“I was pretty sure this night was going to require alcohol. I have a car service on standby. Mik…she still has nightmares, and…”
“Call ‘em. Go home to her. I get it.”
All too well. I can go a week or two between my bad nights now, but when they hit? They’re not pretty.
“Not yet.” He leans against the kitchen wall across from me while I lay the ice pack across the scarred end of my arm. “Of course I checked up on you.” At my raised brows, he blows out a breath. “Seriously, man. You had to know when the Johns Hopkins folks reached out.”
“I knew you’d arranged things. Didn’t know you kept tabs.” Is this new bit of information supposed to make me feel better? Or worse?
“You got hurt because of me, Griff. Because of my fuckup with Clarke. Because I didn’t overrule the Ambassador and insist we find another route. Because I didn’t see that fucking wall about to collapse. So yeah. I checked up on you. Anything that I could do to help I was going to do.”
“Except talk to me.” The words sting my throat and eyes, and I’m so fucking done with feeling this way. Like I’m this broken tin soldier no one wants around anymore. Rusted and dented and missing some of its parts, but with enough battery life to run for years.
Austin’s shoulders heave, and he stares down at me. He’s got three inches on me, which wouldn’t be much if I didn’t feel about a foot tall at the moment. “That’s why I came tonight. To try to atone for my mistakes. To let you know I’m back. Not just physically, but trulyback. And…to offer you a job.”
Chapter Five
Sloane
Just before dawn, when the air is fresh and clean and the city hasn’t yet come to life, I slip out my door, pop a single earbud in, and launch my running playlist.
Half a mile later, the beach comes into view, and with the sun peeking over the mountains to the east, the water sparkles, golden ribbons broken up by glittering diamonds as the waves break offshore.
Surfers paddle out over the crest, and other runners pass me in both directions as I let the beat carry me through the five-mile loop. My left knee starts to throb a couple of blocks from home, and I shut off the music, cursing under my breath. I should know better. Running when I’m exhausted? That’s how I got hurt last year.
“Sloane, you should stick to the elliptical from now on,” the physical therapist tells me when I shuffle into his office barely able to put any pressure on my leg. “One more meniscus tear, and you’re talking surgery. Three months minimum recovery time, plus six months of PT.”
A torn meniscus in April? Not a problem. May, June, and July shoots are all for winter campaigns. But early November? That’s when everyone wants you in a bathing suit or another skimpy summer outfit.
By the time I’m back inside, the joint is starting to swell, so I fish a bag of peas from the freezer, limp over to the recliner, and grab my laptop. Thank God for grocery delivery.
I didn’t want to go the store anyway.Beauty and Style’swinter campaign just started, and from now until Christmas, my face will be plastered on every end cap in every makeup aisle.
Hell, I’m on the grocery store’s home page. The fake smile, the light in my blue eyes, the perfect skin… If people only knew how many hours it takes for me to look that…natural.
Once I place my order, shower, and mix up a green smoothie, I sink back down in the chair with my sketch pad and try to distract myself from the ache in my knee.
At thirty-five, keeping my body in a shape the modeling world considersacceptabletakes hours a day. Elliptical, yoga, weights, not to mention the strictest of diets.
“Eight months,” I whisper as I start with a simple sketch—all I remember of my childhood home. Four walls, a drafty old fireplace, piles of blankets in the corner…
A little over half a year, and my debt to Max and the Ulstrum Agency will be paid. Then, my life will be mine again. As long as I don’t violate the myriad non-disclosure agreements I signed.
The lines on the page blur with each blink, and I rub at the contact lenses. Dammit, I can’t take them out until the grocery delivery shows up, but some days, my eyes are so dry, the lenses burn non-stop.
The charcoal lines and curves on the page start to take shape, and with every tear in the wallpaper, each ripple in the worn-out curtains, my past bleeds through. It’s been years since I’ve drawn that dilapidated shack in Penza.
Turning the page, I let my pencil drift across the paper like my hand has a mind of its own. A chipped pedestal sink, patterned linoleum, dents in the wall…and a crinkled candy wrapper poking out from behind the pipes.
Why did my thoughts have to gothere? To that terrible hotel where so many men used me against my will? Of all the places I could have drawn…why there? Why now?
I haven’t had a Snickers bar since. I should have ordered one with my groceries. Though I’m on a strict regimen of green smoothies, veggies, chicken, and tofu for the next few weeks.
At least until the big press junket in Zurich.Beauty and Stylethrows a ritzy soiree every year when they debut their Christmas Book, and Max thinks I have a good chance of being included.
He’s so confident, he’s in Zurich now setting things up.Beauty and Stylepicks a dozen models each year for the catalogue and flies them all somewhere extravagant to mingle with their investors and the press.
The last time they chose me? Eight years ago. But Max is so certain, he told me to pack. If the call comes, I’ll have to fly to Switzerland on Tuesday. Then, it’s nothing but cocktail parties, pressers, and at least one—if not two—runway shows.
