5
I am capable of success if and when a strip club hires me.
The rest of the day crawled by with a load of commotion, slamming doors, and fists pounding against hard surfaces. No one approached me about the stink I made during the photo shoot, which makes me wonder what's coming down the road next.
I slip my coat on and grab my water bottle, then quietly make my way through the lobby, noticing the empty desk where Minnie Mouse should be. I'm curious to find out what happened after we spoke. Maybe she ran. I sure as hell would have.
Once I'm through the front doors and in the elevator, a sense of relief sets in, knowing I escaped the madness, unscathed, even for just today. The kinds of days that feel like they're forty-eight hours long are going to give me premature gray hairs, and I didn't sign up for that deal.
I grab my phone from my coat pocket and type out a quick message to Layla, needing an inventory update on our wine stash.
Me:Vino? Is there any in the kitchen and is there enough to cure a bad day?
Layla:Hold, please.
Cue the Jeopardy music as she stops to taste test whatever we have.
Layla:We have wine—should be enough to make you feel better, but that depends on how bad your day was.
As much as I like the idea of forgetting about my day by swimming through an entire box full of cheap wine, I know I can't get blitzed on a work night. Unlike Layla, I can only handle a few glasses, or I'll wake up with a horrendous hangover. Layla just stays awake all night, and the hangover never hits her. I'm beginning to wonder if that's key to drinking responsibly.
I was about to respond to Layla's text, but my phone slips from my palm as a hand grabs my elbow from behind.
Why tonight of all nights? I can't take any more today. "Stop, asshole! I have pepper spray!"Does yelling this phrase really work?From what I can see, the nearby pedestrians don't even bother to look over. Nice to know.
The problem is, I do not own pepper spray, but I'm hoping whoever has a hold of me will let go in fear of getting sprayed by my invisible weapon.
"Is the pepper spray inside your phone or your empty water bottle?" he asks. That voice—I recognize his damn voice, so I drop my arms and release my nut-kicking stance that wouldn't have done much to the assumed perpetrator hiding behind my back. I'm slow to turn around, feeling less-than-eager to face the idiot who thought it would be smart to grab my arm while I'm alone on a city street.
"Shit, I'm sorry," he says, leaning over and grabbing my phone from the pavement. "You're smart to have a solid case on this thing. I break more iPhones than I can keep track of. There's not a scratch on yours."
"You're lucky," I tell him. "You would have been buying me a new one if there was."
"Fair enough," he replies. "But all is well."
"What do you want, Wesley? Oh, and you're welcome for not attacking you. I don't think you want that pretty face of yours getting messed up so I wouldn't keep grabbing people from behind."
"In all fairness, I was yelling your name, but I guess you didn't hear me."
"Nope, I didn't. The traffic is loud, as I'm sure you can tell."
"Okay, well now that I have your attention, can I ask you for some help?" He has my attention for multiple reasons at the moment, and I'm not sure which one requires help.
"It's tempting, but I'm pretty sure I can't help you," I tell him, scratching at the skin beneath my nose.
"Look, I'm in a lot of trouble with this campaign, and if it leaks anywhere, my career is over."
"I'm sure someone will overlook your troubles to drool at your modelesque features," I tell him, unfazed by his plea and reason.
Wesley rolls his eyes and stares up toward the darkening sky. The silence lasts longer than a natural pause, so I consider walking away, but one stupid part of me is itching to find out what he will say next. I'd also like to tell him he looks like an idiot, but I'll hang onto that confession for a bit longer.
"My attorney is working on a retraction, but that guy you work for seems like a real dick," he says.
"I wouldn't go with the word 'real,' but he is a dick, yeah."
"When did you start working—" A bus speeds by us, drowning his words out with the loud rumble. "How long—" Another bus.
I check my watch, for no reason other than to be a jerk to the jerk who was a jerk to me earlier. A stereotype might dictate that certain types of models appear as if they never have time for anything, but I don't like to categorize anyone into a type, so once again today, I will try not to judge. I am getting better at being less judgmental. Although, I imagine when Wesley Moon needs something, he probably thinks everyone should stop what they are doing and help. He had a confident strut when he walked in this morning, and then he was snippy, but I wasn't helping much either.
