My heart sinks a little in my chest. I’ve sent Pax a total of four text messages since this morning, asking if he’s all right, and he hasn’t replied to a single one of them. I should have known he’d reply to Wren, him being one of his best friends and all, but it still stings a little. “Oh. Glad he got back to you at last,” I mutter.
“Pssh. Please. Like that boy ever replies to texts when he’s in a bad mood. His mom just told me that she’s fine herself. And I just got into his email. There’s a calendar reminder for a Ralph Lauren shoot this afternoon and tomorrow morning.”
“You hacked his email?” Elodie doesn’t look surprised but I sure as hell am. “How?”
Wren briefly looks at me in the rearview mirror. “I have my ways.” I’m so used to the fact that Elodie is dating him now, that I seem to have forgotten that he is still Wren Jacobi, the dark lord of Riot House. He still exists in a morally grey world, where breaking into your friends’ email accounts is a totally acceptable thing to do.
Christ. If he’s okay with invading the privacy of one of his best friends…what if he’s hacked my email account? There are messages from my doctors in there. Therapy appointments. Links to all kinds of suicide prevention support groups, and…
I try to shiver out of these thoughts but freeing myself of them is like trying to pull my feet out of wet mud. It takes real effort. Why would Wren hack my email? He’d have no reason whatsoever. But when I look up, I see that he’s looking at me again in the rearview, his dark eyebrows knitted together in the middle. Like he has hacked my account, and he knows.
I turn away, looking out of the window as the landscape flying past the window changes from Massachusetts forest to Connecticut forest when we burn through state lines. “Maybe we should go back, then,” I say quietly. “If he’s fine, and his mom isn’t sick. He obviously doesn’t want to talk to any of us.”
Wren just laughs. “Oh, we’re not going back. We’re already halfway there now. And besides. That son of a bitch has never known what’s good for him. He’s going to talk to us, whether he likes it or not.”
41
PAX
* * *
“I’m telling you. If you want to stay on my books, you’re gonna grow out your hair.”
POP!
The interior of the warehouse, with its filthy windows and its peeling walls, flares bright white for a second as the photographer’s flash fills the space.
Over by fruit platters, stacks of pastries and the vats of mediocre coffee, my agent shovels a mini croissant into her mouth. I’ve never seen someone eat so much and yet never seem to gain any weight; I’ve watched her over the past couple of years, waiting for any telltale sign that she’s dashing off to the bathrooms to purge the contents of her stomach, but I’ve never witnessed anything that would suggest bulimia. Seems as though the woman lucked out with a crazy metabolism. Could be diet pills, I guess.
She points a finger at me, one of her perfectly full, dark eyebrows hiking up a little as she speaks. “This isn’t the job that you lose because you’re being stubborn. This is a career making shoot. You can’t afford to reject this offer, and I can’t afford to let you. There’s way too much money on the table. This is the first time in five years that American Eagle has enquired about you. You’re taking that job. You’re gonna be making residuals until the end of time.”
“Right. I’m sure you’re thinking about my residuals.”
She slaps the half-eaten croissant down on the buffet table, stalking across the dusty, cracked concrete floor in her high heels. “You’re damn straight I’m thinking about my royalties, too. You think I put up with your ass for free, Pax? Is that it? I get paid, and I get paid well for the contracts that I broker. I wouldn’t have any clients if I wasn’t hungry. My question is, what the hell’s going on with you, asshole? You seem to have lost your appetite.”
POP!
Another flash of light bleaches the warehouse, turning the grey morning brilliant white. The photographer, Callan Cross—a guy I’ve wanted to work with for an age now—steps away from his camera and folds his arms across his chest. He’s young for the number of awards and prizes he’s won. Maybe thirty-five. He looks like a stern school principal when he flicks a look between Hilary and me, though.
“I have no problem with you being here,” he tells Hilary. “But you’re distracting the shit out of the guy, and while I think he looks best with a frown on his face, I’m supposed to be capturing mysterious, alluring, seductive stranger, not pissed off loudmouth. You guys can discuss how much hair he has on his head when we break for lunch. In the meantime, maybe you should step outside and make some calls or something. Broker some more of those deals. What d’you reckon?”
Hilary’s highly respected in her field. She’s a shark. A gatekeeper that stands between monolithic brands and some of the world’s most popular and highly sought-after models. If a photographer wants to shoot someone, say, like me, they have to go through Hilary, and most of them would have better luck getting through a foot of reinforced concrete and inch-thick steel plate.
In this industry, people are careful when they speak to Hilary. I don’t have to be, because I’m a commodity that she doesn’t want to lose. Callan Cross doesn’t have to watch his tongue either, because he’s Callan fucking Cross. He was booked for this shoot a year ago, way, way, way before I was even considered for the project. As far as this shoot goes, Hilary is Cross’s bitch for the next two days, and frankly so am I.
Just because Hilary admires Callan’s work, doesn’t mean that she has to like deferring to him, mind you. She mirrors his pose, crossing her arms over her chest. “Yes. Fine. You’re right. There are a number of pressing issues that I should be taking care of right now. If you need anything, Mr. Cross, please send one of your PAs to find me.”
She walks out, swinging her hips, her loose, linen pants billowing as she disappears through the door. As soon as she’s gone, another snap of sound fills the warehouse. No flash this time. Cross fired off another shot of me on a different camera—an old medium format film thing by the looks of things. Not the kind of camera someone would use for a professional editorial shot. It's practically an antique. He pulls the winder across, the sound of the zipping mechanism inside the body drawing the film taut extremely loud in the echoing, drafty space. “One for my private collection. Hope you don't mind. The look on your face just then? Pure murder. I had to get it.”
I let my top lip curl briefly into the ghost of a smile. “Doesn't bother me. If Hilary finds out you're developing unsolicited images of me, she'll have a field day, though.”
Callan smiles. “Like I said. It's for my personal collection. I won't show it anywhere. Maybe you'll sign a release at the end of the session for me, though. Just in case.”
“Maybe I will.”
He nods after Hilary “Quite the spitfire, that one.”
“Pretty sure she's single,” I tell him.
He's back behind his big commercial camera now. “Oh, I'm not interested. Lift your head a little bit. Angle to the—yeah, perfect.”