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A thing that you see in my pictures is that I was not afraid to fall in love with these people.
–Annie Leibovitz
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GWEN
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“HOLY CRAP,” I MURMUR and take a sip of my coffee, skimming the article about Brent in Stylz. “Sexual predator?”
I only met Brent once, but he was . . . not smarmy. I can’t believe it. The man could get anyone he wants with his fame and money and good looks alone, plus he’s funny and nice. It’s like finding a rainbow-colored unicorn in the middle of Manhattan.
Not that that means anything. I shouldn’t let my own issues with Marissa affect my thoughts about an allegation of this nature. Crappy people get assaulted, too. But I can’t help wondering . . .
Is Marissa lying?
Why would she lie?
I grimace at the photos in the article. He’s just standing there. How did she get these shots anyway? It looks like a camera phone, maybe with some kind of timer.
There was a B-list actor, a couple years ago, that she became obsessed with. Lucky told me the story, so I have to take it with a grain of salt, but apparently she followed the guy one night when he was on a date, all the way back to his apartment and listened to him hooking up with someone else at the door.
She had a weird thing for Lucky, too, which is why I think she printed the article about me. There’s no doubt she’s got a screw loose.
Did she switch her fixation to Brent? I’ve never seen her print something like this, though.
I don’t have time to think about Marissa very long because my phone and email start going crazier than she is. I’ve already responded to some of the jobs I can’t do—mostly the personal shoots, I need more professional jobs to bulk up my portfolio—and I schedule out the stuff I want to work on for the next two weeks.
Things are finally taking off and I have my own little fifteen minutes of fame to thank.
Except . . . I got yet another rejection. I’ve been trying to get someone to listen to my idea for a photo essay and I keep getting doors shut in my face.
It’s bad enough that editors take one look at me and assume I’m a ditzy blonde; toting around nothing more than celebrity shots and models in my portfolio is like having herpes. I guess I should be grateful they even took the time to respond with their rejection.
I’ve been pitching the idea of an inside look into endangered cultures around the world. I want to start with the Kalash, an indigenous people who’ve managed to retain and practice their unique religion, customs, and traditions despite being nestled in the middle of predominantly Muslim Pakistan. There are only three thousand Kalash left. And that’s just a jumping-off point. There are so many cultures around the world that are rapidly disappearing under an onslaught of technological advancement and encroaching settlements. Someone has to capture them while we still can. And I want that someone to be me.
I was hoping since the Wonder Woman article went viral that I would have a better chance for an interview at least.
No matter, there are other magazines and I’m going to apply to all of them. Someone will listen, eventually.
In the afternoon I’m running from one job to another when I get yet another call.
“Gwen McDougall,” I answer.
“Gwen, this is Starlee Miller. We’ve met before, at a charity event a couple years ago.”
I mentally rack my brain. Starlee Miller. Petite, dark hair, her husband works for News Weekly, a popular political rag. I only remember her because of her spouse, actually. His best friend is Warren Bateman, a Pulitzer Prize–winning photographer.
“Right. The Children’s Hospital gala.”
“Yes.” She sounds surprised that I remember her. “I was wondering if we could meet sometime today. I have an offer for you that I need to talk to you about in person.”
I have to admit, I’m curious. And even though she’s only indirectly associated with someone I greatly admire and would love to meet, in this industry, it isn’t only about talent. It’s about who you know, regardless of what people like to say in interviews and print. If I could get someone to put in a good word, maybe I’d have a chance.
“I’m heading to a shoot this afternoon, but I can meet you after. Say six?”
“Great. McClaren’s on Fifty-Fifth, you know it?”
“I do.” An Irish pub with your typical bar fare, but nice ambience.
We agree to meet and then hang up.
I don’t have much time to ponder the conversation or what Starlee Miller might want from me because my afternoon is filled with shoots for an article in Page Seven and a few personal photography sessions I scheduled prior to the viral article.
I race home to drop off everything but my camera and case and then I take a cab to McClaren’s, arriving just in time.
McClaren’s is located in a narrow brick building in Hell’s Kitchen. Three floors are peppered with deep red booths, lots of wood paneling, and a shiny brown wood bar on each floor. It’s one of those places where businessmen meet after hours to talk shop, loosen their ties, and call the pretty waitresses “sweetheart.” When I give the hostess my name, she takes me up the staircase in the back to the second floor, where it’s less crowded.
Starlee is already waiting for me at a small booth near the back. She looks like I remember, a small woman in her mid-forties with dark hair and an expensive, but simple suit.
She stands and shakes my hand. “It’s nice to see you again.”
“You, too.”
As soon as I sit across from her, the waitress appears as if she’d been waiting for me to arrive.
We order drinks and then Starlee immediately gets down to business. “I understand you recently met one of my clients, Brent Crawford.”
It doesn’t take much for me to put the pieces together. “Is this about the story in Stylz that hit this morning?”
She nods. “It is.”
I lean back in the booth and consider her. If she’s going to be blunt, I might as well be, too. “What do you want from me?”
“I know you’ve been bit in the ass by Marissa before. You’ve done a great job digging yourself back out, and with the recent bit of notoriety you’ve gotten, anything that happened over a year ago is forgotten.”
“Nothing like that ever completely dies.”
She waves a hand. “Everyone knows you were the victim in that situation, despite Marissa’s efforts. The only reason she still has her job is because she can sell stories, real or imagined. You are perfect for what Brent needs.”
“And what does Brent need?”
“A girlfriend.”
I consider her words. It makes sense. Marissa is accusing him of being a predator, I took down a predator. Nothing would hit back at her false accusations faster than Brent dating me.
And it would burst Marissa’s bubble, which is a bonus.
But . . .
“Listen, Starlee. I know Marissa and how she is. But I’ve only met Brent once. And while Marissa isn’t my favorite person, that doesn’t mean she’s lying. I can’t even entertain doing something like this without being one hundred percent convinced that he’s innocent.”
The waitress comes back with our beers and Starlee doesn’t respond to my comment until she’s dropped off the drinks and walked back out of earshot. “What I’m about to tell you remains completely off the record.”
“Okay.”
She takes a long drink of her beer and puts her cup down carefully before meeting my eyes. “Brent is impotent.”
Shock slaps me back in my seat. “Um, how do you . . .”
“There are medical records. I’ve already had a signed affidavit drawn up, which I will send to you with an NDA if you agree to help him out. Brent signed a medical release as well, so you can call his doctor and confirm. You won’t have full access to his medical, just enough to convince you he’s not lying.”
I stare at her for a minute. I don’t know what to say. “Just because he can’t . . . you know, doesn’t mean he didn’t assault Marissa.”
She pulls the magazine from the briefcase on the seat next to her, already opened to Marissa’s article, and puts it on the table in front of me. A sentence has been highlighted that says Brent took every opportunity to show Marissa his erect penis and told her he would “bone her all night long.”
Pretty obviously a lie if what Starlee is saying is true, which apparently it is if she’s offering up medical evidence to support it.
“Why doesn’t Brent tell the truth, to the media? If he has medical records to prove it?”
Her head is shaking before I even finish the sentence. “No one knows about Brent’s condition except me and his doctors. And now you. I was out of the loop myself until this morning. Marc doesn’t even know.” She shakes her head and releases a heavy sigh. “The only reason Brent told me was because he wanted you to be assured.”
Huh.
“I tried to get him to go public with the medical but he won’t tell me everything that’s going on. Only that he’s having this . . . side effect. I don’t think he fully understands the ramifications of an allegation like this so early in his career. It’s a financial disaster. Who knows how long his career will last? A physical injury could end it at any time, which means gaining celebrity traction is essential to keep the endorsement money rolling in if and when he has to retire.”
I nod in acknowledgement. As his agent, she would be worried about the money because that’s where she gets her cut.
But do I really want to do this whole fake relationship thing? Brent’s obviously got a lot on his plate, and a shallow, vindictive part of me would love to stick it to Marissa. I know these “arrangements” happen all the time behind the scenes in this bubble of celebrity un-reality, but it feels so . . . underhanded. Besides, putting myself back into the limelight isn’t what I want, not this kind of attention. This won’t help me with my career.
Starlee watches me carefully while speaking her next words. “You know, I’ve heard you’ve been pitching an idea around town about a potential human-interest piece.”
“You’ve done your homework on me.”
“It’s my job. My friend Warren works at News Weekly.”
I freeze, my ears perking up at the words. I’ve been sending requests every other week to different places for the opportunity to present my idea. I’ve never even gotten as much as a nibble. “What are you offering?”
“I can’t guarantee anything with Warren. But I could put in a word for you. I could even hand over your proposal myself. I also have other connections with magazines in this city. I could get you more than one shot at this.”
It’s not a promise, but it’s an opportunity. The opportunity I’ve been waiting for—to get someone to look past my blonde hair and modeling history and give me a shot at something.
I can’t believe I’m even considering this, but how could I not? This is what I’ve been working for.
And besides that, Marissa sucks. Fuck her for lying about assault just to get some notoriety in a magazine. False allegations like hers undermine the real victims and is one of the reasons people are less likely to report.
I don’t know Brent well but I felt a connection with him and his brother the other day. And now I feel almost more connected, knowing his secret, knowing he’s been holding this inside for however long and only released the information to gain my trust.
He’s not like a majority of the people I’ve met in the industry.
Then again, can I trust my instincts? I thought the same thing about Lucky and Becca and I got completely fucked over.
“If you would put in a word for me with Warren, I will do something to help Brent. For a short time.”
“Thank you.” She smiles warmly at me before getting back to business. “I’ll send over a contract to sign along with the medical information. Standard nondisclosure with an option to cancel but not for at least three weeks. Marc knows about the fake relationship, but that’s it.”
I nod like I’ve done this before but I have no idea. I’ll have to read it over carefully once I get it.
We talk about Brent’s schedule—the football season has started, so we’ll have to work around his away games and it’s likely I’ll have to make appearances at a home game at the very least. She adds some information about a kids club he and Marc volunteer at.
“Since Brent is on the road a lot over the next few months, only Marc will be there most of the time. Right now he’s getting a website done up for them. We can put your name as the photographer for the photos on the site. It will look good if people start digging, plus it’ll strengthen the cause. The charity is a family tradition, so we might as well get some positive exposure for it as a silver lining from all this mess.”
“I’m not putting my name on something I haven’t done. Send me the details for the kids club and I’ll make time this week to stop by and take some pictures.”
She tilts her head in acknowledgement. “I think we’re going to work together on this just fine, Ms. McDougall. Now. For the first date out in public.”
Brent and I will have our first outing tomorrow night. Dinner. A car will pick me and Brent up and take us somewhere there are sure to be a few paparazzi lying in wait.
Throughout the conversation my thoughts drift back to Marc. Everyone is so concerned with the Brent backlash, but what about Marc? He must have had his heart broken, too, a nasty side effect of dealing with Marissa.
Who’s rushing to his side while I’m at Brent’s?
~*~
BRENT LIVES IN GREENWICH Village at The Nathaniel, a place so fancy it’s got its own human name. It’s one of those places with a wall of sparkling windows at the entrance and a rotating door. Inside, the front lobby is sleek, polished, and awash in doormen.
Doormen!
All I have is a homeless guy who passes out in front of my building every night and leaves a trail of urine that stretches to the street.
Apparently, they are expecting me because a doorman directs me to Brent’s floor.
I had to dress the part for the date. It’s been a while since I got myself all gussied up for cameras. Thankfully, I have some fashionable attire and makeup leftover from my glory days. It’s weird, though. Sort of like putting on a mask. And the dress is on the tight side. I’ve gained a few pounds since I’m not being pressured into starving myself anymore.
I find his apartment—on the top floor, of course—with ease and after a deep breath, I knock three times.
There’s shuffling on the other side of the door and then it swings open.
“Hey.” It’s Marc.
“It’s you,” I blurt.
He’s dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt. He has slight grey smudges under his eyes, but other than that he’s clean-shaven and put together. He doesn’t look like I did after my last breakup, like I just crawled out of a garbage can, so there’s that.
But I can’t help but wonder. Did he lose sleep because of what happened with Marissa?
I don’t generally hate people, but that chick needs to be taken down. Or put in a facility for the mentally deranged and totally bitchy.
He smiles when he sees me, the expression reaching his eyes. “It is me.”
I glance at the number on the door again, then back into the cavernous space. The entryway is about half the size of my entire apartment. “Is this not Brent’s apartment? I could swear Starlee said 1010.”
“Oh.” Something flickers behind his eyes, darkening them before he holds the door open wider and steps back to let me in. “Yeah. Brent’s here. He’s getting ready. He—”
“Is she here?” Brent steps out from the hallway into the entry, wearing only slacks, no shirt, exposing his broadly muscled chest and arms. “Hey.”
“Hi.” I keep my eyes on his face. Brent is extremely well built, no doubt due to hours and hours of training. It doesn’t faze me as much as it probably should, since I spent a few years around half-naked models, posing with them, dating them . . . although they tended to be leaner.
More like Marc.
I glance behind me as Marc shuts the door, wondering what Marc might be hiding under his shirt.
“Thank you for doing this.” Brent’s voice startles me. He’s moved closer, right in front of me. “I know it’s . . . unconventional. And you don’t even know me.”
“I know. But I do know Marissa. She’s burned me before. I wish someone had been there to help me when she sank her claws in. I’m glad to be able to help someone else. You didn’t deserve what she did.”
Especially considering what I read in the signed medical records the night before. He first went to the doctor months ago. The records didn’t specify exactly what was causing his condition, only that it was something that’s “not eligible” to be fixed with a little blue pill and that it “may or may not” be remedied after surgery. But it didn’t say what kind of surgery. He seems healthy enough. I can’t imagine what he needs surgery for.
Marc sighs somewhere behind me. “Did everyone know but me?”
“Yes,” Brent and I say at the same time.
We laugh.
Brent grabs my hand, holding it loosely in his. “I’m really glad you agreed to this.” His grin is dazzling. Paired with his muscular upper body, it’s no wonder the guy makes women like Marissa go batshit.
“I need to finish getting ready. I’ll be right out. Marc?” His eyes flick behind me and with a squeeze he drops my hand and heads back down the hallway.
“Did you want something to drink?” Marc asks.
He’s standing a few feet away, hands stuffed in his pockets. Still looking to me like the most interesting man in the world. Is it weird I would rather stare at him than at the Adonis in the back?
I glance down the hall where Brent disappeared and then back to Marc. “A drink would be great. So you guys do that whole reading each other’s minds thing often?”
I follow him down the hall. Everything is bright and clean. There are hardwood floors, white walls with colorful and probably original prints, and not a speck of dust to be seen.
They must have a maid service.
“Yeah. We’re pretty close.”
Not close enough for Brent to share what he’s really going through. Maybe he’s embarrassed. Or in denial. “My sisters and I do that, too. It’s like I know what they’re thinking before they do, and they can issue a command with no more than a look.”
We stand in a kitchen full of sleek appliances and dark tile and gleaming granite countertops. My counters are ancient tiles with just as ancient grout that’s a bitch to clean and riddled with stains.
I clear my throat, feeling a bit nervous at the surroundings.
He opens the fridge. “We’ve got beer, wine, soda, water . . .” He trails off before lifting his eyes to mine.
“A beer would be great.” I need something to take the edge off.
He grabs two bottles and places them on the counter, opening a drawer to grab a bottle opener.
“Do you live nearby?” I ask.
“Brent and I both live here, actually.” He pops the top off one of the beers and hands it to me.
“That’s nice.” The words emerge from my mouth, and I almost grimace at the lameness, but the sentiment is real. I wish I could live with one of my sisters. The city might not be quite as miserable with one of them nearby.
“He’s not here much during the season, and I work a lot so . . . it just made sense, I guess. Plus, we like seeing each other.” He smiles and takes a drink of his own beer.
“Did you guys always get along? My sisters and I used to fight like crazy until we got older. It wasn’t until my oldest sister, Gabby, moved out that we realized we actually liked each other.”
“I think that’s pretty normal. Though Brent and I have always gotten along. Do your sisters live in the city?”
“I wish.” I follow him into the living room. “They still live back home.” The living room is mostly white and as pristine as the kitchen. There’s not even a stray piece of mail left on a surface.
My tiny apartment is all clutter and dust and three-day-old dishes.
There’s a sleek flat-screen TV and a bookshelf with alternating shelves of books and photos. I walk over to look at the pictures.
“Where’s home?” he asks.
“Just a little town out West—is this you guys?” I pick up a framed photo of a woman with dark hair, her arms wrapped around two little boys, and she’s laughing. One boy is also laughing and facing the camera—it must be Brent, I recognize the dimples. The other boy is gazing up at her, smiling. It’s obviously Marc, but there are no scars.
Marc steps up behind me. He stands to my right—so if I turn, I’ll get his unscarred side?
I trail a finger over the photo. “She’s beautiful.”
“Thanks.” His voice is soft and something in his tone catches my attention.
I rip my gaze from the photo. He’s focused on the frame in my hand.
“It’s my favorite picture of her. She looks so happy and, I don’t know, like herself.” A shadow flickers in the depths of his eyes.
My mouth pops open. “I love catching shots of people mid-laugh for that exact reason. It’s just so . . . real.”
His eyes meet mine and for a few very long seconds, we stare at each other.
Awareness fills the air between us, shimmering like a handful of glitter tossed into the breeze. My breath catches in my throat and my heart pounds.
“I’m ready.” Brent’s suddenly there in the wide doorway between the living room and the entryway. “Sorry for the wait.” His smile is brief but genuine. He’s wearing the same black slacks he had on earlier, with a blue sweater that brings out the color of his eyes. It’s like he’s stepped out of the pages of a Tommy Hilfiger catalogue, full of shiny good old-fashioned all-American looks. Like the quarterback everyone wanted in high school.
I hand the frame back to Marc and walk over to Brent, who’s already grabbed my coat from the couch and holds it up for me to slip my arms inside.
“Bye, Marc.” Brent heads for the door. “Don’t wait up.”
With one last wave at Marc, I follow Brent out the door.
