Red (12 page)

He ignored her hand, suddenly angry. “You practically ooze sex.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

He met her gaze evenly. “You fucked him, didn't you?”

She caught her breath. “You son of a bitch. How dare you—”

“You did, didn't you?” He pulled in a slow, steadying breath. “I can't believe you did this.”

She curved her outstretched hand into a fist. “Don't moralize, Jack. Just give me the goddamned book.”

“How many times, Gina?” He tossed the portfolio onto the table, disgusted. “Are you still seeing him? Is that how you knew about Calvin Klein?”

Her expression told him everything, and he swore. Swinging away from her, he crossed to the window. The day was perfect, just as every day in L.A. was, the sky almost too blue to be true.

He turned to face her once more. “I thought we were friends. I trusted you.”

“Oh, please, stop with the wounded act.” She placed her fists on her hips. “How many models have you taken to bed? Or should I ask, which models haven't you?”

“That's not the point.”

“No?” She flung her head back. “Then what is?”

“Carlo is.” He closed the distance between them. He looked her straight in the eye. “Why, Gina? Why him?”

She didn't hold his gaze. Turning, she went to her purse and fumbled inside for her cigarettes. She found the pack, pulled one out and with fingers that shook, lit it.

She breathed in deeply, then exhaled and turned to him. “We don't have something exclusive here, Jack. I see other people, so do you. I don't appreciate this guilt trip.”

“I don't care if you screw the whole goddamned universe, but not him. Never him.”

Her eyes filled. “Well maybe that's why I fucked him. Because you don't give a shit.”

“Now who's packing a guilt trip? Do you want what we have to be exclusive?” Although she said nothing, he could see that she didn't. He crossed to her once more. “Besides, I do care for you. We go back a long way, we've shared a lot of secrets. You know all of my secrets. I trusted you with them, Gina. That's the point. That's what this is about.”

“Me and Carlo, it was just sex. And business.” She drew on the cigarette. “You're making way too big a deal out of this.”

He wasn't. And she knew it. Because she understood him, and that's what stung.

He touched her cheek lightly, then dropped his hand. “If you had asked me to stay away from a certain woman, a certain model, if it was important to you, I would have. I would have respected your wishes. Because we're friends. Because we do things for each other.”

“That's not fair!” She stubbed out the cigarette. “We're in totally different positions. You, as the photographer, have all the power. You give the jobs, you decide who works. The only power I have, I have to make. And there are only two ways I can do that, and both are with my body. You know that.”

She took a step closer to him, and laid her hands on his chest.

“You're special to me, Jack. More special than anyone else. And the things you do for me in bed, well…nobody comes close. Nobody ever has.” She curled her fingers into his chambray shirt. “But he can do things for me, for my career, that you can't.”

“I'll be able to someday,” Jack said, frustration building inside him. And with it, hatred so intense it burned. “Just wait and see.”

“I believe you,” she said softly. “I believe in you. But I can't wait. My career is
now,
a few years from now, I'll be too old. If I'm going to get anywhere near the top, I have to do it now and any way I can. We both know it.”

He did know it. He also knew it could never be the same between them again.

“You're better in bed, Jack.” He met her eyes, and she slid her hands up to his shoulders. “A lot better. It's true.” She stood on tiptoe and pressed herself against him. “He asks about you. He knows we're friends. But I've told him nothing.” She laughed. “It drives him crazy. You drive him crazy.”

He set her away from him. “We're through, Gina. I won't see you again.”

She stared at him, shocked. “I can't…I can't believe you're doing this.”

“The only thing I've ever asked of you, in all these years, is that you not sleep with Carlo. You said you wouldn't.” He narrowed his eyes. “You didn't just sleep with him, Gina. You kept it from me. You lied.”

“I was seventeen when I made that promise! That was so long ago, surely you didn't expect me to—”

“But I did, Gina.”

He turned away from her; she caught his arm. “Jack, our friendship means so much to me. I know it means as much to you.” She tightened her fingers. “Do you hate him so much?”

He met her gaze evenly, without hesitation or doubt. “Yes, Gina. I hate him…so much.”

B
ecky Lynn's first few weeks at The Image Shop flew by, at once exhilarating and exhausting, frightening and fun. The staff greeted her with a few raised eyebrows and a questioning glance or two sent Sallie's way, then resumed work.

Becky Lynn learned quickly that The Image Shop differed from Miss Opal's in many more ways than just size and decor. Nobody visited The Shop—as Becky Lynn had come to call it—for the kind of old-fashioned cuts and styles the Cut ‘n Curl had specialized in. Here, customers asked for the styles, the looks, featured in the fashion magazines. Styles and cuts like the long spiky, the mushroom and half moon, the DA. Becky Lynn had yet to see a teasing comb, curlers or a can of the sticky hair spray Fayrene and Dixie had used with abandon; instead, the hairdressers here styled with mousse and gel, blow dryers and their fingers.

At the Cut ‘n Curl, Fayrene, Dixie and Opal did everything, from nails to color to cuts. The artists at The Image Shop specialized. Bruce called himself the King of Curl. He was the shop's permanent-wave specialist, and heads from all over California (and the world, he claimed) came to him for their curls. A color analyst, Ali did nothing but color. Marty, Foster and Brianna were cutters. When women came into The Shop for makeup, a make-over or
facial, they saw Sallie or Greg. If they wanted a manicure or pedicure, they saw Joy or Linda.

It boggled her mind, just as the variety of processes did, ones like foiling and cellophaning and spiking. Becky Lynn had realized in her first hour at the shop that telling Sallie she had experience had been a joke. At least she hadn't been asked to make good on her claimed ability to mix color—Ali would cut off Becky Lynn's hand before she would let her touch her precious formulas.

But Becky Lynn had decided that more different than The Shop itself or the techniques performed here, were the people who came through the front doors. The Shop's clients were the wealthy and the beautiful. They were all slim and tan; physically, visually, they looked…perfect.

She had never seen women who looked like this. Even the women who were no longer young had smooth, taut skin and bodies. Marty told her that out here, everybody who was anybody had their own plastic surgeon, and that growing old gracefully meant having tucks and lifts at regular intervals.

Becky Lynn supposed she wasn't surprised, considering the kind of wealth these women obviously possessed. They drove up in Mercedeses and Porsches, or were delivered to The Shop in chauffeured limousines or Rolls-Royces. Their jewels astounded her: diamonds bigger than black-eyed peas set into earrings and bracelets, emeralds and rubies that twinkled as brightly as Christmas lights. Their clothes were designer originals—that Becky Lynn recognized from the pages of
Vogue.

In only one way did these manicured women resemble the Mrs. Abernathys and Mrs. Peachtrees of back home—their ability to look right through her. She was a nonen
tity to them, one of an army of invisible servants who waited on them day in and day out.

Becky Lynn thanked God every day for her invisibility. If one of these important women ever really looked at her, they would know the truth about her. They would know she didn't belong. And she would be fired.

She didn't doubt that because these women, with their jewels and designer originals and their meticulous cultured speech, wielded power.

In a way that the Mrs. Abernathys of the world only dreamed of.

In the way the Becky Lynn Lees of the world couldn't even dare to dream of.

Becky Lynn shook her head and returned her attention to her job, which at the moment was restocking the product displays. Around her, the artists worked. The artists gave The Shop its life, they made it special. Of both sexes, the artists laughed often and never seemed to stop moving.

She loved listening to them talk, listening to their stories, although she never joined in or offered an opinion. Their lives were all so different from anything she had ever known, and most of the time she found herself either enthralled or shocked.

They talked about the most current fashions, the opposite sex, the club scene. But the most frequent topic of conversation was sex. They were all frighteningly open about the things they had done and who they had been with. And so blasé about it all. They discussed sexual partners and techniques as openly and often as most people discussed the weather.

Two of the stylists were homosexual—and lovers. They
told her they preferred to be called gay, and hung on to each other and kissed right out in the open.

Becky Lynn had never met a gay person before. In Bend, the only gay person she had ever heard of had been run out of town on a rail. And at first, Bruce and Foster's affection for each other had made her feel uncomfortable. Threatened, even. But the more time she spent around them, the more she realized that their being gay didn't have anything to do with her. Besides, they didn't judge her; they accepted her the way she was. So who was she to judge? Who was she to point fingers and proclaim herself superior?

That was the way people in Bend thought, that was the way they treated anyone different than themselves. And she had vowed to leave Bend behind forever.

“Becky Lynn, hon, could you give me a hand over here?”

“Sure, Bruce.” She tucked the small pad she used to take stock inventory into her back pocket and went to help.

“Hold these.” The hairdresser handed her a basket filled with permanent-wave rods and tissues.

She watched him work, alternately handing him rods and tissues, listening as he bantered with the beautiful woman in his chair. She had an English accent and glorious green eyes; Becky Lynn recognized her from several magazine covers. Awed, she kept her gaze fixed on the basket of rods.

“I don't know what to do,” the model whispered. “Tell me if I should take the booking. I'll have to sleep with him, I won't be able to resist. You know how weak I am.”

“You must take the job. You said yourself, it's a fabulous career move. Goodbye
Cosmo,
hello
Vogue.
”

Vogue?
Becky Lynn's heart began to thunder. She peeked at the woman from beneath lowered lashes. How could she even think of not doing it? If she herself ever had such an opportunity, which, of course, she wouldn't, there was no way she would even think of—

“But he's such a son of a bitch, Bruce.”

“A son of a bitch who's great in bed.” Bruce expertly rolled the model's hair onto the rod, not even looking at his hands. “Besides, my love, it's a cover.”

Becky Lynn gasped.

The model's eyes snapped open; Bruce looked sharply at Becky Lynn. “Is there a problem, Becky Lynn?”

Heat burned her cheeks, and she shook her head. “No, it's just that…
Vogue
's the best. I can't imagine…I mean, the cover of
Vogue
is…everything.”

The woman's eyes widened. Bruce's angry gaze made it clear that she had made a mistake. A big mistake. As a nonentity, she was expected to be both deaf and dumb. To offer her opinion was tantamount to treason.

Fear stole her breath. What if Bruce fired her? What would she do? How would she survive? “I'm sorry,” she said quickly, her voice shaking. “Forgive me. I shouldn't have said anything. I didn't mean to—”

“No,” the model interrupted, waving a perfectly manicured hand. “You're right. Only the best make it to the cover of American
Vogue.
And I'm the best.”

“Of course you are,” Bruce murmured, taking the basket from Becky Lynn's hands in dismissal, sending her one last angry glance before returning his attention to the model. “You must take the booking.”

Becky Lynn backed away, heart thundering, cheeks on fire. How could she have been so stupid? How could she
have forgotten herself and her place that way? The only thing between her and the street was keeping Sallie and the other people here from realizing just how out of place she was at The Shop.

Fear clutched at her. She recognized the emotion from having lived with it every day, every moment, since running away from home. The fear that she would be forced to return to Bend, that a man would trap and brutalize her the way Ricky and Tommy had. The fear that she would be found not to belong and fired, that she would be ostracized.

It was that last she feared most. At night, she lay in the motel bed and listened to the sounds from outside, the gun of an engine, the sounds of a fight, the wail of a police siren, and she prayed she wouldn't do anything to draw attention to herself. That she wouldn't make a mistake that would clue them into who—and what—she really was.

Poor white trash.

She couldn't bear for it to start all over again.

She fought the fear and walked slowly and calmly from the room. She reached the stockroom, stepped inside and shut the door behind her.

She brought her trembling hands to her cheeks. When would she stop being afraid? She breathed deeply through her nose, her chest tight, her heartbeat fast. Would she ever know what it felt like to belong? To feel safe? Each time she felt a glimmer of safety, of belonging, she was wrenched back to reality. Back to fear.

Tears stung her eyes. She fought them as hard as she had fought her fear of moments before. Feeling sorry for herself was a ridiculous waste of time.

She had changed her life, she was much better off than she had been a mere few weeks ago.

Here, she was at no one's mercy but her own.

Her tears dried, and a sense of calm moved over her. She had made a mistake just now. But it hadn't been fatal. Bruce hadn't fired her; he hadn't verbally reprimanded her or called for Sallie.

Becky Lynn took a deep breath. She would work hard, keep her mouth shut and not make any more mistakes. She would make them believe she did belong. Everything would be all right.