Rock My World (14 page)

Noelle
called for a reset, and Jenna came down, not gracefully, but without falling on
her face either.

“Jenna,”
Noelle gestured for her to look through the camera. “See this shadow?”
 
Jenna nodded. “What do you think we
should do to get rid of it?”

“You’re
asking me?” Jenna felt like she was in Mr. Stone’s sixth grade algebra class,
unprepared for a pop quiz. Noelle nodded, folding her arms across her chest.

“Look,” she
said. Jenna took another look through the lens. She saw that the shadows being
cast from the light above enhanced the model’s deep-set eyes, making her look
tired. She looked around the set. There was a round white light disc propped up
against the wall. She gestured to it.

 
“Would that work?”

“Let’s see.”
Noelle said as Jenna tilted the disc up to the light, just below the model’s
face. Click. Jenna leapt over a pile of cords to look at the screen, displaying
an evenly lit face.
 
Noelle beamed.
Jenna smiled too.

Shot after
shot, Jenna checked on how every little change, each angle, reflection and
shadow affected the quality of light. She marveled at how subtle differences in
lighting and framing changed the mood. She tried to see the light through the lens
instead of with her eyes.

Her eyes brimmed with ideas, taking cues and
direction from Noelle, whose teaching process turned out to be the opposite of sixth
grade algebra. For the first time in her life, Jenna was contributing. She was appreciated.
She was addicted.

The trouble
with highs, however, is their parasitic twin: low. The poor girl didn’t mean
anything by it. She was just getting her make-up touched up between shots. But
when she picked up the trashy magazine she’d been reading and said, “Hey, is
that you?” Jenna could swear she heard a metaphorical shoe drop. She was about
to say “no” and brush it off when she glimpsed the photo of she and Alex at the
Grammys with a sawn-through graphic separating them, next to a shot of he and
another woman. Before she could look away, she realized she
did
recognize the woman pictured on a
hotel balcony wearing a plush white robe and it definitely was not her.

Chapter
23

Airika
drummed her perfectly manicured nails on the armrest
of her seat. The plane sat, unmoving, as it had for the last two hours. This is
why she hated commercial flights. She would definitely be getting someone to
refund her money the second they landed at L.A.X. First class may as well have
been steerage for all the difference it made in the standard of service.

A man across
the short aisle looked up over his giant bifocals. “Do you mind?” He asked,
staring at her hand.

“Uh, yes, I
do.” She said in a tone she hadn’t used since tenth grade (or possibly
yesterday).

She pulled
her hands under her legs, which started bouncing against her will. Taking a
deep breath like she’d been told to do in the bi-weekly speed yoga class Jenna
had forced her to join, she pushed the button above her head. The flight
attendant, barely masking her frustration, informed her for the fourth time,
that they would be taking off shortly.

“You said
that an hour and a half ago.” They glared at one another. Finally, the flight
attendant pulled out a mini bottle of champagne and a magazine.

“I apologize
for the wait Ma’am. We would like to offer you these, as a token of our appreciation
for your patience.”

The only
thing
Airika
hated more than waiting was being called
“ma’am.” “Ma’am” was the word used to describe Victorian women of a certain
age, not hipper-than-the-moment celebrity stylists, still young enough to hook
the hottest guy in the room without batting an eyelash. This stewardess clearly
wanted to piss her off.

“What about
me?” Bifocal Guy asked.

“Here you
are, sir.” The flight attendant said, handing him his own mini bottle. She
leaned in, whispering conspiratorially, just loud enough for
Airika
to overhear, “You can’t smoke it now, obviously, but
here, just for you.” Bifocal guy took the cigar, pursing his lips around it,
gumming one end, rotating it in his mouth as though preparing to light up in
the middle of the cabin.

The sound
repulsed her almost as much as the smell. Returning to her yoga breathing, she
swigged the champagne and flipped open the magazine. She beamed with pride when
she saw one of her clients in the “Who Wore it Best” section. The next page
showed a variety of gowns worn to award shows and her newest young country pop
star client made the “Best-Dressed” list. For the life of her,
Airika
couldn’t remember why she didn’t have a subscription
to this magazine.

There was
nothing like a little professional validation to distract her from the
unpleasantness of her personal life. The man she had secretly loved all her
adult life apparently despised her. Her own brother had left her to deal with
their father and his latest legal drama on her own, again. And her best friend
hadn’t so much as texted her since the fight and was off “finding herself” in
some middle-of-nowhere cabin. At least that’s what Zach told her when she
called to ask him to come to Florida with her.

It had been
six years since she’d seen her father in person, until 24 hours ago when she
had knocked on his glass windowed front door. The heavy Florida air choked the
pleasantries out of her as quickly as it released the unruly nest of curls she
so avidly straightened each day.

“Erica!” Her
father exclaimed, pulling her into a bear hug, as though this were a happy
social visit. She pushed out a hand and walked past him, taking in the modern
glass living room with its uninterrupted ocean view.

“It’s
Airika
now.” She said, over-enunciating the “air.” His face
fell. She pretended not to notice. “So what do I have to do this time?” She
said, walking toward the clear wall, keeping her distance.

“Can you
stay long?” He asked.

“This isn’t
a family reunion. We’re not hanging out. Ira summoned me,” she said, looking
around for her father’s lawyer. “What did you do this time?”

“I … I
didn’t do anything, sweetheart. It’s just a misunderstanding. That’s all.”

“
Mmhmm
, aren’t they all,” she said, her eyes never meeting
his.

“How have
you been? How’s Zachary?” He asked, changing the subject.

“Don’t
pretend you’re the concerned father type. It’s condescending. What, exactly, do
I have to do?”

 
As if on cue, Ira
Stearn
entered the room wearing a white linen suit, complete with Panama hat. All he
was missing were a few gold chains and a henchman. As the most notorious
attorney for the rich and famous trying to circumvent scandals, this little
piece of business was mere child’s play.

Ira set a
crisp white piece of paper on the table in front of her relaxing into a plush
leather armchair. He puffed a cigar. She scanned the letter, knowing she’d sign
it regardless of its content. It wasn’t her first time. For an absent father,
the doctor had quite the collection of character references from her. If
someone were just to read through them they would think theirs was an idyllic
relationship. His probation officer probably thought she worshiped the ground
he walked on. This time was different. In exchange for her trust fund (which
kept her moderately successful business afloat) she had to convince her star
client not to press charges against her father, who was accused of botching the
star’s mother’s boob job. “Why sixty year-old women feel the need to bother, is
beyond me,” she said to no one in particular.
 
That was beside the point.

Normally
these little ready-to-sign letters came in the mail with a check and she
needn’t bother herself with the particulars. This time, however, it directly
interfered with her life and she couldn’t stymie the flood of memories. And
resentment. If it weren’t for a lifetime of these scenarios,
Airika
would still have a mother. For all the dirt she had
on these two schemers, they better stop treating her like a child begging for her
allowance. If they didn’t start paying her some respect … well, she’d finish
that threat if she really needed to.

Blackmail
wasn’t the most endearing quality in a father, but she couldn’t afford to give
up her birthright because of his transgressions. That was the word her mother
used to use. It was a five-dollar word for “whores,” of which there were many.

“You have my
money?” She asked in a flat tone. Ira indicated the kitchen counter with a
flick of his cigar. Her father sat, like a naughty child, with his hands flat
on his thighs, eyes on the floor. He couldn’t even bribe her himself, she
mused, sliding the thick envelope into her purse. That’s the kind of father he
was.

The roar of
the engine pulled her from her contemplation and, as the plane sped down the
runway, her champagne rattled dangerously close to the edge of her tray. She
caught it just in time to narrowly avoid ruining her favorite silk blouse. She
couldn’t be sure but she thought she saw the flight attendant smirk as she
buckled herself in for takeoff.

“
Airika
, doll, last
minute appearance booked in Seattle. Need a consult ASAP. There’s a car
waiting.”

Airika
deleted Simon’s message as she breezed past baggage
claim to the uniformed driver holding a card up that read “A. Thomas.” She
handed him her bag, not looking up from her phone. He mumbled something to her,
which she ignored, getting into the backseat of the Town Car.

She spotted
Alex immediately, sitting alone at a table outside a trendy looking restaurant.
As she approached the table, she noticed his posture tense, which both saddened
her and turned her on (as his muscles became more pronounced through his thin
t-shirt).

“Hey,” she
said.

“Hey,” he
said, not looking up at her.

“Where’s
Simon?” She asked, looking around before pulling out a chair opposite Alex.

“On a call.
He’ll be right back.”

They sat in
complete silence for many minutes until she couldn’t take it any longer.

“Look, I
know you hate me,” she started, studying him for any sign of it not being true.
“And you have every right to.” He raised his eyebrows in agreement, still
studying his menu. “But the thing is, I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I put you in
this position. I’m sorry that I hurt you. I’m sorry that I hurt Jenna.” She
could feel her hands shaking and she clenched them together to keep calm. Alex
finally looked up from his menu. He sat back in his chair, not saying anything.

“I can see
now that I misinterpreted things between us. I just thought … after that trip
to Barcelona … that you … felt the same about me.” She forced herself to say
it, and now it was her turn to avoid looking at him. When he didn’t respond,
she added, “Because I love you. I always have. And I wish I didn’t, but I do,
and I just don’t know how to stop.” She felt her face get hot and her eyes
begin to sting as she took a shaky breath to keep herself from crying. She
hated girls who cried in front of guys.

“Jesus,
Airika
,” he said, shaking his head. She looked up at him,
imploring him to go on. “I don’t know what to say to that. I had no idea that’s
how you felt. And I don’t know what I did that made you think it was
reciprocated. I just … I
dunno
.” He grabbed his hair,
leaving it messier than usual. “I wish you hadn’t jumped me in front of my
wife. I could’ve sympathized if you hadn’t told her about us dating in high
school. You knew I always loved her, even when you and I dated for that half a
second. You did this,” he sighed in resignation.

“I know. I
fucked it all up,” she said.

They sat in
silence until Simon finally joined them at the table, launching into a wordy
detailing of tomorrow’s interview, which she couldn’t help but tune out. She’d
just begun to relax when she noticed the cameraman in the bushes with his lens
trained on them.
How long had he been
there?
She wondered.

Chapter
24

Jenna
slammed the door behind her, hurling herself face down onto the bed without
bothering to strip off her layers of clothing. She screamed into the pillow,
punching the mattress over and over again like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

Lucky. She
hated that word. The next person to call her “lucky” would … suffer a mean
glare while she couldn’t come up with a decent retort. She couldn’t even think
clearly enough to come up with a fictitious comeback. What was wrong with her?

She should
have seen it coming, in some form or other.
Airika
had always been manipulative and self-involved, but it was usually directed at
someone else. She should have known the odds were in favor of it happening to
her too. Alex was a different story. Nothing could have prepared her for his
disregard for her and, more importantly, for Felicity’s feelings.
Oh God, Felicity!

Jenna never
expected Mother-Of-The-Year awards. She’d screwed up her fair share on that
front. You don’t get pregnant in high school, give up your entire social life
and status, and not take out at least some of that frustration on the baby
that’s been crying for two days straight, despite your best efforts. But the
one thing she’d always been hyper-vigilant about was keeping her daughter well
away from the gossipmongers.