Chapter 13
Rory
Words wound.
Assumptions kill.
Since I won America’s Next Model thirteen months ago, I’ve lost almost every friend I had before I appeared on the show. Half of the support I received before the show aired had vanished by the time I won. Those who remained also disappeared after I signed my three-million dollar contract. In the spirit of true friendship, resentment and envy had settled over the masses in a very green fog.
It went like this.
Three million dollars? Can you take us on an all-expenses paid trip to the Caribbean—all expenses paid by you?
Three million dollars? Can I have some for my college tuition? Can you spare some so my family can buy a car? Can you pay off my house? What do you mean, no? What does one girl need with that much money? You’re so selfish.
You’re so selfish.
What I didn’t say was I never expected to be approached about modeling at age seventeen. I never planned to make money off my looks…but it’s the only thing I know now. When I was seventeen, I found myself suddenly alone in the world. The thought that a few people wanted a part of me…it made numbing my fresh grief a little bit easier. Still, having a little money then didn’t guarantee I would have any for long. There was so much to take care of that no one knew about. There always is when you’re living alone and trying desperately to keep anyone from finding out.
All I wanted back then was to stay in the same apartment where I’d been raised. It wasn’t easy, but I made it. The day I turned eighteen, I could finally breathe free. Still, my memories were mine, and I’ve kept them that way.
When I won America’s Next Model, the money exploded. Ironically enough, so did most of my relationships.
Never explain yourself, my grandfather used to say. Your friends don’t need it and your enemies won’t believe it. Deep down, I always knew he was right.
Problem is, now I don’t have friends. Outside of the artificial world of the industry I work in, there’s not a single person who’s interested in me. My image, sure. My body, even more so. But me?
Colt is the first person in months who didn’t treat me as badly as the guy treated me in the airport VIP room.
In fact, with Colt it’s almost like my fame is a detriment. At the very least, something to make fun of.
“Are you okay?” he asks, shaking me out of my reverie.
I shrug. I’m never actually okay, but pretending is easier than owning up.
“I’m fine. It’s just part of the job.”
“No it isn’t.” He pulls us under an overhang and looks at me. Raindrops pour off the roof in sheets. Wind slaps the left side of my face. “I know I’ve poked fun of your magazine covers and made crude remarks about your figure, but it’s not okay. You’re a person, Rory. Modeling is your job just like teaching or lawyering is someone else’s job. You’re not someone’s sex toy, and you’re certainly not someone to be objectified. Not even by me. Starting now, I won’t do it anymore.”
His words.
Words soothe.
Words heal.
And at the sound of Colt’s very kind words, a tiny part of me heals. The part that men have scratched at and nibbled at and worn down until my self-confidence is merely a false creation of a photographer’s lens…that part stops bleeding and turns pink. Scars remain, sure. But the wound now has a chance to stop festering.
I turn away to wipe my eyes, then take a deep breath and look at him.
“Thank you, Colt. That means a lot.” I sniff and take a deep breath. “I get tired of the comments, especially because they’re all the same. Everyone assumes I’m easy, even though I’m far from it.”
He sighs. “I’m sorry for being one of them. Can we maybe start over?”
I nod. “Sure.” An old plastic cup bounces across the street and settles against the far curb. “But it still doesn’t mean I won’t steal part of your gift or give you someone’s else’s leftover crap.”
Just like I intended, he smiles. And that small part of me that healed? It heals a little more.
“I expected nothing less.” He chucks me under the chin and my heart flips around. “But remember that two can play at that game, Miss Gray.”
His voice dips on my last name. My pulse sputters at the sound. I do my best to ignore it and focus on the challenge ahead. “Ready?”
He grins. “Set. Go.”
I don’t miss the softness in his words or the way his throat still sounds clogged up when he says them.
It’s all I can think about when we dart back inside the store.
Until I see her still standing by the display of potato chips holding my magazine and glaring at my image. Then I think that Miss Honeymooner can shove her mean words up her uptight, whiney backside.
There’s nothing wrong with being a supermodel. So there.
* * *
“I don’t trust you.”
Colt says this as we’re sitting cross-legged facing each other on the hotel room floor. He has a good reason. I bite back a smile at the wary look on his face and eye the six wrapped gifts in front of us. Three are for Colt, and three are for me. I didn’t have traditional Christmas wrap, so I settled on toilet paper. Not real festive, but it disguised the contents inside, not to mention it’s super functional for later. When Colt suggested the paper counted toward the overall expense of his gifts, I protested and won. The paper was free, same as the room. Both courtesy of the airline. As for his gifts for me, they’re still wrapped in the plastic shopping bag they came in. I win in festivity points.
“You probably shouldn’t trust me, though I’m pretty proud of my choices.”
“Smug is more like it. Not sure I’ve dreaded opening anything more in my whole life.”
I make an indignant sound. “Hey! At least I took the time to wrap them. More than I can say for you.”
“You wrapped them in a Charmin one-ply knock-off, and you didn’t even do a good job. Part of this one is hanging out.” He thumbs an exposed red corner of one box.
“You’re hanging out,” I mumble like a fourth grader.
He raises an eyebrow. “Was that some sort of childish sexual innuendo?”
My face flames red despite my determination not to be embarrassed. I really should think before I say stupid things. Still, I layer on bravado I don’t feel and use it to smack talk.
“Okay, that’s it. I want my gifts first. You’ve been pushed to the back of the line.”
He hesitates a moment, then shrugs and hands me a bag. “Fine, there’s a better view from the back anyway. Open this. It’s the worst one.”
A better view? Like, of me? I swallow and decide that isn’t what he meant, then take the bag. The Christmas cheer in this room would have Santa pummeling us with coal. I unroll the plastic bag and out falls a package of Oreos. Hardly the worst thing he could have given me, considering I’m starving and the possibility of our next meal is iffy at best. Also, they’re vegan and peanut free. Colt just scored major points with me, not that I’ll admit it out loud.
“Oreos? That’s the best you could do?” Except I pull the bag open and pop one into my mouth, then close my eyes and moan around the bite. I squint through one to see if he noticed, and he’s staring right at me. Of course he did. I hold out the bag.
“Want one?”
“I don’t want to take your food. Unless you didn’t get me any, of course. In that case, I’ll take half. Give me five minutes and I’ll let you know.”
“It’s my gift!” I protest.
“True, but there’s a very real possibility that I was the only thoughtful one of us. Show me what you got me, Twiggy.”
I just stare at him. Twiggy was a supermodel in the sixties. She had no boobs, no hips, and no waist. Since I am made of curves, I resent the comparison even though she was ridiculously gorgeous and quite possibly the most famous model in history. Unless you count Cindy Crawford. Which I don’t, because no one can compete with that.
“Fine, open this one.” I push a tiny package toward him with my fingertips. It’s about the size of a deck of cards because, well…
The paper falls away.
“You got me playing cards?”
I nod as though it makes perfect sense. “Yes, because I’m bored and I can’t take one more round of your second grade games.”
“Hangman isn’t second grade if we dirty it up a little.”
“I’d rather play poker.”
“That works too if we play strip—”
“Give me my next gift.” I roll my eyes and reach for another Oreo, but find myself smiling in spite of myself. Colt grabs one too, and I don’t slap his hand away. I suppose this guy and his humor have rubbed off on me, because normally stealing my cookies is a serious offense.
“Here you go,” he says.
Two seconds later, I’m holding a round tube of blue breath mints and thinking about tossing them at him one by one.
“Very funny.”
“Not really. Two days ago at the airport it was nothing to laugh about, believe me.”
I ignore that comment and push a second gift toward him. “Open this one.” I try to sound annoyed, but the truth is I’m having the best Christmas I’ve had in years. This is the first time someone has worked hard to buy me a gift. Sure, my agent sends me a check and my agency sends me flowers, but those gifts are standard issue, meaning every model I know gets them for every holiday including birthdays. As for me, normally I pull a little money out of savings and buy my own gift. Funny how ten dollars can mean more than ten thousand when the intent is pure and the purpose is to bring joy to someone besides yourself.
He opens a cheap two-blade razor and laughs. “I take it you don’t like my beard?”
“I like it fine, but you keep scratching at it like you want to take it off. So a razor seemed right.”
When he turns it over in his hand, I know he’s counting the seconds until he can use it. Honestly, I’m a little excited too. Colt Ross is handsome already, but something tells me a fresh shave will turn him into something completely distracting. I’m already dreading the moment we say goodbye. I don’t need a reason to make it more difficult.
I shouldn’t have bought the razor.
“Okay, we’re down to the last two,” he says. “Are you ready for your last Christmas gift, Rory?”
It’s the way he says it that makes me hesitate.
Ready or not, like it or not, I’m fairly certain this last gift is personal.