by Julie Cross
My lips brush against hers, both of our eyes fluttering shut. God, yes.
A jolt and loud squeak followed by a stream of sunlight breaks the spell, and we jump apart just as the doors open, revealing the stylist from the Prada shoot.
“Okaaay…” she says, embarrassed. “I’ll wait for the other elevator.”
The doors shut again, but Finley keeps her distance, except for the weight of her gaze as she studies me, deciding something. Her hand freezes over the L button. “My mom was a dancer. She taught me.”
Okay, let’s pretend like we weren’t just about to get it on in an elevator.
My eyebrows shoot up. “A dancer? Like a professional?”
“Yes.” She presses her index finger into the button, slowly lifting it up, causing the elevator to jolt into motion. “With the New York City Ballet. And my parents used to own a dance studio.”
“Used to?” I ask. “Your dad is a dancer too?”
“It didn’t work out.” She shrugs and then adds, “My dad is a high school music and drama teacher. Definitely not a dancer.”
Finley exits the elevator when we reach the lobby but doesn’t hurry out the door as quickly as I anticipated she might.
An awkward silence falls between us, and I realize this is probably the part where I’m supposed to reveal something personal. But that could lead to a tangled mess of lies. Well, a new tangled mess, because I’m already in one—being Eddie Wells from Chicago and all that. And yet, I don’t want to walk away right now. The second I’m alone, I’ll retreat back inside my head again. Worrying. Thinking months ahead instead of right now.
“So…which way are you headed?” I point toward the door and then remove my phone from my pocket, flipping through emails as an excuse to avoid eye contact with Finley. I feel like I might be wearing my secrets for her to see.
She points north. “Back to my apartment.”
The first email in my inbox is from someone at Shay Silver’s office with the subject Found you an apartment!
I scan the email and see nothing about cost or location, just mentions of bunk beds and roommate numbers totaling in the double digits. Surely it can’t be that pricey if we’re packed in like sardines.
I tuck my phone away and follow her, my shoulder brushing up against hers. “My agent found me a place to stay.”
“That’s good.” She glances at me then back at the sidewalk. “I’m sure it’s hard being so far from home and not having a definite place to stay.”
Far from home? Oh right. I’m from Chicago. “Yeah, I haven’t showered since yesterday.”
Finley’s cheeks flame up again. “Sorry about that. I was a total spaz this morning. But you’re right. Impulsive fun is still impulsive fun, even if I screw up by giving my autobiography the day after.”
“Your autobiography is very interesting.”
She rolls her eyes again. “Right.”
“Correction—I’m very interested. How’s that?” What the hell am I saying? I’m very interested…it sounds like I’m agreeing to a courtship or something. This whole being Eddie Wells game is causing a serious identity crisis. I’m reverting to the eighteen hundreds. Pretty soon, our fathers will be trading horses.
Finley stops in the middle of the sidewalk, turning to face me, her arms folded over her chest. “What game are we playing right now? I’m pretty disjointed by all of it.”
You and me both.
I let out a breath and try to be as real as possible. “I just wanted to pick your brain about some stuff. Since you’re the experienced professional and all. How much do you think this apartment is gonna cost me?”
She stares for several seconds and then continues walking and nods for me to follow. “How many people? Where is it located? And how many rooms?”
I show her the email I’d just read.
“Hard to estimate exactly without a location. But it’s probably around twelve hundred a month,” she says.
My stomach sinks. That cuts into my potential savings in a big way. “Wow, that’s heavy. What do you think we’ll get from Marc Jacobs?”
“Around two grand. But then the agency gets their twenty percent cut. ” She takes in my concerned look and adds, “It takes some time to build up a steady income. Don’t worry about being ahead for these first few months. You’ll get there. They obviously love you if you’ve booked Marc Jacobs on the first casting. Though you might want to reconsider being a royal pain in the ass to the makeup people.”
I’ve only booked two other jobs thus far. I mean, I’ve just been at it a day, and I do have another casting this afternoon, but still…there are no guarantees. My plan for the summer is to pile as much money as possible into my bank account and then get the hell out of New York City. I’m not here to slowly build a modeling career.
“How long have you been at this?” I ask.
“Since I was sixteen,” she says. “I was only supposed to be working for a year after graduation, until I saved up enough for college, but I barely have a year of tuition, so that plan is on the back burner.”
There’s something hiding between those words, and for a moment, the intrigue of figuring it out distracts me from my current housing and money issues. But I think she’s already revealed more than she’s comfortable with, so I’m not going to push.
I quickly type a reply to the agency:
Sounds good. What’s the address?
I stare at the screen for several seconds after hitting Send, even though it’s not likely I can go there now.
“Hey,” I say, touching Finley’s shoulder. “Any chance you know a place I could take a shower, shave, use a bathroom that doesn’t require latex gloves?”
She gives me a sheepish grin. “Wish I could help you out, but my roommate’s mom already flipped out this morning. She needs at least twenty-four hours to calm down.”
The crazy, swearing French woman. “Yeah, I don’t want to face that again.”
“Wait!” Finley digs through her purse, coming up with a bright-pink card. “Got this last time I was at the agency. They’ve got a pile of them on the receptionist’s desk. It’s a punch card for the gym I belong to. Great showers. Free shampoo and hair products.”
I take the card from her. It’s good for ten free visits. “Thanks, this will help me out until—”
“You move into your new place,” Finley finishes.
“Yeah, right. My new place.” I attempt to look interested in the card. “So why is a rock-climbing and fitness center giving away punch cards at a modeling agency?”
She laughs and pats my stomach. “Can’t have the models getting beer bellies, right? We gotta stay in shape. Also doesn’t hurt to have a few models at your establishment, so they say.”
Yeah, I could see that. I mean, if I were a coach potato, I’d probably change my ways for the chance to look at Finley every day.
I flip over the card and look at the address. “You know what? I might head over there now. Want to join me? I’ll loan you a punch.”
“I don’t have workout clothes with me.” She smiles. “Also, I have a yearly membership. I just grabbed one of those in case my brothers wanted to come with me sometime.”
My stomach twists, my brain conjuring an image of two beefy guys cornering me in an alley, asking me exactly what I did with their sister. “Right. That’s smart. Bring reinforcement to the gym. All those hormonal guys on steroids eyeing you in spandex…”
Finley laughs. “Uh…they’re five. Almost six.”
Huh. Definitely not in-line with my mental picture of them. “So more the wall-climbing age than the picking-up-girls-in-spandex age?”
“Yep, wall-climbing, furniture-climbing, parachuting off very tall objects, shooting liquid out of their noses—the usual little boy stuff.” Finley pauses at a street corner and points to the subway station across the street.
“You’ll want to take…”
I tune out her lengthy detailed directions and instead enjoy the view that comes with her arm-raising and her shirt creeping up, exposing her lower back. She catches me staring and drops her arm, giving my shoulder a shove. “You’re gonna get lost if you don’t pay attention.”
See, that’s what I love about her, none of that don’t look at me, I’m slightly imperfect shit.
“That was worth the misdirection.” I hold up my phone. “Google Maps will get me there. Don’t worry.”
Another awkward silence falls between us, like neither of us knows if this is the last time we’ll see each other, and I can’t decide if I want it to be. I don’t. I think. But considering the fact that I’m one big ball of lies and have no plans to stick around this state, let alone the city, beyond the end of the summer, it’s better if it is our last time together.
“Sure you can’t come with me?” I ask again. “Show the out-of-towner around town?”
Finley shakes her head.
“You just want to rush home and put those pointe shoes on again, don’t you?” I reach for her hand and tug her closer. “Thanks for letting me stay over last night. Even if you didn’t actually invite me to stay.”
“You’re welcome.” She lifts her free hand and touches it to my mouth. “Don’t do anything to ruin this.”
“Like what?”
“Like giving me your number.” She releases me and steps back, a look of satisfaction on her face. “Think about it. You’re going your way, and I’m going mine, and we don’t have each other’s numbers, might never see each other again. I’m getting some of the one-night stand stuff right.”
Her excitement is too cute for me to want to ruin it by reminding her that I know where she lives. And we’re with the same agency. “You’re a complete mystery. Fifty years from now, you’ll still be the hot blond that I spent the most amazing night of my life with.”
“You are so full of it.” She looks pleased though as she turns around to head in the opposite direction. “Bye, Eddie Wells,” she calls over her shoulder.
I watch her walk until she’s too small to identify, and then I cross the street and head for the subway station. It would have been nice to get her number. Lying to Caroline makes it difficult to talk to her anymore—too much guilt and anxiety. Besides, I’m not legally allowed to contact her. And my friends from school? Let’s just say we’ve drifted apart the past few months. Maybe everyone but RJ. Except RJ plays for Team Caroline.
So yeah, Finley could help fill a hole in my life, but I can’t be selfish anymore. I need to stick to my plan and let her stick to her plan.
My phone buzzes in my hand. I glance at the reply from the agency, and I’m glad I didn’t get this sooner. It would have ruined Finley’s plans, knowing my summer apartment is in the same building as her place. Maybe we won’t run into each other?
CHAPTER 11
Finley
Six in the morning, and I’m wide awake, making an egg-white omelet. Even after a Toby Rhinehart movie marathon with Elana kept me up late last night (okay, so maybe I am a fan of his). I figured the break in my usual morning yoga ritual yesterday had my body screaming for an early morning intervention. But it wasn’t yoga I craved. Those brand-new, ready-to-be-danced-in pointe shoes sat on my dresser, calling to me all night long. Break me in, Finley. Bet your fouettés suck.
I slide the omelet onto a plate and leave it sitting on the counter. I’m too excited to eat. It’s hard to even remember now how I could let ballet fade out of my life. Of course, I had my reasons. Pretty good ones, I think. But that adrenaline rush I got yesterday, simply pushing up on pointe…tough to top that feeling.
After lacing up the pointe shoes—they fit even better than yesterday—I move the couch back a few feet and roll up the rug on the living room floor. I face the TV and stand in fourth position, preparing for a pirouette, my pajama pants nearly hiding the ballet shoes. But it’s too quiet in here. The second I hear the clump of my pointe shoes hitting the floor, I’ll be distracted worrying about Summer waking up, though she sleeps like the dead. And Elana and her mom left this morning before six for a shoot in Pennsylvania.
I grab my iPod and strap it to my waist, then pop in my headphones, blasting the music. I warm up my feet like I’d done with Summer at the Prada shoot, and then, taking a deep breath, I attempt a simple, single pirouette on pointe.
The turn isn’t terrible, but not great either. The rush of adrenaline is, however, amazing. I practice turn after turn, quickly moving from singles to doubles. But when I attempt to add a fouetté after a double pirouette, I accidentally kick the TV and fall into the vertical blinds covering the sliding glass door that leads to the balcony. I’m about to move the couch back a few more feet, when I spot a pair of hairy legs through the glass door.
I let out a yelp that would have had French Mama running out here, spatula in hand—where the hell is she when I need her?—but instead, I’m left with the option of either waking Summer or moving the blinds a bit more to see if those legs are connected to anything. Oh God, they’d better be connected to something.
My hands tremble. I scramble to detach my phone from my waist, punch in 911, and let my finger hover over the call button. I reach up and check the lock on the door—it’s up and secure—before slowly peeling back the blinds. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second and then open them, making sure to focus on the hairy pair of legs stretched out on a plastic patio chair Summer uses for her daily fifteen minutes of vitamin D (this is all her fault!). My gaze travels at snail pace, taking in the tan cargo shorts and hemline of a black T-shirt.
Come on, Fin, just do it.
I shift my focus higher and catch the steady rise and fall of a chest. My breath comes out in one long gust. Thank God. Not a dead body.
I’m on my feet quickly, much less freaked, although if I’m being logical, a dead body poses little threat to me, while a live body…
I shake the thought away and peel back the blinds enough to see the rest of Hairy Leg Guy. My eyes land on the familiar face, the wild curly black hair.
Eddie Wells.
What the hell is he doing—sound asleep—on a plastic chair on my balcony at six thirty in the morning?
I sink back on my heels, studying him. Maybe this is my fault for pointing out my balcony the other night. I unlock the door and slide it open just enough for me to slip outside. Then I creep as quietly as possible onto the balcony. He lifts a hand to his face and rolls onto his side. I freeze in place, watching, but he doesn’t wake, despite the sun landing right across his face.
For nearly two minutes, I stand there eyeing his backpack, unable to make a move. He was so careful to haul that thing everywhere he went the other night. Even in the heat of our clothing removal session, he stepped away for a moment to tuck it in the corner of my bedroom. And checked to make sure both zippers were secured. Twice.
So yeah, I’m dying to get a look inside while he’s out cold. I force away the guilt. Privacy hardly applies when someone is trespassing, right?
Kneeling on the ground, I unzip his backpack. It’s quieter to remove one item at a time than to rifle through it. A minute later, lined up on the concrete balcony, are the following items: deodorant, toothbrush, electric razor, expensive designer shorts, designer T-shirt, cologne (which I take a moment to sniff)…
No comb. Figures.
What is he, some kind of nomad? I thought he had an apartment worked out. Or maybe the airline lost his luggage and he’s only got his carry-on.
My fingers land on what feels like a leather billfold. I remove it and look it over. It’s Prada, probably costs three or four hundred dollars. I sit down on the ground and open it up. My gaze lands first on the driver’s license tucked behind the clear plastic cover. If it weren’t for the mess of dark curly hair in the photo, I would have thought Eddie was a pickpocket. Not only beca
use it’s a New York State license and Eddie claimed to be from Chicago, but also because the name across the top is Edward James Wellington IV. Not Eddie Wells.
But seriously, Eddie is a fourth? There are four of him? As my dad would say per our PG household rules, holy shiitake!
Not only did Eddie lie about his name and state of residence, his address is right here in the city, not far away from this apartment. And yet he’s sleeping on my balcony in a hard plastic chair after complaining yesterday about the cost of agency apartments.
My brain is working on overdrive while I lean against the sliding door. He lied. Pretty much about everything. He made me think, yesterday after the shoot, that he’s struggling financially, that he really needed money. If he lives at this address, and not as the butler or butler’s kid, then Eddie—or Edward Wellington IV—has probably never worried about money a day in his life. What if this is some story our agency concocted? Make him look like he came from nothing, a human interest story. If the agency hadn’t pulled some similar shit last year, with my roommate Elana, I should add, I don’t think my mind would even go in that direction.
My thoughts drift back to Eddie pausing outside my door, not sure if he wanted to come in. But outside of his name and hometown, which he barely talked about, it had felt real. At least to me.
I glance at him again. Still sound asleep, he scratches at a red bump on his neck. A mosquito bite, most likely. And probably one of many. With a heavy sigh, I return the items I pulled from his wallet moments ago and begin tucking everything back into his bag. Whatever event or reason caused Eddie to lie about his name and history and live out of his backpack isn’t something simple. This has complicated and messed up written all over it. The question is, do I want to get involved or steer clear? And how can I steer clear of this guy if he keeps showing up at my jobs and on my balcony?
And I still can’t decide if I’m pissed off at him or not. I mean, I should be, right?
CHAPTER 12
Eddie
“Eddie?”
A soft hand shakes me, creating a nice distraction from the intense itching going on all over my body. When I realize it’s Finley Belton, the very person who I’d hoped wouldn’t spot me out here this morning, I bolt upright.
