Avoiding Intimacy

by K. A. Linde

  Marco’s introductory words rang through the speakers. It was immediately followed by a thunder of applause. He was a raw talent with a booming voice that was as soothing, seductive, and stimulating as a Siren. He was in his natural element, charming an audience. She could see him in her mind’s eye, gorgeous and tall. Intoxicating with a smile, he could cast a spell with those dark, dreamy eyes.

  Assistants lined up models in order while a famous American singer began her latest number-one hit to open the show. Marco appeared backstage an instant later, pushing people into place, adjusting hair, and demanding overall perfection.

  Chyna’s green eyes bored into his back from a distance. She knew he could feel it, and then he pivoted around, quirking a smile at her. She continued to shoot daggers at him, which just seemed to amuse him further. He turned away from her then, finished off the last model, and disappeared back behind the curtain to watch the show.

  “That man is insufferable,” Chyna groaned.

  “He is a genius,” Giselle said in a voice that sounded like she agreed.

  Chyna couldn’t help continuing. “I want to rip off his head and post it on a stake sometime.”

  “But, most of the time, just his clothes, so he can work his genius on you, no?” Giselle responded.

  Chyna gaped at Giselle. She was always so incredibly prudish.

  Giselle broke out into laughter. “I’d try not to look that shocked on stage,” she suggested.

  Models were already being ushered back offstage to be escorted into the party to be put on display immediately. Time was moving fast, and Chyna wasn’t prepared to step onto that stage. The room emptied more and more until even Brigitte, Giovanna, and Ravenna were kissing her cheeks and wishing her luck before they disappeared.

  As soon as the very last model left backstage, Giselle stripped Chyna out of her robe and began unbuttoning the train of her dress and letting it loose behind her. When she was finished, Giselle admired her handiwork, her top lip turned up as she scrutinized with intense, hard blue eyes. “Are you prepared?”

  No! Hell no! She couldn’t do this. Marco was insane to even pull this shit on her, but she nodded, certain her face showed every evident concern.

  “You’ll do fine,” Giselle reassured her. “I’m certain Marco wouldn’t do something he thought would ruin the show.”

  “Let’s hope.”

  “Chin up. Watch that step,” Giselle reminded her.

  Not that she needed the reminder. She almost rubbed her ass at the thought. “I can do this,” Chyna said confidently, walking carefully up the steps.

  She waited for her cue, her intro, the music—anything that would let her know when to begin, but nothing came. A hushed silence passed over the crowd, and suddenly, the lights were extinguished. A soft whisper, no louder than a hum, filled the room at the abrupt darkness, but it too died down. Was this her cue? She was’ supposed to have music and lights! Where was her cue?

  She was terrified to walk onto a fully lit stage in this dress, so the thought of doing it blindly in the dark was atrocious. When nothing else happened, she took it upon herself to make the decision. Her six-inch sparkly nude platforms created the only noise in the room as she clicked slowly across the black stage. What was the point? No one could see her, and it was dangerous. Marco better have something up his sleeve.

  Chyna had obsessively counted steps all summer. Marco had some small fascination with knowing the length of every stage. He wanted his model to know where she was going and what she was doing. Then, she would have no excuse if she messed up because he had given a warning. She silently prayed that all that instruction was for this moment. She finished walking to where she anticipated center stage to be, and then she turned to face the darkened audience. She wasn’t foolish enough to begin walking down the runway in the pitch black, even if she had been training for it.

  So, she waited.

  Then, it happened.

  That damn man!

  Candles flared to life on both sides of the stage at the end of the runway. They slowly traveled up the length of the platform as more and more lit up. Chyna’s eyes rose to the perimeter of the enormous auditorium where more and more candles started glowing along the wall, in vases, and in the hands of models and patrons alike. The darkness faded, and soon she was awash with gorgeous, soft, ambient light.

  She would have laughed if she could have. Instead, she stayed in character, producing a brilliant smile. Her dress was coming to life. She had thought it was gorgeous but plain when it had been hanging in that black garment bag. How could she have ever doubted Marco?

  This was more than a Marco original, more than a one-of-a-kind. It was the culmination of all of his genius, and it was covering her body. The sheer nude base he had used for the design wrapped up in to a sweetheart shape across her breasts, stretched over her tight stomach, and ran down to her mid-thigh before it parted and fanned out behind her into a feathery light train. All of the edges were beaded by hand and dipped in some glassy shimmer to match. The glossy beading continued across the bodice in an intricate interpretation of a blossoming lotus flower.

  The most stunning part was that it all shined at once—the dress, the shoes, her makeup, her entire body—like a star. In fact, she now realized that what she had thought was glitter being dusted on her body was actually finely shaved crystal. It caught the light in a way that glitter never could. That same crystal seemed to be embedded into the sheer material, so she did not appear to be nearly nude on stage.

  She was simply Marco’s creation.

  When it seemed like not another candle could be lit in the entire place, a piano’s soothing chords flowed through the hall. Up until that moment, Chyna had felt like she had been living through a dream. It all could have happened in a matter of seconds, minutes, or hours. She couldn’t have told you the amount of time that had passed, but when that first chord struck, her body collided back with reality.

  How could he possibly choose this song? She searched for his face out in the crowd, feeling the seconds creep by, as she stood trapped in the candlelight’s glow. Then, he materialized at the end of the runway, his arms crossed and face smug. He had created her cue without ever telling her. How many times had this song played in his bedroom while he had photographed her, when he had trained her, when they had been rolling around in his silk sheets?

  Her smile never faltered while everyone oohed and aahed about her dress reflecting the flickering light. When the piano really began picking up, she knew it was time. Then, she owned that runway. The dress moved flawlessly with her as she made her way toward Marco. She broke eye contact long enough to send dazzling smiles to people as she passed. Cameras snapped from all directions as Marco’s clever creation traipsed across the floor.

  As the piano hit the crescendo, Chyna reached the end of the stage and found Marco walking up the makeshift stairs to meet her. He reached out for her hand, and she obliged him. He turned to face the captive audience, smiling all the while, knowing that he had done it. He had won.

  “Thank you so much for attending the thirty-seventh annual Glam Ball. I am pleased to present our newest model, Chyna Van der Wal, in my latest gown. I hope you all enjoyed my little star,” Marco said, gesturing toward Chyna.

  She almost cringed—almost. How dare he call her that in front of all these people!

  Marco continued, “We’ll all be seeing a lot more from her later.”

  She heard the double meaning in his words loud and clear, remembering the last thing he had said to her. I’m coming for you after the show. The audience might believe he meant her modeling skills or her body modeling his designs, but she knew better. Marco very briefly smirked at her only once. There was her man.

  “Enjoy the remainder of the party!” Marco cheered, returning his attention to his audience. “Until Fashion Week,” he said, holding his and Chyna’s hands above their heads.

  Dim lights filled the room at the end of his speech, and the crowd began milling aro
und, discussing the exhibition. Marco dropped Chyna’s hand back to her side, but he still didn’t let go. She gulped, wondering if this was the time he had in mind.

  He seemed to know exactly what she was thinking and shook his head side to side slowly. “Later,” he whispered just loud enough for her to hear. “I know you’re still ready for me, but it’ll happen soon.”

  Chyna swallowed, wanting nothing more than to spit out every angry diatribe she had in her drama-laden body. But, damn it, she was still on stage! This whole thing meant something to her. “I’d still be ready, even if you had finished me earlier.”

  “I know how a performance turns you on,” he said, gingerly leading her down the stairs. A halo of people surrounded them as they waited to get a closer examination of Marco’s new star in the beautiful dress.

  “I’m not the only one,” she murmured, keeping her voice as soft and airy as she could. It was hard keeping the bite out of it, but she tried to avoid any negative attention. These people were like vultures, hanging onto every fleeting fashion and every juicy piece of gossip.

  “No, you’re not,” he said, slowly twirling her for display.

  She had to be extra careful in her shoes as the train swirled around her ankles.

  He pulled her in close to steady her, and then he whispered into her ear, “But, you’re the one holding on to all that built-up tension, and I can’t wait to be the one to release it.” He chuckled in a way that only Marco could make sound so sexy.

  She would show him built-up tension with a sharp kick to the ass. Chyna broke away from him now that she was steady on her feet again. She began to walk away, but he still held her hand in his. He bent forward at the waist in a sweeping bow, drawing her hand to his lips and planting a possessive kiss on the soft crystal-dusted skin. She forced a smile on to her face, and a few surrounding individuals applauded at the display. His responding smile was a promise.

  Thankful to be out of his clutches for a while, Chyna made a beeline for the nearest waiter. He offered her a glass of Champagne with a curt smile.

  “Anything stronger?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

  The guy did his best not to look surprised. “How much stronger?”

  “Tequila?” she requested conspiratorially.

  “We have wine.”

  Chyna rolled her eyes. “Seriously?”

  “It’s vintage,” he offered apologetically.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” she groaned, taking the Champagne out of his hand.

  “Mi dispiace,” he said actually apologizing.

  Chyna waved away the apology. “Va bene.”

  She sipped, okay, gulped down her Champagne, finishing the first glass before her waiter even departed. He raised an eyebrow, but he handed her another glass before walking away as if he didn’t want to be responsible for the centerpiece’s alcoholism. She actually sipped this one because she was terrified of walking around in this thing drunk.

  Her eyes instinctually found Marco in the crowd. The reporters were hovering over him like moths to a flame, trying desperately to get the next interview. He was engaged with a particularly attractive blonde at the moment. Chyna wasn’t even surprised that the woman was basically molesting him or that he was letting her. They weren’t together. Their arrangement had nothing to do with that. It was only about lust, need, hate, and passion, and she liked to keep it at that.

  Still, there was some kind of draw she felt to him—that she had always felt to him. It was strangely magnetic. It made her want to claw her way out of her clothes one minute and then slap him clear across the face the next minute…before letting him tie her to the bed and tease her until he forgave her. It was a never-ending cycle—lusting after a man who had the power to break her and knowing half of the time she wanted him to.

  “He is extraordinary, isn’t he?” someone asked from behind her.

  Chyna made the mistake of swiveling in place, twisting the train up around her ankles and nearly sloshing her Champagne on the priceless one-of-a-kind dress. She teetered in place, rearranging the skirt in her mile-high shoes before glancing up at the woman who stood before her.

  She was plain in a way that made Chyna wonder if she had modeled when she was younger. Makeup, smiling eyes, and a camera could cover up plainness real quick. Wearing a molded burgundy mermaid gown tapered to a deep V in the back, she had the taste of someone accustomed to high fashion. Her only accessory besides her shimmery gold clutch was one long strand of white pearls that hung from her slender neck. Chyna would recognize the swirly Corsa logo on the clasp anywhere; after all, her mother had worked for them.

  “Who?” Chyna asked, smiling sweetly at the woman.

  “You know who,” she said, slinking forward slightly.

  Chyna glanced back at Marco who was speaking confidently into a tiny microphone.

  “He is,” Chyna answered her initial question.

  “With, if I might add, impeccable taste,” she said with a smile that didn’t quite match her face.

  “Why, thank you,” Chyna said, wondering who the hell this woman was. She recognized quite a few of the faces in here, at least all the ones that really mattered. Yet, this was not a familiar face.

  “Excuse me, I’m being rude. Cassandra,” the woman said, holding out her hand.

  “Pleasure,” Chyna responded.

  “You’re American,” Cassandra commented.

  Chyna didn’t know if it was a negative or positive feature. The woman’s expression gave away nothing. Chyna never knew how people did that.

  “Very.” She smiled wider and took a sip of her Champagne.

  Cassandra chuckled softly, eyeing her flute of champagne but not taking a sip of it. “However did he find you? Have you ever even modeled before? You seem like a natural. Maybe he didn’t even need much time to mold you.”

  It was a bit presumptuous. Alright, it was very presumptuous, but Chyna could appreciate that. In fact, it was a breath of fresh air in the crashing sea she had been wading through all summer.

  “Forgive me,” the woman said in a way that made it seem as if she had no reason to be forgiven. “I continue with my rude behavior.”

  “Seemed alright to me. Did you want something?” Chyna asked, trying to get to the point.

  “I believe so,” she said, surveying Chyna. “Yes, I believe I do.”

  All Chyna wanted to say was that she wasn’t all that into chicks because this woman was looking at her like she was deciding whether or not to take her home. Chyna didn’t know what to make of it. Was she flirting with her or just being odd?

  “I’d like to offer you a job,” Cassandra told her finally.

  “Excuse me?” Chyna asked, staring back at the woman as if she were a martian. She hadn’t decided on what she was going to do now that her summer endeavor with Marco was coming to its conclusion. For the most part, she had been waiting for him to come to terms with the fact that he needed to keep her. He needed a model for his line, and she was his model. He had all but created her. It seemed a waste to let all that go after only a few short weeks.

  She flipped back and forth about Marco every other minute, but she couldn’t deny his genius. He was the most successful talent that had arisen in the fashion industry during this generation, and she was a part of that. She thrived under his influence like she never had before. Her whole world moved too fast and out of control. It seemed to have a life of its own. The entire experience was an adrenaline rush on steroids. She hadn’t had that feeling from anything other than partying in a long, long time.

  Partying used to be that escape for her. She could escape into the dancing, nightlife, alcohol, and men that floated through her existence like a traveling circus. It was a world within a world—a world where she felt more at home than in reality. She became addicted to it—not the alcohol but the feeling of release.

  She was as much afraid of that feeling as she reveled in it. What if she went back to her life and it all felt lifeless in comparison? How wo
uld she ever be able to escape?

  So, she was waiting, waiting for him to make up his mind. She wanted to choose for him, but when it came right down to it, she didn’t know if she would choose him or not. She didn’t know if she would choose this life for herself. Perhaps in the end, it was only a novelty that would wear off with the passing of time like everything else had.

  With conflicted thoughts, Chyna turned her attention back to Cassandra.

  “I would like to offer you a job,” Cassandra repeated slowly.

  “Oh.”

  “You are very good, and you don’t even quite know it yet. I think you would fit nicely into our collection,” she told her confidently.

  After headlining Glam Ball, this woman wanted her to go be just another girl in her collection. Was she mad? She wanted…no, she needed to be showcased. Chyna craved it now. Marco had spoiled her, and at that moment, she knew it.

  “I’m sure it doesn’t sound like much to you,” Cassandra continued eyeing her as if she had dealt with a thousand other divas. “However, I believe if you’d consider it, you’d realize it’s a wonderful opportunity.”

  “Um…yes…well, thanks,” she said, finishing off her Champagne. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m not sure what I’m going to be doing this fall…if I’ll even be modeling.”

  “You’ll be modeling,” Cassandra said as a matter-of-fact.

  Chyna didn’t even bother asking her how she knew. She hardly stuck with anything long enough, even when she had loved many, many things. Perhaps modeling would die out for her as well. Though, the thought felt like a lie even when she was thinking it.

  “I appreciate your confidence, but I just haven’t decided about this fall yet.”

  Cassandra tilted her head to the side as if she didn’t understand. She looked half like she wanted to laugh and the other half like she was taken aback. Her reaction was perplexing to say the least. Chyna had been modeling for all of a month and a half, but she had been around it her entire life. She had never heard of a Cassandra in the fashion industry. It didn’t mean that she didn’t exist. It just meant that she wasn’t important.