Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, softening. “I’m sorry.”
Why does she have to be kind on top of gorgeous? It’s not fair.
“You know what you need?” she says, spinning around and clapping her palms together with a playful wiggle of her eyebrows.
“A new manager?” I mutter indignantly.
Her eyes dart toward the door of the one stall bathroom as though she thinks Hanson could hear us through the thick walls. To be honest, it wouldn’t surprise me if he was eavesdropping. Our modeling agency is tiny, comprised of only about half a dozen or so models at a time who stay just long enough to book a big gig and then land a better agency. Everyone except me, that is.
I’m one of Hanson’s originals, which means I’ve been stuck here the longest. Charlotte has only been here three weeks and I can already tell she’ll be gone before the month is out, signed by one of the elite and exclusive modeling agencies in the city. Envy again burns through my veins, but when I catch a glance of it simmering in my eyes in the mirror it makes my cheeks burn with shame.
There’d been a time when I’d been so confident in my future as a model, I never would’ve let jealousy creep in. When I first came to New York I’d been so sure that I would end up gracing magazine covers and runways.
Where was that girl now?
Satisfied that Hanson isn’t going to bust down our bathroom door, Charlotte lightly swats my shoulder. “No, silly. You need a night out. Blow off some steam, have a drink, let loose. What kind of music do you like?”
My shoulders rise and fall with effort. My head has been throbbing all afternoon after dealing with that tragedy of a photoshoot, and it shows little sign of easing. “I don’t know. I like everything, I guess, but I don’t know if music is the answer.”
Charlotte’s green eyes dance with delight. “Sure it is. There’s this amazing little dive bar across town. They always have the best up and coming bands. You should go and dance away your drama.”
“I don’t know,” I murmur, running a finger down my tender arm. “I’m pretty beat. This week has been hell.”
“Nonsense, Morgan May! You’re made of tougher stuff than that,” Charlotte insists, pumping her fist with enthusiasm. “I’d meet you out but I have a meeting with—” She cuts herself off abruptly, eyes going wide as she bites down hard on her lip to stop herself from spilling whatever secret meeting she’s trying to hide.
The truth, however, is obvious to me. Had I thought Charlotte would be gone from Hanson’s agency within the month? Make that within the week.
“You’re in talks to be signed somewhere else, aren’t you?” I ask softly, already bracing myself for the answer.
Charlotte bites her lower lip again, clearly contemplating lying. In the end, she gives a short nod instead. “It’s not like Hanson isn’t a good agent,” she says, still struggling not to lie. “It’s just . . .”
“You don’t have to explain. He sent me to a fake photoshoot with a guy more interested in my boobs than in doing a real gig.”
Again, Charlotte nods before rifling through her purse and pulling out a slightly crumpled cocktail napkin. “This is the place. They always have a great band. Have you heard of the Rasping Sallies? They’re playing tonight and they’re total badass bitches.”
“I don’t know . . .” I start to repeat, but I know Charlotte is right. I could use a drink and a second or two to unwind after all the failed auditions this week. “I guess it couldn't hurt.”
And it was Friday. That meant I could invite my roommate, Stacy. We could both use a night on the town. Maybe that was just what I needed to clear my head and get ready for a brand-new week of go-sees.
“That’s the spirit. Now I’ve got places to be. If all goes well maybe I’ll meet you out to celebrate.” Charlotte winks at me before heading out of the bathroom, the heavy door swinging shut behind her.
I’m left staring at myself in the mirror, inspecting my blonde locks. They tumble over my thin shoulders. I do half a twirl, inspecting myself from head to toe. “You’re beautiful,” I remind myself quietly, though the eyes that are gazing back at me look less than convinced. “Your time will come,” I add, though I can’t help the small, “hopefully,” that squeaks out after.
Turning my back on the aspiring model in the mirror, I dial my roommate’s number.
“Hey Morgan!” Stacy’s cheerful voice answers. I can hear the shrill cries of the cluster of seven-year-old’s she’s tutoring after her college courses are done for the day. “I’m done here in like ten minutes. Can I call you back?”
“Not necessary,” I say. “Just meet me on the corner of Dunst and Brook when you get off. We’re going out.”
“Uh, okay . . .” Stacy slowly answers, not one to turn down a Friday out despite her bookish nature. “Is everything okay?”
I lean back against the counter of the bathroom. Brushing a thumb over the logo on the bar napkin Charlotte gave me. I give a faint nod that Stacy can’t see. “It will be,” I whisper, unsure if I’m trying to convince her or myself.
Chapter 3
Eric
By the time we’re hustling off the stage for a brief intermission in our performance, my heart is racing and every hair on my body is standing on edge. Excitement pulses through me, spurred on by each cheer of the crowd. Just like I thought, they only needed half a song before they realized we’re the real deal.
We have all of fifteen minutes to chug as much water and whiskey as we can before we jump back onto the stage for our last set of the night. I prop Camilla against the table as James, Alex, and I reach for red plastic cups. I chug a beer before rubbing my sleeve against my damp forehead while Alex pours whiskey in the plastic cups.
Two shots later and my veins still throb with adrenaline. The last forty minutes of our show plays on a loop in the back of my mind. Notes I hit, ones I could’ve hit better, a few mental notes to tell Alex to work on with the rhythm. There’s as much to boast about as there is to work on, especially with that big show coming up. Sure, we’re playing fine right now, but we’ve got to be absolutely flawless by then.
Donovan always teases me about constantly being with my band, but he has no idea how hard we actually work, or what it takes to catch a break. Donovan was lucky. He struck gold early in his career and he’s soared ever since. He’s never had to struggle the way I have.
My thoughts are interrupted by the same severe-faced bar owner from earlier. His eyes are slightly less bored now. He must’ve listened to us play. Pride curves a smile across my jaw. Our music really has been banging tonight.
“This came for you,” he says, holding a box in his arms.
The box is simple, wrapped in brown parchment paper and a red bow. I eye it uncertainly until the man thrusts it into my hands when he tires of holding it. I jostle it back and forth, spilling my beer until I set it down and slowly begin to pull the paper off until I reveal a bottle of silver tequila that’s probably more expensive than all the band’s equipment.
With a low whistle, the bar owner gives a slight nod of admiration. “That’s some high-quality stuff.”