoenix and this isn’t Gladiator. So nothing should be ‘vexing’ you.”
“If only this was a Ridley Scott movie. We could fight evil. Victory and the woman would be ours.”
“And then you die at the end. I’m more of a Gus Van Sant guy myself, and since when did you have girl trouble?”
“Once. But it’s made its way back around.”
He’s shaking his head at me. There’s not much he can say and I sound like I’m whining, so I drink my beer, then call to the bartender, “Can you turn up the TV?”
The pitcher is empty and we have a second half-full one in front of us. The channel is changed to a kung fu movie from the seventies, so I get up to check out the jukebox. Flipping through the old albums loaded on there, Guns N’ Roses, Metallica, or The Rolling Stones would be great. I need music that drowns out my thoughts. Instead I have music from the fifties like Sam Cooke to The Carpenters of the seventies. I’ve already stuck my money in, so I pick Aaron Neville’s “Tell It Like It Is,” knowing nothing on that jukebox is going to make me forget about Reese.
When I sit back down, Luke is judging. “Really, dude?”
“Whatever.” I’m judging myself too. Feeling defensive, I do what any good friend would do. I throw it back at him. “Talk to Jane?”
He bites. Hook, line, and sinker. “No. Do you think I should?”
“I don’t think I’m in any position to give advice right now.”
“I almost called her. I just kept thinking what if she was just having momentary doubts. She went home to him, so how much can she really be thinking about me?”
“I think you call her out on her shit.” He looks stunned by my harsh reaction, but I shrug. “Sorry, man, but she told you all that and then went back to him. Is she fucking with you, leaving you dangling out here until she wants you?”
“Fuck, you don’t have to lay it out so blatantly. Haven’t you heard of ‘breaking it’ to someone lightly?”
“Sorry. I just have a lot on my mind. I don’t even know if Reese is dating someone. What if she is?”
He double snaps his fingers in front of my face. “Hey! Focus. We’re talking about me. We’ll get to you next.”
I laugh, because I can’t not laugh at him. He’s ridiculous. I take a deep breath and pretend to be serious. “Okay, let’s talk this through because that’s what two dudes do. They talk through all their girl problems.” I side-eye him.
“Your sarcasm isn’t appreciated.”
“Actually, it’s appreciated quite often. But seriously, let’s go through the pros and cons.”
He nods, eager to work out this riddle. “Pro. We were together for eight years.”
“Con. You never sealed the deal. Why not?”
“I don’t remember anymore.” He leans his head down on his hand, the thought weighing him down. “Little things that didn’t matter.”
“Pro. You’ve been broken up over a year or more now, and no one has managed to replace her.”
“That’s a big pro,” he adds. “Con. She’s in a relationship. She lives with him. That’s pretty damn serious.”
“Pro. She lives with another guy and she still came to see you.”
“Pro. She lives with another guy and I don’t care. I would do anything to have one more day, one more chance to show her I’m the better man.”
I smile. C’mon, I’m not heartless. The poor sap is tugging at my heartstrings. “What are you waiting for then?”
“A sign.”
I thump him on the head. “Will that work?”
“Fuck. That hurt,” he complains. I laugh, because he knows he won’t get me. I’m too quick, even after drinking. “Watch your back,” he threatens, but is laughing.
His phone is on the table, so I push it toward him. “What can you lose at this point?”
“Nothing. I already lost the only thing that mattered.”
“I know the feeling.”
“It’s our time, Dan Man. We’re not getting younger or more attractive. It’s now or never.”
“Speak for yourself.” I pop my collar. Braggy move, I know.
He pushes my phone toward me. “Stop wasting time on the ones that don’t matter. Spend it on the one that does.”
Fuck it, I’m typing.
Me: Three days. You’re all mine. See you in Marfa.
I could stress that I’ll freak her out being that direct, but like I said, fuck it. She doesn’t keep me waiting. I take that as a good sign. I’m just glad she can’t see what an imbecile I look like right now with this big goofy grin taking up prime real estate on my face.
Reese: See you in Marfa, Danny.
15
DANNY
The desert is hot. Not exactly a newsflash but just wanted to get that off my chest, along with my shirt. I leave it on since I’m in public representing Vittori and being paid. I’m classy like that. But if it gets any hotter, all bets are off.
The driver shows up and thank God he has the air conditioning jac
ked up when I get inside.
Marfa is in the middle of nowhere West Texas. I did some research and other than the Prada installation and the Chinati Foundation, there’s not much else to see. As we drive into town I’m told we’re taking the scenic route and pass Ballroom, another hotspot of featured artists. We head down the main street and are dropped off at Hotel Paisano. The landmark hotel harkens to its roots from the 1930s—Spanish influences and historic tiles. I pass through the hall and pass an ode to the days when the cast of Giant stayed here—James Dean, Elizabeth Taylor, and Rock Hudson photos hang proudly.
In the lobby, I see Reese standing at the large window overlooking the courtyard. She’s on the phone, too lost in a conversation to notice me. I sit in the leather wingback chair behind her and wait. I’m not trying to eavesdrop but the distress in her voice draws me in to listen, and I narrow my eyes on the tile floor taking on her tension.
She says, “I’ll be back in two days.” A heavy sigh is released. “I’m not having this conversation over the phone. You can’t force—” She’s cut off and as I sit there, I realize she’s angry, sparking my own anger on her behalf. The asshat on the other end of the line has upset her. When he or she stops talking, she adds, “You need to do what you need to do, Keaton.” Keaton? Who is this dick? “I’m not stopping you. I’m not holding you back. You’re holding yourself back. Don’t wait for me because I’m not going to be there.”
I clear my throat. When she whips around and finds me sitting there, her face heats and she panics. “I need to go. Vittori’s here.” She hangs up and tries to recover by asking, “When did you sneak in? I was hoping to greet you.”
“No sneaking.” I stand, my body moving closer to hers. She falters, her breath deepening and I want to kiss her. I don’t, but I want to. “I walked in and saw you.”
“Did you have a nice drive in?”
Keeping it conversational, I reply, “I did. Did you?”
A slow smile spreads across her face and she blushes, I hope for me, this time. “I did.” She pauses, her body relaxing as she sighs happily. “It’s good to see you, Danny.”
Vote Then Read: Volume I Page 270
