The Death of Us, page 5
“Stunning,” is all Colette says, bringing the camera back up. It takes a little longer for the nerves to vanish this time, but when they do, I tangle my hands in my hair, closing my eyes as my ends brush against my back.
The ticking of the camera is endless, allowing me to lose myself in the rush of the moment. My body moves on its own, trying different poses, many faces, and just enough breath to keep me standing.
I think we got the photo, the one she’ll keep, the one she’ll pass around to designers and agencies. The one that’ll make me, but then the camera stops again. Her footsteps resonate in my mind, and her request comes as a shock.
“Okay, now the jeans.”
Inhaling, I bring my hands together at the button. My fingers tremble as they unclasp the metal from the loop, but that doesn’t stop me from hooking my fingers in the belt holes. Dragging the denim down my legs, I keep my eyes on the ground, collecting my scattering breaths before standing.
“Bra.”
My stare shoots to Michael, and he mouths the words he said earlier. “Don’t think. Don’t speak. Follow her orders.”
Giving myself a mental nod, I reach behind, touching the delicate clasp holding my bra together. For a second, I doubt what I’m doing, but it only lasts a second. You’re going to be a star.
My bra joins the rest of my clothing on the floor, leaving me in nothing but my grey bikini panties. I wait for further instructions with my arms crossed over my chest, blocking out the apprehension that rises on my skin. When did the room get so cold? Why did the lights suddenly become blinding?
“Now, let's see that beautiful body, Bunny,” Colette calls out, gathering my attention with a snap of her fingers. My eyes find her over the camera lens. Shark-like is the only way to describe them; deep, focused—calculated. Colette is an artist. She knows what’s best.
Don’t think. Don’t fight.
I drop my arms slowly, baring myself to the flashing camera. It takes more than a minute this time. With both their eyes on me, I fight the wave of discomfort that ripples throughout my system. I have to remind myself Colette and Michael aren’t like Denise’s boyfriends. They aren’t looking at me with lust, but with seasoned concentration. It’s clinical, purely to get the best shot.
“Beautiful, Bunny! Beautiful!” she shouts, making my confidence soar. Soon, I don’t feel any anxiety. My limbs are loose. My smile is wide. And the camera…
Oh, it doesn’t stop.
“I told you she’d be perfect.” Letting the camera fall against her midsection, Colette stares me down. Her mouth never moves, but I know whatever she’s thinking, it’s going to change my life.
“Are you busy tomorrow night, Bunny?”
“No,” I respond immediately, crossing my arms over my chest on my way to the pile of clothes. She waits until I fling my shirt over my head before saying, “A friend of mine is having a little gathering at his South Hampton home tomorrow. You should come.”
“Really? Why?”
“It’s called networking, dear. I may be able to get your foot in the door with these photos, but Marone? Well, let’s just say he can blow that door into pieces.”
A flash of a bright future, the vision of me on the cover of billboards, magazines…it’s enough to have a “Yes” flying from my lips.
“Great.” Colette smiles, turning her back on me to stroll to the long, rectangular wooden table pressed against the far wall. I don’t take my eyes off her moving pen as I drag my pants over my hips. I’m fully dressed by the time she returns. Card in hand, she extends it forward, a smile in her eyes and a grin on her lips.
“I’ll see you there.” Dragging her sharp stare across my outfit, her smirk grows. “And make sure to wear something nice. A cocktail dress.”
Slightly insecure, I cross my arms over my chest, feeling my smile fall faintly. “I don’t—” Swallow. “I don’t have a cocktail dress.”
“A gown will work just fine.”
I shake my head, apprehension growing. “Um, no. I don’t—”
“A little black dress?” I don’t think she’s talking about the chain cut-out bodycon I stole from Denise.
My no isn’t necessary. Colette sees my answer written across my face.
“Don’t worry. Michael will take care of you.” With that, she shoves us out of her studio, mumbling about her next appointment before closing the door on us.
Together, Michael and I head to the first floor. He tells me how great I was, how he knew I would be perfect for this, but all I can think about is the dress. Something so small shouldn’t have brought down my day, but I don’t even have a simple black dress. It’s a little but stinging slap across the face that maybe I’m not equipped for this.
“I know what you’re thinking about. Don’t worry about it. As Colette said, I will take care of everything and have a dress at your hotel door by tomorrow morning.”
“How will you know what to get? You don’t know my size. What kind of shoes I wear… Is this even your job? I thought you were just a scout.”
“I’m whatever my bosses need me to be, and right now, they need me to be a stylist. So don’t worry. I’ll handle everything.”
Michael starts to walk away, his hair bouncing as he strolls toward the exit. He almost makes it out before I call after him.
“Don’t you need my hotel? My room number?”
“Already got it!” he says, leaving me alone to wonder how.
1994
BUNNY
I was able to forget about Michael's weird comment until I woke to a pounding on my door the following morning. It took seconds to spring from the bed, throw on a pair of pants, and rush toward the sound, but by the time I made it past the threshold, whoever was here was gone. The only proof I hadn’t imagined it all was the bags at my feet.
I’ve been staring at the contents for the past half hour, in disbelief that something so beautiful will rest against my skin. I don’t want to walk away from it, but I’ve wasted my day. It’s almost three in the afternoon now, and I have to start getting ready for tonight.
Pamela Anderson’s look on last August’s Playboy cover is my inspiration; soft, sexy, dark lashes and nudish pink lips. My hair is resting in makeshift curlers while my foot presses against the bathroom counter. Yesterday, before I came back, I had stopped at a small bodega and picked up a couple of nail polishes. With the color of my dress, I settle on a classy, medium beige. It elongates my nails, making them slender and sensual. I read once that men like that, and I’ll do anything to make sure that Marone finds everything about me beautiful.
By the time I’m fully shaved, primped, and primed, it’s nine at night. I told myself when I was finished, Marone would find everything about me beautiful, but what I didn’t prepare for was to look in the mirror and fall madly in love with myself.
My face is the same, done up more than usual, with thick black lashes that fan across my cheekbones, pink cheeks, and lips I can’t stop biting. My hair is curled in thick barrels, surprising since I used the cardboard rolls I ripped from the inside of the toilet paper pack. But my dress—
This dress.
The deep richness of the emerald color sinks into my creamy skin, making me shine enough to rival the diamonds dripping from the fabric. The garment ends high on my thigh, but the jewels flow down to my ankles, swishing lightly against my beige, lace-up stiletto heels. I can’t stop touching the valley between my breasts, fingering lightly the stones that press against my flesh. I look like elegance personified. I look like fame. My hands clasp in prayer over my mouth. “I look perfect.”
I wish I had a camera to capture the moment. I know I’ll never forget it, but I want to see this forever. Having no choice, or time, I settle for the mental memory, securing every angle in my mind before grabbing my new clutch with my belongings inside and strutting out the door.
There’s no one around to watch me, but I use the hallway as my runway, holding my pose until the elevator doors open. Heat burns my cheeks when the surprised eyes of two men greet me.
They don’t say anything to me as I inch forward, only parting enough to create an open space between the two of them. Squeezing myself in, I offer them both a smile, being considerate before fixing my stare ahead.
“So,” the one on my left coughs, a man no more than thirty, “where are you going dressed like that?” Through the reflection in the metal, I watch a distorted version of him hide a smile behind his palm. His friend, a man of the same age, tags in, running his fingers down the back of my arm.
“Yeah, baby. Where you headed to? Can I come? I can keep you company all night long.” I ignore their remarks, keeping my eyes forward and hands over my stomach, counting down the remaining floors.
“What? Pretty little bitch can’t talk?”
“You think you’re too good for us, baby?” Pressing against me on either side, they begin to pin me toward the back.
I sense the walls coming in around me, the angrier they become. I know soon, the longer I stay inside, these soft touches will become bruising, violent grips. I can fight, push them off, but I’m still in here. I’m trapped.
The agony of my gender hits me then, and I count the seconds before something happens. Luckily for me, the doors ding open, filling my lungs with breath. I dart out of the tight space, shoving them with as much force as I can. Their laughter and teasing chortles follow me out of the elevator, as do the degrading, sickening wishes they place upon me.
I shake off their words, slap a smile on my face, and stroll forward to the reception desk. “Hi. I was wondering if you could call a taxi for me, please?”
“I would be happy to do that, Miss.” The young man behind the counter grins, grabbing the phone. “What is your name?”
“Bernice Walters.”
“Oh, Bunny,” he proclaims, shooting straight up.
“There’s already a car waiting for you. He’s right out front.”
Confused, I look to the exit, and sure enough, there he is. Right outside the double-glass doors, I spot a middle-aged taxi driver holding up a sign with my name on it.
“Do you know who sent him?”
“No, Miss. I’m sorry. I just got on shift.”
Nodding, I part with a tight grin, feeling my insides coil the slightest bit with nerves, forgetting to exhale until I say hello. It comes out breathy and tired, but he seems to understand.
“Miss Bunny?”
“Yes, hi,” I say, extending my palm for a shake. His grip is kind, full of warmth. It doesn’t squeeze me or exert any dominance. I feel comfortable, which is a relief since I’m getting into his car.
“Are you ready to go, Miss?”
“Yes, but first, could you tell me who sent you? I hadn’t called for a service.”
“Mr. Taylor, Miss.”
Michael.
“Thank you.” He helps me into the cab with a supportive hold of my hand, making sure I’m secure in my seat before closing the door. I follow his form to the front of the car, keeping my eyes on him until we begin moving forward.
We don’t speak during the drive, a fact I’m grateful for because my nerves are growing, wrapping painfully around my throat. I remind myself that these are good nerves. This is a good kind of fear. I’m heading in the direction of my dreams. That’s already more than what anyone thought I was capable of.
I wish Missy could see me. She doesn’t believe in princesses, but she’d see me and know they’re real because look at me. I went from dirt to diamonds. The thought of her smile, her pride, takes some of the anxiety away. The image drives me because I promised her a better life.
For you, Missy.
I’m doing this for you.
Almost two hours pass before we reach South Hampton. The sky has fallen into a beautiful shade of midnight blue, dazzling me with all the stars above. They almost hold my attention, but the house—mansion—is too powerful to ignore.
Cars and people litter the front, crowding the area full of greenery. Still, somehow, all they do is add to the power of the home.
Where am I?
“Have a wonderful evening, Miss.”
“You, too. Thanks.” I wave my driver goodbye, watching the taillights vanish out of my peripheral. The breeze from the nearby beach wafts across my skin, leaving me covered in prickled, stinging goosebumps.
Warming my hands with a little shake, I take my first step forward. My stiletto heels sink into the white gravel driveway, almost stealing my balance from beneath me. I release a squeak as my ankle rolls, gathering the confused looks of the men and women lingering.
My face flames, a flush scorching down my neck. I haven’t been here for more than two minutes, and already I’ve humiliated myself.
I catch the stare of two women leaning against a stone column, a cigarette burning between each of their fingers while their eyes drag down my form. They don’t try to hide their judgment, not with their glares. Not with their words.
“What is she? Twelve?” the bitchy blonde hisses, loud enough for me to hear. Her friend, a pretty brunette with a soft, delicate face, doesn’t bother whispering, preferring to shout her response.
“I don’t know, but one of them has to be fucking her.”
Once again, all eyes are on me, waiting to see what I’ll do—what I’ll say. Righting my posture, I force my shame away, holding their frowns with a smile until I meet them at the end of the stairs.
“Did you want to keep going?” Scoffing, the blonde turns to leave, taking her friend along with her. “Go home, sweetheart. This world is too big for you.” She ends her statement with a final puff of her cigarette, blowing the smoke toward my face before flicking the burning butt at my feet.
I glare at their long, lean forms slithering up the steps, their shiny dresses and massive diamonds sparkling under the hanging lantern fixture. I know the purpose of their comments was to make me feel like shit, to prove I don’t belong here, and I hate that they succeeded. Staring at their elegance and the exterior of the home, I know we’re not the same, but the smile stays on my plush lips. My spine never falters.
I may not belong, but fuck them. I’m here anyway.
Remembering that, I push forward, with nothing but confidence in my steps, as I make my way toward the deep cherry door. The solid wood weighs a ton, but now I understand why I couldn’t hear the party from outside.
As heavy as it is, the door doesn’t slam as it shuts behind me. Silently, it closes me inside, leaving me once again star-struck at the sheer wealth of the home.
Looking past the partygoers sipping champagne against massive potted flower arrangements, I gape at the extravagance surrounding me. Four towering marble pillars outline the four corners of the room, their white baseboards as crisp and clean as the cream quartz flooring. In the center of the space, a round wooden table holds champagne saucers full of glittering pink rosé. I steal one, taking a sip while gazing up above at the Schonbek Renaissance Crystal Chandelier. It’s clear Swarovski Crystals create rainbows over the room, adding to the magic of the world I just entered.
A man in a deep navy suit bumps into me in haste, apologizing swiftly before disappearing through another set of doors. It’s then that I notice there are three main entrances: one to my left, one to my right, and one up ahead. I take a step forward, my hands itching to reach for the light wooden banister leading to the second floor. It pains me to walk past the two golden tables at the base of the stairs, my curiosity wanting to get the best of me, but I do.
Leaving the foyer, I stroll through the hallway, taking one turn left and one turn right, running my fingers over the gold-framed paintings until I enter another area of the home. Unsure of where I am, I push open another set of doors, finding myself staring into a massive, dark space clouded in smoke.
At first, I don’t see anything, so I step inside the bass-pounding space. When my vision adjusts, I spot through the haze all the bodies filling every corner of the room. They press against each other, mouths molded into one. The sounds are overwhelming. Music thumps against my ears, rattling against my teeth hard enough to make them shatter. Over that, the chatter is endless, and yet it’s the moans that are the loudest.
Sex permeates the air, and though I can’t see it all, I feel it pressing against my chest. I look around, shocked that no one seems to sense anything but me. Men and women go about their conversations casually, as if the couples inches away, having an orgy, doesn’t affect them.
Captivated by the ecstasy on the woman’s face as another woman falls between her thighs, I fail to notice the man slinking up next to me or his hand as he moves to grab onto my elbow.
A firm grip pulls me toward the side, bringing me into the darkest parts of the room.
“Aren’t you just the prettiest little doll I’ve ever seen.” Shaking off his hand, I turn to follow the voice, freezing when a man in his mid-sixties slams his lips onto mine. I break the kiss as soon as my brain registers what’s going on, stumbling away as fast as possible. I listen to him call after me, but it fades out as quickly as it came when I get too far to follow.
Thankfully, there are exits everywhere.
My first chance to escape is a door on my left. With shaky breaths, I throw my legs over the naked bodies on the ground, doing my best not to bump into their thrusting forms. They hardly notice me as I push open the door, changing positions to her on all fours before I can get it closed again.
I shove it closed and press my forehead against the grain, still in disbelief at what I just saw.
“Too much to handle?”
Spinning, I follow the voice of another stunningly handsome man. This one is somewhere in his early fifties, with a soft, clean-shaven face and perfectly silver-gray hair parted stiffly to one side. His smile is full of sparkling white veneers, too perfect to be natural.
