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CHAPTER TWELVE
FRANCIE ZIMMER STOOD on the corner waiting for the lights to change. She touched her hair lightly, assuring herself that her sexy blond wig was still in place. She wanted to giggle when she thought about the looks some of the girls in school had given her when she'd put the wig on in the locker room, carefully making sure that no strands of her own dark hair showed to give her away. Those little bitches had really acted cold, whispering to each other, but the guys had really flipped when she went outside, telling her she looked just like Farrah Fawcett. Several of them had offered to drive her home, but she'd turned them all down, acting mysterious and hinting that she had a date already and he'd be picking her up.
She'd started to walk home—casual, cool—and, sure enough, it hadn't been long before some old guy driving a late-model Caddy had stopped and offered her a ride to wherever she was going.
He'd brought her all the way into the city, and if not for the carefully pinned-on wig, she might have thought about letting him stop off at a motel along the way and ball her like he wanted to. But she'd spent too much money on that wig, and too much time and care getting it on just right; also on her makeup—she couldn't let him ruin the way she knew she looked. So she'd played with him a little and let him play with her, opening her legs and letting him discover she wasn't wearing panties, which seemed to drive him wild—Christ, for a few moments she'd thought he was going to drive through the guardrail and end up in the bay! She'd promised to meet him later in the bar he'd named—she had this really important appointment right now, she'd explained. She smiled to herself now. He'd have a long wait, wouldn't he?
Francie crossed the street briskly, quickly, her heels clicking on the pavement. She hadn't really been lying —she did have an appointment of sorts. And after she'd come all this way, she just knew the man wouldn't turn her down—he couldn't.
She walked four city blocks, ignoring the looks and leers from the men she passed, her hips swinging provocatively. Another time, maybe, she'd let herself get picked up, just for laughs, but right now she was in a hurry. She didn't mind the walking, though. Just to be walking on her own in San Francisco was a kick; she enjoyed the
free feeling, the sights and sounds and hurrying people all around her, feeling herself part of the scene.
The studio was located in an unexpectedly plush apartment building—a high-rise with a view of the bridge and the bay. She'd expected a run-down, sleazy little place on Market Street or the Haight-Ashbury— maybe even the Fillmore District—over a shop that sold adult books—but this place was something else!
Francie patted her hair again, thankful she looked older than she really was. This joint had class, and that meant this photographer friend of Eve's must be successful in order to make enough bread to afford something like this.
He had to pick her for the assignment—he just had to. She called up to his apartment from the telephone in the lobby, opening the door when the buzzer sounded, tak-ing the quiet elevator. His voice had been deep and interesting; she wondered what he looked like. He'd sounded slightly surprised when she'd first called him up, asking about the job; fortunately, she'd called soon after she'd overheard Eve talking to Dave. She was sure he hadn't had time to advertise yet, or ask around. He wouldn't have asked Eve to pose for pictures if he'd already had someone else lined up, would he? Eve— she was a stupid cow, anyhow. Always trying to justify herself to David. And what did Dave see in her, anyhow? She was too skinny, and her boobs weren't that big. Maybe she made up for it by being bitchy in bed— Dave would enjoy that.
Francie moistened lips that were already shiny with gloss before she knocked at the door, and when it opened, she looked unwaveringly into the face of the man who stood there, wearing a loose Mexican-style shirt with full sleeves and embroidery down the front, tight white Levi's, and sandals. He was looking her over, too, and she forced herself to be just as slow and insolent in her appraisal of him. Finally, he smiled at her and stood aside to let her in; and she felt suddenly relieved —she'd passed the first test, at least!
She walked nonchalantly into the carpeted room, pausing to kick off her shoe. She dug her bare toes into the carpet. Wow, it felt so soft!
"Oh, bravo! Such a charming gesture, and so well done, too. I really like your style, sweetheart."
Francie spun around quickly to look in the direction of the other voice, the slightly mocking, teasing one.
This second man was dressed even more casually than the first. His thin cotton shirt was open all the way down to his waist, and he had not even bothered to tuck it into his pants. He sat with one leg thrown carelessly over the arm of a Spanish chair, and his very bright blue eyes were undressing her already.
Francie found herself checking him out just as closely, even while the photographer, Jerry, was introducing them offhandedly.
"Brant Newcomb—Frances ... Frances . .. Ah, heck, who gives a damn about last names, anyhow! If you don't mind if Brant here looks on, Frances, I'd like to get started right away. I have a deadline to meet.
So he'd decided to let her have the job after all— fantastic! She had to hang onto her cool, though. Brant Newcomb was still watching her with a kind of amused insolence, and somewhere at the back of her mind was the nagging thought that she'd seen his face somewhere before—maybe in a magazine? He was good-looking enough to be a male model or a movie actor; maybe that was it.
Francie kept thinking about him when she went into the bedroom Jerry showed her to change from her clothes into the short hapi coat he'd left lying across the bed. Jerry Harmon was okay, he was a good-looking dude, but Brant Newcomb really got to her. He was one of the handsomest men she'd ever seen, and she liked the way he looked at her, not trying to hide it. She didn't usually go for blonds in a big way, but this particular blond guy had something about him that reached out to her and made her tingle. He knew it, too.
Emerging from the bedroom in the short Japanese robe, Francie let her hips sway a little, kept her head high. She'd tied the belt around her waist, but had let the robe stay open down to there. Let them see that she had a cleavage and nice boobs. And at least she had hips to swing under a guy's nose, unlike that skinny bitch Eve!
There was a kind of improvised platform, doubling as a couch, running the length of the big windows— brightly colored pillows scattered along its padded expanse. Jerry gestured toward it. He was playing with his camera equipment already, and there were wires strung out all over the floor, and lights that hurt her eyes when he flicked them on.
"I'm going to start off by having you pose out here against the windows, sweetie—use the tall buildings and the sky as a backdrop. Afterward—well, we'll take it from there."
Francie threaded her way through all the scattered equipment, meeting Brant Newcomb's eyes head-on for an instant. She climbed up onto the soft platform, waiting for Jerry to tell her what to do next. She felt a tingle of excitement shoot through her—it had begun, she was going to be a model at last. Maybe they'd want her for a Stud centerfold someday—wouldn't that just frost big-brother David?
Jerry was squinting through the viewfinder of the camera, adjusting the lights, turning them so they impaled her with their brilliance and heat. She couldn't see the other man now, but she felt his presence there, and she had finally remembered where she'd seen his picture. It had accompanied an article in See magazine, called "The New Breed of Playboy." He was very, very rich, she recalled, and he raced cars and grooved with movie stars and skiied and gave fabulous, wild parties. He really fascinated her, and she was determined to make him notice her—really notice her.
"Okay, luv, drop the robe now. That's right. Just kick it aside and stand there turned sideways so I can get a profile shot. You really have a gorgeous pair of knockers, you know that?"
Trembling slightly—was it from cold or excitement? —Francie dropped the robe.
After about a half hour, when her body had become so stiff that her muscles screamed their protest every time he made her move, changing her pose, Jerry told her she could take a break while he changed film— that Brant would fix her a drink if she needed one.
Still blinded by the brightness of the fights, but determined to show her poise and nonchalance, Francie didn't bother to look around for the robe. She walked over, almost groping her way, to where the blurred shape stood waiting for her.
Francie asked for a Scotch (Eve's drink—it sounded sophisticated), and while he fixed it, she could feel her eyes getting used to the ordinary fight again.
