by Stella Gray
I briefly wonder if he’s going to be here. My stomach does a little flip at the thought, even though I remember him telling me that menial tasks like auditions were beneath him. He only worked with already-established supermodels, he’d said. Looking back, I should have recognized right away that that kind of arrogance wasn’t going to end well for me. Still, a little chill goes down my spine as I imagine him here. This is his domain, after all.
“Are you here for the audition?” The pleasant voice of a woman behind the gleaming black reception desk grabs my attention.
I head toward her and glance at the clipboard lying there. Guess I was wrong about the bad PR. The page is covered top to bottom with names.
“Yes,” I say, keeping my voice confident despite my anxiety at being here. “Brooklyn Moss, signing in.”
I sign my name, then head toward the waiting area she indicates. The office is exactly how I imagined it: gorgeous, modern, and spacious, with lots of chrome and glass and black leather. There are also huge framed photos on the walls—not of models, but of breathtaking landscapes and architecture, like something out of National Geographic. I can see the city of Chicago spreading for miles out the floor-to-ceiling windows.
The open seating area where the rest of the models are waiting is packed. All I see are glossy lips and perfect, shining hair, long legs, and arched brows. I expected no less. I might stand out in most crowds, but at a casting call for models, I’m just another pretty face.
When I was just starting out, I was sure my eagerness and determination to work hard and “give it my all” would get me to the top. That if I just wanted it badly enough, I could make it happen. Now? I’ll be the first to admit I was incredibly naïve. The older me has learned through experience that this is a brutal profession I’ve chosen, that competition is dog eat dog.
Booking jobs is hard, even with a face like mine. I’m not conceited about it; I simply know I have a remarkable face—people have been telling me I should go into modeling since my teenage years. I guess it was easy to stand out in the Midwest with my father’s height and strong jawline, my gorgeous Italian mother’s olive skin and incredible cheekbones. The icing on the cake is the beauty mark set just above my pouty lips—I basically won the genetic lottery. But even with the gift of beauty, I haven’t launched into the supermodel stratosphere. Not yet.
Maybe today will be my big break.
I force myself to look nonchalant as I sweep past a few couches crammed with hopeful young women, all of them pretending they aren’t measuring me up. There’s nowhere to sit, so I lean against the wall and try not to slouch. Then I glance around at everyone else, my expression as warm and open as possible. I might be ambitious, and of course I’m competitive, but I’m not the mercenary type. After all, 99% of us aren’t going to make it. There’s no reason not to be friendly. We’re all in this together.
Unfortunately, most other models don’t see it that way.
I estimate there are about fifty girls here, and I study their faces to see if I recognize any of them. I was relatively successful in the Chicago scene during high school, modeling for local companies, doing print ads, and gaining traction in the tri-state area. Auditions were a breeze for me back then; scouts took one look at my “exotic” face, snapped a few pictures, and threw me jobs so fast it made my head spin. But eventually things stalled, and I realized that I needed representation. Steady gigs and national exposure required an agency like KZ Modeling.
I’ve had KZM in my sights for as long as I can remember, as I suspect most of these women have, but could never get an appointment…until now.
I have a hunch the company’s recent rebranding efforts go a lot further than simply changing their name to Danica Rose Management—that they’re looking for brand new, undiscovered talent to act as the new face of the company. That means they’ll be promoting the hell out of whomever they sign next. Booking huge international campaigns. Maybe even flying them out for fashion events, or to walk the red carpets in Hollywood. My mind spins with all the possibilities. I want this. I’m ready.
The scent of spicy male cologne piques my memory, but when I look around, I don’t see anyone except the rest of these hopefuls, all of them female. Even so, my pulse jacks up, ticking hard inside my chest as my lips begin to tingle. That kiss…those lips on mine…
Shit, Brooklyn, quit this. I give myself a mental shake. I can’t allow the indiscretions of my past ruin my future. I screwed up my chance with this agency once—I won’t do it again.
“Want to sit?” A blonde uncrosses her legs and shifts to the edge of the ottoman she’s perched on, giving it a little pat. She’s in a knee-length black leather skirt and a tight white blouse, her outfit teetering between professional and sexy, and her fresh, dewy complexion screams youth. She can’t be much older than eighteen.
I blink, suddenly feeling old at twenty-two. But I smile anyway.
“Sure, thank you.” I take the seat and keep my posture aligned but relaxed.
“I’m Marin.” She flips through a magazine, while absently handing me one. “You might as well browse. It takes the edge off.”
“I’m Brooklyn,” I say. I accept the media, but don’t open it. Her hand trembles slightly as she flips the pages too fast to be absorbing anything. I don’t tell her I’ve auditioned enough that nerves no longer apply. There is no edge for me anymore. Just steely determination and hope.
I subtly watch her, noticing her profile as she cocks her head and tucks her hair behind her ear. She’s got a classic beauty, a symmetrical face with full lips, rounded cheeks, a perfect brow. I imagine her in a white dress, walking the streets of Bellagio with a gelato in hand. I’d capture her just as the streetlamps come on to soften the already muted golds and yellows of the buildings, the softness of Lake Como behind her as she grins directly into the camera.
What an Instagram photo that would be.
She glances up and catches me staring. Smiles and returns to her ardent page flipping. “Are you new? I’d remember your face if I’d seen you around before.”
I want to laugh. New? Chicago is my hometown. I haven’t lived here in over three years, but my face still graces a few advertisements around the city.
“I live in LA now, but I grew up here.”
That gets her attention. “Really? I’d think this place would have snatched you up already. I mean, just look at that face.” She waves a hand in a circular motion around my head. “You definitely don’t look like anybody else. I actually expected you to have an accent.”
I get another flash of that mysterious cologne scent. Nope, not going there. I’m over it.
“I had kind of a hard time breaking out in Chicago.” It’s true enough. No need to get into the details of my humiliating flop with KZM, the subsequent career nosedive, or the fact that I’d been desperate for a fresh start and a place to lick my wounds.
“What made you decide to try LA?” She closes her magazine and rests her hands, palms down, on top of it. Her expression is eager, as if I might have some wisdom to impart.
“I think I was just ready for something completely different,” I say, “and the opportunity presented itself at just the right moment. I have a pretty big social media network, so—”
“You’re like, an influencer or something?” she interrupted.
I shrug. “You could call it that. I promote modeling, some products, my photography. Over the years I’ve gained a lot of followers and eventually made some friends. People I chat with every day and share personal things with. This cute guy Mateo kept telling me I should fly out to LA for a visit. So, I went. And I’ve been there ever since.”
“Aww, how romantic.” The girl’s eyes light up. “So you fell for each other?”
I laugh. “Not in the way you mean. Mateo is more like…the best friend I never knew I had. We spent the weekend watching 80s movies, eating Mexican food, and drinking champagne out of plastic cups on the beach. When my Uber pulled up to take me to LAX, I realized I
couldn’t bear the thought of going back to face another Chicago winter.”
“I hear you on that.” Marin nods sympathetically. “So you stayed.”
“Yeah. We found this French Normandy-style apartment building in West Hollywood, and it’s kind of falling apart, but…it’s just so beautiful there. People say LA is a city of cars, but where we live you can walk anywhere you’d want to go. And it’s always warm.”
“Sounds dreamy,” she says. “Do you book a lot of jobs there?”
I shrug. “Some. Not enough for rent though, so I waitress at a luxury supper club. But then I miss all the go-sees, since I can’t just call out every time something promising pops up.”
“Yeah,” Marin coos sympathetically. “I’m lucky I live at home and work part-time.”
“I just don’t want to waste my prime years hustling for tips when I should be focusing on my big break, you know? Mateo is a model too, and he does great, but I’m ready for it to be my turn. I’m glad I took the leap, and it’s been a ride, but I’m ready for what’s next. So here I am.”
Thinking of Mateo, I fight back a tiny pang of jealousy. He and I used to go to auditions together, and then one serendipitous job modeling for Lady Gaga’s makeup line tossed his career into overdrive. He’s in high demand now, with so many jobs on offer that he actually has to turn them down. I’m proud of his success, but it’s left me wondering if my own ship has sailed.
It’s also forced me to realize that I need to make a choice. I either go all in on modeling, do everything I can to break through, commit myself fully to this career path, or I need to suck up my failure and go to college, maybe apply to an art school for photography. Either way, I need to find something else to do with my life besides waitressing.
Luckily, I have some time to figure it out. Mateo decided to come to Chicago with me and leased an apartment here in Wicker Park. Hopefully, I can make something happen.
I’m curious about something. “How did you find out about this audition today?” I ask.
“My friend’s agent told me,” Marin says. “She said it wasn’t a standard casting call, but she couldn’t provide a lot of details. It’s KZ—I mean Danica Rose—so of course I came, details or not.” She lowers her voice. “Word on the street is, they’re hungry for new faces.”
“Right. I figured as much. Though I don’t see any men here.”
Marin shrugs. “They probably do the calls for the guys separately.”
“Hmm. I guess that makes sense.”
The friend who’d tipped me off mentioned there was some secrecy around the contract it involved. Which only made me more excited. Whatever this is, it’s big. And I need big, before my dreams slip through my fingers—though that’d certainly make my parents happy.
They’d never been thrilled with my career choice. Even in high school, when I was making real money from modeling, they’d tried to convince me to pursue something else. They had signed permissions for my underage contracts, sure, but it had always been reluctantly.
I always thought that if I could just land one huge national gig, they’d finally see that all my hard work had paid off. That I’d made something of myself. They’d finally be proud.
At the far end of the hall, the frosted glass doors sporting the Danica Rose logo open and a curvy brunette in a navy pantsuit strides out. Her walk is confident, but her expression is definitely not. Everyone looks at her, and low whispers go around the room. I’m sure they’re all wondering what went on behind those doors. I know I am.
The brunette goes to the refreshment table and pours a cup of cucumber water from a carafe. She takes a small sip, then clutches the paper cup to her chest as if she’s lost in thought.
“Okay, I’m dying to know.” Marin bursts from her seat and approaches the brunette. Luckily, I’m close enough that I can hear them talk. Everyone else rubbernecks to do the same.
“What happened in there?” Marin asks gently. “Are you okay?”
The brunette takes another sip and tosses the cup in the trash. “I’m fine. I had a couple pictures taken and got asked a bunch of weird questions and…that was it. Time was up.”
“What kind of questions? Like your vital stats, or your experience?”
“No.” She shrugs. “Like…do I own any pets, what do I think about downtown living, do I have any bad habits? Just, weird stuff. Not the usual. I don’t even know who the client is.”
Marin’s face screws up in confusion.
“Brooklyn Moss.”
My attention snaps to those glass doors, where a woman waves me over, a tablet in her hand. I make eye contact with Marin as I rise and smooth my hands down my skinny jeans.
“Good luck,” she whispers before turning back to the brunette.
I shoot her a smile as I straighten my posture and toss back my hair. It’s game on, and I get myself into the zone where I always go when I’m in front of a lens. I feel confident. Prepared. The adrenaline pumping through me is a good thing, a strong thing. I’ve so got this.
I silently chant those words all the way down the hall. The tablet woman nods at me as she pushes the door open, gesturing me through, and I step inside.
And come up short.
What the hell?
The room is empty save for a dark-suited man sitting behind a large black desk across the room. His head is down as he writes on something, but my heart beats with familiarity.
No, it can’t be.
He glances up, and my heart skids to a stop.
It’s him. The man who promised me the moon and then ghosted me after we slept together. The man who ruined my first chance with this company, my first chance at breaking out and skyrocketing my career.
Luka Zoric.
Brooklyn
Chapter 2
Three Years Ago
It was the biggest fashion show I’d done so far.
A bunch of up-and-coming designers had descended on Chicago to debut their new lines in front of the local fashion media, and it had caused a frenzy. The new manager I’d recently signed with had really come through for me by booking me for the show. I mean, I’d have preferred to be walking the runway in Milan but having some of the country’s top designers fit me with their clothes just so I could be photographed strutting around in them was a huge win for my career. Plus, national agencies like KZ Modeling were going to be there and I’d been trying to catch their eyes for a while. I was nineteen and working my way up. I figured it was just a matter of time before they noticed me—I hoped—but it couldn’t hurt to give them a little push.
I tried to focus on my strut, my eyes fixed in the distance, my trademark Mona Lisa smile on my face. But still, it took every ounce of self-control I had not to look into the crowd with a triumphant grin while I was on the catwalk. Just knowing all those agents were out there, looking at me, was everything.
Now, it’s all over. I’m euphoric and high on adrenaline, still wearing one of the designs from the show. A black satin dress with a low-cut bodice, thin straps of fabric interwoven across my chest and down my hips, with a flouncy skirt that barely covers my ass. It sort of resembles a sexy bondage fairy costume, but I like it. The designer asked me to wear it to the afterparty and I had readily agreed. Looking around at the fashionable bodies around me, I’m glad I did.
I’ve never been to a party like this, and simply being invited to attend after the show is messing with my head. I feel giddy, and a little out of myself. Some of the faces are familiar, but I don’t really know anyone here. Mingling will change that. Networking is something I’ve never been great at, but I’ve made it a goal to be more outgoing. You have to be, in this industry. There’s plenty of beauty and talent to go around. Who you know is everything.
The rooftop terrace has been decorated to perfection with strings of softly glowing overhead lights, thick velvet curtains, and exotic potted flowers and tropical shrubs creating a magical backdrop that’s dotted with tiny lights in the shapes of stars. A full bar wraps around one
side of the terrace, and a band plays on a stage on the other side. Plush furniture is scattered in clusters, allowing people to sit and mingle. There are even a few private spaces tucked into dimly lit corners. I only know this because the people inhabiting them don’t seem to realize there’s more lighting than they think.
After adjusting the camera settings on my phone for the duality of dark and light, I snap a few test images of the décor. Subtly moving to the edges of the crowd, I find my muses and take a few more shots until I’m happy with the results. The floral and greenery backdrop is stunning in my photos, like something from a fairy tale. My social media followers will love it.
They’ll love all of these pics.
My follower base is in the thousands, and it’s growing every day. It might be because of what I do for a living, but I like to think it’s also my photography skills. I’m drawn to more than how things look, but how they feel, and the more I practice getting angles and arrangements and lighting just right, the better I get at capturing those feelings. See, anyone can take a picture of a melting ice cream cone at Navy Pier in July—but my goal is to get the picture that makes you feel the pure, childlike joy of devouring that ice cream cone on a perfect summer’s day.
“Excuse me.”
I do a double take at the rude voice, suddenly realizing I’m blocking the people trying to use the photo backdrop. As usual, I’ve lost myself in taking pictures. My face heats as I apologize and move out of the way. A stunning couple poses stiffly while a professional photog takes their picture.
I peek at the digital snap with a critical eye—I’d move the woman slightly to the left to show off the dazzle of her sparkled bodice, adjust my own position until I caught the flash of the diamond necklace resting in the hollow of her throat, instruct her partner to gaze at her. Then I’d mess with the depth of field to achieve that slightly blurry, dreamy quality for the background—
