Lyrical Lights

by Maria La Serra

  “No, you’re definitely something else. Not everyone gets it the way you do. Everyone thinks modeling is about showing up and putting on a beautiful face, but it’s more. You understand that every garment has its own personality, a fluid quality to it. You have to love what you do; that’s the only way it’s captured on film.”

  “Where were you when my agent gave me the boot?” I smirked, peeling back the label on his beer bottle.

  “I’m surprised you’re not doing this full time. Obviously you had a bad agent. Let’s prove her wrong … And stay.”

  How can anyone say no to this man? “Oh, I—”

  “I could use someone like you, because you’re not a model.”

  “No? So what am I?” I smiled.

  “You’re a muse … my muse, a feast for my creativity,” Simon blurted out. “Something about you stirs emotions inside me. You make things happen. To be honest, it’s something I’ve never felt. This kind of connection—you can’t make this up.”

  Settle down, heart.

  “I guess it feels natural. When the makeup and the clothes come on, it reinvents me.” I directed my eyes back to him. “It’s nice to escape from being me.”

  “Why would you want to escape from who you are?” His eyebrows crashed together.

  “Doesn’t everybody?”

  “I think it’s funny you say that, because under all the characters you felt you were playing today—the ones you thought you were hiding behind—I saw a girl who wants to be let out. The truth is you were playing yourself all along,” he said, looking at me with those loving eyes. “The thing is, you don’t believe what you’re capable of. Don’t allow your ambitions to come undone because of self-doubt. Only you have control over that. You’re ready to take the world by storm. No more fears, Mable. Set out and do what you’re meant to do.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” I looked up at him. “Thank you?”

  He let the words sit there between us before he continued. “I should be the one to thank you for helping me out of a jam. You might have saved my career.”

  “So was I your plan B?” I now suspected Simon was the reason Gloria brought me along.

  “No, you were my plan A,” he said, his eyes going clear. “Look, I didn’t know how the day would work out. I simply aligned my ducks, and everything happened as it should have.”

  I leaned my head back into the blue-tufted chair and tilted it lightly, looking up at him. He smiled in a way that made me believe Simon Rowe never left anything up to chance. He was a man who made things happen, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he had every intention of making things happen inside of me.

  “The first moment I saw you at the Little Orange, sitting on that run-down couch … You just lit up, hooking me in. I only regretted not having my camera with me that night.”

  God, am I blushing? Pretty sure I am.

  “There was a lot of tension on the set today.” I had to bring it up, because I was trying to convince my heart how wrong it was about Simon. Pay attention, heart. I’m doing this for your own good. There could be someone else in his life.

  “Yeah. I’m sorry for the way Vanessa acted. It was uncalled for.”

  “It’s not your fault.” I said. His lips parted, but he diverted his eyes away, focusing on the corner of the room.

  “Hey, you think you could kick my arse in a game of pool?” I liked how he changed the subject, but I took note.

  “I can,” I said matter-of-factly.

  He was taken aback. “Wow, very confident bird. I like that.”

  “I enjoy playing games, and it so happens that I’m fantastic at winning—like a lot.” I smiled brightly. “You should prepare yourself, because you will do a lot of losing.”

  “Oh, uh … that good, hey?” His expression cleared. “No worries, mate, I’m sure I could take you down. Win with my eyes shut.”

  “Listen, Crocodile Dundee, this is not my first rodeo,” I replied. He laughed louder, watching me get up from my chair, removing my jacket.

  “Well, Mable, you better put your money where your mouth is.” He got up, making his way to the table, and I followed.

  “Oh, I’m planning to. Eight ball?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  “What should we play for?” He leaned closer as I racked in the stripes and solids. Good grief, what cologne was he wearing? The scent interfered with my every thought. I need to move away from him if I wanted to win.

  “What else—money.”

  “Okay, twenty?” He tied back his hair with a black elastic from around his wrist. I thought to myself, not much help that will do.

  “Come on, you’ve got to do better than that, you cheap bastard.” I gave him a cheesy grin.

  “Wow. I don’t know how I feel about this side of you.” He quirked a brow.

  “Am I scaring you?”

  “Um, no. Oddly, it’s turning me on.” I half-rolled my eyes. “Okay, fine.” He inhaled deeply. “I just didn’t want you to lose your shirt over this.” His eyes flashed wickedly.

  “Thank you for being such a perfect gentleman,” I said. “But I told you I will not be the underdog.”

  “You really think so? That’s cute.” He dragged out a bill from his trifold wallet, placing it on the edge of the pool table. “Hundred bucks, how does that sound?”

  He smiled; he was enjoying this way too much. But I knew something he didn’t: I’d been taught by a three-time national champion pool player. I think I will only disclose that trivia after I wipe that overzealous smile off his face. I flashed him a knowing look as I hauled out five twenty-dollar bills from my purse, placing them on top of his. I planned to win, because I needed that money to survive the next couple of days I had left in the city. He handed me a cue stick. Unsatisfied with its condition, I passed it back to him and took another from the wall.

  “Solids or stripes?”

  “Solids.” I chalked the top of my cue stick.

  “Okay, Mable, let’s have a fair go.” Simon leisurely leaned against the table behind him. “I’ll appreciate the view from here.” I know what he’s trying to do—rattle me up to distract me—but it’s not going to work. I can’t wait to show him who’s boss.

  “Look all you want, Simon. Soon you’ll kiss it,” I said, knowing he would have full regard of my backside. I placed the chalk down and made my way back to him.

  “That wouldn’t be a bad thing,” He looked slyly at me. “Don’t give me that look, you stepped right into that.”

  He had me there.

  “So you’re super competitive?” he asked.

  “Oh, you have no idea.” I swept my hair to the side and caught his eyes while doing it.

  “I’ll tell you what. I’ll take my shot standing on one limb and with one hand behind my back,” Simon approached, a little too close.

  I stood there, anxiously idle. “Oh, how generous, but that won’t be necessary. Now get out of my way and let me show you how it’s done.” I nudged him with my hip to scoot him over—he was a beast—and it made no impact. He laughed and moved over, anyway.

  “This will be fun, watching you lose.” His eyebrows playfully went up. I got down to my stance. I was sure he had a full view of me, but I focused on keeping low on the cue ball and struck hard as I could. The balls scattered all around the table.

  “Not bad.” He walked around, then leaned in to line up his shot. Simon sent four balls into the sockets. He slowly glanced up.

  Shit.

  “Not bad,” I said coolly. I hate losing, even more to a man who’s getting under my skin. I had to up my game. I took my shot, and more balls went in.

  “How did you learn to play?” He took his turn, and I was not happy with the outcome.

  “My dad.” I smiled, trying to line up my shot, but I could see Simon goofing around in front of me, moving his stick side to side and making me lose my focus.

  “I know what you’re doing,” I said, placing my hand on my hip.

  “What?”
Looking innocent.

  “Please don’t stand in my shot.”

  “Oh, was I distracting you?”

  I saw how this was going; I had to come up with something better. He made his way around the table, found his opportunity, and leaned over.

  “Simon?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m considering getting a tattoo.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Do you think it would look stupid if I get one right here?” I brought down the waistband of my pants, but not low enough to reveal anything more than I wanted. It seemed to have worked, because he missed his shot, narrowing his eyes at me.

  “You have no intentions of getting a tattoo.”

  “Maybe.” I smiled wickedly. “I think I’ll get one of an eight ball to commemorate this win.” I winked. As I leaned in to take my shot, Simon took his white T-shirt and pulled it over his head.

  “What are you doing?” I swallowed.

  “Now see, Miss Harper, two can play that game,” he said, and I had a full view of an exceptional fit torso. I laughed nervously, not because I felt uneasily hot, but because now we were drawing attention from everyone else, and soon enough we had an audience. It’s a good thing it’s slow for a Tuesday night.

  “Are you guys playing strip pool? You know that’s indecent exposure, right?” Noah’s voice came from behind us.

  I turned to Noah, mouthing the word damn. I tried not to focus on Simon’s body and instead on my shot.

  “Gah,” I sighed. It didn’t go as planned.

  “Is this distracting you?” He flexed, and I stuck my tongue out at him.

  “Okay, wise guy, put your guns away before you hurt somebody. Take your shot, will you?”

  “Ouch, somebody’s not happy. Pay attention, maybe you can learn a thing or two.” He winked before sliding his shirt back on. Then he leaned down, aligning his stick.

  “You’re sure you want to do that?” I asked.

  “Go on, do your worst.”

  He positioned himself. Just before he took his shot, I leaned close to his ear and whispered, “I can’t handle myself when I’m around you. I want you in the worst possible way.” Yup, that did it. The cue ball went off the table, and the crowd laughed and howled.

  “Oh, that sucks,” I said. I looked down at my nails, freshly painted pink, somehow already chipped.

  “Shiiitt.” He sighed in disbelief, and his eyes slowly trailed up the length of me. “What the hell was that?” He straightened up, his eyes filled with heat. “Explain, woman.”

  “You told me to do my worst.” I flashed him an innocent smile.

  “And that’s what you thought of? You shouldn’t say stuff like that unless you mean it.”

  “Like what?” I fluttered my eyelashes.

  “You like playing with fire?” he murmured.

  “If it means winning, yes. I have a talent for getting what I want.” It’s a total lie, but I say it anyway.

  “Well, don’t entice me into wanting to explore that talent of yours,” he said, close enough to my ear.

  A heat rose through me, and I realized that what had started as a friendly game had become something else.

  Simon’s phone buzzed from his back pocket, and it put an end to the match we were playing. A crease appeared on Simon’s forehead as he looked down at his phone.

  “Sorry, I need to take this.”

  I watched him walk outside and appear on the other side of the window. It was clear from his facial expression that he wasn’t happy talking to whoever it was.

  Later, when Simon came back in, he made the rounds, saying his goodbyes to the gang before making his way back to where I was standing.

  “Hey … I’m so sorry. I have to go. A friend is in some sort of trouble, and I need to check up on them. Will you still be around in … about an hour?” Simon slid his hands into his front pockets.

  “I wish I could, but it’s been a long day,” I said. God, I was so bummed out. I knew I was being selfish, but I wanted him to stay with me. But I wouldn’t hold it against him.

  “So this is it?” Simon asked. There was a hint of sadness in his eyes. “I’ll never see you again?”

  It felt like a defining moment for us—all that could happen, all that, now, would never happen. I could stay and wait for Simon to return, I thought; but on the other hand, there was a good chance he wouldn’t come back. Whoever was on the other line must have been important enough for him to leave. If he wanted to stay, then he would.

  “Not unless you come to Montreal,” I replied, hiding my disappointment behind a smile.

  “Maybe one day,” he said, but I knew it would never transpire. “Well, I appreciate your helping me out.” He nodded.

  “Yeah, no problem.” My voice must have sounded flat, because he looked like he wanted to say something more, but we remained in limbo, not sure what to do next. Do we hug? Kiss?

  “Take care of yourself.” Simon was the first to step forward, and it was like time slowed down. I felt every detail of that moment. The way his hand came around me, touching the small of my back, the way he pulled me in for a kiss on the cheek. What a letdown, but it was better than a handshake.

  My heart sank into my stomach as I watched him go out the door, and that’s when I realized his hundred-dollar bill still lay on the pool table. I grabbed it and rushed out after him.

  “Simon! You forgot … your money.” I waved it in the air, and he walked back.

  “Keep it.”

  “But we didn’t finish the game—”

  “You would have won, right?” He flashed me a grin and I stood there, watching him go.

  “Hey.” He spun around in his steps, looking back at me. “It will give me an excuse to see you again—winning it back from you.” He winked. “I want to finish what we started, okay?”

  What that could have meant, I would never know, because with one last smile he was gone.

  I went back inside and found Noah and Gloria together.

  “There he goes again. That bitch has him wrapped around her finger,” Noah said to Gloria.

  I couldn’t help but instinctively know who that person was. It would be the first insight into the oblique illusion, the three-way circus I was to be a part of. She would always be placed before me.

  I learned that it’s difficult to return to your old life, especially when what you had imagined for yourself was far better. I had this condition called dreamer syndrome. There’s no known cure. Only Nutella can help—just maybe.

  I refused to look back at my time in New York as a flash in the pan—you can’t sum up life experiences like that. The fact was, I tried, and that was some form of success, right? Failure meant defeat, and I wasn’t defeated just yet, not when I had more days ahead of me.

  Maybe that was the reason I hadn’t unpacked my bags when I’d arrived back in Montreal. Instead, I went through the old clothes I had left behind. Or, subconsciously, I wanted everything to be back to the way it was before I left, but I knew it wouldn’t be possible. By leaving home, I had somehow altered the makeup of the thread that was woven into my old life. I was foolish to believe my world here in Montreal would be put on hold, ready for me anytime I wanted to come back. You can’t stop time. Things evolve, and people move on, with or without you.

  I decided to enroll at Concordia University, mainly picking up my studies where I left off, only this time I knew no one in any of my classes. Everyone I had started off the program with was a year ahead of me now. The only thing that didn’t change in my world was my dad; even though his chestnut hair might have gone a little gray since the last time we were together, he was still the same supportive father I appreciated so much. At some point I would have to live my life, making my home, but first I had to pay off the debts I’d accumulated with the advancements from the agency. I was still trying to grasp things. I made twenty thousand before taxes, and it was all gone with the wind. Agencies will charge you up the wazoo just about anything, and they know they can get
away with it—exploit models— because there are no regulations. So here I was, back in my childhood home. Honestly, I didn’t mind my old pink-and-purple bedroom with posters of Harry on my wall. Hell, it beat living in a model’s apartment with underwear and bras hanging everywhere. I didn’t have to put up with endless dirty dishes in the sink, and seriously, I could do without the drama.

  Though my dad would never admit it, he was never keen on my moving out and pursuing the whole modeling thing. He never expressed it verbally, but I knew if I had given him the opportunity, he would have told me to stay in school. Yes, that would have been a smarter idea—sure, even a safer choice—but I was a dreamer who forged her own path, going out into the world to spread her wings. It was essential for me. Charlie Harper understood that, or else he would have said otherwise. Maybe he didn’t want me to be marked like him. Ever since my mother left us, Charlie had never dated anyone, dedicating his time to raising me. I wondered if he was waiting for her to come back. But I had given up on that dream long ago.

  “Hey, kiddo, you’re not going out?” My dad found me sitting at the kitchen island with my textbook open in front of me.

  “Patricia invited me out with her boyfriend to the movies, but I didn’t feel up to being a third wheel, so I think I might stay home tonight. Is there anything good playing on Netflix?”

  “You want to spend time with your old man?” My father asked, opening the fridge door. Truthfully, I liked being home, easing my way back to life as a girl who enjoyed being solo and meeting my friends once a week. Living in New York City, I got to understand firsthand why they call it the city that never sleeps. I went out with my roommate almost every single night. And I realized that, when you live in a big metropolis, you have to meet new people all the time. You never wish to find yourself alone. So, I welcomed the change of pace.

  “Dad, you’re not old.”

  “Really?” His head popped up from behind the fridge door. “Because I sure feel like I am.”

  “Anyway, I’m not the one you should hang out with on a Friday night.” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re a silver fox … you should hit the town with Lauren.” I gave him a broad smile, leaning back in my chair.