Page 21 of Wild Blades

“Nice.” Leon turns the two-page spread he’s looking at in the magazine. It’s me in the last ever ad campaign I did for Dolce and Gabbana. I’m wearing nothing but a black corset that covers my intimate bits, and black heels surrounded by five male models all looking at me and me only. I roll my eyes when Leon says, “You look fucking hot, Roth. Don’t you agree?” He flips the magazine to show Wade.

Oh, my God. I suddenly feel sweaty and hot. I’ve been on billboards and strutted the catwalk in less clothes than that advert, but this is different. Wade is a client.

“Give me that.” I try to snatch it out of Leon’s clutches, making him chuckle.

Wade looks at it quickly before I grab it, slam it shut, and then slap it on top of the glass coffee table in front of me.

When I look up, Wade is staring at Leon and me.

Ping-ponging his eyes back and forth, he asks a question that makes me want to die, “Are you two sleeping together?” He waggles his finger at us.

I cover my face. “Oh, my God, Wade. No,” I exclaim.

“Not for lack of trying.” Leon laughs, which causes me to remove my hands from my face, give him a playful punch to the top of his arm and then a whack across the back of his head.

He cowers away from me. “Fuck, I’m kidding, sorry.” He laughs again.

Prick.

Flustered, I look at Wade. “This is strictly business. He’s like a brother.” My thumb points at Leon.

“Oh, fuck no, don’t ever describe me like that,” Leon all but yells at me.

“But you are.” I turn to look at him in complete shock. He and I are not a thing, never will be.

“I could ask the same about you guys.” Leon points at Wade, then me. “The sexual tension between you two is off the charts. Maybe you should just bang.”

This meeting is getting out of control and destroying my attempts at professionalism.

I rub my temples in distress. There is no amount of chamomile tea to calm my annoyance at this conversation. I might have to start taking Ashwagandha again. Order it in bulk to ease the anxiety of working with these two knuckleheads.

Goddamn hockey players.

“Enough.” I rise to my feet and make aTshape with my hands calling timeout.

I look down at Leon in disbelief. “What the hell is wrong with you? I’m old enough to be his mother.”

“Hardly.” Wade scoffs.

Usually unflappable, I’m flapping like a baby penguin about to take its first plunge off an iceberg into treacherous waters.

“You know what I mean, you’re just a kid,” I counter.

Wade’s stunned into silence. He’s just standing there, looking at me in complete bafflement, and I know I’ve offended him.

“You’re eight years older than me, Kali. Not old enough to be my mother, and for the record, I’m not akid. I own a house, have a career. Which, okay, I may have fucked up a bit, but I pay bills like everyone else.”

But wait, what?

“If you have a house, why are you living in a hotel?” I ask.

Running his hand down his face, he confesses, “I was kicked out of my last apartment. The neighbors didn’t appreciate me playing My Chemical Romance at two in the morning when I came in wasted. Wasn’t in thecommunity spiritof things apparently.” Eyes busy, he looks everywhere but me as if embarrassed with himself, as he admits, “I was kicked out a couple of months after Gretchen died. I was sort of sofa surfing after that, staying here and there, wherever I could find a place. I haven’t been able to find something I like here in the city, and my house is by Caulder Creek. It’s too far for me to travel the two hours there and back again every day for training and games.” Letting go of the tension I could see building, he screws his face up, his nose scrunching. “And it’s the house Gretchen died in. I haven’t been back since the day of her funeral.”

Well, that explains it.

That’s the first thing on the list; find Wade a house to call home. He’s unsettled and I know what living in a hotel night after night is like.

It’s what I did throughout my modeling career and when Michael and I split up.

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