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When I apply the final fingernail, I tap my fingers against the vanity table. They feel strong. They feel lethal. I stand up and present myself to Mr. Peak. He looks me up and down for a good, long minute.
“Where are you going to conceal the pen?” my boss asks.
Oh yeah, the pen with the hidden steel blade. I forgot all about that.
Mr. Peak takes me to the bed and sits me down. He grabs my right leg and lifts it. Mr. Peak grabs the pen and places it inside the boot. Nice fit!
“Stand up,” Mr. Peak orders. I get on my feet and look at myself in the mirror. My boss stands behind me and rubs my shoulders. “This enemy can come at you in any form. This enemy can attack you at any time. Keep your focus. Trust no one. If attacked, fight to the death,” Mr. Peak says as he places a diamond studded necklace around me. Fear and adrenaline run through my body. There is nothing left to do but jump into the fire.
***
I am sitting in the back of Mr. Peak’s Rolls Royce Phantom. I am alone. The Club is straight ahead. I look at my fingernails. My claws. If the “wolves” can’t save me, I am my own final line of defense.
The Rolls pulls up at the Norwood Club on 14th Street. There is a crowd of cameras and paparazzi. Damn, this is as crazy as the Met Gala from a few weeks ago. The doors open. The lights are pointed in my direction. I flinch. I almost mistake it for gunfire.
Before I exit the Rolls-Royce, I check to make sure that my iPhone is in my little white purse. I quickly send a message to Mr. Peak - who is back at his New York office. I write, “Just arrived at Club” and send it off.
When I get out of the vehicle, I am hit with shouts from the press like, “Sarah! Sarah! This is Entertainment Tonight. Can we ask you some questions?”
I look at every face behind every camera. Any of them could be potential kidnappers. A man puts his hand on my shoulder. I immediately flinch. It turns out he is one of the Club’s bodyguards, angling his seven foot body between me and the photographers.
I get to the press line where the attractive Entertainment Tonight reporter is waiting for me with her microphone outstretched. “So we hear that you have just signed on to the Juliette Modeling Agency,” the reporter shouts out above the madness of the press.
“Yes, I’m kinda shocked and excited about it.”
“So where is your billionaire boyfriend?”
“He is still at work. You can’t be a billionaire if you work nine to five!” I tell her as I walk into the club.
The doors open and I am hit by a crowd of tall and beautiful women mixed in with equally gorgeous guys. There is also a mix of older rich men who are on the prowl. As far as I am concerned, any of them can be a potential threat.
I send a message to my boss, “Now inside club.” I put the phone back in my purse as I navigate my way through the crowd. The room is so tight that I feel various bodies pressed against me. This being a New York club, that kind of intimacy can be expected. I just wish I could get a better view of everyone inside the room.
Since I am only five feet, four inches tall, my view is obstructed by six foot models and guys ogling the six foot models. I make my way to the center of the club. Suddenly, I feel someone grab me by the wrist. I jolt. Then I look up and see a familiar face. Juliette!
“So glad you could make it, Sarah!” the modeling icon exclaims as she gives me a full body hug. My modeling agent grabs me and begins to escort me around the party. “I have so many people asking about you that I don’t know where to start,” she tells me as I am dragged to the VIP section.
Juliette takes me past the velvet rope which separates the famous and beautiful people from the merely beautiful. I see many of the faces from that agency meeting just a few hours ago. It looks like many of the girls already have more than a few drinks in them.
The model agency CEO takes me to a booth where I see a very eccentric looking guy. Damn, he looks famous but I can’t place a name to his face. The man in question is about 70 years old. He is dressed all in white with a platinum spiked hairdo and a pair of wraparound sunglasses. Now, this guy is a real New York weirdo. This guy must be really important to get into a club looking like that.
“Sarah, may I introduce you to Jacque Pierre,” Juliette says as the older gentleman extends his hand like royalty. Now, that name rings a bell! Jacque Pierre is one of the top fashion designers of the past forty years. This guy is New York royalty!
I shake Jacque Pierre’s hand and take a seat next to him. The man begins to run his hands up and down my arms. “Your skin is extraordinary,” the Frenchman says in a high-pitched voice that almost makes me chuckle.
