Taking Flight (A Devereux Novel) (26 page)

“
No
. No. No. Dammit.”

I paced around the room, checking my
emails. Pacing was a strong word for it—the tiny studio apartment was so small
I only had enough room to take two steps before turning around and coming back.
It was barely more than spinning in circles.

“Shit.” I threw my phone onto the bed.

Every agency I’d applied for had
rejected me without even calling me in for a look. I’d known it might be
difficult to break into the modeling world once I’d arrived in New York, but
the reality had so far surpassed my expectations I couldn’t believe it.

I didn’t have many other options. My
biggest supporters had been my parents, but they weren’t around since the
accident a year ago.

“Maybe I’m just uglier than I thought.”
I stared into the floor length mirror that dominated one wall of the apartment.
“Was everyone
back
home wrong?”

It was my biggest fear. That once out
of a small town where being the prettiest meant outshining a handful of
farmer’s daughters, I’d find out I couldn’t compete with the wide selection of
beautiful women in the city.

And there were a lot of them.

The dress I’d worn last night hung on a
peg next to the mirror to dry out. The sight of it made me smile. A night that
started off so poorly had ended so much better than I could have dreamed. The
only way it would have been better would be if I’d woken up next to Stephen
this morning.

Stephen.

My smile widened. It had been a long
time since I’d met someone who gave me the sense of connection he did. There
was only the one conversation and his chivalry at
Dorgo’s
to go off of, but it was a promising start.

Not
to mention that kiss.

And he was so mysterious.

I flopped on the bed beside my phone,
picking it up and typing his name into Google.

“Stephen Devereux.” Was that French? He
didn’t have an accent, but that didn’t mean his family couldn’t have come from
there.

Even though he said he was new to his
wealth, I expected to see Stephen’s aristocratic face at the top of the search
results. When a retired pilot’s blog was the first result, I knew it wouldn’t
be that easy. The next few links were also duds.

“Aha! Found you.”

The webpage was an article from the
Yale student newspaper about rowing championships, dated five years ago. A
picture at the top had a group of nine men with arms wrapped around each other
and gold medals hanging from their necks. Zooming in on the picture showed
Stephen’s face sporting a youthful grin.

That
explains the long, fit body.

The article itself gave nothing more
away on Stephen, merely listing his name as a part of the winning crew. I
couldn’t look at any more Google results—it was time to get ready for
work. His origins would have to remain a mystery for the time being.

As I was about to toss the phone back
on the bed, a text message arrived. It was from Stephen.

Still
interested in doing a shoot? My friend has shots she needs for her new
collection.

My heart raced as I read the message.
Part of me had assumed that once the adrenaline and magic of the previous night
had worn off Stephen would come to his senses and wonder what the hell he was
doing talking with a cocktail bar waitress and wannabe model.

I entered a response as fast as I
could, hampered by the need to go back and correct a few typos from shaking
fingers.

Of
course! I’d love to, just let me know when and where you want me.

Once the message sent, I stood there
holding the phone and staring at the screen. Scenes and scenarios flitted
through my head, from what the shoot might be like to how this would fill my
portfolio and give me the experience I needed to be more successful in my hunt
for work. Would this
kickstart
things going my way?

Minutes passed lost in daydreams, but
no new text came. I snapped out of my contemplations, putting the phone down on
the bed and rummaging through the little cloth organizational cubes that held
most of my clothes. I still had to be at work in an hour.

Every few seconds I looked at the phone
on the bed, willing it to give the ding that
signaled
a new text message arriving.

I was in the middle of straightening my
hair when it did, and nearly burnt myself when I dropped the iron to leap onto
the bed.

I
want you.
Tomorrow at eight, my place.
I’ll have it
set up for the shoot.

My breath caught in my throat. Only
then did I realize what I’d written to him sounded like a proposition. Did he
take it that way? His text made it seem like it. Was his phrasing an accident?
I didn’t know enough about how he wrote in messages to be sure.

I’m
reading way too deeply into this.

Another text arrived with his
address—no surprise there; it was in one of the most affluent
neighborhoods
in the city, and one of the most expensive.
More proof he wasn’t just lying about being wealthy.

I’ll
be there! Can’t wait. :)

I reread the short response five times
before I sent it, deleting and re-adding the smiley face each time. When I lay
back into my pillows, awareness of the heightened arousal of my body crept into
my consciousness. The hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stood on end,
and I couldn’t miss the familiar sensation between my legs.

I allowed myself five minutes to
daydream about the shoot tomorrow, how things might go. What might end up
happening.
I knew for sure that Stephen was a great kisser,
but that wasn’t enough for my overactive imagination.

Is
that how I want this to go?
Stephen was a total catch, but this
shoot with him was also now my best shot at finding work and success as a
model. I’d never wanted to compromise my values and have sex with photographers
for work. If I slept with Stephen, would it be any different?

It was getting close to when I needed
to leave for work. Against the wishes of every bone in my body, I hauled myself
up from bed.

When I stood in front of the mirror to
check my readiness, my reflection forced a fit of laughter from me. I’d
forgotten what I’d been doing when Stephen’s text came in, and I stood there
with only half a head of straightened hair. My hair was more wavy than curly in
its natural state, but there was still a big difference between normal and
straightened. It looked ridiculous.

I
won’t attract anyone with that disaster on my head.

The
shift crawled by at a snail’s pace for most of the
afternoon. The shoot with Stephen was set for a couple hours after I finished,
and it was the only thing I could think about. I’d been checking my watch for
the time at least a few times a minute, and eventually I had to leave it with
my purse in the back so I wouldn’t sit and stare at the thing all shift.

Afternoons at
Dorgo’s
were always busy. Thanks to its prime location and sterling reputation, bankers
and traders came to talk business over drinks from before noon all the way
until the doors closed late at night.
Dorgo’s
was the
neutral middle ground where an account manager at Goldman Sachs could shoot the
shit with a commodity trader from Morgan Stanley without worrying about talk of
colluding or insider trading.

A steady stream of expensive gins and
scotches flowed from the bar through my hands to the tables. The bar didn’t
bother stocking any of the typical liquors served at most pubs—its
clientele weren’t the kind to drink the cheap stuff.

The tips were always good. If living in
the city wasn’t so expensive, I would have been able to save up a good amount
of money just from waitressing.

My thoughts ground to a halt when I
visited my newest table and looked into the face of the drunken asshole from the
night Stephen saved me.

“You. What the hell are you doing
here?” Icy distaste
colored
my voice and I did not
try to hide it. My heart raced, and I wanted to run away and hide in the back.

Paul spread his hands out, palms up.
“Hey, take it easy. I came to apologize for the other night.”

“Is that right.” I eyed him. His face
was open and smiling, but it held more than a hint of a smirk. “Why do I not
care? You fucking grabbed me you asshole.” I half-turned to see if I could get
John’s attention.

He put a hand over his heart. “Ouch.
Come on, I was too drunk and I made a mistake, it happens. I’m sure you’ve seen
it before. What’s your name?”

I hesitated. I didn’t want this creep
to know anything about me, not even my name. “Liberty.”

“That’s a pretty name, Liberty, and
you’re a beautiful woman. I think I was just very taken with you that night and
I wasn’t able to control myself because of the alcohol.”

He was a very smooth talker. Unluckily
for him, the events of that night still stood sharply in my mind and I would
not let him sweep them under the rug. In my experience, if someone is drunk
they may make mistakes, but it’s rare they would do something completely out of
character. If Paul was a good man, he wouldn’t have acted like he did no matter
how much he’d drank.

“I don’t care why you did it. What
matters is you did, and I want you to leave.” I turned again to find John and
wave him over.

“Do you model?”

The question turned me back and earned
Paul a sharp look. He reclined in his chair with his legs crossed as though he
didn’t have a care in the world.

“I do.” I left out how unsuccessful I’d
been so far. He didn’t deserve that knowledge.

“I knew it. You have such a gorgeous
face, and that body is to die for. You know, I have a couple friends who are
big name designers—I could arrange a photo shoot or maybe even a modeling
contract with one of them for you.” He smiled the way a wolf would when
sweet-talking a sheep. “As a peace offering.”

I gritted my teeth. He was such an
asshole, but could I turn down an opportunity like that, even if it came about
this way? I couldn’t know how the shoot with Stephen would go tonight—if
it would lead to anything major. More options were never a bad thing.

“I don’t know if I trust you,” I said.

“How could I screw you over?” he asked.
“It’s just a show of goodwill, you don’t have to do it.”

He still sported a smug smile. I wanted
to slap it off his face, but that wouldn’t help anything.

This
guy pisses me off.
I wouldn’t have to model for
him
though, and if he
wasn’t
lying then I’d
at least make the most out of having to deal with such an asshole.

“Fine. I’m not saying I’ll do it, but
I’m not saying no. Give me your number and I’ll think about it.”

He slipped a card out of his jacket
pocket and passed it to me. “That’s my private cell number. Just call and I’ll
put you in touch with the right people.”

I took it and slipped it into my bra
without looking at it.

“Now,” he said, “how about you fetch me
a scotch, princess.”

My hand clenched, and it took all my
strength not to slug him in the face at the tone of his voice. That was the
problem with men like him. They always thought they could game any system, and
all the people in the world are their pawns to play with as they choose.

I got to the bar to punch in the order
and looked at John. “That douchebag from the other night is here again. I would
give almost anything to slap him as hard as I could in the face and then kick
him in the balls so hard he could never father another child.”

John leaned over to get a look. “Do you
want me to kick him out, Liberty? I shouldn’t be doing that—Paul is a big
roller, and I know the boss would be upset if I gave any of the elites a reason
not to come here any more. If he’s bothering you that much I’ll make an
exception.”

“No, don’t do that,” I said. “He says
he came to apologize and offered to set me up with a modeling gig with friends
of his.”

“That’s good, right? You’ve been
looking for modeling jobs for ages.”

“Yeah, I have.” I tapped the bar with
my thumbs as I thought over the situation. “It’s been hard to find anything,
but now I also have a shoot with Stephen tonight. I trust him a lot more than
Paul—hell, he’s the one who saved me from Paul the other night!”

“It’s all up to you,” John said. “If I
were you, I’d explore both options until you have the power to turn down jobs
you don’t want.”

As much as I wanted to tell Paul to
shove it, I knew John had a point—I’d thought as much myself. Would I
ever get to the level where I could choose only the most interesting work? I’d
dreamed about it my whole life but it still felt impossibly far away, and I
wasn’t getting any younger. Models had an expiration date.