Chapter Twenty-Four
I’ve survived a full seven days. I’ve briefly spoken to Roy. Proctor stopped by the house to check in on me. I wanted to ask about the scars on his chest, but didn’t think it was right. I finally put the knives back in the drawer. Vincent, good to his word, has been my roommate, confidant, and conspirator in finding movies with family issues crazier than my own. I’m still not able to eat as much as I need and I’m tired all the time, but given the circumstances, I’m not doing too poorly.
And here I am in New York, Tribeca to be precise, at the photographer’s studio, waiting outside the door.
“Don’t you think it’s strange he changed the time at the last minute?” The photographer was so specific and adamant about the date and time, and early this morning he called and needed to move our appointment up by two hours.
“He’s an arty type.” Vincent shifts his shoulders. “They don’t work like the rest of us. Do you want me to go in with you?” Vincent’s antsy, shifting his weight from side to side.
“Do you mind? Meeting him and all.” I wished I’d taken Roy up on his offer to have Proctor here. I’ve been so stupid about so many things.
Before he answers, the door slides open. It’s one of those trendy barn doors everyone is putting on everything. I know this face. It’s the guy from the party who tried to help me with my shoe strap. And he came into the shop looking for directions. The one I thought looked like Robert Redford in his younger days. “You,” I say.
“Me,” he replies with a megawatt Hollywood smile and dramatically looks down the hall. “Only one friend. I’m used to models traveling with an entourage.”
“This is Vincent.”
“And I’m Mario.” He gives me a nod. “It’s good to see you again.”
The two shake hands, and I walk inside the vast, open space. An industrial kitchen is to the right. On the left, in front of the factory windows, is a seating group of furniture. As we continue across the wooden floors, I see lights and shade-like equipment with cords crisscrossing the floor.
“I thought we’d do some shots without makeup and in normal light first. My client wants to be assured your skin is of the right quality to suit their product.”
“Fine,” I say. “Shouldn’t there be more people here?” I envisioned hairdressers and the client and whoever else is needed for a photo shoot.
“I prefer to work alone.” He gives Vincent a smile. “Help yourself to whatever’s in the kitchen.”
“Thank you, but I’m off to meet a friend.” Vincent gives me a peck on the cheek. “Call when you’re ready, and I’ll come back by and get you.”
“Okay.” I watch his back and imagine walking out with him. Nerves, I tell myself. And give myself a pep talk about how I want the money for the addition and how this is going to be a great experience. Okay, internal pep talk concluded. I bite my lip and wait for instruction.
“Over there is a dressing area. If you’d take off your outer clothing and put the robe on, we can get this shoot going.” He turns his back to me. “And leave your hair down for now.”
The dressing area is discreet. Vincent scared me with stories of models walking around naked. Adele’s beautiful voice spills out of the speakers and helps to calm my jagged nerves. The robe is silk and emerald green and brings out the blue in my eyes.
“Beautiful.” Mario is waiting with his camera in hand. “When I saw you at the party, I knew you’d be perfect for the campaign.”
“Is that why you came to the shop?”
He indicates a spot in front of a paper canvas with a huge roller hanging from the ceiling. “Yes, and I was working on the movie shoot, so I was there anyway.”
Explains why he was at the party. “Crazy world.”
“It sure is.” His accent isn’t Southern or Northern or Midwestern. “This is going to be simple. I want you to stand with your feet wide apart, like this.” He shows me. “And with your fingers, pull your hair up and off your face.”
I do as he says.
“Perfect. Don’t smile, look into the lens. I’ll give you direction from there.”
Adele is singing about fire and rain, and I find myself relaxing to the clicks of his finger snapping photos.
“Wet your lips and leave them slightly apart. Tip your head toward your chest. There, perfect, again…wet your lips.” And on and on until I’m not thinking, only doing what he says. “Drop your arms. Toss your head forward and shake out your hair…lift up.” Click, click, goes the camera. “Now turn your back to me and look over your shoulder. Yes, you’re a natural. On your knees and look up into the camera. Think of champagne and emeralds and diamonds.”
I think of Roy and St. John, and my heart breaks.
“Perfect. Wherever you are, stay in that headspace.” He takes what seems like a million more pictures until he stands tall and puts the camera on a table. “Take a break. I need to change out filters and lighting. Do you want something to drink?”
I’m parched from standing under the bright lights. “Coke.”
He regards me over his shoulder. “The drink or blow.”
“What?”
“Never mind,” he laughs. “I’ve been around models too long.”
I take the break to walk around and look at his many framed pictures of beautiful people in faraway, exotic places.
“Here.” He surprises me and hands me the glass of Coke.
It’s perfectly carbonated and cold and exactly what I need. When I look up he’s watching me, kind of like Proctor did the night I saw his scars. “So, have you been doing this long?” I ask.
“’Bout twenty years now. I had what you might call a life-altering experience and relocated here.”
I smile. “Nice place.”
He chuckles and leads me back to the studio area. “I’d like you to put lipstick on.” He nods when I pick it up. “You can use that mirror. Don’t worry if it’s not perfect. I’m going for a tarnished-angel look in this set of photos.”
I set down my drink. What kind of look is that? By the time I’m done, my lips are harlot red. He’s rolled a fainting couch into the studio and indicates for me to sit.
“Put your feet up and pull your hair around to the side.” I jump when he touches me to move my curls away from my face. “Don’t worry; I’m not coming on to you. Photographers have to position the models.”
I take his word for it, get in a half-reclining position, and watch his every move. Something in his dynamic has changed, and I don’t care for it.
“I thought you’d be different.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re dating Roy Blackwood. He’s got quite a reputation.”
“He’s a good man,” I say defensively.
“No doubt. Now tilt your head to the right. Yes. Part those luscious lips of yours like he’s guiding his cock between them.”
I bolt off the chaise and stumble. My legs aren’t working right. And everything is looking like I’m riding on a Tilt-A-Whirl.
“It took me ten years to find you. Mother said you were dead or off in California.” He sets his camera aside. “Fucking ridiculous story. My sister was better than that.”
I’m staggering on clumsy feet and fall against the paper screen, tearing it down the middle.
“I never imagined Roy would let you come here, much less with a Twink who leaves you. Honestly. Makes me glad I didn’t change my plans.”
My body isn’t reacting to my commands. Suddenly, he’s in my face, close enough for me to smell alcohol on his breath. “You’re the image of my Lizzie. No fire, though. Only a bland imitation. Pathetic, aren’t you?”
“You’re…” I’m struggling to remember his name. “Sebastian.”
He claps. “Yes, I am. And you’re the little bitch that killed my sister.”
“How?” I mouth.
“Ah.” He pats my face. “Having trouble with your words.” He laughs. “But you and the Stanwycks will pay. First, I’m going to get you out of the way so I can be the sole heir of all the Stanwyck money.”
“The ring.”
“Yes. My baby sister gave it to me before she went back to the bastard and confronted him with you.” He pulls a small knife out of his pocket.
“They’ll find out,” I spit out.
“No, they won’t. They’ll think you did it to yourself.”
I can’t die like this. I can’t die now. There’s so much I want to do, but that shiny blade is in my line of sight now, going for my arm. I yank, but he digs his fingers into me.
“Don’t fight it. I’m doing you a favor. Sending you to a better place.”
The cut of the blade burns as it digs into my arm. The only thing I can manage is to spit in his face. He rears back, disgusted and angry, and slaps me across the mouth. I manage to crawl. He’s laughing, and I can see his shoes, shiny and black, tracking along beside me.
“I wish I had the time to enjoy this, but I have to be out of here soon.” His foot grinds into my back.
Everything is spiraling, and I’m not sure how much blood I’ve lost, but it must be substantial because I’m freezing. It’s like I’m almost dead already. I hear a cracking sound, and a moment later a white-hot pain sears through my chest, and I realize he’s crushing me beneath his foot.
I think he’s broken something else when I hear a crash. My back is no longer imprisoned by his weight. There are grunting noises and wood splintering, and I want to lift my head, but I’m glued to the floor. That’s when I see the edge of the blood pool, which grows larger each second until it almost covers my whole small view of this world. I’m dying.
“Get over here.”
Roy. Is that Roy? I want to tell him I love him, but I can’t. I’m unable to do anything now. Hands squeeze my arm. I scream out in pain as they try to move me. Roy’s face comes into view and then nothing.