Page 12

Stevie

I have to be at the sound stage at eight for hair and makeup. I try not to make a face at the scrap of gold lame they’re calling a dress that they want me to wear, and the rap music pounding through the speakers is giving me a headache. No one from L’'l Barracuda’s entourage is even here yet, so I don’t know why we have to have music blasting, but I know better than to complain. That just gives all models a bad reputation. No matter how legitimate the complaint is they always turn it around, call us divas. Or worse.

“You look gorgeous,” the makeup artist says.

I’m wearing so much makeup it feels heavy, but that’s the look they’re going for. There are two other models here who’ll also be hanging on Li’l Barracuda during the shoot, so we chat amiably as we wait for him to arrive.

The shoot is supposed to start at eleven, but when he hasn’t shown up by one, I’m annoyed.

“It’s his dime,” the pretty Asian model sitting next to me says, shrugging. “I get paid to be here from eight until six. After that, my rate doubles.”

I think there’s something similar in my contract but it’s been a while since I did something like this.

“Oh, look—he decided to show up.” The other model, a petite blonde, rolls her eyes.

“Okay, everyone, let’s go.” The director is shooing us like cattle as Barracuda and his entourage take their sweet time getting settled.

I hang back, watching as the other two models hang on his every word. I don’t know either of them, which is odd since I tend to stay on top of the industry I’m a part of. I think both are local catalog models, which is different from what I do. Of course, I’m also the “girlfriend” in this video, as opposed to two hangers-on.

“Stevie.” Barracuda approaches me with an extended hand and a friendly smile. “Hi, I’m Cassius. I apologize for being late. We came straight from the airport but the flight was delayed. Was a long flight from Rio de Janeiro.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” I say politely. “What should I call you?”

“My friends call me ’Cuda.”

“All right.”

“Do you need anything before we get started?” he asks. “I really am sorry about making everyone wait.”

“Part of the job,” I say.

“We’ll finish early today. Not a lot of shots here. Tomorrow night we shoot at a club, so that will be longer and later.” He turns to the director and they start talking about placement and who he wants where.

Mostly, I’m bored.

’Cuda is nicer and a lot more polite than I was anticipating, so that’s a relief.

I wasn’t lying when I told Marty Barracuda was handsome, but the truth is—I don’t want to make out with him. Especially not after kissing Marty. It’s been two days and I’m still breathless from that damn kiss.

No one has ever kissed me like that.

It’s not the skill level, or the intensity, or anything specific I can put my finger on—it’s the man. Marty is the whole package. Looks, body, career, finances, personality, even the way he looks at me. I keep trying to find fault with him, and other than the fact that he’s not legally divorced, I can’t.

And now I don’t want to kiss some random musician in front of fifty members of the crew and his entourage. Hell, I don’t want to kiss him at all.

But I have to.

I’ve done it dozens of times before for other videos, movies I’ve had roles in, and commercials. I just don’t want to now.

It makes no sense.

Well, maybe it does.

I’ve changed since the incident, and while I plan to do my job, I’m beginning to realize that I’m different in more ways than I originally thought.

It’s not just that I feel physically stronger and more in control of my life, part of me feels like I’m starting over. I’m still Stevie Marchand, one of the top models in the world, but I’m also a woman who’s never going to be a mom—something I thought was a given. I’m a woman who no longer envisions her future; it’s a blank slate that I’m still trying to design. I have absolutely no plans, no preconceived notions, no idea what’s next.

The best thing about that is that I can become anyone I want now. She won’t be the woman I once thought I’d be, but she could potentially be better. I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure that happens. Between the supportive group of friends I’ve surrounded myself with, ongoing sessions with my therapist, and finally returning to work, I’m starting to find myself again.

And one damn kiss is suddenly making me question…everything.

“You ready?” ’Cuda approaches me with another friendly smile. He has long-lashed light brown eyes and his dreadlocks give him an edgy, bad-boy look—everything I used to love in a man.

Except now I’m thinking about soulful dark eyes, a few days’ worth of scruff, and a strong torso.

Dammit.

“Let’s do it.” I move into position. ’Cuda has his arm around me, and if I’m honest it’s not a big deal. He’s respectful and polite, keeping his hand just above my hip as he pulls me close, whispering nonsense to me since the words won’t be heard in the video over the music.

“I never know how I’m supposed to make this look romantic,” he whispers, nuzzling my ear. “I can do the facial expressions, but when I have to talk—it feels weird.”

“It does,” I agree, letting my head fall back as if I like what he’s doing.

“So don’t laugh if I just start singing the ABC’s or something.”

I can’t help it—I burst out laughing.

The director calls “cut!”

And ’Cuda loses it too.

“Sorry,” I say, shaking my head, “but that was totally your fault.”

“Absolutely.”

He grins, and the ice is broken.

Maybe this won’t be so bad.

* * *

The next day’s shoot doesn’t start until late. Despite what we were told yesterday, the club where we’re filming isn’t available to us until after ten o’clock, so it’s going to be a long night. There’s a choreographed fight scene between ’Cuda and some of his crew, which will probably require many takes, and that means a lot of just sitting around.

In fact, it’s eleven thirty, and I’ve been sitting here sipping the same glass of wine for two hours. I’ve been texting with Chey and Ally, but Ally’s gone to bed and Chey is busy with Ivan.

A bunch of ’Cuda’s friends are here, filling up the club, and there’s a real party going on amid filming the scenes for the video, so it’s a lot of chaos.

And I’m bored.

I don’t know the other models, friends or girlfriends, and most of them are ignoring me, which is why I allowed myself a single glass of wine. I’ve been nursing it so I don’t get tipsy, but I’m tempted to have another. Supposedly I’ll be sitting with ’Cuda after the fight, making out and whatever. They did some shots of me walking into the club, with a runway vibe, but now it’s a waiting game.

Impulsively, I scroll through my contacts until I get to Marty’s name.

Is he even awake?

Would he want to come down and hang out? It looks like we’re going to be here all night and I know he has to get up with his kids, but his mom is in town…

Before I can change my mind, I send him a text.

STEVIE: Hey, are you awake?

MARTY: Just lying in bed watching TV. What’s up? How was your shoot?

STEVIE: I’m still here. We’re filming at Club Dynamite in Hollywood.

MARTY: How much longer do you have to be there?

STEVIE: Probably all night. The club didn’t close to the public until a few hours ago so we got a much later start than anticipated.

MARTY: Oh, shit. I’m sorry. Do you need anything?

STEVIE: Company? I know you’re in bed, but you could come as an extra and then I’d have someone to talk to. Is that totally selfish? I know you’re up early with the kids.

MARTY: It’s not selfish. I’m a grown man who can say no. But I don’t have to because my mom is here.

STEVIE: Is that a yes?

MARTY: Sure. Do I need to wear anything special?

STEVIE: Dress pants, dress shirt, but no tie or jacket. Upscale club scene but casual, if that makes sense.

MARTY: Give me thirty? I need to get dressed and drive across town.

STEVIE: I’ll leave your name at the door. There’s a bouncer telling people the club is closed for a private event but just tell them you’re here with me.

MARTY: All right. See you soon.

STEVIE: Thank you—I’m really grateful.

That was too easy.

He wants to come hang out with me even though I’m sure it’s going to be incredibly boring for him.

Or maybe not.

I truly didn’t think he’d say yes, but since he did, it occurs to me that he likes me. And not just as a friend.

I don’t know how to feel about that because we don’t have a future.

He’s the kind of guy who wants a couple more kids—which I can’t give him—and enjoys living a quiet life outside of hockey.

That’s the opposite of my life. Well, it’s quieter now than it was before, but I’m nowhere near ready to retire, which means travel and fashion shows and photo shoots all over the world. How would I do that with a husband and three kids at home? Especially when he has to do the same type of thing for hockey?

Even if the kids aren’t mine, I’d have to be at least partially responsible for them, assuming he gets the custody he so desperately wants. We’d have to compromise, and I know as a woman who essentially works for herself—because I can take jobs or not, my schedule is flexible—I’d be the one compromising.

I got into a bad habit of letting the men in my life make my choices—what dress I should wear, where to have dinner, which jobs I should take—and I’m never going to do that again. No matter how tempting it is.

No matter how tempting he is.

At my core, I’m a lot less complicated than people think. I live a glamorous life so behind the scenes I just want… simplicity. Comfort. Love.

That’s all I ever wanted but for whatever reason, I latched on to men who took advantage of that.

Except I don’t think Marty would ever take advantage of me. In fact, he would do the opposite of that—Marty would give me wings.

That’s terrifying because I can’t be the woman he needs.

No matter how much I want to be.