by Ash, Ingrid
AT MR. CARTWRIGHT'S
COMMAND
INGRID ASH
Copyright (c) 2015 Ingrid Ash
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are product of the authors imagination and are used in a fictitious manner. Any similarities to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
This ebook is for your personal enjoyment only. No copies may be resold or given away; if you would like to give away a copy please purchase additional copies for gifting purposes. If you are reading this and you did not purchase this ebook, please refer to the authors website and purchase a copy. Thank you for supporting the author!
EDITED BY Rearing Horse Editing
COVER BY Ingrid Ash
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
FOR JAY
CHAPTER 1
TAMARA
The Cartwright Modeling Agency. I've passed this agency a million times and it never crossed my mind to go in.
Until now.
I guess you could call me a child of the streets, although you probably wouldn't know it by looking at me. I'm told I have a “little girl's face” which is something a lot of women would kill for, but where I come from it doesn't do you any favors. I've also been told that I'm pretty, another thing that never did me any favors growing up being bounced from one foster home to the next.
I've never had anything that was truly mine except for the clothes on my back, and I suppose I've never been wanted anywhere, by anyone. Even my own mother tried to trade me for a hit – well, actually she succeeded. Depending on how you look at it, things could have been a lot worse for me if I hadn't been found by a well meaning social worker who put me in the system, although it's hard to imagine my childhood being any worse than it was.
The day the system stopped caring about me was the greatest day of my life. I'm sure my last foster mom would've kicked me out anyways, so I made it easy on her and left without even saying goodbye.
Back then, when I was 18, I had big dreams of getting a job, securing an apartment with a roommate or two and working my way up the chain. I stupidly didn't focus on school during my formative years, so a scholarship was out of the equation, making college an impossibility. But it was okay, for a while I was doing alright and living my dream with a roommate who let me stay at her place rent free until I got a job. And I did find one, but that only lasted for a couple of months until said roommate decided to lock me out of our apartment and, subsequently, steal all my shit. The police didn't help since my name wasn't on any lease, and conveniently, no one else in the building seemed to recognize me as a tenant. And without any residency, so went my job.
So there I was, back in the gutter once again. I couch surfed with distant relatives and a few friends who made it out of the system better than I did. That lasted just a few months too—I knew I was unwanted every where I went, and frankly, I didn’t trust any of them. Not even “family”.
My first nights on the streets were rough, and scary. I cried myself to sleep for the first few weeks. Over time it got easier, but being homeless isn't something you ever truly get used to.
Last year I lucked out and got a tip about a new shelter for women and children. This was right before it started to get cold in the city – and winters here are especially brutal. Not to sound ungrateful but life in a shelter wasn't much better than being on the streets—people still harassed you, stole from you, and your bed was never actually yours. But I didn't freeze to death, so who was I to complain?
Recently though, some of the shelters in surrounding areas have closed, so make a point to get in line extra early for a bed these days...
With a roof over my head for the time being, and food in my stomach, I've finally been able to resume my job search. Unfortunately, nothing has stuck besides a few under the table jobs here and there. I'm saving up, I keep all my money on me because I don't want it stolen like my clothes—yeah, I only have one outfit now because some crazy bitch stole all my stuff. Again.
Every day I make my way to the subway, and every day I pass The Cartwright Modeling Agency. It's not something I ever focused on or thought about, being unrealistic and all. But today I see a girl who somewhat resembles me, albeit taller and undoubtedly slimmer, go inside and for some reason, it becomes real. I can't help but wonder what type of life she leads and how much money she makes. I bet she makes enough to afford rent, food and then some.
It's totally unrealistic, but something is urging me to step inside.
So I do.
I'm in awe from the very second I step inside. The walls are painted a vibrant shade of purple and are covered with framed photos of glamorous models on the covers of magazines, wearing clothes that must cost more money than I've ever made in my lifetime. They all look so care free, like they worry more about what they'll eat for lunch and not whether they'll eat at all. Coming from a background like mine, you don't have the luxury to worry about fashion, heels or handbags, you just try to survive. But frankly, I'm tired of just surviving. I deserve something more. I want what they have, but I'm not jealous of them—I want to be them.
A plush shag carpet underneath my feet leads me into a larger room that's illuminated by three sparkling crystal chandeliers. There are stacks of fashion magazines sitting upon several coffee and end tables, each of which are furnished with elaborate floral arrangements and modern bookends. Two leather couches line the walls with three leggy, high heeled women seated in them—all three are well dressed beauties with razor sharp cheekbones, two with coffee colored skin-tones similar to mine, and one fair skinned brunette. They only glance up at me through their bone straight locks for a second before returning their attention to their cellphones and tablets.
I glance down at my ratty old tennis shoes and worn out jeans and realize I stand out like a sore thumb.
“May I help you?”
I spin around to notice a woman sitting behind a desk on the other end of the room. She looks about my age and her arms are folded tightly across her chest, right below the elaborate necklace that highlights her slender neck. Her blonde hair is pulled into a high, sleek pony tail and she watches me through her long and obviously fake lashes.
“Yeah, hi, I'm Tamara,” I say as I make my way towards the front desk with a friendly smile and extend my hand to her. She pauses for a moment, looking me up and down before shaking it weakly. Not exactly a warm reception.
“Do you have an appointment, Tamara?” Her voice sounds pointed and almost annoyed.
“Um, no, I don't, sorry. I just wanted to get some information about your agency.”
“What did you want to know?” she asks with pursed lips. She isn't exactly making this easy.
“Well, I'm interested in modeling and I thought you could possibly help me out.”
She sighed, averting her eyes away from and back to the computer in front of her. “We only take on girls who are under 21 and over 5'7”,” she informs me, in a mechanical tone.
I nod and say, “Perfect. I'm 20,” give or tak
e a year...or two, “and I'm 5'8”. Actually, I'm 5'7”1/2, but who's counting?
Obviously she is, because she looks me up and down again, slower this time. “Mhm. Well do you have any experience?”
“I don't, but I'm a fast learner. And I'm pretty good at posing.”
“Mhm,” she mumbles once more, as she continues to study my face with her eyes. “And do you have a portfolio?”
I shake my head, “No.”
“Well, you'd have to pay for the photos that will go in your portfolio.”
Shit. “Yeah, I can do that,” I lie with a fervent nod.
“Alright,” she says with a half roll of the eyes. What is this girls issue with me? She stands up from the desk, grabbing her camera and moves away from me. “I'll need to take some Polaroids of you. It's a good thing you didn’t come wearing any make up.”
“I have a little on, actually.”
She turns back towards me with a smirk and says, “Oh, well I wouldn't have noticed.”
Bitch.
I follow her to another room, her heels clicking and clacking against the hard wood floors as she makes sure to keep her pace ahead of me. I notice how huge her shoes are, yet she's still significantly shorter than me.
“Stand against the wall,” she commands as she fiddles with the camera, not bothering to look up to me.
I do as she says, planting myself against the blank white wall, smiling wide.
“And don't smile,” she demands, and my grin melts into more of a come-hither look.
She snaps the picture, removes the Polaroid and places it on the table. “Turn to the side. You've done this before, I'm sure,” she says with that same arrogant smirk and I want nothing more than to punch the smile off her face. I shoot her the evil eye before turning like she asks.
She snaps yet another Polaroid, removes it from the camera and collects the previous one. “That's all. You can leave your information at the front desk.”
My brows narrow in confusion. “That's it?”
She nods, her blonde ponytail bouncing behind her. “Yup. Just leave your name and phone number, and if we're interested, we'll call you,” she says, emphasizing the last part.
I leave the agency feeling even worse than I did before. Why did I put myself through that mental torture when I could have spent the time applying for job I actually had a shot at? I pull out my cellphone— my battery is in the red and it's 3:15. That gives me barely enough time to jump on the subway and get back to the shelter before 4.
*
For the first time in over a year I don't get a bed that night. The subway comes late and there are just too many people in line. Night falls and I feel the cool air prickle against my exposed skin. It's getting closer to winter now and I'm not sure how I will survive the harsh temperatures on the streets.
Tomorrow I will scavenge for food and blankets, and hopefully look for a job if there's time.
I find an abandoned construction zone that seems safe enough for the night and huddle up as far away from the open air as I can. I try to tuck my hands into my sleeves, but my sleeves are just too short. I cry myself to sleep vowing never to sleep on the streets again.
*
My phone is dead by morning, and it's not like it matters because no one ever calls me on it anyways. I wouldn't bother if I hadn't already paid the contract.
I wander a few blocks before I find a McDonald’s. There's a dollar in my pocket, which is enough to get a hamburger to hold me over until this evening – or for the day if I'm unlucky. I get my order and I'm lucky enough to find a free outlet to charge my phone. Why not?
I eat slowly, enjoying the shelter and the warmth, hoping to get my charge at least half full. As I chew on another bite of my dry hamburger I notice I have a message. I slide the phone on and it's from a local number I can't remember. It can't be...
“Hello, Tamara,” the voice spat out my name like poison, “this is Veronica from the Cartwright Agency.” Of course it is. I'd know that snotty high pitched voice anywhere. And she sure sounds pissed. “Please call me back at your earliest convenience.”
What could she want? Should I even bother?
As usual, my curiosity gets the best of me.
“Cartwright Agency.”
“Hi, this is Tamara Pierce, I was in your offices yesterday and—”
“Yes, I know who you are.” It's Veronica. And, as usual, she does not sound happy. “Mr. Cartwright would like to see you. He'll send a car for you today at 3. Where can we find you?”
He what? No, this has to be a trick. “Mr. Cartwright...as in Cartwright Agency Cartwright?” Okay, that question makes no sense at all, but I'm in too much shock to even think straight.
“Well who else would it be?”
“He wants to meet with me?” I ask incredulously.
“Yes, for whatever reason, he does.”
Veronica's snippy attitude doesn't even phase me at this point. But I quickly realize I have to give her an address. Where? That's a bit difficult when I don't even have a real home. And I wouldn't dare give this bitch the benefit of knowing I live in a shelter.
“I, um...” My mind scrambles to come up with a solution. I quickly run outside, looking for a number and a street sign.
Veronica sighs on the other end. “I have incoming calls.”
“4684 W 18th St.” I blurt out, “That's where I'll be.”
“Really? Alright, fine. The car will come for you at 3pm. Goodbye, Tamara.” The phone goes dead on the other end of the line.
My mouth is wide and I can't speak, I can't think, and I can't even cry although part of me wants to.
CHAPTER 2
About 5 minutes past 3pm a black sedan with tinted windows pulls up just a few doors down from the McDonald's. And I'm standing there eagerly waiting.
The driver rolls down the window and asks, “Are you Tamara Pierce?” I tell him that I am, and he comes around the side to open the door for me. People on the streets are staring— It's not something that's seen regularly in this part of town.
The interior is comfortable with two rows of large leather seats facing each other, and I get it all to myself. But that's what scares me. I want to sink into the warmth of the cushy seats, but I can't allow myself to get used to this. The very few good things that have happened in my life have quickly been taken away, so why would this be any different? After all, this meeting is just that – a meeting. Mr. Cartwright very well might not like me or want to work with me, and I have to be prepared for that.
I take a deep breath to calm my nerves.
He won't like me; he'll love me. I'll make sure of it.
*
“We're here,” the driver says as the car comes to a halt. “The door man will show you where to go from here. Have a nice day, Ms. Pierce!”
I step out of the car and bend my neck back to fully take in the towering heights of the building before me. The Autria Towers says the sign above the large double doors. This wasn't the agency, it was a high rise luxury apartment building. Did the driver bring me to the wrong place?
“Madame, can I help you find something? Or something?” I hear the heavily accented voice of the bellman say to me. He has friendly eyes and he's eager to help.
“Uh, yes, does Mr. Cartwright have an office here or something?” I ask.
“Ah, oui, Monsieur Cartwright lives in the penthouse suite,” he explains as he opens the door wide for me. “Let me show you to his private elevator.”
Private elevator?
I follow him along the marble floors of the lobby. Luxury indeed, I think to myself as I take in the sophisticated surroundings, once again feeling out of place in my worn out kicks. I'm lead through a few rooms towards the back of the building to an elevator that has only one button.
“Wait, so only he can access this elevator?”
“Of course, Madame. But you are his guest so you are more than welcome to go straight up.”
Who the hell has their own private elevator? The
very idea baffled me.
“Go on,” the bellman says as the doors open, “He is waiting for you.”
The doors close and the elevator begins to move. Elevators make me nauseous, but I know my nerves are also at play now. I don't know what to expect when I get to the top, and I quickly realize that it should worry me more that I'm going alone to a man's apartment. Isn't this the kind of situation they always warn women about? He might be rich as fuck but it just doesn't sound normal, yet alone professional.
The elevator brings me to the top and I step out. There's another door in front of me, only one, which I figure must lead to his quarters.
I knock on the door once, and then wait. Almost a minute passes before I do it again. And still no one answers. And then I start to get nervous.
Finally the door opens and an older man pops his head out. “You must be Tamara,” he says with a warm smile.
I nod. “Yes, I am, are you Mr. Cartwright?”
The man chuckles. “Oh heavens no! I'm Master Cartwright's butler, you can call me Ronald,” he says as he invites me in. “Please, let me take your coat.”
I give him my coat as he asks, and suddenly I realize I am, once again, in a very elegant place wearing my same old, not-so-elegant clothes. Even worse, it's the same thing I had on yesterday. Thank God Mr. Cartwright wasn't there to witness that.
“My, you are even prettier than your photos,” he says with bright eyes and I feel my cheeks flush.
“Thanks,” I reply shyly.
I hear a deep voice boom from another room. “Is that Ms. Pierce? Bring her to me.”
“Well, as the master orders.”
I follow Ronald through the sprawling apartment, and into what appears to be a study. In front of me there's a man sitting behind a classic oak desk, newspaper up in front of his face and shiny leather shoes crossed and perched on it's edge. I stand there awkwardly for a moment, waiting for him to acknowledge me.
