For the next hour, Dax peppers me with questions. I’m using the tablet now, as the glasses quickly became overwhelming, but this is the easiest I’ve been able to communicate with anyone since the bombs went off, and I’m talking to a blind man.
“We’re done,” he says, finally. “Keep the tablet for now. Any software updates my team makes can be delivered wirelessly. Royce—he’s our hardware guy—is working on the scroll rate and battery life for the glasses. Pretty sure he even has a couple of frame styles you can choose from. If you can pull that two-by-four out of your ass, come to Second Sight in three days and maybe we can help you get back part of what you lost.”
“I don’t know what to say. Or how to thank you. But…y-yeah. I’ll be there.” Dax nods once, and as soon as he leaves, I pick up my laptop and send Austin one last email.
Austin,
I owe you an apology. I don’t know how he found me, but Dax Holloway knocked on the door of my hotel room a couple of hours after I stormed out of his office. The dude is…intense. Asked me questions for-fucking-ever, then told me to show up at Second Sight in three days without the massive stick up my ass.
I guess I’m going. Not like I have anything better to do.
-Griff
Chapter Three
Sloane
“Are you sure I can’t keep my hair down for this shoot?”
The bright lights make the room ten degrees hotter than it should be, and the silk robe sticks to my back. Marina, the makeup artist for all theBeauty and Stylephoto shoots in New York, rests her hands on my shoulders and leans down so we’re at the same level. I meet her gaze in the mirror and chew on my lower lip—something I seem to do more and more these days.
“The photographer requested an up-do, sweetie. And come on. I outdid myself today.”
She’s not wrong. My golden hair shines, with wisps curling along my cheeks to my collarbones. It’s organized chaos—Marina’s term—and took her more than two hours.
Beauty and Style—a multi-million-dollar print and online fashion empire—wanted a sophisticated, fancy, and whimsical look for their spring campaign, and Marina delivered. But when she holds up the mirror so I can examine her work, all I see is the cluster of faded dots where once, my neck bore the tattoo of a crown over a series of numbers. The evidence of my sordid past, erased for everyone but me.
I brush my fingers over the skin, shuddering at the uneven texture, the lack of sensation.
The alarm on Marina’s phone beeps, and she checks the screen. “Twenty minutes until showtime. How do you feel?”
She knows me. Not the real me. The old me. But I’m closer to her than anyone else in my life. “Like I’m about to come out of my skin. I need a pill.”
My lips roll together, pressing and pursing, and I tap my fingers on the arm of the chair over and over again. The unconscious movements are getting worse—a side effect of the meds I take for anxiety and depression—but I can’t risk switching up my prescriptions now.
Just another couple of shoots, then a potential trip to Zurich forBeauty and Style’sChristmas Book press junket. After that, I can relax. Take a week or two at a “spa” that’s really a mental health and wellness retreat and fix this.
Tardive dyskinesia.
At least my psychiatrist could diagnose me over a video call. One look at me at my worst, and she leaned forward, her brows drawn together, to ask me how long I’d been like this. Admitting the truth—six months or more—had me bawling to her for half an hour, but at the end of the session, at least we had a plan.
Marina hands me a small, plastic case and a bottle of water with a straw. “Once the lip dye goes on, youcan’tchew it off, okay?”
“I’ll try.” Fishing out one of the Xanax, I wash it down with the chilled mountain spring water and close my eyes. Marina touches up my cheeks, then starts on my lips.
The second the primer wand touches me, I struggle to stay still. While TD movements are technically involuntary, I can control them for a short time if I pourallmy focus into the effort.
Ten minutes later, I’m barely holding on. The amount of energy it takes to stop chewing off the lip dye is exhausting.
“You’re done. Head to wardrobe,” Marina says, smoothing her hands down my arms and giving me a quick squeeze. “You have never looked more stunning, Sloane.”
“You’re biased,” I say, rising and giving her an air kiss—can’t mess up the lip dye after all.
“Maybe. But I’ve been in this business for twenty years. Your exclusive contract withBeauty and Style?No one and nothing else could steal me away fromVogue.”
I pull her in for a quick, tight hug. We only met becauseBeauty and Stylepays her to make me look my best—and help keep me calm—but after working together for five years, Marina is one of my closest friends. Maybe my only friend. She sees me at my worst, and other than Max, she’s the only one who knows my eyes aren’t ice blue, but brown.
“You know I love you, right?” she asks, her voice whisper quiet in my ear.
