Page 5 of Strut

I summoned my best eye-roll at the insider joke and flipped him off. In the past year, I’d significantly upgraded my personal style, and Hank would say, thank God. It wasn’t difficult since I had zero to start with, and surrounded by fashion every day of the week, I quickly learned what was in and out and how to put a look together when it counted. I still preferred jeans and a T-shirt but could amp it up with some freebie jacket from a show or pair of shoes or the right belt or jewellery. My model friends ribbed me that I was finally developing taste.Fuckers.

I’d run into Hank many times at castings, and he was a genuinely friendly guy. Terence, I barely knew, and he hadn’t really warmed up since the shoot began. I slid into the makeup chair so Jolene, a five-foot-nothing, brown-eyed bundle of Hawaiian cuteness could work her magic on me. Terence took the chair opposite and the second stylist, Jake, started on him while Hank waited his turn. Being the principal model, I got a chair first.

“Morning, gorgeous.” I smiled and kissed Jolene’s cheek and she blushed prettily. Makeup and hairstylists were fabulous sources of gossip, hugely talented, and great allies if you could cultivate their trust. I’d rarely met one I didn’t warm to, and Jolene was no exception.

She shot me a wide grin. “Just in the nick of time.” She glanced over to where the photographer and editorial director were chatting. “Kelvin is a little stressed today. He wasn’t happy with the light in yesterday’s shots.”

“Fuck.” I studied the photographer with a groan I didn’t even try to muffle as the planned six-hour shoot spun out in front of me toward infinity. Kelvin James was a talented, blond bombshell on the rise in fashion circles and a perfectionist to boot, and I knew we wouldn’t be calling it a day until he got what he wanted.

“Guess I better buckle up.” I groaned, straightening in the chair as the studio started filling. Editorial shoots took a small army of people to organise. “Make me pretty, Jo.”

“I will if you sit still.” Jolene put her hands on my shoulders until I stopped fidgeting. She pulled at the ends of my hair, frowned, and cleared her throat. “Um, Kelvin said to ask if I could shorten this a bit?”

“What?” My gaze jerked to hers.

She shrugged. “He also said it’s only a request. You can obviously say no.”

From opposite me, Terence snorted. “Yeah, right.”

I couldn’t argue. If Kelvin wanted my hair shorter, he had his reasons. “Fine,” I grumbled, shooting a look over my shoulder to find Kelvin staring back with a shrug and an apologetic smile. My irritation dissolved. Kelvin respected his models. Appreciated that we were more than just products or a clothes horse. That we actually had fucking feelings.

“Go ahead and trim,” I told Jolene. “But no more than an inch or Cage can void my contract since I didn’t seek prior approval.”

“No more than an inch, it is.” She nodded at Kelvin who grinned like I’d given him the moon and blew me a kiss in thanks.

I shot Kelvin a quick smile, shoved my EarPods in place, and settled down with some music while Jolene did her thing. Kelvin really was one of the good guys. He was also gay, as I’d found out after he’d asked me to dinner the day before. But for whatever mind-numbing reason, he simply didn’t do it for me. I’d thanked him before turning him down, much to his obvious surprise. Mine too. As a model, having a well-known photographer in your corner was the equivalent of having an ace up your sleeve in a dodgy card game. But I didn’t play games and dating in this industry was like navigating a minefield. I had enough problems just trying to survive.

Considering the sad state of my sex life, which hadn’t seenanyaction for months let alone an actual real-lifesatisfyingfuck since I’d landed in New York, Donald Duck should’ve had a fair shot at my arse. But no, my libido had taken one look at the gorgeous and surprisingly nice fashion photographer with obvious interest in his eyes, and for some unfathomable reason had said no thank you.

And I didn’t have to look far to find the culprit responsible for my abysmal orgasm per week ratio. Another photographer—a certain brown-eyed, irritating Kiwi beauty who refused to be dislodged from my hitherto unknown men-Alec-would-like-to-fuck-next list. It was a small list. Like... one name.

Pathetic? Yep.

A wry smile crossed my lips as Jon Bon Jovi belted out the lyrics to “Livin’ On A Prayer” into my eardrums, and I wondered if the man had ever worked as a model. Living for the fight? Hell, welcome to the world of modelling.

As I listened, I watched the studio get finessed for the day, still pinching myself that I’d landed this prime editorial shoot. It was focusing on the Berlini Man label and their fall/winter collection that I’d modelled for them in New York Fashion Week. It was a massive opportunity and I’d been stoked to land it, especially after walking away from the go-see I was pretty sure I’d fucked up.

Hank waved a hand in my face and I took an EarPod out. “Did you hear Finn got that ready-to-wear ad campaign for Marc Jacobs?” Hank scrolled through his phone. “Didn’t you get a callback for that one too?” He looked to me and I nodded

“Yeah, but Finn was a much better fit.” I’d worked with the gorgeous Irish redhead a couple of times. He had a big personality with a quirky sense of humour.

“Personally, I think the photog had a soft spot for him,” Terence muttered as Jake spiked his hair.

I let the comment go. Finn had earned that gig, but I still had to get through the day’s shoot with Terence.

“Speaking of which.” Hank interrupted, looking my way. “You’re well overdue for an ad campaign. Fronting this shoot has to be great for you, right? I can’t wait to get off the runways.”

I shrugged. “Maybe. But I’ll always love the shows.”

Hank shook his head. “Really? Maybe if the designers paid more than a rat’s ass, it would be worth it. What’s so hard to understand about the fact that you can’t pay your rent with a fucking freebie Armani jacket and that actual cash would be nice, thank you very much. How many designers paid you in clothes in Paris, Terence?”

Terence rolled his eyes. “All but two. The Europeans are the worst. It’s like they think they’re doing you a favour.”

“They’ve got us over a barrel,” I agreed, and the others nodded unhappily. “Exposure is everything to us, right? We’ll go into debt just for the chance to walk the runway for a big label because we need to beseenin order to catch the right eyes and hopefully land a campaign where we can start to actually earn some decent money. Labels and editors know damn well we need them more than they need us.”

“Truth,” Terence grumbled. “No one makes money on the runway or covers. Not unless you’re already a big name. Ad campaigns are the fucking holy grail, but we have zero hope of those without exposure, so...”

The conversation fell quiet because we’d talked the topic to death more times than we cared to remember. Become the brand face of Givenchy or Calvin Klein or Hugo Boss or Berlini, and you won the fucking lottery.Thenyou could claim tens of thousands for a runway appearance. Without that, I barely earned enough at Paris and London Fashion Weeks to reimburse Cage for my air tickets. Lots of others didn’t even manage that.

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