Bohemian

by Kathryn Nolan

  And she was right, because it didn’t really matter. I was grumpy and jet-lagged because I’d just gotten back from spending two weeks in Paris, finalizing the remaining details to become the face of Dazzle cosmetics.

  I’d signed a two-year contract that included billboards, magazine ads, television commercials, merchandising—essentially a supermodel’s dream. Not that I didn’t love runway shows in Milan, but it’d be nice to model foundation and mascara and not eleven-inch heels.

  The announcement had skyrocketed my career in a matter of days. I was used to being on the cover of magazines, but this was different. Dazzle was the largest cosmetics company in the entire world, and out of every single model they could have chosen, they chose me.

  I added a million Instagram followers in two days.

  And I was already losing them.

  I’d need to win them back during this photo shoot we were about to embark on in Big Sur. My mind flashed to the countless Instagram photos I could capture: wildflowers by the ocean, restless waves, goofy smiles with Josie with the sun lilting behind us.

  Lilting.

  My fingers itched to write the word down but I shook it off. My journal was packed into one of a dozen bags shoved into the trunk. Lil-ting. Sideways. Lean. Dandelions in a field, light as clouds.

  “Did you say something?” Josie asked, glancing over with a strange look.

  Oh good, now I was talking to myself.

  “Nope,” I said, eyes fixed on the tiny screen of my phone, that word seared onto my brain. That hadn’t happened in a while.

  “Tell me about this shoot again,” I said. “Between the time in Paris and the red-eye flight home, I’ve completely forgotten what we’re doing here.”

  Josie grinned. “Well, you’re about to spend three days in beautiful Big Sur with your best friend in the entire world.”

  “Interestingly, also the World’s Best Makeup Artist,” I said, tapping my finger against my chin. “Go on.”

  “Shay Miller. Rag Magazine. Boho-style,” she said simply, jogging my memory.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said, nodding with recognition. “That’s right.”

  I’d met with Ray, the Creative Director, and Taylor Brooks, the other male model on the shoot, more than six months ago. I’d known both of them for a couple of years. And Shay Miller was a newer designer, currently all the rage in Los Angeles.

  Experimental, a little unconventional, definitely erotic—he wanted his clothes displayed in environments that held a similar feel. His latest line of clothing, Boho, was bohemian-trendy, wild-child-with-a-vengeance.

  And he wanted the first photoshoot for it to take place in the capital of Bohemia: Big Sur.

  As usual, about 98% of my body would be visible (one time I modeled an honest-to-God parka with cut-outs to ensure my boobs and ass were on full fucking display. For a winter coat). And the mock-ups that Ray had walked us through had affirmed Shay Miller’s flair for soft-core porn.

  “So would you say Taylor’s dick would be entirely inside me for this shot? Or is it a just-the-tip situation?” I’d asked Ray, pointing an expensively manicured nail at his notes.

  He’d grimaced and Taylor had spit out his latte. Taylor was the newest It-Guy. Younger than me, only 22, and still very much enamored with the shiny world of high-fashion modeling.

  “Lucia,” Ray had said, a warning in his voice. Directors liked the models to be seen. Not heard.

  “Just asking,” I’d said. “I mean, I’ve done Sports Illustrated, Maxim. I know the drill. I can do the ‘pretend you’re being fucked by the camera’ look in my sleep. I just didn’t realize we’d be actually fucking for this shoot.”

  “You’re not,” he said, looking at me like I was a child. “It’s just Shay. He likes things to be hot and gritty and real and I need the two of you to really, you know…really let your walls down.”

  “And the tip in.”

  Ray and Taylor exchanged a look over my head and I swallowed a scowl. I needed to quit or I’d start getting a “reputation,” as my agent said. I’d just turned 26—which was ancient for a supermodel—and luckily, I’d snagged the Dazzle contract.

  Because my days were officially numbered.

  “Are you excited?” Josie asked, guiding us through the winding turns of Highway 1.

  I looked up from my phone for a second at her. Tattooed arms, gold nose ring, lavender tipped hair—Josie was the bad-ass I’d always wanted to be. Authentic and always herself.

  “I’m excited you’ll be on this shoot. I missed you the past few times. And I definitely missed you in Paris,” I said.

  “Will miss me. You know I’m not coming, chica.”

  I nodded, something twisting in my gut. “Yeah, I know. It’s only two years. You’ll come visit and we’ll video chat every second of the day.”

  “Sounds sustainable,” she said wryly. “But aren’t you excited for the next few days? Shay Miller is everything right now. The outfits are stellar. Taylor is hot. And I have amazing ideas in mind for your makeup. It should be fun.” A quick glance over at me. “Right?”

  I shrugged. “I guess. It’s also going to be long hours. Tedious posing. Having to listen to Taylor talk about the new Brad Pitt movie he’s in —for barely 45 seconds—all day.”

  I’d worked with Taylor a couple times in the past year. He was nice, but not that bright. And incredibly boring.

  Josie bit her lip, eyes in the rearview mirror. “Can I ask you a random, kind of intense question?”

  “Go for it.”

  “Do you ever think about why you’re not into your job anymore?”

  I snorted. “What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t know.” A long pause, in which she seemed to be gathering her thoughts. “Lately I feel like you used to fucking love things like this. I remember, because I was there with you. I know it sucks, and it’s exhausting, but even with all the bullshit that comes with being a makeup artist, I’m still mostly happy going to work every day.”

  And she was. Josie loved her job and it was obvious. She was also fucking great at it. And so was I—even with my growing “snarky” reputation, I was the hardest worker, the most expressive, the most flexible. I was a supermodel for a reason—because I was the best.

  “I love my job,” I said, pulling up Instagram again. I needed some social media affirmation to help the slight feeling of dread moving through my body. “And I’m thrilled about the Dazzle contract.” It sounded hollow, even to my ears.

  “I’m not People magazine, Lu. You don’t need to give me soundbites,” she chided. “Just…I don’t know. I also think that Dazzle is a great opportunity for you, and you did seem happy when you got it.”

  “I am happy.”

  She looked at me again, continuing to chew on her lip —Josie’s main tell when she was worried about something. Apparently, me.

  “Forget I said it,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m probably just horny.”

  “You’re always horny,” I said, laughing. Josie was the queen of hot one-night-stands, but it’d been a while. I looked back at my Instagram feed, desperate to see if I had lured any of my lost followers back. It paused, frozen. I refreshed it again.

  “Were you having trouble with your internet earlier?” I asked, hating the note of panic that crept into my voice.

  “I think internet is pretty spotty up here, chica. And we’ll barely have it while on location. Didn’t you read Ray’s email?”

  “I don’t understand the words that are coming out of your mouth.” I was always online.

  Josie laughed. “It’s no big deal, Lu. We’ll be living the way our ancestors used to live. Or, you know, people in the nineties.”

  “I hated the nineties,” I whined.

  “You weren’t even ten in the nineties,” she reminded me, not biting at my sulky tone. I wasn’t usually this irritable when jet-lagged, but Josie’s observation was making me feel a little off. Jagged.

  “We’ll have to do things
like talk to each other,” she said with a smirk.

  “What?” I cried, throwing my hands in the air dramatically to the sound of Josie’s laughter. I was (mostly) joking now, and as I leaned forward, turning up the radio, I fully looked at my surroundings, tossing my phone in my bag.

  It was beautiful. We were curving through the woods under a canopy of fir trees. Every so often there’d be a break and the ocean would peek out, roaring against a rocky shore.

  “Also…” Josie said, slowly turning into a long driveway, “I think we’re here.”

  Redwoods lined the entrance; moss and overgrown bushes and orange poppies along the side. White fairy lights were strung between the tree trunks.

  “Where are we?” I asked, rolling down my window to get a whiff of damp forest and ocean breeze.

  A building came into view—it was more like a log cabin, with a huge deck filled with mismatched chairs. A rickety old sign in front read, “The Mad Ones” in bright-yellow paint.

  “This bookstore is the main location for the next three days. The true home of Bohemia in Northern California,” Josie said.

  My eyes were still on the sign. “That’s the name?”

  “Yep,” she said, slowly driving forward and parking. “It’s still pretty famous, but not like it used to be. My parents used to party up here in the early seventies—during their hippie days. Did yours?”

  I rolled my eyes. “My parents only party if the paparazzi will be there. I get the impression this is not that kind of place.”

  I stepped out of the car and the scent of the place hit me again. Damp forest. Ocean breeze. Something else…like bonfires on a cool autumn night. I was aware, too aware, of the air on my skin.

  “Welcome to Big Sur,” Josie whispered, coming up behind me. “It’s something else, isn’t it?”

  Sunlight lilted through the trees. There goes that word again. The itch in my fingers was beginning to literally hurt. And the sunlight was like…it was like… “Magic,” I breathed.

  The front door of the bookstore opened and a man stepped out. Tall. Wrinkled shirt. Giant glasses and a book in his hand. He waved at us, tentatively. I waved back and he blushed. He walked down the steps towards our car—behind us, I heard the telltale sign of the entire photo shoot pulling up; car after car of clothes and cameras. High-fashion Hollywood descending on this tiny town.

  As he got closer, I could see how nervous he was.

  “I’m Lucia. How’s it going?” I asked, holding my hand out to shake. He avoided eye contact with me, looking down. Avoided my hand too.

  “Good. Um…,” he muttered, hands in his back pocket. “Hello? I guess. Hi.”

  His blush deepened and I held back a smirk. I was Lucia Bell, dammit, and men tended to blush around me.

  “I’m Calvin,” he finally said, with an anxious smile. “Welcome to my bookstore.”

  ◊

  CALVIN

  Five seconds into meeting Lucia Bell and I was a nervous fucking wreck. The other model too, Taylor Brooks. They were the most beautiful (and famous) people I’d ever met and now they were standing in the lobby of my grandfather’s bookstore (my bookstore) and I could barely think straight.

  Just once I would have liked to defy the nerd stereotype. Just once.

  But today was not going to be that day.

  “How about I show you around a bit?” I asked, putting my hands in my pockets to keep from fidgeting.

  Lucia looked bored. Taylor looked like he’d never seen a book before in his life. Only Ray and Josie seemed interested.

  “I’d love that,” Josie said, tugging Lucia by the arm. I thought she was Lucia’s makeup artist (the thought of someone having their own makeup artist was an astounding fact to me). She had a slight accent, dark hair tipped in lavender. Tattoos. Piercings. She was like a brightly-colored bird.

  “Um…great,” I said, clearing my throat. “So…this is the lobby.”

  I accidentally caught Lucia’s eye, causing a blushing attack of epic proportions. She arched an eyebrow in response.

  You can do this.

  “My grandfather bought this property in 1958 after graduating from UC Berkeley with a Lit degree. He loved reading and books his entire life and was really into the Beat culture that had been centered in the North Beach area of San Francisco. At that time, Big Sur was just beginning to gain a reputation as a mecca of bohemian life. Artists and writers and singers and dancers were flocking to the town in droves. This bookstore became an epicenter of arts and culture, especially for writing.”

  I indicated the lobby. “This original building was a one-story log cabin. My grandfather added onto it but never wanted it to lose its intimate feel.” The lobby was one of my favorite rooms: a veritable paradise for book-lovers. Stacks and stacks and stacks of books shoved against the wall in no discernible order.

  “In the other rooms the bookshelves are a little more organized, but generally, my grandfather believed in a kind of gentle chaos. Most of the books were priced the same so they’d end up in these large, dusty stacks anyone could look through. If a book didn’t have a price on it, my grandfather let the buyer choose their own price.”

  That got a lot of bemused expressions.

  That’s also one of the reasons my grandfather was massively in debt.

  “On the walls, you’ll see the first of many, many framed photos, poems, posters for readings and book signings. Until recently, at least one reading a week was held here—and in the sixties and seventies, you can imagine they turned into quite the bohemian party.”

  “Drugs and poetry, a great mix,” Lucia said softly, eyes scanning the wall. I laughed, a little surprised.

  “Um…you got it. My grandfather would tell stories of poetry readings that lasted ‘til sunrise; discussions and arguments and dancing.”

  I pointed up towards the ceiling. “One of the most famous elements of this bookstore are the note cards. My grandfather would hand them out and ask guests to write down some feeling they had. Something they learned. Something beautiful or painful or eye-opening.”

  “It’d take you years to read them all,” Ray chimed in.

  I nodded. “I’ve tried and I’m barely through this front room. My grandfather pinned them all to the ceiling, in no particular order.”

  Interspersed among them were scraps of poetry; pencil sketches, scrawled, drunken messages. Someone had drawn a highly accurate portrait of Gabriel Garcia-Marquez years ago and it was still pinned up by the front lightswitch.

  I walked them into the main room. “This is where I’d imagine you’d be doing most of the shoots, right?”

  Ray nodded, looking around, sketching in his notebook. “Absolutely fucking perfect, Calvin.”

  I nodded, oddly happy with the praise. The main room of the bookstore—the Big Room as my grandfather called it—was one of a kind. Huge fireplace in the corner. Shelves and shelves and shelves of books, my grandfather’s handwriting indicating, “California, Botany” or “Fiction, Mystery.” Coffee tables and plush armchairs, old rugs worn over the years. The walls in here were similarly covered in posters, poems, and black-and-white photos of authors. Two other rooms branched off the Big Room.

  “This room is just poetry?” Ray asked, poking his head in the smaller one. It held three shelves of books, a few old chairs and a smaller fireplace.

  “Oh, that was my grandfather’s favorite room. He used to ask visiting poets to write a poem on the spot—they’re all pinned up on that corkboard.”

  Lucia was walking through the shelves, fingertips trailing along the book spines. She had a peculiar look on her face, mysterious and almost worshipful. She wandered closer to me and I fought the urge to back up.

  Don’t be a nerd, don’t be a nerd.

  “You, uh, you like books?” I asked.

  Great opening line.

  She tossed her long, wavy hair. I caught the scent of coconut. Her eyes flashed up at me, almost in alarm.

  “I like lattes, actually,” she
said quickly. “Be a dear and make me one?”

  I half-coughed, half-laughed. “Um…we don’t have lattes in this bookstore.”

  “Every bookstore in L.A. does.”

  “So that’s why we keep getting one-star reviews on Yelp,” I shot back, before I could stop myself.

  Lucia tilted her head, looking almost as surprised as I was that I’d made a joke. A twitch of her lips—not a smile, but almost.

  “I mean,” I started to say, “I just made a pot of coffee. You want some?”

  I watched her eyes track down and then up my body, assessing. She took a step closer to me. I took a step back.

  “Calvin, was it?”

  “Cal,” I said, almost apologetically.

  “Cal,” she repeated. “A cup of coffee would be great. Thank you.”

  I turned on my heel and headed towards the small kitchen off the bedroom. My cheeks burned with embarrassment. I had a spotty track record with women and definitely had never had a supermodel ask me to make her a latte.

  I was strangely offended. But also bewildered.

  I opened the cabinet of mugs and tried to guess what Lucia Bell would like. I turned back to glance at her. She had that look on her face again, like she wanted to devour every book in sight.

  I knew who Lucia Bell was before this photo shoot—everyone did. Victoria’s Secret, Maxim, runway shows, magazine covers…sometimes it felt like her face was everywhere.

  Meeting her in real life was beyond surreal.

  And she looked fucking gorgeous against a backdrop of novels. I’d spent the morning training my jaw not to drop so I could get through meeting her without being too obvious. I was hoping to at least appear a little aloof. So I barely looked at her when we met, tried my hardest to ignore her presence as we toured through the dusty shelves of books.

  But she was gorgeous.

  Gorgeous in way that knocked the breath from your lungs. Gorgeous in a way that made you question whether you’d ever truly understood the meaning of the word. Her hair was wild and blonde, curling down her back. She was almost as tall as I was, dressed in ripped, faded jeans and a slouchy sweater that hung off one smooth, tan shoulder. Eyes the color of the sky before rain. And lips…