Page 2 of The Burdens We Share (Satan’s Angels #3)

Ivory

Present

I walk one platform-heeled foot in front of the other on the long and very narrow runway.

The audience on both sides of me claps, a bunch of “ooohs” and “aahhhs” coming from all over which only makes me grin wider.

I keep my shoulders stiff but also relaxed as I continue my perfect model walk all the way to the end of the stage.

The eccentric angel wings on my back are about a foot taller than I am, which makes walking a bit of a challenge considering how heavy they are and how high my heels are, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.

I know what you must be thinking. Ivory, I thought you were a bass player, not a model.

And you’re right in that assumption, but also wrong.

You see, being the bass player for my band, Satan’s Angels, is my number one job.

It’s a job and a hobby combined, but who said a girl can’t have more than one hobby?

Modeling is my second favorite hobby and it just so happens that I made a career of it too.

When I was a little girl, I dreamed of being on the runway.

That was before my father introduced me to bass guitar.

When he passed, I grew fonder of the guitar because it reminded me of him and the dreams he never got to accomplish before he died.

Playing bass for Satan’s Angels beside my best friends has been a dream come true, but you could have more than one dream.

When Selene found a modeling gig for me about a year ago, I was ecstatic and never expected that I would be such a success in the industry.

What went from something I wanted to try for fun, to actual talent that resulted in me getting booked for the biggest and best shows and shoots, brought me to where I am today.

I may not have the stereotypical model body or appearance, but I bring something new to the modeling scene that somehow keeps landing me jobs.

I make it to the end of the stage, the rhinestones on the white lace lingerie set I have on glisten in the overhead lights, and jut out my hip.

I place my hand on my hip and use the other to blow the audience a kiss.

They cheer and I smile like the damn Cheshire cat.

The feeling of people admiring me, clapping and cheering for me, never seems to grow old, regardless of whether I’m on a stage or a runway. I eat it up every time.

I toss my long brown hair over my shoulder, my fingers brushing through the bright pink ombre at the bottom, before I turn and stride back to the stage exit.

The model passing me on her way to the front of the stage towers over me, but I stopped comparing myself to the other women in this industry a long time ago.

I keep my chin up and a smile on my face as I walk all the way off stage and to the dressing area.

Stage staff immediately helps me out of my wings and places a pink satin robe over my shoulders.

I tie it in the front and thank them before walking over to my vanity.

I sit in the director’s chair with my name on the back and play with my hair.

The show is over after this next model walks off and until then I just have to sit and wait.

I reach for my hairbrush and start combing the curls from my hair, making softer, more beachy waves.

As I run the brush through my chestnut strands, I admire the bright pink that my dark hair fades into.

I could stare at the color in my hair all day, that’s how much I love it.

I’ve had pink in my hair since I came to LA five years ago and I’ll never remove it.

It’s quickly become a part of my personality, my self-expression, my brand, everything that has to do with me.

Everyone knows Ivory Aslan, also known as Satan’s Baby, is pink.

“Ivory!” A high-pitched and very petulant voice squawks from somewhere to my right. I turn my head even though I know who the culprit is, and find Nara, my modeling agent focused on me with disdain in her eyes.

I place the hairbrush down on the vanity as Nara stops before me. Her arms crossed over her chest and her curvy hip jutted out. She raises a disapproving brow at me and her lip is curled in distaste. What did I do now?

Nara is one of the top modeling agents in the industry.

In the beginning, when I started modeling, Selene acted as my agent, but once I started to get more jobs and my modeling gigs started to really get bigger and busier, Selene paired me up with Nara.

Selene has enough on her plate dealing with all the trouble we bring her through the band, so adding a whole new career of mine to the potluck and dropping it on her already full plate, was quite the recipe for disaster.

Hence why she stepped back to focus on the band, and Nara focuses on my modeling.

Nara is great at her job, she just isn’t a very kind person. By that I mean she feels this burning need to crucify me after every show or photoshoot. Usually, I brush her off, but today she looks far angrier than usual and I’m not sure why. “Do you have anything to say?” She sneers.

I raise a confused brow, “About what?”

Nara rolls her big brown eyes at me and huffs.

I take the opportunity to assess her appearance.

She’s wearing a tight black pencil dress that accentuates her fuller form and highlights her curves.

Her hair is pulled into a high ponytail, and her caramel-colored skin is bronzed beyond belief.

Her bright red lips are still downturned at me, but otherwise, there’s no denying Nara is beautiful.

She used to be a runway model herself before she aged out.

Now, she just pumps her face with so much Botox and fillers that she looks like an entirely different person.

The fact that her fake boobs are about three sizes bigger than before also makes her look like a different person, but that’s none of my business.

At one point, Nara was the top model in the industry and sometimes it feels like she’s a little bitter that she aged out and likes to take her frustration out on me.

She grumbles, “About that walk!”

I frown, “What was wrong with it?”

She leans in closer and lowers her voice so the other models can’t hear, “It was atrocious. You walked way too fast and your posture was off.”

I know my walk was perfect. She just likes to nitpick every little thing I do. “I’ll do better next time.” I let her believe that she’s right so that she shuts her mouth and finds someone else to bitch at.

She shakes her head at me and waves an event worker over, demanding he bring her her iPad.

When he rushes off to retrieve it with a fearful expression on his face, she lowers her face so that it’s angled closer to mine before she adds, “That isn’t the only problem we have.

” Her voice is so threatening, I know that whatever she’s about to say to me is going to be far worse than anything else she’s ever said.

It’s also conveniently low so that nobody else can hear what comes from her mouth.

“What’s the other problem?” I ask, keeping my chin up so as not to make her think she’s intimidating me.

The worker comes back with her iPad and Nara snatches it from his trembling hands before sending him away– I pity the poor guy.

Nara is a huge bitch. People without the ability to stand up for themselves waver at her threats and her tone, but not me.

I may be small, but I have the biggest attitude you’ll see.

Nara unlocks her iPad and frowns at the screen the whole time.

When she finally flips it around to show me the screen, I stare at it with a blank expression.

It’s a photo of me from the runway taken only minutes ago.

“What am I looking at?” I ask. The photo looks magnificent.

My posture is perfect, my expression is perfect, the whole fucking thing is perfect. I killed that shit.

She snaps, “You’re looking at a major problem.” She uses two fingers to zoom in on my stomach and upper thighs. “Take a look here.” She watches my face as she speaks.

My eyes are zeroed in on the screen as I answer, “I’m looking. Not sure what the problem is.”

She blusters, “The problem is that you’ve gained weight. Your stomach looks puffy and untoned and your thighs got bigger.”

I focus in on the screen, assessing those parts of myself that she’s ridiculing. “I’m one hundred and twelve pounds, Nara. I’ve been at a consistent weight for all of my adult life.”

“Well you need to cut it down because if you stay looking the way you just looked on that stage, the modeling jobs are gonna stop and you’re going to be another washed-up model that piqued at the beginning of her career and plummeted right after,” she scolds, an aggressive look in her eyes.

Like you? I think to myself but bite my tongue. I’m a small girl. I’m five-foot-two and I’m thin, lean even. I work out sometimes and eat at maintenance. How could she say I look like I’ve gained weight?

She scoffs, “Don’t believe me? Look over there at Cami.

” She points to the right where Cami, the biggest name in the modeling industry stands, talking to another model.

Cami is about seven inches taller than I am, and there’s no denying she has the perfect model body—long, lean legs, toned stomach, the works.

But she’s also been doing this for years, and I’ve only just started.

When Nara sees me watching Cami she adds, “Cami is at the top for a reason, Ivory. Do you take this career seriously?”

I answer immediately, “Yes, of course I do.”

“Then you need to look like Cami,” Nara adds.

I turn my face back to meet hers, “Nara, she’s a lot taller than I am. Her body is a lot different than mine. I’m never going to look like her.”