by K. A. Linde
Lydia’s eyes widened. “You’re eighteen years old, Trihn. Life isn’t that serious. You don’t have to marry anyone for a while, and if you keep talking like that, you’re going to give me gray hair.”
Trihn rolled her eyes. “You’re insane.”
“Probably, but creativity stems from madness. Or does madness stem from creativity?” she pondered. “Anyway, go to dance. Don’t worry about finding someone to marry or whatever horrible thoughts are floating through your head. You’re young and beautiful, and you should have so much more fun before you get married. This weekend, we’ll find someone fun for you!”
“Okay, Lydia,” Trihn said. If she didn’t relent, Lydia would continue with her relentless diatribe.
What she didn’t say was that she’d had plenty of that kind of fun during the past two years.
Lydia thought she was older and wiser; thus, she would be the one to corrupt her younger sister. But the truth was, with all the modeling events Trihn had been to, it had been almost too easy to be casual.
Now that she wasn’t modeling, she was intent on finding something more meaningful.
A WEEK HAD PASSED BY IN THE BLINK OF AN EYE.
Trihn sank down to the floor of the dance studio and started working at the knots on the ribbons of her pointe shoes. She had just spent six long hours rehearsing for the Senior Showcase at the NYC Dance House this upcoming weekend. Her feet were killing her, and she had worn through another pair of shoes. At this rate, she would go through at least two more pairs before the performances and probably one each night next weekend during the shows.
Renée flexed her feet and then pushed up onto the toes of her shoes. “Do you see this shit?” Renée asked.
She moved up and down on her shoes, and Trihn could see that the hard insole of the shoes—normally, a perfect curve to her friend’s foot—had split in half.
“The shank is completely broken. Fucking hell.”
“Mine, too.”
“What the hell am I going to do? I can’t keep spitting out seventy-five dollars every week. I’m not made of money.”
“We’ll work it out. We always do.”
Renée plopped down next to her and mercilessly tore at her shoes. “This wouldn’t have happened if I wasn’t in the middle of the fucking Intensive as well.”
Trihn laughed. “My shoes are falling apart, and I’m not doing Intensive.”
Every year, the NYC Dance House would put on a big summer dance workshop called The House Intensive. Dancers from all over the country would come to their studio to compete for dance scholarships. Renée was a scholarship recipient, so her participation in the summer program was required. The studio liked to showcase their prodigies. It helped that Renée had just been admitted into Juilliard for the fall. It was an incredible achievement for anyone but even more so for an African American scholarship student from the Bronx.
“Well, you should be helping with Intensive! There are so many fucking kids, and we need more brilliant-minded choreographers.”
“Ha! You must be joking. We all know that I’m not a choreographer.”
Renée gave her the look. She tilted her head down, cocked one eyebrow, and pursed her lips. “Puh-lease. I know what you do on your days off. That freestyle shit works in contemporary, too.”
“That’s why, in a week’s time, I’m performing my senior piece in contemporary and then spending the rest of my summer doing what I do on my days off!”
“Whatever, hooker,” Renée joked.
Trihn shook her head. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard that one. “I just like to have a good time. Why don’t you come with me tonight?” Trihn asked.
She shoved her shoes in her bag, and they headed to the dressing rooms.
“As much as I’d love to, I can’t. My mom’s expecting me home to watch the boys while she takes the night shift,” Renée explained.
“What is she going to do when you’re out of the house next year?” Trihn asked.
Renée sighed heavily. The choice to move to Manhattan and pursue her dreams had been really tough on Renée. Outside of dance, she’d work her butt off around the house while her mom worked three jobs to try to support their family.
“I try not to think about it. One day at a time,” Renée said. “At least Matthew will be there to help tonight.”
“Oh, I see how it is. You’re really going home to be with the BF.”
Matthew was Renée’s boyfriend of three years. They were pretty much the cutest couple around. He was a jazz musician and swore up and down that he was going to compose a ballet for Renée like nothing anyone had ever seen before.
“Whatever,” Renée cried.
Trihn stepped into a shower stall, peeled off her sweat-soaked tights and leotard, and stuffed them into an empty side pocket of her bag. She turned on the water and hurried under the spray when it was steaming hot. Her hair was still tightly held in its bun. She wouldn’t have time to blow it out before meeting her friends. After washing off the hours of practice, Trihn dried off and changed into a pair of tight leather booty shorts and a low-cut V-neck tank before slipping into her favorite pair of heels.
When she stepped back out, Renée just shook her head. “There’s my hooker. Are you man-hunting tonight?”
“Yeah, right. You know me.”
“Reconsider it. You look hot and could have any guy you wanted.”
Trihn shrugged. “Maybe,” she said, giving the same answer she had given Lydia.
When they had gone out last weekend, Lydia had ended up making out with two different male models who were out with them. Trihn had left empty-handed—again.
They hurried down the three flights of stairs and into the marble-tiled entryway. The revolving door was already locked tight for the night, and all but one light had been left on. The rest of the girls had left the building as soon as they could. Some of the management was still upstairs, but otherwise, it was dead.
“Do you want me to walk with you?” Renée asked.
“No. Don’t worry about me. I’ll catch a cab. Get home to your mom.”
“I’m not looking forward to telling her about the shoes,” she said softly.
Trihn grabbed her hand and stopped her before they exited. “I’ll cover it if I have to. It’s only one more week.”
“Thanks, Trihn.”
“What are friends for?”
They stepped out of the building and onto the brightly lit street. Even at eleven at night, people were still strolling the streets, and the sight made Trihn smile. She would never get tired of watching the way her city operated. It was home.
Trihn threw her hand out, and a cab pulled up to the curb. “You take this one,” Trihn told her. She opened the back door and pushed her best friend toward it.
“No! You take it. You have to meet people!”
“I’ll make it. You have farther to go.”
Renée sighed. She could see that she was going to lose the argument, and the cab would leave them if one of them didn’t get in. “Okay, but be careful.”
“I always am,” Trihn said.
She kissed Renée on the cheek, and then after she climbed into the backseat, Trihn shut the door behind her. The car drove off, and she searched for the next cab.
“How’s the shoulder?”
Trihn whirled around in a panic. Her stomach leaped up into her throat. “Jesus!” she cried when she saw who it was. “Don’t sneak up on people like that.”
Preston smiled and held up his hands. “Sorry about that. Can’t seem to get my footing with you.”
“How the hell did you even know I would be here?” she asked suspiciously.
It was kind of creepy, having him show up outside the studio at the exact time that she had finished with dance. How did he even know that I dance here? It was probably about time to get into a cab or else she wouldn’t be heeding Renée’s advice to be careful.
She hedged backward a step.
“I saw your dance bag that da
y we ran into each other. I was in the neighborhood and thought I would just swing by,” he clarified.
“At eleven o’clock at night?”
“Okay,” he said with a nervous laugh. “You caught me. I actually asked around to see when your class would end, so I could surprise you.”
“You have my phone number. Why didn’t you just call?”
“Can’t a guy surprise a girl anymore?”
Trihn raised her eyebrows. “Probably not at eleven at night after staking out her studio.”
He ran a hand back through his messy blond hair and looked at his feet. This wasn’t going at all the way he had planned it. She figured he had wanted to surprise her and have her think it was cute. And while she couldn’t deny that her heart was beating wildly in her chest at the thought that he had stood out here, waiting just for her, she wasn’t an idiot and didn’t want to end up on a Missing Person poster.
“All right. My bad. I guess…I’ll just head out. I didn’t mean to freak you out,” he apologized.
He shoved his hands down into the pockets of his dark jeans, bunching his black T-shirt up around his muscles and drawing her eyes to his body. He looked back up at her then with those sexy blue eyes, and her stomach dropped out of her body.
“Wait,” she said before he could walk away. “I was just surprised. Why did you really show up anyway?”
“I wanted to check on your shoulder,” he offered.
She rolled it twice. “It was a minor thing. Went away before dance last week.”
“Oh. Oh, okay. Good.”
He smiled again like he might just leave it at that, and in that moment, she decided that she couldn’t let it end. He was undeniably attractive. He had sought her out at dance. There was no way she was just going to let him walk away again. She had been kicking herself for letting it happen in the first place.
“You have plans?” she asked.
“Have something in mind?” He took a step closer to her.
Her body heated at his nearness. Dear God, he was going to be the death of her.
“I’m meeting some friends. You could join…if you wanted,” she offered.
“What am I in for?”
She shrugged, all nonchalant. “Just a regular night in New York City.”
He laughed, and it was beautifully effortless. “This should be interesting.”
IT WAS NOT A NORMAL NIGHT IN THE CITY.
It never was when she had friends in town.
And it definitely was not going to be a normal night with Preston seated next to her in the cab on their way to the Meatpacking District.
She couldn’t keep from stealing glances at him. Mostly, it was because she couldn’t figure out how she had gotten up the nerve to invite him along. She never brought guys to these kinds of events. Plenty of other models would bring dates, but that just wasn’t her. But these were her people, and the only other people she wanted associating with them were family and friends, like Lydia and Renée.
Yet she was about to throw Preston into the middle of this. What the hell am I doing?
The cab stopped at the corner of a large brick building, and before she could do anything, Preston paid for the trip.
“Thank you,” she said as she got out of the car.
“Don’t worry about it.” His smile was genuine when he exited behind her. “Are you going to tell me what I’m walking into?”
“I have some friends in town. They’re throwing a little…party.” She cocked her head to the side and tried not to smile too broadly.
“A house party?” he asked dubiously.
“More like a…work party,” she confided. She opened a heavy metal door. “Coming?”
He followed along, clearly intrigued. “And where do you work? The studio?”
She shook her head. “No, I just dance at the studio. I don’t work anywhere right now. I kind of quit.”
“And you still decided to come to the party?” His eyes widened in disbelief.
“It was an amicable break.”
In truth, it was only sort of amicable. She had quit modeling because she was going to college. She had always seen school as a priority as a forward-thinking woman who wanted to make a splash in the world and prove her worth.
He laughed. “Publishing is not like that.”
“You work in publishing?” she asked as they started up the rickety old stairs that creaked under their steps, bringing a smile to her face.
“Yeah, I’m an intern in the marketing department of Glitz magazine.”
Trihn stumbled on the next step and had to catch herself on the railing. Preston reached out to steady her, but she waved him off.
“Glitz magazine?” she asked.
He ducked his chin to his chest, embarrassed. “Yeah. I know it’s a fashion magazine, but internships are hard to come by in publishing, especially while I’m still in school.”
He sounded like he had given this same speech many times, as if he were used to being judged as a man working for a high-end fashion magazine. Well, she didn’t care that he worked for Glitz. In fact, her feminist ideals were screaming with joy at the knowledge. The fashion industry should be more balanced between men and women, especially in the world of fashion and beauty publishing.
However, the real reason she had stumbled was because her mother worked for Glitz magazine. It felt strangely coincidental, and she almost jotted out a text to ask if her mother had purposely put Preston in her path. She wouldn’t put it past her mother. Like Lydia, she believed Trihn was too serious for her age. You would think that she would want at least one daughter to behave.
But looking up at Preston’s concerned face changed Trihn’s mind. She was just being jumpy. The likelihood that her mother had put him up to this was abysmally low. Her mother probably didn’t even know anyone in the marketing department. She was certainly too high up on the food chain to notice a guy in an entry-level position.
Trihn probably should tell him that her mom worked there, but she kind of wanted to have him all to herself in that moment. She had just met him really. Revealing that her mom was a higher-up at the magazine he worked at would not be a good idea. Either he’d freak out or want to somehow use her to move up in the company.
God, she was having negative thoughts. She just wanted this one night to herself without anyone else’s expectations looming over her.
Trihn held her hand up to stop him from continuing. “You don’t have to explain. I get it. Everyone has to start somewhere.”
“Right,” he agreed. He seemed pleased that she hadn’t questioned him. “So, where did you start?”
She raised her eyebrow. “You’ll see.”
They had reached their floor, and she walked him over to the door that led to the party. She knocked twice, and then the door opened. A familiar face smiled back at her.
“Trihn!” Francesca cried. “I knew you couldn’t resist us!”
“Of course I couldn’t,” she said. Trihn enveloped the woman in a hug, knowing that she wasn’t the hugging type.
Francesca patted her on the back. When she saw Trihn had someone with her, her eyes widened. “Well, well, who do we have here?”
Preston turned into a perfect gentleman in the blink of an eye. He straightened, becoming markedly taller than Francesca’s six-foot-tall frame, and stuck his hand out. “Nice to meet you. I’m Preston Whitehall.”
She lightly took his hand in hers and winked. “Oh, the pleasure is all mine. And you can call me whatever you’d like. I don’t discriminate with someone who has a body like this.”
Trihn buried her head in her hands. “He’s here with me, Francesca.”
“Oh, dear!” she said, removing her hand. “I thought you’d brought me a present.”
“Not tonight, I’m afraid,” Trihn said.
“Well, come in, and enjoy the party. Tell me everything! We’ve missed you.”
Trihn and Preston crossed the threshold into a massive open studio with floor-to-ceiling glass w
indows across one entire wall. Large wooden beams crisscrossed the ceiling, and huge white columns were interspersed across the antique hardwood floor. Everything was white and cheery and full of beautiful people.
“A studio party?” Preston asked curiously, taking in their surroundings. He gave her a serious side eye. “What kind of work were you in exactly?”
Francesca derisively arched a perfectly manicured eyebrow and flipped her stick-straight blonde hair over her shoulder. “Surely you know how talented our little Trihn is. She could have been a superstar if she had just forgotten this silly idea about going to university.” Her South African accent became more prominent the longer she spoke to Preston.
Trihn had to hide her embarrassment at Francesca’s words.
“Please, feel free to enlighten me.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, and Trihn couldn’t help but stare. Even though gorgeous people surrounded them, her eyes were only for him and the very sexy muscles in his arms.
Whoa! Arms. She should stop staring at those arms.
She looked back up into his eyes and could feel a blush touching her cheeks. For once, she was happy for her mixed Vietnamese and Brazilian ancestry that hid the red on her cheeks.
“He knows nothing?” Francesca asked Trihn.
“I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“A surprise indeed,” she trilled. “We just wrapped up a modeling shoot this afternoon for Gucci. Perhaps you’ve heard of the designer. Now, we’re toasting our last night in New York before I begin on a new grand adventure that I’ll have to tell you all about later.”
“Gucci?” Preston’s eyes widened.
“Yep,” Trihn agreed. “I worked for them on their summer line. The shoot today was for their fall line.”
“That unfortunately you were not a part of,” Francesca chastised.
“You’re a model?” Preston asked Trihn, as if he didn’t have the proof right before his eyes.
“I was a model,” Trihn corrected him.
“I would never have pegged you for a model.”
“What does that mean?” she asked indignantly.
“That’s not what I meant,” he said quickly. “You’re beautiful. Of course you could model.”
