Page 2 of The Burdens We Share
What in the fifty shades of fucked up is this? I immediately look up, my eyes scanning my vicinity to see if someone, whoever sent this message could be lurking somewhere. I feel foolish when my eyes find nobody watching. This is probably some kind of prank. A really weird and really creepy prank, but this has to be a prank. I have no doubt Aria probably thought it would be funny to prank me from her hospital bed. Who else would know about my fear of hospitals? The only people who would know that about me are Aria, Brody, Selene, my mom, and my brother.
A hand landing on my shoulder makes me jump and I look up to find Brody standing directly in front of me, her head tilted as she frowns. “Iv, what’s going on?”
I give her a shaky smile, stuffing my phone back into my purse, “Nothing. Just my mom. I’ll call her later,” I lie. I hate lying to my best friend. I don’t even know why I’m lying. The text unsettled me, but I don’t even know why. If it was just a prank I shouldn’t worry about it at all. I think the lingering effects of being in the hospital are making me weird. I feel a set of deep, hazel green eyes boring into the side of my face and reluctantly make eye contact with Dallas who’s looking down at me from where he stands about five feet away. I immediately look down under the intensity of his stare and focus back on Brody, “Look, I gotta go. I should call her back. I’m sure Sam did something to get himself into trouble and you know how that goes,” I lie again. Why can’t I stop lying?
Brody uses the hand she has on my shoulder to draw me into a tight hug. I hug her back. “I love you. Text me when you gethome, okay?”
“I will. I love you too,” I speak into her shoulder, but my voice comes out muffled. A con of being the short friend in the group is that I always get suffocated in hugs. Aria is seven inches taller than I am, and Brody is only two inches taller, but I still get eaten alive. It’s just one of the many trials and tribulations of being Ivory Aslan.
I pull out of Brody’s hug and wave a quick goodbye to Harvey and Dallas, avoiding all eye contact with Dallas as I do so, before turning on my cowboy-booted heel and making my way to my car. I don’t have to look over my shoulder to know Dallas is staring at my back the entire time. It only fuels me to walk faster.
Once I make it to my white Mercedes-Maybach, I quickly unlock the car and slide into the custom pink leather seats I had put in. I take a moment to exhale a pent up breath before resting my hands on my steering wheel. I have to center myself. I take a few breaths, trying to force the lingering hospital anxiety at bay when the text pops back into my head. It was creepy in a way that makes me question whether or not Aria really could’ve been behind it, but for the sake of my mental, I’m going to tell myself it was from her.
I reach back into my purse and withdraw my phone once more, opening the text once more and staring at the screen for what could only be a few minutes before I eventually decide to delete the message and put my phone back in my bag.Out of sight, out of mind, I say.
I press the start button on my car, already feeling the weight of the message removed from my chest, and when I look up to pull out of the parking lot, I catch sight of Dallas, standing right at his black, Rolls-Royce Spectre. He’s standing by the door, his hand on the handle, but he’s not moving. Instead, he’s focused entirely on me with an expression that looks a lot like interestand maybe a bit of curiosity, but it’s hard to tell because the man is just impossible to read.
I quickly put my car into drive and begin pulling out of the parking lot and away from Dallas. The man is absolutely terrifying to me. I’ve probably only spoken about two words to him the entire time he’s been involved with Selene and our band, but his presence and intensity speak more than any words could. There’s just something so dark and tortured about Dallas that unsettles me.
I continue driving, relaxing more into my seat as Dallas and the hospital vanish behind me. What a fucking day.
Chapter 1
Ivory
Present
I walk one platform-heeledfoot 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 tryfor 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 differentperson. 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.”
