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Valerie
People here ruin their lives out in the open. They’re not huddled in bathroom stalls, dumping wrinkled little bags of white powder onto their phone and cutting it up with a credit card. They do cocaine on mirrored tabletops in front of everyone like it’s legal.
I lean down, holding one nostril shut and using a straw to sniff a line while a waiter carries a bronze tray full of glittering champagne flutes through the living room. He’s probably high too. Everyone is, and I’d be the odd one out if I didn’t do this line.
I stand up, closing my eyes for a moment in anticipation of the rush as people move around me. Everyone important is here tonight, rubbing shoulders with higher-ups and potential business partners.
I’ve seen a few people from work, but not many. I know I was only invited because I was pretty.
Perks of being a lingerie model.
The lighting crew and makeup artists never end up at parties like these. They have early bedtimes at apartments outside the city. I’ll be the one passing out at four in the morning in my luxury high-rise, just barely making it to work tomorrow afternoon for another photoshoot.
I don’t feel an ounce of guilt about it, either. I’ve had enough hardships in my life to know that accepting my blessings with open arms isn’t the same as being entitled. I’m lucky to be alive after what happened to my sister Julia.
“Hey, you’re Valerie, right?”
I open my eyes just as the euphoric rush of good cocaine floods my system. I smile at the man in front of me, despite his unsavory appearance. I recognize him. He’s my boss’s boss, and the fact that he knows my name is a good sign.
“Yes, Valerie Castor Morgan,” I reply, holding out my hand.
He plants a kiss on it, his scraggly gray beard brushing against my skin. The funny thing about being high is that even the grossest things give me goosebumps. I don’t want him believing it’s because I’m attracted to him, though. He might get ideas, and I’m not the kind of girl to get on her knees for a promotion.
I pull my arm away, hiding it behind my back and distracting him with a smile. “And I already know who you are, Mr. Blake, but I don’t get to see you nearly as often as I’d like to.”
He raises a barely visible eyebrow, raising his champagne flute a few inches. “I’m sure that will change. I hear you’re going to be participating in next season’s runway show, but…” He placeshis hand over his mouth with a little smile. “I’m not sure I was supposed to mention that just yet.”
My heart hammers in my chest, and it isn’t just the drugs making me feel this way. If what he’s saying is true, and it probably is because it’s too early in the night to be shitfaced, then I’m about to have my breakout moment in the industry. A runway show is a huge step up, and the opportunity is only given to the best models.
“We’ll keep this between us, alright?” he says, taking a sip of his drink. His eyes light up. “This is wonderful. Have you had this yet? Russian, actually. Pasha, the host, brought it in from his private collection, and I must say that I’m impressed.”
I can barely listen what he’s saying. Between the blood pumping in my ears and the noise of the crowd, I’m having trouble hearing anything at all. My head is spinning with thoughts of my first runway show. I feel like I should be at home getting prepared, though it’ll be weeks before I’m officially told about it, and months after that until I step onto the famed runway for the first time.
“I’m going to fetch you a glass. You wait right here,” Mr. Blake says, turning away and hurrying back into the crowd.
I wipe my nose on the back of my hand, looking down and realizing I was talking to him with powder on my nose this whole time. I’d be embarrassed if I didn’t see him snorting a line fifteen minutes prior.
I’m too euphoric to give a fuck, and I suspect he feels the same.
Mr. Blake returns a moment later with a champagne flute and puts it in my hand, hurrying off without a word. I take a sip andtry to remember who the host he mentioned was, but I draw a blank.
Damn, this coke is strong. My mind is racing but I’m barely thinking about anything. Just the same thoughts repeatedly. I need something to take the edge off.
I finish my drink with a quick gulp, not hard to do since there’s so little in the glass, and I hurry toward the balcony. I need a cigarette. I don’t smoke regularly but I’m shaking like a chihuahua in the rain.
Balcony is too crowded already. I sigh and head toward the door. There will be people outside too, I’m sure, and someone is bound to offer me a cigarette. I hate asking.
I sift through the coats hung up beside the door until I find mine. It’s not cold outside, but it might be raining. The weather here is unpredictable in the spring.
Throwing my cream-colored leather jacket over my shoulders, I slip outside. The house sits on top of a huge garage, no doubt housing a dozen or so exotic cars, and I have to take the stairs around to the front to find anyone.
I can already smell smoke and hear people talking before I round the corner.
Five people stand by the garage. Four of them are smoking cigarettes, but it’s the man who isn’t that catches my attention.
He’s much taller than everyone else, his skin is littered in tattoos all the way up to his face, and there’s a thick cigar clenched between his knuckles. He’s muscular but not overly bulky. It’s just enough to know that he could overpower me with very littleeffort, though I’m not sure why my mind immediately goes to that scenario.
