by Vivian Wood
Harper pulled out her little mirror and examined her face before she was called. The eyelash extensions definitely helped to open up her eyes—and draw attention away from the little wrinkles that didn’t fade as quickly as they used to when she stopped smiling. And the microbladed brows certainly made her look younger. She re-applied white liner to her water rim and willed her eyes to look even bigger.
“Harper Brex?” the brusque voice cut through her examination. Molly squeezed her arm as they passed one another.
“You got this,” Molly whispered.
“Harper Brex,” the designer said as his assistant handed him her comp card. “Five foot ten, twenty-five years old—twenty-five?” The designer pushed his obnoxious Jackie O. glasses up his nose and squinted at her. “Yeah. I can see that. I wasn’t—you look a bit tired, dear.”
“Sorry,” she said. She wanted to slap herself for apologizing. “It’s my last go-see of the day.”
“Hmm, yes, well, I imagine that with your maturity in this industry, you understand pre-show prep lasts much longer than morning go-sees.”
“Yes,” she said quietly.
“Alright, let’s see what you’ve got. Put this on.” One of the assistants tossed a sheer dress to her that would barely skim her ass. “I haven’t got all day. Just to the mirror there and back.”
She pulled off her go-to wrap dress that didn’t mess up her hair and stood briefly in nothing but a beige thong while she pulled on the dress. “Thick,” she thought she heard someone say.
The walk to the mirror and back was all autopilot. She’d walked too many runways to keep count and knew her saunter was perfect. But that wouldn’t make up for her age. Or that goddamned stomach.
“Yes, well, thank you, Hannah. We’ll be in touch.”
“Harper,” she said, but the designer shooed her away.
“Well? How’d it go?” Molly asked. She stood up as soon as Harper walked into the hallway.
“It didn’t.”
“Oh, babe, you don’t know that yet.”
“Yeah. I do. I’m—I’m getting too old for this, Mol.”
“Oh, please! You are not.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“What? ‘Cause black don’t crack?”
“Because you’re twenty-one!”
Molly walked back to the house at her side, in companionable silence.
Lately, it seemed like all the designers and casting directors don’t think she’s right for any campaign or show. At first, she’d thought it had just been a fluke. Maybe she really had overdone it on that weekend trip to Tijuana and just needed a week or two to rejuvenate. But she hadn’t bounced back.
Ever since she was seventeen, she’d slayed more go-sees than other girls. Harper had been kept so busy she’d hardly slept. Yeah, maybe that was part of the problem, she thought.
As they approached the little storybook house, she saw all five cars littered in the driveway and street. “Oh, God, that’s just what I need right now. A full house.”
Molly shrugged. “I heard in New York, they shove, like, ten models into an apartment.”
“Yeah, well, seven in a tiny house isn’t much better.” Still, she was relieved that she saw Helena’s car out front. The house mother didn’t keep a regular schedule of dropping in, and right now Harper could really use some doting.
Harper started looking for the Yugoslovian former model as soon as she pulled her shoes off in the entryway. “Where’s Helena?” she asked Britney, whose blonde hair was knotted on top of her head while she binge watched The Bachelorette.
“Where do you think?” Britney asked, and pointed to the back patio.
“Helena?” Harper asked. The screen door gave a painful squeak as it opened onto a tiny piece of land flush with orange trees.
“Harper,” she said as she exhaled a long plume of smoke. “Where you been? Go-sees?” Harper loved how Helena’s “wh’s” sounded so much like a “v.”
“Unsuccessful ones,” she said as she slumped into the white cast iron chair next to Helena. “I just don’t get it,” she said. “I mean, I’m not that old! These days, the whole, rigid idea of what models are supposed to look like is changing.”
Helena raised a brow and held out the cigarette to Harper. Helena’s arms were bone-thin, and looked even slimmer and more toned thanks to her dark coloring. Harper shook her head.
“It helps,” Helena said. “With the fat.” She was nothing if not blunt. “You need to take off a few pounds. Then you go back, same designers, they’ll love you. You’ll see.”
“Yeah,” Harper said quietly. “You’re right.” It stung, just like it always did. She knew Helena didn’t mean to sound harsh and that she should have a thick skin by now, but she didn’t.
“Smoking, it kills the appetite,” Helena said. “You lose the fat, and they still don’t book you? Then you have a problem.”
“Thanks, Helena,” Harper repeated. “I’m going to go change for the gym.”
“Good girl,” Helena said. “Gym is good, but smoking, it’s easier.”
The last thing she wanted to do was trek to the gym in the middle of a hot California afternoon, but she knew it was good for her. As soon as she stepped into the gym, she was hyper aware of all the girls around her—taller girls, younger girls, girls with bigger thigh gaps. She put her feet together in front of the mirror and stood up straight so she couldn’t cheat. There was maybe one-quarter inch of thigh gap left. She remembered when it had been at least one inch.
Harper sighed and climbed onto the elliptical in her Lulu Wunder Unders. She plugged in an hour of hill intervals and shoved the earbuds in. Bored after just one Lil’ Wayne song, she started to scroll through her phone. When Sean’s name went by in her recent activity, she smiled.
That tattoo artist was hot as hell. She smiled and opened a text box. “Hey, remember me,” she started to type, but deleted it. How fucking desperate are you. “This is Harper, still up for the party?” She knew it wasn’t perfect, but she pressed send anyway.
Since she was seventeen, she’d been hyper-focused on her career. Now that it was going down in flames, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to bring a boy on board.
Her phone lit up with a text message. Harper grabbed it, eager for Sean’s reply, but it was just a text from her mom. “Have you heard about intermittent fasting? Might want to try it, I’ve included a link.”
She wrinkled her nose. Her mom always tried to help, but it was always about losing weight, working out, getting more call backs.
Either you lose some weight, or you figure something else out.
Harper held her own gaze in the mirror in front of her, increased the level and went harder.
3
Sean
“Gone black,” Joon-Ki said as he sat down opposite Sean at SteamPunk Coffee.
“Yeah, well, figured it was about that time,” Sean said. He took a swallow of the dark roast. Joon-Ki was never late, but Sean had been too full of adrenaline from Harper’s text to sit at home. It was his second cup of coffee.
Joon-Ki cupped his own cappuccino and waited patiently for Sean to speak. They had this relationship down pat.
“It’s a year today,” Sean said.
“I know. I’m sorry. Have you thought any more about what I suggested? About reaching out to Ashton?”
Sean shook his head. “I don’t know. I can’t … at least, not today. Shit, I’m sure he remembers, more than anyone, what happened a year ago.”
Joon-Ki nodded. “A week-long ICU stay is kind of hard to forget, especially since he still hasn’t come out of the coma,” he said. His black eyes were kind.
“I just … I still can’t believe it. You know? Fucking stupid. I guess, I don’t know. Something about driving drunk in the morning, when it’s all bright and rush hour on the highways, it made me feel safe. Like those kinds of accidents don’t happen in daylight.”
“That thinking is common,” Joon-Ki said. “Statistically speaking, there are mo
re serious crashes during mornings and afternoons than late at night.”
Sean nodded. He knew all the statistics. They’d been drilled into him during the three months of court-ordered rehab at Serenity Center. During the first month, he wasn’t even allowed outside contact. He’d nearly gnawed a fingernail off while he’d waited to find out if his best friend would live or die.
Once he’d been released, it was straight into a court-ordered halfway house for another two months. He’d heard of halfway houses, but—like most people—didn’t know how they operated. They were all owned privately, and he’d been roomed with someone who’d just served time for violent rape. Whether you came out of the prison system or forced rehab, it didn’t matter. Halfway houses didn’t play favorites.
It was the required therapy sessions that had saved him. And Koon-Ji. Forced to take a hard look at his life, including his relationship with his insane father and alcoholic mother, hadn’t been easy. “Alcoholism has a genetic factor, amongst others,” the therapist had told him.
He’d nodded, and he’d even considered it briefly before. But his mother? Was he actually like the woman he hated so much?
Even after he’d moved into the halfway house, got a phone and had some restricted freedom, most of his friendships shriveled up. The few who had maybe cared about him couldn’t watch him destroy himself. That’s what they’d said. The rest didn’t see much use for him now that he didn’t party or use his trust fund to bank roll their bar tabs.
Sean had talked to Koon-Ji about possibly creating a new foundation of a relationship with his parents, but it was too tender to try in earnest. He cleared his throat. He wanted to tell Koon-Ji about Harper, but AA discouraged dating when you’re less than a year in. “I, uh, I met a girl,” he said.
“Oh?” Koon-Ji searched his eyes. “Where?”
“At work. She came in with some friends to get some work done.”
“And are you … pursuing something with her? Does she know you’re sober?”
“I told her I was, she didn’t seem to care much either way. And I don’t know, we just met that one time. But she invited me … to hang out tomorrow.”
“Dating? I just don’t think that’s such a good idea. You know the tenets of AA are in place for a reason.” Koon-Ji stirred his coffee thoughtfully. “What did she invite you to do?”
“Oh, uh. A party? At her place. She’s a model and I guess lives with a bunch of other models. That’s what her friend was yapping on about. And I thought—”
He knew he gushed in hopes that Joon-Ki would miss the whole “party” aspect, but his sponsor didn’t miss anything. “A party? With models?” Koon-Ji was aghast. “You’re not even six months into AA. And models here, they party hard—”
“How would you know?” Sean asked, a touch of playfulness in his voice.
Joon-Ki blushed. “I’m a native, and I used to party hard. Harder than you. Remember?” he asked. Sean did, but he couldn’t imagine Koon-Ji gone wild at an L.A. house party. “Look, I’m glad to see you engaged in something, but I’d hoped it would be work. Not a party girl. If you really want to jump the gun on dating, why don’t you try dating someone more … normal?”
“But I’m not normal,” Sean said. It surprised him how easily the words came. “My brain chemistry’s all fucked up. I put my best friend in a coma. Shit, he’s still in it. Who does that—”
“Ashton was the one driving,” Koon-Ji reminded him, but Sean brushed it off.
“J, life is a tragedy. So if some kind of light creeps in, what am I supposed to do? Ignore it? I gotta do what it takes to make it stay. Even if she is a model,” he admitted. “And probably a party girl.”
“Sean …” Joon-Ki gave a sigh.
“Look, how about I make you a promise? If she does anything to jeopardize my sobriety, anything at all, I walk.”
Joon-Ki blew out a breath and gave a slight nod. “Yeah, okay,” he said. It’s useless arguing, his eyes said.
“This girl, I think she might be different,” he said. “There was some chemistry like I’ve never felt before. And, anyway, I have to enter the real world at some point, right?”
“At some point,” Joon-Ki echoed.
His sponsor wasn’t as encouraging as he’d hoped, but Sean knew that had been wishful thinking. Harper wasn’t like her other model friends, that was obvious. She wasn’t the one he was worried about, it was himself. How am I going to keep all the darkness stuffed down without drinking? He’d always relied on booze and blackouts to numb himself.
He’d never even had sex sober. Of course, there was sex and then there was intimacy. Intimacy was what really scared him, but not for reasons that girls always thought. Sex, that was easy. He didn’t go deep. But intimacy? That brought out a darkness, a nihilism and bleakness that scared even him.
While he’d been locked up in the halfway house, unable to reach for a drink as a distraction, he’d followed the rabbit hole of the internet into the wells of BDSM sites. It took some digging to get to the real stuff thanks to all that 50 Shades of Grey shit that flooded the internet now.
It had helped, to put words to what he was. And to see that there were others out there like him. A dominant, definitely. A sadist? Well … yes. That, too. He knew there were women out there, too, who complemented what he needed. Could it be someone like Harper though? Could she handle his darkness? He didn’t know, but he didn’t want to give up on the idea of it just yet.
“—doesn’t mean you should.”
“What?” Sean asked. He realized Joon-Ki had been talking, but Sean was miles away.
“I said, obviously you can do whatever you want. Just remember that just because you can, that doesn’t mean you should. Honestly? I like seeing you in good spirits. It’s rare. But … testing your sobriety like this? It isn’t safe. Or smart.”
“I’ve got this,” Sean said. The caffeine had started to make him feel on edge.
“I just want you to be careful. Okay?” Joon-Ki said. “Take things slowly.”
Slowly. Sean ruminated on that. Slow could work. Slow could be fun. Joon-Ki finished his coffee and set it aside. Sean stood up and slapped him on the back. “Thanks for the advice,” he said. “I’ll see you in a couple of days, okay? The Sunday meeting.”
Joon-Ki smiled up at him. “Have fun. Just not too much fun. And call me if you need to, doesn’t matter the time.”
Sean slid on his Ray-Bans as he stepped out into the California sunshine.
4
Sean
It was easier to get up now that he wasn’t covering for the closing shift. As Sean loped towards the shop, Solomon and Gita were already outside. They both had big sunglasses shoved onto their noses and large cups of coffee in hand.
“Morning, boss,” Solomon said.
“Yeah, yeah,” Sean said as he fished out the keys. He was sure Josh had given him the keys because he was by far the oldest apprentice—not because he was the most responsible. Still, it didn’t stop his fellow apprentices from giving him shit.
“I got you coffee,” Gita said. “JLT.” Just like that. Her white teeth shone bright against her caramel-colored skin. She’d managed to drop the last hint of her Mumbai accent, but she still used the slang that marked her as a foreigner.
“Thanks,” Sean said. He held the door open for both of them. Gita’s long, bright pink coffin nails looked equally feminine and dangerous. He couldn’t figure out how she inked or pierced with those.
“What’s the books say?” Sean called to Gita, who had shrugged out of her violet cashmere wrap to reveal a jewel-encrusted tank top with some anime character emblazoned across the chest.
She pulled her waist-length hair into a ponytail. “We’re booked ‘til three. All of us.”
“Really?” Sean couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice.
Soon enough, the first customer came in. The man was a giant, at least six-foot five and three hundred pounds. Not all of it was fat. “You get my email?” the man asked S
ean.
“Just printing it out now.” He glanced at the man’s exposed arm. “The outline’s done, and solid,” he said. “Why didn’t you go back to the original artist?”
“He died,” the customer said with a shrug. Like it happened all the time.
“Oh. Gustav Klimt, nice,” Sean said. It took some of the joy out of his work that he was basically filling in a human coloring book. Still, as he settled in for a three-hour session and the giant began to doze off, he tried to do the Austrian symbolist justice as he brought Hope II to life. The man’s full sleeve would take another three sessions, minimum, but for now Sean focused on the forearm and Byzantine design of the golden dress.
When he was forty minutes in, he didn’t even bother with the numbing cream anymore. He had to shake the man awake at the three-hour mark. The giant wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sorry, I tend to doze off,” he said. “Just so relaxing.”
“Yeah,” Sean said. “It happens.”
The man admired his forearm. “Fucking a hundred, man,” he said. “Hey, you do that new shit? You know, where you put someone’s remain in some ink—”
“Uh, no,” Sean said. “I’ve heard of that, but I think you’ll have a tough time finding it. Can’t say how safe or effective it really is, either.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. Don’t want to gamble on fucking this up anyway.”
As soon as he’d finished ringing him up and started thinking about popping some kratom, AA-approved (save for the craving for a whiskey to go with it), a woman who had to be at least sixty walked in. “You got time for a walk-in?” she asked. Her milky blue eyes were framed in nearly transparent lashes. She had a good inch of gray coming in at the roots.
“Sure,” Sean said. “For …”
“Just some quick flash work,” the woman said. “I just have a craving if you have the time.”
Sean straightened up. This old woman knew what she was doing. He handed her the book and she followed him to the chair. “How about this?” she asked, and pointed to the silhouette of a poised, Asian-inspired cat.
