Trashed (Stripped #2)

by Jasinda Wilder

  “But?”

  I turn back to staring out the window. “But…it feels like she’s the one that got away.”

  “If that’s what she wants, then you gotta respect it.” Rose sweeps a hand through her loose blond hair. “But then, sometimes, we women tell ourselves and act like we want one thing, when really, deep down, we want something different and we’re just…unwilling for whatever reason to let ourselves have it. Usually because we’re afraid of one thing or another.”

  “Well that clarifies things. Thanks, Rose.”

  She slaps my knee. “No problem.”

  Chapter 9

  “Um. Des?” This is Ruthie, speaking from her spot curled up in the corner of the couch in our Detroit apartment. We just got back to Detroit last night and I never thought I would say this, but I’m glad to be here. I had one more week on Mackinac Island after Adam left— and it was one of the longest weeks ever.

  I don’t look up from my book. “What?”

  “You need to see this.” When I don’t answer, she gets up and slams her three-year-old ASUS down onto my lap. “Des. You need to see this, right now.”

  It takes a moment to register what I’m seeing. It’s an article in some celebrity gossip magazine.

  There are photographs…

  Of me.

  With Adam.

  I look hot.

  Adam’s hot new flame? the headline reads. And by headline, I mean huge, bold letters across the top of the website, like size one hundred font. Accompanied by photograph after photograph. A close-up of Adam and me holding hands. His lips at my ear, whispering something to me. His arm around my waist. Us slow dancing…me with a look of utter rapture on my face.

  “You’re in Entertainment Now, Des.” She’s stepping into flip-flops and snagging her purse off the counter. “I gotta go and get a hard copy of this.”

  I sit in shock as she vanishes out the door. I skim the text, but it’s the usual conjecture:

  Action movie heartthrob Adam Trenton was recently photographed at a charity dinner with a mysterious new love interest. The pair refused to comment to our on-scene reporters, but sources say they were spotted together more than once over the weekend. Adam, who rumors say is filming a sequel to last-year’s box-office smash Fulcrum, hasn’t been spotted with anyone since he and Garden of Evil star Emma Hayes split early this year amid a swirl of volatile rumors. His new love interest isn’t anyone we recognize, but if these photographs do her any justice, something tells us we’ll be seeing more of her—and soon.

  And, at the bottom of the article, a long-distance photograph of me climbing into the carriage outside the Grand Hotel. Wearing what are clearly Adam’s clothes.

  Shit. Shit.

  Shit.

  Ruthie sweeps back into the apartment, a glossy magazine in her hand. She’s staring at the article even as she sits down on the couch beside me. “Holy shit, Des!” She shoves the magazine into my hands. “This is incredible! Perez Hilton is blogging about you, girl! This is huge. HUGE.”

  “Hugely bad, Ruthie.”

  She stares at me in bafflement. “Des. You spent the weekend with one of the most eligible and sought-after bachelors ever. When he and Emma were official, the female population of the world went nuts. And when he and Emma broke up, they went even crazier. And now that he’s been seen with a new girl, things are going to go even crazier yet, especially since you’re a mystery to everyone. No one knows who you are or where you came from, and believe me, sweetie, they’re gonna find out.”

  She grabs my hands in both of hers and squeezes hard. “What the fuck were you thinking? You are seriously the world’s most private individual, and you let yourself get photographed at an über-exclusive A-list charity dinner? And this?” She taps the final image of me in Adam’s clothes. “That’s like, obviously a morning-after shot. You look sexy and gorgeous, in an I-just-spent-the-night-fucking sort of way.”

  I bury my face in my hands. “What am I going to do?”

  She shrugs. “Baby doll, I don’t even know.”

  “I didn’t know any of this would happen. I—god, I didn’t know.”

  Ruth is in the kitchen mixing a pitcher of margaritas, which she is spectacularly amazing at making. “Good thing is, you don’t have a phone number and you’re not on the lease for the apartment. So finding you is going to be pretty damn near impossible. I think. I mean, for one thing, you look nothing like your normal self in those photographs. Not that you’re not beautiful normally, but Des, hon, you’ve been holding out on me. I had no idea you could clean up that good!”

  I accept a margarita in a juice glass, since we don’t have actual margarita glasses. “I didn’t know either. I mean, I didn’t do anything special. I barely put any makeup on! God. If I’d known what he was taking me to, I wouldn’t have gone. I mean, it wasn’t just Adam and Dylan there. I met Gareth Thomas, Rose Garret, Lawrence Bradford, Amy Jones…I mean, there were some insanely famous people there…and me.” I let out a shaky breath. “Rose cornered me in the bathroom at the dinner and she warned me this would happen.”

  Ruth gives me a sour expression. “Listen to yourself. Talking about Rose like she’s your buddy. This is Rose fucking Garret, Des. God.”

  I down the margarita, which is strong. “You think I don’t realize how surreal all this is? It all feels like a dream. I don’t know what else to say, Ruth.”

  She refills my glass and sits beside me again. “You miss him, don’t you?”

  “I barely know him. I spent all of…not even two full days with him.”

  “But…” she pauses to sip and swallow, “you still miss him.”

  I rest the glass against my forehead. “Yeah. I try not to. Try not to think about him. About that night. But it’s impossible not to.” I twist my head to meet Ruthie’s eyes. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget that night.”

  “How could you? That was like…a once in a lifetime thing.”

  I can’t help wishing it was a lifetime thing, and not once in a lifetime.

  * * *

  The next day I’m leaving my last class of the day at Wayne State, waiting for the bus that will take me to U of D for my janitor shift. I’ve got ear buds in and I’m spaced out, tired, not wanting to go to work. I feel a tap on my shoulder, pull out an ear bud and turn to face the person who tapped me. He’s a few years older than me, attired in a pair of tight dark blue jeans with the cuffs rolled up to his ankles above a pair of shiny, calf-high, unlaced combat boots. He’s wearing a white button-down with a bright purple scarf tied around his neck like a cravat, and a black coat that reminds me of something a Civil War officer might wear, brass buttons and a flaring hem. His hair is blond and slicked to one side, and he’s got mascaraed eyelashes, blushed cheekbones, and nails painted the same color as his scarf.

  He’s gorgeous, in a fabulous sort of way.

  “Are you Des?” he asks, and if there was any doubt, his voice gives away his sexual alignment.

  I keep my expression carefully blank. “Who’s asking?”

  He hands me a business card:

  Thom Rayburn, talent acquisitions

  The Sidney Weaver Agency

  12345 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York

  212-555-6789

  My first thought is whether his name is pronounced “Tom” or “Th-om”. Second, what does he want with me?

  I blink at him, and then hand his card back. “Not interested.”

  He laughs. “You haven’t even heard what I’m offering, Des.”

  “Still not interested.”

  “Have you ever heard of The Sidney Weaver Agency?” He moves to stand beside me.

  The bus arrives in a squeal of brakes and a cloud of diesel fumes, and Thom boards ahead of me, and pays for two tickets. “What the hell do you want, Thom?” I pronounce it Tom, guessing that no one, no matter how gay, would go by Th-om. “And why did you pay for my ticket?”

  “Sit down, sweetie, and I’ll tell you what I want.” He wa
ves impatiently at an open pair of seats near the front. I slide in, and he moves in beside me. He smells like expensive cologne and faintly of marijuana. “Since you didn’t answer my question, I’m going to assume you aren’t familiar with the agency. We are the premier modeling agency. We represent all of the most successful and talented models in the world. And Des? We want you. We saw those photos from the gala on Mackinac Island, and honey, you looked incredible.”

  I snort derisively. “I may not know your agency, but I do know models are supposed be size negative two, okay? And I also know I’ll never be that skinny. So you’re barking up the wrong tree, sweetie.”

  “Negative two. That’s funny.” He pulls an electronic cigarette from his coat pocket and sucks on it, making the tip glow blue, and then blows out a cloud of odorless smoke. “For real, though. Haven’t you ever heard of plus size modeling?”

  “So now I’m plus size?” My voice is dangerously even.

  He has the decency to blush slightly. “I’m not labeling you anything, hon, that’s just what the industry calls it. And they need talent.” He takes another puff of the e-cig, and then puts it back in his pocket. “You know how many calls we got asking about you after those photos went up? Guess. I want you to guess.”

  I shake my head. “Four?”

  He snorts. “Try two hundred. And that was just the first day. All of them wanted to know if we represented you, and if not, how soon we could get you. Cacique, Torrid, Lane Bryant, Michael Kors, Betsy Johnson…they all want you. Which means we want you.”

  Modeling? Me?

  I don’t answer right away. “I don’t know anything about being a model.” I glance at him. “Plus, I’ve watched TV, okay? I’ve heard about the modeling industry, and how brutal it is. I’ve got zero interest in signing some contract that makes me an indentured servant.”

  Thom looks aghast. “Des. Des. We’re not that kind of agency. God, I’ve never been so insulted in my life. Those kinds of contracts come from…god, they’re little better than fucking charnel houses, okay? We represent talent. Beauty. Class. And we can train you. That’s what we do.”

  “I have tattoos.”

  He blows a raspberry with his lips. “Um, Photoshop, duh. Not to make you look less like you, of course, but that’s the kind of thing we use it for. Cover up tattoos and blemishes.”

  I pinch the extra flesh at my stomach between finger and thumb. “Yeah, blemishes.” I look away.

  Thom shakes his head and looks sad. “God, you’ve had a rough time of it, haven’t you? You’re beautiful, Des. For real. Have you met me? Obviously I know what I’m talking about, right? My job is to find beautiful people and put them in front of a camera. I wouldn’t be here on this—” he lowers his voice and whispers in my ear, “very, very dirty bus in the middle of Detroit, if you weren’t what we represent.”

  “Thanks, Thom. That’s nice of you to say. But all that aside, I’ve got a career plan. The semester is about to start. I can’t just leave.”

  “A career plan, huh?” He eyes me, long, thick lashes touching his cheeks. “That’s good. Great. I’m sure you’ve worked your ass off to get where you are. But honey, think about this for one second. Really think. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity to get out of Detroit, to do something different, something exciting. You weren’t even posing in those pictures, you were wearing like, no makeup and your hair was great, but obviously done by you. And that dress? Honey, think about how amazing you could look in a couture gown, with professional hair and makeup. You have the kind of face, hair, and body that could sell mad copy, okay? I’m serious.”

  “Thom—”

  He takes my hand. “Des, this is coming from one fabulous bitch to another: You’ve got it going on, and you have to capitalize. People want you now. School will wait. Your career will wait. This opportunity? It won’t wait. You’re relevant now. I’ve got work for you now. In a month or two or three, they’ll have moved on, found someone else. You need to let me get you in front of a camera now. Not tomorrow or next year, but now, while they want your look.”

  “Wow, Thom. You’re a really good salesman, you know that?”

  He grins at me. “Sweetie, I didn’t get where I am in my career by sucking.” He pauses and puts an index finger to his lips. “Well, on second thought, that may not be entirely true…”

  I color scarlet. “Oh my god.”

  He laughs. “I’m only kidding…or am I?” He holds up his hands when I open my mouth. “For real, though. This isn’t just a sales pitch, Des. I’m serious.” He hands me his card again. “Google us. Think about it. Talk to your friends. And when you come to a decision, call me. But don’t wait too long, okay?”

  “I’ll think about it,” I tell him.

  “Come to New York, Des. You won’t regret it.”

  The bus squeals to a stop, and Thom gets off. I watch him as he coughs and waves a hand in front of his face to clear the diesel fumes. He gets into a black car that apparently had been following the bus, and then he’s gone.

  The rest of the way to my stop, I stare at the business card.

  All through my shift cleaning classrooms, I think about the card in my purse and what it represents.

  All the way home, I think about Thom, and wonder if I could do it.

  Ruthie is watching the latest episode of Orange is the New Black on her laptop when I come in. I pull Thom’s card from my purse and set it on her keyboard.

  She pauses her show and examines the card. “What’s this?”

  “This guy followed me halfway to work today. He claims that a modeling agency wants me to move to New York and be a model.”

  Ruth gapes at me. “A model?”

  I shrug. “That’s what he said. A plus size clothing model.” I hate even saying that phrase; I am who I am, and fuck labels.

  She brings up her browser and types in the name of the agency. I sit down and watch as she scrolls through the results. After a few minutes, she turns to me. “They look legit. I’ve seen some of these models before.”

  “But…I mean, me? A model? I don’t even know what to think.”

  She shrugs. “Does it sound interesting to you? You’ve watched America’s Next Top Model with me. You know how they portray the business.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I mean, part of me wonders. Having all those questions shouted at me, that was rough. But actually having my picture taken…that was fine. I mean, not the walk of shame picture, which sucked. But…I don’t know. Part of me wants to at least try it, you know?”

  “You’d really move to New York? Put your master’s degree on hold, leave Detroit, leave me?” She closes her laptop and traces the logo on the top cover. “Look, Des. I want you to be happy. You’re my best friend. And if you go, I’ll be happy for you, if that’s what you want. I just…I mean, I’d miss you. But…this is a big step. And it doesn’t seem like…you.”

  “I’ve never felt beautiful before, Ruth. I’ve learned to love myself, to accept the way I’m built and to rock what I’ve got the best I can. But that’s not the same as feeling truly beautiful. And I felt that way with Adam, and at the dinner. And Thom, the guy I met today, he made me feel the same way. And I mean, what do I have to lose? My loans and scholarships can be put on hold, right? This is the kind of thing that may never come along again. If I finish my master’s and get a job, I’ll probably never leave Michigan. That’ll be it. This is my chance to…do something. To maybe be something other than what I’ve always been. Does that make any sense?”

  She nods. “Yeah, it does. I get it. I really do.” She smiles at me, but it’s a sad smile. “Better give him a call, then, huh?” She hands me her cell phone.

  I dial the number on the card. It rings once, twice, three times, four, and then there’s Thom’s voice on the other end. “This is Thom.”

  “Hi, um, this is Des.”

  There’s a lot of background noise, shouts and laughter and music, and then a door closing and it all is muffled into si
lence. “Des, hi. You coming to New York with me or what?”

  “Yeah. I think I am.”

  “You’re making the right choice, Des. Give me your address and I’ll pick you up Wednesday afternoon.”

  “This Wednesday?” My voice is thin and shaky. Today is Monday; I’ve been home from my summer job for less than a week.

  “I knew you’d say yes, so I called Sidney and she’s already scheduled your first shoot for next week. We’ve got a lot of work to do in the meantime, sweetie. Gotta get you ready for your modeling debut.”

  “Is there a contract or anything?”

  “Oh, sure there is. But I’ll explain all that to you when we get to Manhattan. Sidney, Rochelle, and I’ll go through the whole thing from start to finish and explain it to you step-by-step, clause-by-clause. You’ve also got about a thousand appointments with beauticians and stylists and all sorts of things, plus Sidney wants to meet you, and then there are headshots, and…just a bunch of fun things to do. For now, get packing. I’ll see you Wednesday.”

  And then the line is dead, and my head is spinning.

  I’m going to be a model…in New York.

  * * *

  Gareth is pissed as hell at me, but I don’t even care. We’re supposed to be leaving for London tomorrow, and I’m in Detroit right now. We finished the studio portion of filming, and now we’re doing the location shoots. London, Prague, and then Tokyo. I’m supposed to be with the rest of the cast, supposed to be doing the cold read-throughs. But instead, I’m in the registration office of Wayne State University, trying to hunt down a particular black-haired beauty.

  I’ve spent the month since the charity dinner trying to act like I’ve moved on from Des, but I can’t fool even myself. I keep thinking about her, dreaming about her. Even Gareth noticed something has been off with me, and he’s typically oblivious to pretty much everything unless it’s film-related.

  Rose finally dragged me offset and took me out for drinks and told me—in so many words—to quit being a fucking pussy and go find her.