The next one is for lip gloss. I have to smile and pout for no less than ten people, being passed from one to the next as I work my way up the booking chain. It might not sound that hard, but I’m exhausted afterward. All that energy trying to be pleasing to strangers. I’m not sure yet what models get paid, but whatever it is, it can’t be worth it.
My final go-see is for a teen fashion magazine. The photographer is one of those Stephen warned me about. “Intimidating” is not an adequate word for this guy. He frowns and fusses, barking orders at me to walk, stop, turn around, look at him, stop looking at him, smile, stop smiling. By the time the appointment is finished, I’m ready to pose for the cover of Nervous Breakdown Journal, and I know I’m not going to get the job.
“Okay—you’re hired,” he growls, sounding like it tortures him to say it. “Be here at five a.m. Thursday morning with clean hair and no makeup—we’ll be doing a sunrise shoot.”
“Oh. Okay.” I back toward the door, still not quite believing it. “Thanks.”
He frowns at me, and I hurry out of the room already dreading Thursday. But I am looking forward to some free time before tonight’s scheduled event, a trip to a Sunset Strip nightclub with Ava and her roommates Serena and Brenna. It’s an officially sanctioned outing, arranged by our mutual agent Alfred and intended to raise all our profiles on the Hollywood social scene.
When the driver drops me back at home, I go in search of Ava and more specifically, her laptop. Thoughts of my parents and their accident have plagued me constantly since my arrival in California. The look of this neighborhood and even the feel of the air here bring back so many childhood memories. I’m hoping some research will turn up the details I need to fill in the many blanks I have about the events that changed my life so drastically five years ago.
Her laptop is in its usual spot, the center of the white leather sofa in the great room. Opening it, my heartbeat trips with the same kind of adrenaline burst I got when Pappa caught me studying with Carter. He’s never expressly forbidden me to research details of the crash, but somehow I know he’d disapprove.
I begin typing in the search box when a tiny red light catches my eye. It’s next to the small circular webcam above the screen. My heart leaps up my throat, crashing into my tonsils. I slam the cover down over the keyboard, which probably wasn’t smart, but I’m not doing my best thinking at the moment. Questions are whirling inside my brain.
Why is that on? Does that mean someone was watching me?
Probably. What else could it mean? I’ve heard webcams can be controlled remotely from another computer. Assuming it’s not Ava on the other end of the connection—and I’m sure it’s not—then it’s someone else—someone who should not know what I’m searching for.
And if they can watch remotely through the camera, they might also be able to tell what I’m typing. My heart flips again. Whoever it is might know about my search yesterday for the art school’s address—Pappa might already be onto what I’m thinking.
I pace around the great room, to the kitchen, back across the room to the large picture windows, which now that I’m looking, I notice have no covering at all—no shades, no curtains.
Maybe the webcam thing is some creepy stalker who’s figured out how to spy on the models and the actress in their own home. Why does that seem less scary than the thought of our parents watching us? In any case, I’m going to tell Ava about it as soon as she gets here.
As if on cue, the door opens and she comes in, dancing to the pop song blasting from her phone. Spotting me, she breaks into a big smile and comes over, looping her arm through mine and pulling me into a little dance with her on the kitchen tile.
“You ready to go shopping?” she asks loudly over the music.
“For what?”
“What?” She turns down the music.
“Shopping for what?”
“For some hot clothes to wear to the club tonight. Alfred has accounts at a bunch of the shops on Rodeo. He likes for us to look good when we go out, and you probably don’t have any club clothes, do you?”
“Definitely not.”
“Well come on then, girl. Grab your purse. We only have a few hours.”
When I tell Ava about the creepy webcam thing, she just shrugs, keeping her eyes on the road ahead. Her car’s what you would expect a model in L.A. to drive—a Porsche Cayenne. Appearance is everything, after all, according to the Dark Elven philosophy.
“I’m not surprised,” she says. “Alfred’s a very ‘hands on’ agent. He likes to keep tabs on his girls. Or maybe it was my parents.”
“Or mine,” I say, shuddering.
There will be no more searching on Ava’s laptop or any other computerized device in the Model Mansion. And I certainly can’t use them to send my art files to Professor Gould. A flicker of panic unsettles my midsection at the thought of leaving here without applying to the school. But on our way to Rodeo Drive I get an idea.
“We passed a library back there,” I tell Ava. “Would you mind circling back and dropping me off? I want to… browse around a bit.”
“What about shopping?”
“You can pick something out for me—I don’t care what it is—you have good taste, and I think we’re about the same size.”
She shakes her head sadly, looking at me like I’m a bag lady on the roadside or some poor soul on the news who lost her home in a wildfire. “What is the world coming to when a girl would rather shop for books than clothes?”
I grin at her. “Story of my life.”
“Okay then,” she says on a baffled sigh, taking a left at the next light and executing a U-turn. “I’ll come back and pick you up in a while. Don’t leave there, though, okay? I’ll get in big trouble if I lose you. I don’t want your dad yelling at me.”
“I promise.”
Clutching my purse with the flash drive inside, I get out of the car at the curb and walk up the sidewalk with a quick wave over my shoulder. Ava needn’t worry about my leaving the library. Not when it’s got everything I need—a public computer I can use to email the art files to the professor, and to search for some answers about my parents’ deaths—all out of range of the spying eyes of Pappa and Alfred.
The automatic door swings open, and I step through with a smile, breathing in the scents of old paper, air conditioning, and hope. Maybe this place holds the answers to my future… and perhaps my past as well.
Chapter Eleven
Crush
I certainly hope Ava’s shopping trip is going better than my detective work. Other than the newspaper articles I’ve read before, the computer search turns up nothing. No death certificates or burial information, no FAA reports or even local police reports on the crash. Maybe that kind of thing isn’t available to the public?
I’m thinking about where else I could access that stuff when it occurs to me that this is the perfect time to email Carter. I’ve been thinking of him these past few days and wondering how his spring break is going.
I type the email, telling him how I utterly suck at modeling and asking about his week so far. He must be on his computer already because his return email is quick.
“Hi. Good to hear from you. I’m sure you don’t suck. That much. Ha ha. Are you having any fun?”
I send one back immediately. “Not yet. Going out on the Sunset Strip tonight, though, so maybe.” My fingers hesitate before typing the next words, but then I do it quickly and hit send. “I visited an art school. It’s amazing. Trying to get up my courage to send in pics of my art portfolio.”
There’s a long pause before he replies, and I’m wondering if he stepped away from his laptop, but then it comes.
“You’ll need this.” He attached a photo of my meadow painting—the one I destroyed in that moment of despair. I forgot he took one with his cell phone in the art room that day. I guess he saved it.
It makes me sad to see the painting again, but I’m also grateful to have the photo. As Mrs. White said, it probably was my best t
o date, and it really should be in my portfolio, especially since I’m applying to the Dowrey Center late and need every advantage I can get.
“Thank you. I appreciate it—you have no idea how much.”
“No problem. Glad I could help. Now—send it to the school before you have a chance to chicken out. See? I do know you. Chat you later, tater. Miss you.”
I’m torn between laughing at his hokey sendoff and feeling giddy at his last two words. They probably didn’t mean anything, but I realize I do miss him. I’m looking forward to seeing him again when I get home.
Which will only be home for a few more months. Before you move away to get married.
Ugh. I compose an email to the address Professor Gould gave me then pull the flash drive from my purse and attach the zip file full of artwork plus the picture Carter sent me. Taking his advice, I hit send before I can change my mind. Then I log off the computer and whirl in my chair to get up.
And find Ava standing right behind me.
“Oh my gosh, you scared me. How long have you been there?”
“Your painting is very good,” she says, wearing a secret smile. “And you have a boyfriend.”
“No. I don’t. He’s not. He’s just a friend.”
“Sure, that’s what I tell my mom about my boyfriends, too. You ready to go? We’ve got to get back and start getting ready. It might take you a while to squeeze into the teensy mini-dress I bought you.”
“Oh no. You didn’t,” I moan.
She flashes me a dazzling grin. “Oh yes I did. And it’s going to look amazing on you. By the end of tonight, you’ll have a fan pod waiting list a mile long.”
* * *
The atmosphere at Club Crush fits the name—people are packed in like vacuum-sealed almonds. I follow the other girls, squeezing past chattering, laughing people until we reach the edge of the dance floor where there’s a little more breathing room. The air smells like beer and cologne, and colored lights flash and change all around us, making the faces appear and disappear in sync with a driving house music beat.
“That’s DJ Quattro,” Ava’s roommate Serena informs me as she pulls me with her to the bar. Flipping her long blonde curls over one shoulder, she lifts a finger to catch the bartender’s eye and signal for a drink. “It’s house music tonight, but they have rock bands, pop stars in here on different nights. We come a lot—especially when our friends are playing.”
“You know this guy?” I motion to the famous DJ. Even living way across the country in Atlanta, I know his name. His mixes play on one of our radio stations on Saturday nights.
She leans in close to my ear, though there’s no chance of anyone else hearing her over the pounding music. “He’s one of us.”
“Oh.” Now that I really look at him, blocking out the distractions of the lights and the writhing bodies all around us, I can see it. Tall, muscular, carved cheekbones and chin. “What about the bands—are they Fae?” I whisper.
“Some of them are. Some aren’t. I’m ready to dance. You?”
She grabs our drinks from the bar top—without paying—and hands one to me, then pulls her other roommate, Brenna with her toward the dance floor. Ava and I follow them out to the center.
Trying to fit in, a take a swallow of the strong drink and move to the music. I like to dance. I’m not that great, but the other girls are—in fact, I’d say Brenna’s glamour has something to do with dancing—the way she moves her body is mesmerizing, even to me. It’s obvious my companions are entirely at home in this scene, and they’re taking their jobs of attracting attention and human admiration seriously.
Serena’s already famous. She’s had small roles in movies and even a starring one on a TV show. If tonight’s anything to judge by, Ava and Brenna aren’t too far behind her. Club-goers, male and female alike, stare at them as they laugh and twirl under the lights, drinking their cocktails and generally looking like an ad for Hollywood nightlife.
Of course, the guys stare at them in a different way. Which makes me wonder. My temporary roomies know the rules as well as I do. If one of them were to sleep with one of these admirers, that would be it for her—she’d be bonded to him for life and couldn’t take another partner.
So what exactly do they do with all that male attention they’re courting? No matter how much guys might worship them or try to persuade them, the Elven girls can’t actually do anything with the human men. Not much anyway. Right? I’ll have to ask Ava about it later when we’re alone. She’s been at this much longer than I have, so she probably knows about that stuff.
Following Alfred’s instruction, we’ve each brought signed headshots in our purses. So embarrassing. But the other girls say that’s what we’re supposed to do here—get people staring and talking, then give them the cards with our photos on one side and our agent’s contact info on the other. Something to do with fan pod recruitment, I guess.
After dancing a while, I’m getting hot and thirsty and I need to go to the bathroom. I tap the closest girl, Brenna, on the shoulder. She spins around and wiggles her slim hips to the music, taking my hands and twirling under one of my arms.
“I’m going to find the bathroom,” I half-shout to be heard over the amplified beat.
“I’ll go with you,” she says and turns toward the other side of the dance floor.
I follow her to a hallway behind the bar. The music’s not as loud here, and the lighting’s somewhat normal. There’s a line for the bathroom, of course. We take our places at the end and study the promotional posters tacked up and down the opposite wall to pass the time.
“Have you seen any of these bands?” I ask her.
She nods vigorously, her bobbed black curls swinging with the motion. “Oh yeah. Practically all of them. I’ve been out here for three years now, and we go out probably five, six nights a week.”
“You go out almost every night? How do you get up and do modeling jobs in the morning?”
“Saol water helps a lot.” She laughs, pulling a metal flask from her purse and taking a swig. “Want some?”
“Oh, no. I have my own. Thanks.”
That makes sense. Saol water is a staple of the Fae diet because of its unique healing and nutritional properties. It’s made from a combination of deep root sap and pure underground cavern water distilled over hot mineral rocks.
The only time I’ve ever seen it made was when I visited Altum as a child during the Assemblage. Manufacturing saol water is more of a Light Elven thing, I guess. I’ve never heard of Dark Elves making it—we usually live in cities among humans.
“When you move out here for good, you’ll probably go out with us a lot,” Brenna says. “Maybe even move in with us, since Serena’s getting her own house soon. Her fan pod’s grown enough that Alfred’s ready to set her up with a mansion and pod quarters.”
I’m about to ask more about that when one of the posters catches my eye. It’s black and red with the words “The Hidden” printed at the top—the band’s name I assume. In the center is a black and white photo of the guys in the band. They’re all good-looking, clad in the jeans-and-old-t-shirt uniform rock musicians so commonly wear.
The tallest one, standing in the middle and holding a guitar, is the most striking. Dark hair, light eyes, wide shoulders, and a wicked half-grin. I step closer, squinting to get a better view.
My heart rolls over an extra thump, and then it’s pounding out a rhythm even the DJ can’t keep up with. I fall back several steps until my back meets the wall behind us. My legs are as unstable as overcooked asparagus, and my hands are shaking.
“What’s the matter? You okay? You should really have some of this.” Brenna offers me her flask again, but I wave it away, never breaking my visual lock on the poster.
“Who… who is that?” I manage to gasp.
“Who?” She turns her head in search of the thing that’s grabbed my attention. “Oh—The Hidden? Yeah—they’re awesome.”
“No. The guy. The guy in the middle.”
> “Ooohhhh.” She drags the word out with a knowing smile. “That’s Nox. He’s the lead singer and guitar player. You’ve got good taste. Alfred says he’s going to be a huge star.”
“Nox,” I whisper.
“Hey, the line’s moving.” Brenna gives me a nudge.
My body responds, and my feet move, but my mind is in another place, another time… five years ago. Nox Jerrik. Could it really be him? Could he somehow be alive and playing music clubs on the Sunset Strip?
Nox isn’t an uncommon name among our people—his resemblance to my childhood friend is no doubt a coincidence. But the likeness is uncanny. The guy in the poster looks so much like my Nox. Except older. And hotter. And—
I step out of line and snatch the poster off the wall, folding it and stuffing it into my purse.
“What are you doing?” Brenna asks with a chuckle.
I shrug. “I don’t know. I… want it.”
She nods. “Yeah—pretty much everybody wants a piece of Nox Knight.”
Standing up straight, I turn to her. “Knight? That’s his last name?”
“Yeah, Nox Knight. Has a good rocker ring to it, doesn’t it? Of course, his name could be SpongeBob, and girls would still be dropping their panties every time he gets up on stage and sings.” Brenna laughs.
I shudder and step forward in line, the image not sitting well with me, no matter how accurate it might or might not be. I don’t like the idea of girls drooling over my childhood sweetheart. But of course, The Hidden’s lead singer isn’t my Nox. He can’t be. My Nox is gone.
Most likely this guy’s a total jerkwad who does enjoy using his glamour to incite panty-dropping. Nox is probably only his stage name, anyway.
And then a thought hits me that makes me stagger and has my heart pounding double time. Maybe Knight is a stage name and the guy in the poster is actually my old friend, my first puppy love, Nox Jerrik. One thing is for sure—I’m going to find out, and nothing’s going to stop me.
Faery Tales: Six Novellas of Magic and Adventure (Faery Worlds Book 3) Page 11
