Page 24 of State of Ruin

“Next Wednesday,” I admit, and they both do their Beavis-and-Butt-Head snicker again. “Tell me about it,” I groan.

“On the plus side, she’s given you plenty for the spank bank in the interim,” Felix says.

I close my eyes, pained, because my spank bank is richer than it’s been in a long time. It is spilling over with gold ingots of recent memories and future fantasies. “Not wrong.”

“Aren’t you worried it’ll be awkward in here?” Kieran says. “You know, man—when it’s run its course.”

“It’s awkward every time any of us walks in here,” I point out. “Nothing new.”

He makes a face. “True.” Alchemy has a big membership, but it’s not limitless. We’ve all fucked too many of the same women, and we’re regularly on the receiving end of all kinds of interest from past fucks every time we set foot in here.

“Elyse is a cool girl,” Felix says, like he knows her better than us, which pisses me off. “She doesn’t strike me as the type to get all needy. She has self-respect, you know?”

I nod. I like that about her. I like that she made me work to get her in a room, that I had to get creative. I like that she was so self-assured just now, even when those witches were taking out their insecurities on her. What she’s doing with me isn’t standard for her, not at all, but she let herself go enough to come for me in that room—not once but twice, and in spectacular fashion.

And I like even more the fact that she wants to get me naked next time. That she has a view on how she wants the next session to go. That she’s owning it.

I raise my tumbler of truly excellent scotch to my lips.

“Maybe it could become a side hustle for her once Voss is done with her,” Felix muses to Kieran as if I’m not standing right here. “Now that she realizes what a hot commodity she is, maybe she’ll monetize it. Become a full-on host upstairs, even. She’d fucking clean up, don’t you think?”

Kieran has the audacity to look over my shoulder in the direction of the bar, and his stupid Ken doll face turns appreciative. Suddenly, I feel sick to my stomach. I lower my glass and stomp forward, grabbing the front of his dress shirt (black, open too far) to wrench him from his position. “Cut that out,” I snarl. “And fucking trade places with me.”

“So fucking easy to wind up that it’s actually boring,” Felix says.

Kieran shifts, snickering to himself. I take in his former view. Over Felix’s shoulder, Elyse is serving some douche at the bar who’s leaning too far into her space. Her posture is excellent, but more importantly, she’s not smiling at him.

Doesn’t look like she’s planning on moving on just yet.

That’s what I like to see.

CHAPTER 13

Elyse

Apparently, I’ve developed mysterious magnetic tendencies when it comes to Sinclair Voss. Not only did I spend the most sexually vulnerable, transgressive hour of my life with him last week, but the NDA that Olivia excitedly served me up on Friday for the next round of auditions for this mega-contract—the on-site test shoot—had the following words at the top of it:

VOSS, INC.

I’ve seen that surname on an NDA before… yet here I am, staring up at the exact same letters emblazoned in white on the front of a Park Avenue skyscraper as I work up the courage to walk through one of the sets of revolving doors.

I love Park Avenue. It’s one of the streets that feel so totally Manhattan, especially when I glance south toward the MetLife building and Grand Central Station. It’s just so buzzy and establishment and old-school. Voss HQ is old-school, too, a Mad Men-style skyscraper that reeks of inherited wealth.

But as I push through the nearest revolving door, it’s clear that there’s nothing dated about the interiors. The lobby is dazzling white marble with oversized arrangements of fresh flowers everywhere and huge screens that play Voss’s latest ad campaigns. On one, the beautiful British actor, Ellery Hart, romps in a meadow of poppies to promote the brand’s signature scent.

At the shiny white front desk, I give my name and the name of the contact Olivia sent me and am instructed to take Elevator B to the twenty-eighth floor. I don’t know much more about the shoot than I did last week except that the “big U.S. house” did turn out to be Voss. All I know is that they have some new, top-secret line they’re launching and they’re looking for a new face.

I have a lot of feelings about this. Like, a lot. First of all, it’s Voss we’re talking about. They’re freaking huge—up there with Estée Lauder. Olivia wasn’t exaggerating when she said this could be a career-making opportunity.

Second of all, it’s Voss. My imposter syndrome was sky-high even before I walked into this gorgeous building. I’ve shot in a lot of places, often studios in Brooklyn or the Garment District, but this is the real deal. Like I said, it screams establishment. There is no way on earth Voss will be tempted to sign little old me, a catalogue model, to hang out with Ellery Hart and their other A-list “brand ambassadors.” It’s insane. Ain’t gonna happen.

Third.

It’s Voss.

I mean, is Sinclair actually based in this building? It is the headquarters, after all. Is this where he works? Is he here right now? Could you even imagine if he walked into the elevator? It would be insane. Horrifying for him, obviously. I wouldn’t expect him to acknowledge me here, in his place of work. I imagine him another thirty floors up, on some gleaming white executive floor with views that would make you weep and an army of beautiful assistants in expensive pencil skirts to attend to his every whim.

I force myself to push that thought right down. It’s too unsettling, and it will only make me more nervous. It’s best if the mysterious man who made me see stars last week stays in the dark recesses of my mind. He belongs at Alchemy, where I’ll spend Wednesday evening with him. This is already the highest-stakes casting call of my career, and I’d do well not to let the potential proximity of shadowy billionaires derail it.