But before I could finish, the crowd had responded to Chino Man’s prompting, and I felt my feet lifting off the ground.
Holy hell!
“No, really, I’m just… please, I’m only… I don’t think I can…”
Yeah, like anyone was listening. My protests were completely swallowed up by the DJ, spinning a new song with a lot of bass and wailing lyrics, as a dozen hands shoved me up onto a raised platform. Once they let go it took me a minute to get my balance. Especially with the cosmos still whirring through my system. I stood up on shaky legs.
“But I don’t even know how to dance!” I shouted, scanning the crowd for any glimpse of Danielle’s curly hair.
What I saw instead was a sea of expectant faces. Raising their fists. Cheering me on.
Me?
Panic rose like bile in my throat. Shit. What did I do?
I looked down. My red stilettos shone against the flashing strobes and lasers, the patent leather reflecting the pulses of light like shiny, red mirrors. I focused on them. Beautiful shoes. Daring.
Sexy.
I looked out at the crowd again. Maybe I didn’t know how to dance. But I bet she did.
I closed my eyes, letting the rhythm of the bass beat fill me. I lifted one arm up over my head. Then the other. My head start to bob in time with the music, my hips swaying. The crowd’s roar turned up a notch. I was keenly aware of the cool leather hugging my feet as I took one step to the right, then one to the left, the shoes guiding me, telling me how she’d dance.
And then I was moving. Dancing. Swinging legs beneath my ripped skirt, the revealing slits riding up my thigh. I shimmied my flat chest at the crowd like I was some stacked Playmate, moving my hips like I belonged on MTV.
In hindsight, it was probably the strong cosmo on an empty stomach. But right then, I blamed the shoes.
“Wooo, baaaaaby,” I yelled out, ripping off my ruffled blouse and dancing on the platform in my black, lacy bra. And the crowd loved it. In fact, I think Chino Man even whistled at me. I whistled right back.
I have no idea how long I was up there. It felt like only seconds, yet an eternity, before Danielle and Maxine appeared in front of me, their arms outstretched to help me down. Reluctantly I went, clearing the platform for a woman in strategically placed spandex and thigh-high boots to take my place.
“That was awesome,” I panted, as Danielle steered me away from the action.
“Ohmigod, what were you doing up there?” she asked, laughing. Clearly this was not the woman she was used to seeing in the next cubicle.
“Dancing,” I managed to get out. I grabbed the drink in her hand and sipped eagerly. “You guys have got to try that.”
Danielle threw her head back and giggled. “Wow, Kya cuts loose.”
I shook my head. “No, I’m not Kya tonight. I’m her.”
“Who?” Maxine asked, scrunching her ski-jump nose.
“The model on the Maddie Springer website. I’m the shoe lady.” I pointed down at my feet.
Danielle and Maxine looked down, then at each other, clearly not getting it. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that for tonight – just one night – I could leave boring old Kya’s life behind.
“Excuse me?”
I turned around, flipping my hair over one shoulder the way I envision She would, to find Chino Man standing behind me, his face spread into a grin that was all teeth.
I would have stammered. She didn’t. “Hey there, cutie,” I flirted without missing a beat. Okay, so he wasn’t her Mr. Orgasm by a long shot – too short, too eager, and somehow too overly polished. But he wasn’t a bad start.
“Hey, gorgeous. You put on some show.”
I should have been mortified. Instead, I laughed. A deep throaty thing that I didn’t know I could do.
“Listen, doll,” he went on. “My name is R.J. Alexander.” He slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out a business card, handing it to me. “I’m a talent agent with Parker Models.”
I squinted down at the card. Plain white with a little red logo in the corner that looked like a catwalk.
“Your performance out there was stunning. Hot. Sexy as hell.”
“Oh, that was nothing. You should see me when I’m warmed up.” Wow. Did I say that?
“Ha! I knew you’d be a natural.” He beamed at me, flashing a grill that was white, straight, and seemed to cover his entire face.
“Well, I always say when you got it, flaunt it.” I sipped at my drink and gave him a wink. Good God, where was I coming up with this bullshit?
But R.J. ate it up. He laughed, slapping one knee with his hand. “That’s the perfect motto for a model, honey.”
“Oh, I’m not a mod-” I stopped myself. I looked down at my feet. Why the hell not? “It is, isn’t it?” I finished instead.
“What’s your name, doll?”
“Kya-” Again I faltered. “Star. Kya Star.”
“Gorgeous. Listen, Kya, honey, I’ve got a shoot coming up this weekend that I think you’d be perfect for. Tell me you don’t have representation already?”
I shook my head.
Again with the full bodied grin. “Perfect! Tell you what, swing by my office tomorrow, and I’ll give you the particulars.” He didn’t give me a chance to respond, instead leaning in and air kissing me on both cheeks. “A natural, doll!” And then he disappeared, swallowed up by the mob.
I looked down at the card in my hands. I bit my lip, tasting waxy red lipstick. Tomorrow? Little did he know that by morning I’d be back to plain old Kya Bader, designing Sholtskie Plumbing’s website and talking to my cat for company.
A tug of regret pulled at the back of my mind.
But I quickly shook it off. So what? Tomorrow was an eternity away. Tonight I was Kya Star.
I slipped the card into my bra and downed the rest of my cosmo before turning to Danielle and Maxine again.
“Come on, girls. Let’s dance!”
Chapter Two
So this was what a hangover felt like.
I rolled over in bed and stared at the alarm clock, rudely blaring David Bowie at seven fifteen on the dot. “China Doll” had never before been so painful. I lifted my arm and flung it in the general direction of the clock, managing to hit the snooze button, then I flopped over on my back and contemplated the ceiling. Ow. My everything hurt. And my mouth felt like sandpaper. How many cosmos had I drunk last night? Four? Five? I’d lost count. But obviously the answer was too many.
I thought about getting in the shower for a full ten minutes before I realized it was just too much work. Instead, I reached for my cordless and dialed OmniWeb’s number. I was taking a vacation day. Considering I never went anywhere, I had plenty saved up, and I figured this was a prime time to take one. Hell, the way I felt, I might even take two.
After mumbling something semi-coherently to my manager, I pulled the covers over my head and went back to sleep.
I woke up again sometime around noon, feeling a little better, but still vowing never to touch another pink colored drink again. I took a long, hot shower and dressed in my favorite pair of sweats, an old concert T-shirt from college and fuzzy pink Hello Kitty slippers before flipping on my computer. I made a pot of very strong coffee while it booted up, then poured myself a cup as I sifted through my email. Hmm… two from Match.
“See how popular I am?” I asked Tabby.
He looked up, meowed, then went back to licking his privates. Master conversationalist.
I sipped my black coffee and opened the first email. A guy named BigLarry69 asking if I was a “nawty girl”.
I shuddered. Delete.
The next was a guy in Canada asking if I would consider marrying his cousin to get him a U.S. Visa.
I was so pathetic I paused for a moment, wondering what his cousin looked like, before hitting the delete button.
I took a long drag from my cup, leaning back in my chair. I let my bloodshot eyes wander around my apartment. My hunk of the month calendar hung just above my T
V, a half dressed fireman this month’s eye candy. My living room was crammed with mismatched furniture I’d had since college, a sofa with a pronounced dent in the middle because it was the only place I ever sat, and I was the only one that ever sat on it. On the scared coffee table sat copies of Cat Fancy, PC World Magazine, and a printout detailing my World of WarCraft character, a female troll shaman.
Jesus, I was a geek.
Then my eyes rested on the red heels.
They were on the floor next to Tabby’s favorite squeak toy, the first in a breadcrumb-like trail of discarded clothes that led to my bedroom. Somewhere around three am Danielle and Maxine had dropped me off, and I vaguely remembered shedding layers like a snake as I stumbled to my room, flopping on the bed naked to dream about flashing lasers and go-go cages.
Even though I was a geek, I was neat geek. I set my coffee down and picked up my skirt. The slits had worked their way higher as the night wore on and I was pretty sure my panties had been showing by the end. I examined the seams. Ruined. I threw it in the vicinity of my trash bin. The blouse had a couple of pink stains. I battled a round of nausea at the thought of those evil cosmos and quickly tossed it into the hamper. Underneath my black bra sat a rectangle of white paper. I bent down and picked it up, turning it over in my hand.
Parker Models.
I read the name off the front. R.J. Alexander. Chino Man. Funny, I’d been half sure I’d dreamt that part last night. I wondered how drunk I was when I’d talked to him. Had he really offered me a modeling job?
No, Kya, I reminded myself. He’d offered her a modeling job.
I looked down at the heels. Man, what those shoes had done to me last night. In a way, it had been freeing. In another, scary. Who knew that I had an inner hussy?
I looked back at the card. R.J. had called me a natural. Had last night been a fluke? I wondered if I could pull it off again. I know, I know, it was only supposed to be for one night. I mean, it had been dark, I’d been drinking. Chances were if I showed up at his office this afternoon, in the harsh light of day, he’d laugh in my face. He’d throw me out.
Wouldn’t he?
I looked down at the shoes again. I slipped them on. Amazing how, even after a full night of dancing, they didn’t hurt my feet in the least. That in itself was magic. Maybe even reason enough to keep them.
I walked over to the full-length mirror hanging next to my cardboard cutout of Mulder from the X-files. They were hot shoes.
And it wasn’t like I had anything else to do today.
* * *
Parker Models was located in a tall, three story Victorian on Van Ness, sandwiched between a Starbucks and a head shop. Its stucco façade was a pale taupe this decade, though I could tell from the layers of paint peeling at the corner that it had been a virtual rainbow of colors in its lifetime. I walked up the half dozen steps leading to the door, my hands sweating as they skimmed the wrought iron railing. God, what was I doing here? I paused halfway up, taking a deep breath, and contemplated turning around and getting a latte next door instead.
I’d spent a full hour rummaging through my closet for something to wear with the shoes. The skirt from last night was clearly toast, so I finally settled on a pair of faded jeans with holes in the back pockets. They were the grubbies I’d worn when painting my apartment last fall, but shabby chic was all the rage, right? Besides, they were tight and lean and ended two inches above my ankles, perfect for showing off the red heels. I’d paired them with a black tube top that my sister had gotten me as a gag gift one year for Christmas (Yes, I get it. I have no boobs. Ha, ha, sis.) and tossed my hair into a black clip up off my neck. I’d looked surprisingly decent when I’d left the house.
But now on the threshold of Parker Models, I was having second thoughts. Okay, fine, third and fourth thoughts, too.
I took a couple more deep breaths.
“Excuse me.” I stepped to the side as a woman in a black dress hurried past me up the stairs, disappearing through the door. I only caught a glimpse from behind, but I could tell by the long legs, slim waist and graceful Hepburn-like walk that I was staring at the backside of a runway diva.
These are the kind of people that model, Kya. Not boring little techies like you.
I bit my lip. Then quickly released it, hearing the Ex-Boyfriend’s taunts about hamburger meat ring in my ears as I stared at the door.
I looked down at the heels.
Hell, I’d come all this way, might as well go inside, right?
I squared my shoulders and lifted my chin as I navigated the last few steps and pushed open the front doors.
The inside of Parker Models was a stark contrast to the outside. Sleek lines, bold colors, low, modern furnishings. A woman wearing a headset sat at a reception desk in the shape of a giant red kidney bean, simultaneously chatting away while her fingers danced across a keyboard. I approached her desk, trying to hold onto some of the confidence I’d felt last night. Maybe I should have downed a couple of cosmos before coming over.
“Uh huh. Tuesday, three fifteen and make sure you bring three changes for the casting director to look at. He’s going to want to shoot you right away. Ciao!” The receptionist clicked off and looked up at me expectantly. “May I help you?”
I licked my lips. “Uh, yeah. I mean, yes. I’m here to see R.J. Alexander.”
“And do you have an appointment?”
“Um, no.”
“Who may I ask is here?”
“Kya. Star.” I licked again. “Kya Star.”
“Just a moment, Ms. Star,” she said, her fingers flying along the keyboard again as she informed someone on the other end of the line that a Ms. Star was here to see R.J. She paused for an answer then turned back to me. “Mr. Alexander will see you now.”
Now? I took another cleansing breath. God, what was I doing here?
“Down the hall, first door on the left,” the woman indicated before clinking back to the phones with a cheerful, “Parker Models, how may I help you?”
Thusly dismissed, I made my feet walk the short distance down a hallway and left, toward a frosted glass door with the single word “Alexander” stenciled on it. I lifted my hand to knock. Then paused. Would She knock? No. She’d walk in like she owned the place. So, I did.
“Kya, honey, a pleasure to see you.” R.J. was dressed again in khaki chinos, this time paired with a black shirt, matching black jacket, and that same Cheshire cat smile stretching across his face. He came out from behind a massive cherry desk to greet me, laying an air kiss above each of my cheeks.
“R.J., what a fabulous office you have. Is that jacket Armani?” I asked. Yeah, right. As if I knew Armani from Target.
But R.J. seemed to eat it up. “It is, you’ve got a good eye, doll.”
Wow, lucky guess.
“Please sit,” R.J, instructed. “I’m so glad you came down today.”
“Well, of course! You think I’d stand up a handsome fellow like you?” I gave him a wink. I have no idea why.
“Ha! Aren’t you a flirt. But, look, this is business, doll. I think you’re fantastic. That body, that face,” R.J. nodded, his hair sprayed so perfectly into place it nodded with him as his head bobbed up and down. “Look, my job around here is to sniff out new talent, and you, my dear, you are talent times ten.”
I stared at him. Me? But instead I shot back a saucy, “You do have a good eye.”
“Ha! Listen, I’ve got a shoot this weekend that I think you’d be prefect for. We’ve been having a bit of trouble casting it, and let me tell you, you are it, baby. What do you say? You want to be a Parker girl?”
I cleared my throat. “What exactly does being a Parker girl entail? Because, I have to be honest with you, Mr. Alexander, I don’t really have any modeling experience.”
“Please, call me R.J.” If it was possible his grin widened. “And no experience necessary. Honey, I saw you last night. You’re a natural. The camera will love you. Believe you me.”
“Okay.”
“Okay? Great.” R.J pushed a button on his intercom. “Julie, I want you to get paperwork together to sign Miss Star. Fast track it. We need her for the Sunday shoot.”
Wait, had I said ‘okay?’ As in a 'yes-okay?'
“Uh, Mr. Alexander-”
“R.J.”
“Right, R.J. Look, I’m really not sure about all-”
But I didn’t get to finish as the door to his office swung open behind me.
“R.J., we need to talk to you about- Oh. Sorry. I didn’t realize you were with someone.”
I swiveled in my seat to get a look at the intruder. He was tall, lean, somewhere in his late forties if I had to guess but, from the fit of his thin sweater, obviously someone who still kept in shape. Blonde hair, tan skin, weathered just the right amount. He reminded me of Robert Redford – timelessly hot yet ready to break into a grin at any second.
But it was his companion that made my heart lurch into my throat.
It was Him.
The man with the model in the shoe ad. Mr. Orgasm-on-the-Spot. The same dark hair, dark eyes, the same square jaw, by God, even dusted with that fine sprinkling of stubble that hinted he was too manly to shave every day, too sophisticated to let a beard get out of hand. I think I stopped breathing.
“Ah, Alec. Come on in. Kya, I’d like you to meet my partner, Alec Davis.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” the Redford clone said, offering a hand my way.
I took it, still trying not to stare at his friend.
“Alec handles all the contracts and accounting at the agency,” R.J. explained. “I’m the face man, he’s the brains.”
Alec grinned. “Just think of me as the silent partner,” he joked.
“Nice to meet you,” I finally managed to get out.
“And this,” R.J. said, gesturing to Mr. Orgasm, “is Blake Stone. He’s one of our many talented male models here at Parker.”
Blake stuck his hand out toward me. For a moment I just looked at it. Wow. He was even better in 3D.
“Nice to meet you, Kya.”
Kya. He said my name. Why did that suddenly make me want to doodle Blake + Kya in big hearts?
5.25 A High Heels Haunting Page 2
