“I can certainly do that.” He studies me, his clever eyes busy. “Andishe your father?”
“Hewas, yes. Many years ago. A lifetime. He’s a long time dead.”
“I’m still sorry for your loss.”
My mouth stretches into a thin smile. “Are you? I’m not sure I ever was.”
Clapping him on his shoulder, I drop a kiss into his hair and walk back to the line. It’s moved up a bit, and I can hear the music starting outside, the driving beat that gets into your bloodstream. Unconsciously, I find myself standing a little taller. It’s nearly showtime.
Robbie is thankfully talking to another model as I edge in front of Mal, who studies me with bright eyes that have been heavily lined with blue liner. “Alright?” he asks.
I nod. “Fucking perfect.”
Other people might ask questions, but not Mal. He only takes as much as you’re prepared to give, maybe because he’s had his fair share of takers in the past.
One of the stylists hisses, “Mal.” He looks up. “Louis doesn’t like your hair. I need to change it.”
Mal tosses his head like a rather sassy pony at a show. “What is he thinking of changing it into? Luke Skywalker? A penguin? And what could he possibly find that is less than perfect inme?”
Everyone nearby laughs except for the stylist, who takes Mal in a grip worthy of the WWF and steers him towards a makeup station.
I turn back and brush against the curtain that hides backstage from view. It billows slightly, offering a view of the crowd outside. They’re seated on chairs, primped in the latest fashions and looking around eagerly. I go to pull the curtain back. Seeing people waiting to look at me always makes me nervous, no matter how many times I do this. It’s one of the reasons I prefer photoshoots. The attention is more limited in scope.
Movement catches my attention, and I spot Pip edging down the front row towards an empty seat. My eyes scan across my boss, Jonas, and then Olivier, Pip’s boyfriend. Next to Pip’s chair is?—
Stop. I freeze when I see a very familiar but very unexpected man.
His hair is longer than when I last saw it, the thick strands pulled back in a messy ponytail, showing off his craggy features and bright grey eyes. He’s not looking at the runway where his attention should be—his gaze is narrowed on the other people sitting in the audience’s front row. It’s so perfectly him that I almost want to smile.
At one time, the sight of him would have inspired only the desire to punch him, but now I just feel a wave of confused joy. I haven’t seen him for a year, and somehow the antagonism that used to be my constant companion has gone. It unnerves me because hating him has been a full-time occupation for so long.
He lifts a hand to push his hair back, and I have a sudden flash of that hand holding me down as he pounded into me, the pleasure like white lightning in my spine. And I remember how the next day I’d found blue smudges on my skin—tiny bruises that thrilled me and that I hated at the same time.
Even as I watch, a young man behind him taps him on the shoulder, his face avid with admiration and lust. I let the curtain fall abruptly and stare forward, feeling my chest rise and fall quickly.
“Alright?”
I turn to see Robbie watching me, his eyes curious.
I clear my throat. “Yeah, fine. When am I not?”
He looks around furtively and then pulls me into a small alcove where we’re out of sight. He slides his hand into his pocket, pulling out a small plastic bag. “Fancy a bump?”
“Here? We’re about to walk the runway.”
He rolls his eyes. “The perfect time if you ask me.”
He pours a stream of white powder on the back of his hand, and with another look around, he quickly snorts it. He sets up another line and holds his hand out to me almost challengingly. “Well?”
I think of Reuben and the twink and then my thoughts drift to that lonely graveyard again, and I grit my teeth. “Why not?”
Reuben
I shift in my chair. The room is boiling hot already, and I can barely hear myself think over the beat of the music and the sound of people talking loudly. I can feel the press of the crowd behind me but resist the urge to turn around. If I stay looking forward, I can keep pretending that there’s no one behind me.
Someone bumps into the back of my chair, and I clench my fists, feeling the old, sick dizziness swamp me and the familiarpanic fizzing at the sides of my consciousness. I dig my nails into my palms, letting the sharp pain distract me. After a few seconds, the panic fades, and I take a deep breath and then another. The sweat is cold now, chilling my skin. I consciously relax my body a muscle at a time the way my old therapist taught me.
“I haven’t seen you around here before.”
