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Chapter 4
MARLON
Damn if I didn’t have to struggle to get out of those stupid trousers Forest had made the centerpiece of his show.
There was just no accounting for taste in this business. If people liked you, they liked your shit. If not, you were screwed. If you were the darling of the fashion press, you were in. If not, forget it. If you had the endorsement of some celeb who wore your threads on the red carpet, well, you were golden. If not, you were pond scum.
Yeah, from what I could tell, fashion was more a popularity contest than anything. Like when you’re in high school—there was an “in” group, and everyone outside it watched from the sidelines.
But hey, who was I to be biting the hand that fed me? I mean, my silly little modeling gigs paid my expenses and then some. Actually, I had enough left over to live pretty well. In New York City, that’s saying something, where half the inhabitants were scraping by on a daily basis.
“Marlon. How are you?”
Whose sultry voice was that?
I zipped myself into my jeans and whipped around to find one of the female models, still in her weird runway outfit, standing right behind me.
And when I say right behind me, I mean almost on top of me. I had to take half a step back so my eyes could focus on her.
“Oh, hey, Linny is it?”
She looked like a Linny. Maybe because it rhymed with skinny.
Running a long finger up my forearm, she tilted her head.
If they gave Academy Awards for coyness, she’d win, hands down.
“Hey, I was wondering if you’d like to, you know, go for a drink or something?” she asked.
She needed something more along the lines of a cheeseburger.
“Um, well, it’s only eleven a.m.,” I said.
“Oh. Right. Yeah, I guess it’s too early for a drink. Coffee, then?”
She continued to stroke my arm, running her finger under the short sleeve of my ratty polo shirt, and then brought her hand up to my shaved head. I really didn’t like it when people helped themselves to my head—something that happened to us bald guys all the time.
Dammit.
I didn’t want to give her any ideas.
“Maybe some other time, Linny? I’ve got another show in later today.”
“Oh. You do? Okay, then.” She pouted and wandered back to where someone waited to help her out of her dress-thing, or whatever it was she was wearing.
If there was one thing I was not interested in, it was models. I knew half the dudes in New York wanted nothing more than to cart a model around on their arm, no matter how much money they had to spend on her, and no matter how much of a bitch she was. Beautiful women were currency to some—mostly the kind of guys who needed to buy their self-esteem.
Guys like that wanted their beauties, and the beauties wanted their money. A win-win for both parties. If that was your thing.
It wasn’t mine, though. That was for damn sure.
No, I liked women with a bit of meat on their bones, and given the choice, actually more than just a bit. I liked some healthy curves on a girl who I could take out to a nice dinner, who’d actually eat the food on her plate. Yeah, that was my thing.
“Yo, you off to another show?” Rand asked me
“Yeah, I gotta hit the road. See you guys tonight?” I looked a couple rows over, and our buddies Shane and Cross were struggling to get out of their pants, just as I had.
Rand followed my gaze. “I know, what the hell was up with those pants?” he whispered after making sure Forest wasn’t in the vicinity.
“Who the hell knows? But I’ll tell ya, I overheard him being interviewed and the reporter was just about creaming his jeans over them,” I said quietly.
“Well, good for him,” Rand said. “Forest sells his clothes…we keep getting asked back for his shows.”
“Hey, who is that blonde woman over there?” I asked, craning my neck over the racks of clothes.
“Hey fellas, what’s up?” Shane asked, changed back into his street clothes.
“Marlon’s checking out the tall girl over there,” Rand said, gesturing with his chin.
Which led to Shane craning his neck to see what the fuss was all about.
“Guys, could you be a little discrete, please? Christ almighty,” I said, ducking my head.
“Oh, relax, asshole,” Shane said, continuing to look. He’d always said that if an Irishman wasn’t swearing at you, he didn’t like you. “Which tall girl? They’re all tall.”
Rand bent to grab his backpack and hoisted it over his shoulder. “The one who isn’t a model.”
“Oh, that one.” He turned back to us and pointed at Rand’s pack. “What the hell is in there, Rand? Fifty pounds of bricks?”
“Yah. More like fifty pounds of books. I’ve got a test to study for, my friend.”
“Get to it, Rand.” I slapped him on the back.
“Hey, guys, we still getting together for drinks tonight?” Cross, always the slowest to get back into his street clothes, asked.
“You get a sitter?” I asked him.
“No, Marlon. I was going to strap Joey to my back and keep him out ‘til all hours of the morning.”
“Shit, Cross. Calm down,” I said.
He took a glance at his watch. “Speaking of which, I gotta go home and meet my little guy for lunch.”
“Ha, Cross. Joey’s already cooking?” I asked.
“No, jerk. The sitter makes us lunch. I just hang out with my man.”
“C’mon, Cross,” Rand said. “I’ll walk to the subway with you.”
“See you guys tonight.”
