Page 1 of The Last Kind of Kiss
1
EX-FLAME COMING IN HOT
LILA
“Ican’t believe this is really happening,” I exclaim, pacing back and forth in front of Kitty’s Catwalk, the modeling studio that currently holds the success of my career in the palm of its manicured hand.
Theclopof my heels ricochets against the sidewalk, and my barely there dress fails to stave off the afternoon chill. Though my constant pacing seems to keep me from freezing into a well-dressed popsicle.
Aeris, my best friend, squeals through the staticky receiver of my phone, and I can practically picture her jumping up and down. “Li, I’m so happy for you. You’ve been working so hard for this moment. I don’t know anyone more deserving of this big break than you.”
And suddenly, the spine-crushing weight of this meeting sends my nerves into overdrive and churns my stomach like a rather violent rinse cycle. “Oh, God. What if I blow it? What if they realize there’s another model better suited for this campaign?”
Kitty’s Catwalk is known for turning girl-next-door types into world-famous models on the front covers ofVogueandSportsIllustrated. They’re known for creating overnight sensations and signing girls who go on to rake in an astounding eight-figure salary each year. Every model they’ve signed has climbed the social ladder and gone on to star in projects beyond their modeling contract—whether it’s a lead role in a blockbuster hit or becoming a self-made millionaire with an empire of clothing and makeup products. These are the kinds of A-list celebrities who get invited to red carpet events, who get swarmed by paparazzi if they simply make a grocery run, and who cause mass hysteria on every social media site because of their tumultuous dating history.
I’ve worked my ass off to get here today. For the past five years, I’ve been modeling for swimsuit ads, and I’ve made the occasional appearance on little-known catwalks. This could be the start of the rest of my life. And I wouldn’t have gotten this opportunity if it wasn’t for the massive spike in engagement I’ve gotten on Instagram.
Since modeling was barely paying the bills, I decided to take a stab at influencing, pretty much expecting next to nothing. It’s hard to grow a following, and even harder to maintain social relevance. But after one of my swimsuit photos went viral, people started discovering my account, and the likes skyrocketed before I could comprehend what was happening. Being financially comfortable isn’t just a future I’m seeking out for myself; it’s a future I’ve wanted to pave for my mother since the minute she loaned me money to pursue my modeling career.
She’s supported me through the devastating ups and downs; through the nasty, unsolicited feedback from the public; through the projected insecurities of guys and girls alike on the state of my body—how I look too skinny in one picture but have a belly in the next. She never once told me to stop chasing my dream, and for that, I owe her everything.
“There’sno onebetter suited for this job. You’re the perfect fit.And if they can’t see that, then they’re stupid idiots who wouldn’t know talent and beauty if it bit them in the ass,” Aeris says, and if it wasn’t for the expensive foundation on my face, I would probably blink a few tears from my eyes.
While my feet haven’t stopped trying to dig a trench in the concrete, my heart’s no longer trying to slam itself against the bracket of my ribs. I suck in a breath long enough to stilt the frenetic hammering of my pulse, and for the first time in the past five minutes, my heels come to a clacking halt.
“It’s just…everything has to go perfect, Aer-Bear. This is my one chance. If I don’t land this gig, I’m back to cursing the Instagram algorithm for shadow banning my posts.”
Sure, I’ve gone through endless casting calls before, but the twin glass doors beckoning me to the equivalent of hell have never looked quite as foreboding as they do now. Either I’ll get burned alive in there, or I’ll claw my way out of that death pit with my champagne-pink acrylics.
This is the last step in the audition process. One meeting stands between me and never having to go back to a normal life ever again. Kitty’s Catwalk reached out to me months ago for an initial audition, and they liked me so much that I’m one of the few finalists out of thousands of girls who auditioned. It’s surreal. I never thought I’d get this far.
Aeris’ tone melts into a softer inflection, one that overflows with admiration and coats my insides with liquid honey. “It’ll go perfect. You’ve got this, Li. I believe in you. I’m proud of you. You just have to push the nerves aside for an hour and let fate do the rest for you.”
There’s that cursedF-word. I think I start to see red every time someone mentions it, which is surprisingly a lot.
A lot of people talk about fate, but they dress it up with unbelievable soul ties and Christmas miracles that simply don’t exist. I get the appeal, I do. Fate gives people hope, but is it reallyworth it when that hope is about as fake as a knockoff Louis Vuitton bag?
I’ve come to learn that fate doesn’t exist. Just like soulmates don’t exist. Nothing happens because the world deems you lucky enough, or the stars align, or whatever the hell psychics are saying nowadays. If you want something to happen, you have to make it happen.
“Right. You’re right,” I ramble, holding my phone against my ear with my shoulder so I can iron out the creases in my skintight dress. “I’ve just got to play it cool. I’ve got this. I’ve done this a hundred times before.”
“See? Atta girl. And youhaveto call me the minute you hear back from them. I’m thinking we do a girls’ night with some champagne to celebrate.”
A swallow glugs down my throat, and nausea surges right up to my tongue before receding back into my belly. “I promise. My call time is now. Oh, God. Okay. I’m going in.”
Either the connection’s starting to break up, or Aeris is sniffling quietly. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” I tell her, ending the call and shoving my phone into my purse. I don’t have time to do some meditative breathing or psych myself up. My six-inch red bottoms carry me past the threshold and into the hallway that precedes the large, empty, whitewashed room that I know is waiting for me.
The studio is silent. I can’t hear anything aside from the staccato rhythm of my heels against the cement floor. I can’t feel anything aside from the increasingly urgent need to puke up the Caesar salad I had for lunch. When I get to boardroom 102, my clammy palm nudges the cold handle, and I open the reinforced door to find a plain backdrop and a ring of high-powered fluorescent lights all huddled toward the back.
A row of casting directors has been set up at the front of the room, their expressions ranging from friendly looking to stonyand unimpressed. Half-empty water bottles scatter the cloth tabletop, a daunting, inch-thick stack of notes inhabits the lead director’s space, and laminated headshots lay strewn about like windblown leaves.
I slowly make my way to the center of the room, hyperaware of trying to walk straight without twisting an ankle and embarrassing myself in front of my possible future employers.
“Ms. Perkins, so lovely of you to meet with us,” the lead director, Rebecca, greets, lowering her diamond-encrusted glasses before poring over my file.
“Thank you for making the time to meet with me,” I reply, half-surprised that I didn’t stumble over my words.
