A Diamond in the Rough

by Elisa Marie Hopkins

  She wipes her mouth with a napkin. “The year is almost up. Sign the contract.”

  “What happens if I don’t?”

  She chuckles vaguely and finishes swallowing her food. “Did you even read the last contract you signed? There’s a little paragraph at the end of your contract that says the agreement will go on if the existing one isn’t renegotiated within the current term. This of course happens if you fail to give notice of your desire to end the agreement within twenty-eight days before it expires.”

  “So I can end the contract?”

  “No,” she mumbles with food in her mouth.

  “But you just said—”

  “I know what I just said. But you’re not looking at the bigger picture here. You owe the agency money, Cavall. The rule is you have to pay it back. All of it.”

  “I can still pay them back even if I don’t sign.”

  “Oh, really? How are you going to pay them back?”

  “I’ve been saving some money.”

  “It’s time you own up to the fact that this is your fault. All those trips around the world, transport services, accommodation fees. Oh, and the fact that you would go weeks without work—pushed your agency account into the red.”

  “Don’t dare blame this on me, Kim. I was young and stupid. My last manager makes you look like a harmless rose. She was ruthless and vile and I was offered the moon and stars. Anyone would’ve taken the bait.”

  “All right, all right. You just throw yourself a little pity party and I’ll finish eating my burger in peace. How about it?”

  Boy, isn’t life fun? I sigh and put the folder inside my bag.

  More than anything, I refuse to subject myself to another year of modeling misery and sheer torture, but I figure I’ve already wasted what little patience Kim owns after our last fight. Again, I refrain from voicing my concerns. I best be silent, unobtrusive, and obedient...at least for now.

  Kim is later dropped off somewhere I don’t even bother to ask. On my way to the airport, I cry in the back of Smith’s car. I didn’t know what else to do. Every bruise on Jess’s body, my debts, and the contract replay in my mind, demanding consideration. Another year of misery. Another year of not doing something significant with my life. “Then quit,” I hear some fearless part of me saying, but immediately I come up with excuses. I have no control over anything. E Models owns me, at least until I pay them back. I can’t even get out of the car without someone telling me I shouldn’t. It’s tragic and pathetic. It’s inevitable, I think, inevitable as death.

  Then it hits me. Jess and I—we’re not that different after all. What do we do? We hide. We play the part. We busy ourselves and pretend nothing is going on and we are living happy lives. It’s what we do. I wonder how often we tell ourselves lies to avoid facing uncomfortable truths. Are we all really just pretending?

  My phone buzzes and I look down at it lying on the seat.

  I answer tiredly. “Hey, babe.”

  “Do you mind telling me why you’re about to leave the city and I was oblivious to this?”

  His tone holds room for humor and my mouth curves a little. It feels good to smile. “You probably knew about it before I knew about it. Why do you have to be a pain in the ass?”

  “I’m good at being a pain in the ass.”

  “Mr. Black, they’re ready for you,” a female voice announces in the background.

  “Wow,” I dramatize. “This has to be the shortest call ever in the history of calls.”

  “Why do you have to go to California? It’s boring over there.”

  “You’re boring. And I don’t have to tell you.”

  “I’m boring?”

  I laugh. “I have to work. You almost sound like you’re going to miss me.” I lean my head on the car seat, feeling a little triumphant. “I have a photo shoot. It’s important and it’s going to help my finances.”

  “I took a glance at your modeling contract. Have you signed it?”

  “I’m not done reading it. I have a few pages to go through. I’ll sign it soon.”

  “Are you sure you want to sign?”

  I haven’t even tried making the pen touch the paper. I simply don’t want to. This job is not what I want to do, even though I’m tragically good at doing it. “Soon, Oliver,” I repeat. “I’ll sign it soon.”

  “I know your debts, Sophie. I can take care of them.”

  “Oliver, we talked about this.”

  “At least treat it like a loan,” he insists. “You can pay me back when you’re in a successful career.”

  “I just can’t, but thank you for the offer.”

  I can hear faint voices in the background. One of them says, “Mr. Black, sir, really...the meeting room is—

  “I’m sorry to cut this conversation short, Sophie. I have to get back to work. Have a safe trip.”

  “Okay. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Later?”

  I recall his need for positive assurance. “Soon! I’ll talk to you soon.”

  Before we hang up, he finishes with, “In case you were wondering, I will miss you.”

  I even go as far as to say, “I’ll miss you, too.”

  ***

  A CURLY WIRE sticks around and into Reed’s ear. Black shades cover his hawk-like eyes. He’s sheer intimidation. He offers to help carry my luggage as we park at the lot of John F. Kennedy International. Fiercely stubborn as I am, I shake my head and grab the suitcase myself. I pull it out and notice two large duffel bags at the far back end of the trunk.

  “Whose bags are those?” I ask.

  Reed slings one bag over his shoulder. “I have to come with you.”

  He slightly opens the other bag and I gawk at the weapons inside of it. He loads a gun and stashes it in a holder inside his suit jacket.

  “Of course you do. Are all those really necessary? You have enough guns to start a militia.”

  “It’s why I’m here, to protect you from harm’s way. Do you know how to use a gun?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I’m a contract killer.”

  His eyebrows go up.

  “Are you kidding me? Of course not! I hadn’t even seen a real gun before just now. What kind of question is that anyway?”

  “Just out of curiosity. Do you want to learn? All you have to do is aim at what you want to die and shoot.”

  I stare at him quizzically. Why did he say die? What didn’t he simply say hurt or damage? He grabs my hand, then the other, reviewing them briefly.

  “This is a semi-automatic pistol,” he begins explaining. “I can see that you’re right handed because your right hand is rougher and more callused. Hold the pistol firmly with your dominant hand and outstretch your arm.”

  He forces one of the guns into my hand and continues instructing on where my grip, my shoulders, and my body should be. I take a deep breath.

  “When you fire it, it reloads and recocks automatically. Let’s start easy. Shoot at that trashcan over there.” He points to a trashcan near the parking lot exit and my stomach goes weak.

  “What? No! Are you insane? I’m not going to fire a gun in an airport parking lot! Do you think I’m reckless or just plain stupid?”

  “I have clearance to shoot on sight. Imagine that trashcan is your kidnapper. He’s been planning to take you for months. He wants to take you. He’s going to take you if you don’t shoot. You have to, otherwise you’re dead. Shoot, or he will.”

  “But...”

  “Are you going to let him take you?”

  “No.”

  “Are you?”

  “No!”

  “This is your chance. He’s getting closer. Do it now.”

  Having the gun in my hand and a sense of danger in my mind, I feel a sudden surge of power. I squeeze my eyes shut and shoot, but I hear no bang.

  I open my eyes and Reed is clearly having a good time. He’s chuckling, his face is screwed up in what may be the first real smile I’ve ever seen from him. His white teeth contrast
nicely against his dark, dark skin. I guess I can’t be too irritated, on account of never before having seen even a ghost of a smile on his lips.

  “All that big speech for nothing? Seriously, Reed?”

  He seizes the gun out of my hand. “Do you think I’m reckless or plain stupid, boss? It’s an empty firearm. There’s no ammo in the gun. You didn’t think I was actually going to let you fire a handgun in an airport parking lot, did you?”

  I feel humiliated and degraded. “What was all of this for then?”

  “It was a lesson. Rule number one: always keep your eyes open when you fire a gun. Rule number two: learn to tell the difference between a loaded and an unloaded gun.”

  “Give me a break, Reed. How the hell was I supposed to know it wasn’t loaded?”

  He zips up his bags and closes the trunk lid. “Rule number three: treat every gun as if it is loaded.”

  “But rule number two—”

  “Rule number four: you don’t shoot because someone tells you to. When you shoot, you better be damn sure you are making the right decision. Rule number five—” He pauses.

  “What? What’s rule number five?”

  He grins. “You’ll get there.”

  We make our way through the airport until we reach the waiting area. A woman’s chirpy voice notifies passengers on flight something, en route to destination something, to report to gate something. Sitting next to each other, I flick a finger through a Cosmopolitan, but then I remember I hate reading up on how I should look, how to blow a man’s mind in bed, and the absolute worst, the seven secrets to having more friends.

  I toss the magazine on the seat next to mine.

  “So, Reed, how long have you been doing this whole bodyguard thing?”

  “It’s fairly recent.”

  “And what do you make of working with Oliver?”

  “I have no basis to form an opinion,” he grimly replies, not looking at me. “But, one thing I can tell you, I would not want to work against him.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I’ll lose.”

  I swallow thickly, not knowing what else to do. Oliver is the King Midas of business, but I’ll never admit to intimidation. I slide my contract from out of my carry-on bag and go through that instead.

  ***

  FIVE HOURS AND a long snooze afterward, I’m at a popular beach location in Malibu, California.

  Aggressive waves are visible at a distance; the icy cold water reaches up to caress the warm sand. The pure air is crisp and inviting. The waves soar in bitter gusts, crashing in and over my body. I curve, twist, and smile like I’m a mermaid at the shoreline.

  A makeup assistant is on the sideline with her cosmetics belt attached to her waist, to ensure my face and skin is as it should be at all times.

  “You can come out of the water now, Sophie,” she says, signaling with her hand. But I don’t listen to her. I bury my toes in the sand and contemplate the sky.

  “Vot are you doing?” the photographer says in a thick Russian accent. “Come out of the vater now. I’m going to get quick shots of you in the sand.”

  I bring myself to my knees and run my hands through the loose, wet curls streaming down my back. I coax my body into a whole array of poses. The photographer orders his minion to adjust my bikini straps.

  “Roll over in the sand,” he says, click, click, clicking photographs. “Yes. Yes. Vonderful.”

  I’m a vision of wet hair, wet skin, and glossed lips, wearing the new swim line: a green, bandage knit one-piece, crisscrossing at my waist with a cutout on the abdomen area. I do as I’m told and lap up the burning sun. I must look like some bubbly sea lion in its natural habitat.

  After the photographer is done with the shots, the wardrobe assistant covers me up with a robe and gives me a banana. I watch the sand take new shapes as I step over it and trudge forward, all the way to the photographer’s little hut. “I loved you today, Sophie! Fabulous, darling,” he says. Humming, he settles his equipment inside its suitcase.

  “Thank you.” I put the tip of the banana in my mouth.

  He finishes storing his equipment and he comes up for a hug—a hug that is not happening as long as it involves coming in contact with him. I pull back without delay. He tries one more time, and I dodge it again.

  “Vat is it? You don’t like hugs?”

  “No.”

  “Just a little one?”

  Gratefully, my cellphone rings. He seems to understand as he goes around me and I stand there like a palm tree. It’s Oliver. I pick up the phone, but it’s not Oliver. It’s Cassie. She talks fast, a little too loud. My heart drops to the floor as I listen to what she says.

  NINETEEN

  “OLIVER BLACK,” I breathlessly ask the nurse behind the front desk.

  “Room one-ten,” she says, pointing to the elevators. “That way.”

  “Thank you.” By the time I articulate “you,” I’m already riding in the elevator car.

  Inside the elevator car, I exhale a weighty breath as I take in the view of my reflection on the mirrored surface doors. I put my arms around myself tightly...trying to ward off the coldness and embrace my body as if it were any other form of human warmth comforting me.

  I come out of the elevator and see Cassie talking to the doctor from the boat party. I hurry on over. “I got here as soon as I could. There was a delay in my flight and there was no gate available when we actually arrived and we just waited on the tarmac—” I’m talking too fast. “I’m sorry. How is Oliver?”

  “He’s sleeping,” says Cassie. “But he’s doing much better now. Don’t worry.”

  “Will someone please tell me what is going on?”

  “Sophie, you remember Doctor Wu?” again Cassie.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Mr. Black had kidney stones,” he begins to explain. “For months, he delayed getting treatment. This worsened the condition. I was able to save the left kidney and fix all the damage. I removed two large stones and a cluster of smalls ones with a procedure, an incision in the flank—”

  I cut him short. “Kidney stones?” My voice comes out strong. I try and steady my breathing. “Why didn’t he get treatment before? Are the stones all gone?”

  Cassie grabs my arm. “Sophie, you should really try to relax. Oliver will be fine.”

  “Yes. The stones are all gone,” the doctor says. “The two big ones were the size of golf balls!”

  “I’m sorry, is that supposed to be funny?”

  “Sophie,” Cassie scolds.

  Doctor Wu clears his throat. “He’ll turn up as good as new, ladies. He just needs time to heal properly. His appendix was very swollen. If he’d left it any longer, it could’ve burst, and then both appendicitis and kidney stones would’ve been a real problem.”

  Cassie grabs my hand and we go to Oliver’s room. I linger outside for a moment before coming in. I walk like I might fall any second. Seeing him strapped to a hospital bed with robots monitoring his vital signs makes my heart drop. He looks fragile and vulnerable, like a broken toy thrown aside by a careless child.

  I bring my arms together and try to quell the frosty environment. Cassie sits next to him, looking at the catheter coming out of his hand.

  After a moment of silence, she says, “You know, Oliver is like a father to me.”

  I share a nod. “I know, Cassie. You heard the doctor. He’s going to be okay.”

  “It’s not that.” Her voice is low, serious. “It’s just...he’s always taking care of me. I look up to him. I rarely see him vulnerable and it’s...scary. It got me thinking of what I would do if he was ever not in my life.”

  “He’s human,” I say bravely. But in my head, I think the same as her. “Sometimes strong men need help. It’s completely acceptable.”

  “Oliver is not one to need help. The last time he needed help, they sent him to Juvie for two years.”

  “Juvie?”

  She looks at me from across the bed and gives
me a nod. “Yes.”

  I expel a nervous breath. “What in the world would Oliver go to Juvie for?”

  “Assault charges.”

  My stumped expression must have caught her attention, because all of a sudden she’s telling me it was a long time ago.

  There is a lingering silence, but then she begins. “Oliver was a minor when it happened. Evaluating him, the court judge said he had a remarkable mind and such gift shouldn’t go to waste, that he should use it for the greater good. They sent him to some kind of community program in Massachusetts. I don’t know the complete story. I’m sure Oliver can tell you himself.”

  My limited knowledge comes down to what Oliver revealed in a pathetic personal game of Jeopardy, and I realize, I might know enough of him.

  “I thought Oliver went to Massachusetts to study, you know, at MIT. He definitely did not say anything about Juvie.”

  Cassie responds with a ridiculing look. It is unambiguous. “Study?” She scoffs. “Not at all. The idea was for him to help the University; teach, interact with people with similar minds, make friends, and this would prevent future problems that could lead him to commit negative acts or crimes.”

  “Why would he even be involved in negative acts? It’s Oliver! He makes furniture out of trees that have fallen down naturally, for Christ’s sake. He’s not a violent man. He’s not a threat to anyone.”

  “Apparently, smarter people are more likely to be mentally ill. And mentally ill people are more likely to commit violent crimes than other people.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “Well, no, but I saw on the news that there are more people with mental disorders in prisons than in hospitals.”

  I pass a finger over my sweat-slicked lips, perplexity coursing through my head. “Oliver is not mentally ill. He’s just very smart and he remembers things most people forget...right?”

  “He’s not easygoing when it comes to that subject,” she replies. “If you even know about it, consider yourself fortunate.”