“Nothing,” I said, sliding it off the corner of my desk so that it fell into the trash can below. “Just some trash I found in my pocket. Been a while since I wore these jeans, I guess.”
“Were those matches? I thought you were quitting smoking.”
Just hearing the words made my jaw ache for a cigarette. I didn’t know why I was still on the wagon if I wasn’t planning to go to the academy. Because Chris may not remember telling you to stop, but he doesn’t like it, and you may not want to admit it, but you care. I pressed my lips together, a sad attempt at a grin. “Like I said, it’s been a while.”
He looked unconvinced but apparently decided it wasn’t worth pursuing. He scratched his chest, right next to his armpit, his shirt bunching up beneath his fingers. “You still thinking about joining me on a shoot?”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “Sure. When?”
“Tomorrow? Taking Marisol downtown. You said you wanted to go on an urban shoot, yes?”
No. I didn’t particularly want to go on any shoot, urban or ocean or out in the middle of a fucking cow field. I didn’t have time to be “trying to find myself” in Dad’s footsteps. Not to mention, I didn’t want anything to do with him. Just looking at him made my heart ache.
But there was only one way to get him off my back.
“Yep. I’ll be ready.”
THE WORST THING about being a photographer is that you’re a slave to the light. Photographers could work for themselves all they wanted, but that didn’t mean they could mosey on out for a shoot anytime they felt like it. They had to be up before the sun, so they could get their things together, meet their model, find the perfect spot, and set up before the sun got to its best position in the sky.
I hated being up early for any reason, but especially for standing around while my dad fiddled with lenses and Marisol paced in stilettos with one arm pressed into her concave gut while her other hand held cigarette after chain-smoked cigarette.
Models weren’t always as healthy as they looked.
Every so often, Dad would order me to kick some rocks away from a doorway or hold the reflector disc higher, no, not that high, a little lower, no, you’ve gone too low. You know what? You should be standing on the other side of her. . . .
Photography was some mind-numbing shit.
After what seemed like a lifetime, but had only been about four hours, and a miserably few photos, my stomach started growling.
“Can I get a coffee or something?” I asked.
“Good idea,” Marisol said. “I swear I’m going to pass out if you have me jump in the air one more time, Milo.”
“We’re just getting something done,” Dad said, not even bothering to look up from behind the camera, which he’d spent the past twenty minutes painstakingly screwing onto a tripod and adjusting to whatever constituted the perfect height. “If we stop now, we’ll lose the good light.”
Jesus. The light.
Marisol cocked her hip to one side, her hand on it, and pouted, actually whimpering a little. Dad responded by snapping a picture. She probably looked amazing in it. Life was unfair that way.
“How about I’ll get something for everyone and bring it back?” I asked. “I’ll get sandwiches.”
“Bread. I don’t eat white food,” Marisol said at the same time that Dad barked, “Don’t move! You’re in perfect position!”
“Then I’ll bring you a salad,” I said.
“I don’t do lettuce or dressing.”
I gave her an are you fucking kidding me look, but she was too busy posing to notice.
“I’ll be back,” I called to Dad. He gave me a sigh when I tossed the reflector disc on the ground, but simply went back to clicking the shutter on Marisol.
Starvation wasn’t the only reason I was dead set on getting some food right away. The other reason was that the alleyway Dad had chosen for Marisol’s backdrop by happenstance was across the street from Morning Glory, a peace-and-love-style café. I had seen two people who I was pretty sure were Vee and Gibson, two members of Peyton’s band, haul all their crap inside. I hadn’t seen them for months, but I would recognize Vee anywhere. She kind of stood out.
I jogged across the street and into Morning Glory.
“Can I help you?” a woman behind the counter asked the second I stepped foot in the door.
“Uh, yeah,” I mumbled. “Three coffees and three turkeys on rye. To go.” Screw Marisol and her white food. My eyes landed on a display of cookies the size of cake plates. I grabbed three of them and placed them on the counter. “And these.” Hopefully—and likely—Marisol didn’t eat sugar, either, and I would be forced to eat hers and mine both.
The woman rang up my order, and then slipped on some gloves and turned to make the sandwiches.
I took the opportunity to mosey over to the back corner, where Vee and Gib were setting up. Gib was tuning his guitar, sitting on a stool with his ear bent so close it was practically touching the wood, and Vee was plugging in a microphone. Her hair had been cut—shaved on one side and left long on the other, coming to a point at her chin. Not for the first time, I wished I could pull off the looks that Vee rocked. That was the kind of person she was, though. Not me. I didn’t actually know what kind of person I was. Which was maybe why I had no look.
“No bass?” I asked. Her head whipped up. It seemed to take a second for her to place me, but then she smiled.
“Nikki, long time no see.” Ever since Peyton died, Vee had tried to forge some sort of bond with me. I was the only one who cared about Peyton as much as she did, which was weird since Peyton and I never actually spoke to each other out loud in her lifetime. And sometimes I wondered if Vee ever gave any thought to why I cared so much about Peyton. But somehow she just seemed to get it. I think she figured keeping me around was one way to keep Peyton alive.
But there was Shelby Gray to consider. She’d replaced Peyton as Viral Fanfare’s lead singer. And she was friends with Luna. Last I talked to Shelby, she’d been hanging out with Luna, even as Luna was plotting to kill me. Tangling with Shelby Gray was about as fun—and about as productive—as beating my forehead against a wall. With Luna still out there, I had zero desire to bring Shelby back into my life. With Shelby came suspicions. With suspicions came trouble. I wasn’t looking for trouble; I was looking for resolution.
Vee gestured to the mic. “Nah, acoustic bass is kind of outside my price range. Plus, somebody has to sing. That’s the problem with your lead singer still being in high school.”
“You sing?” I couldn’t picture it.
She shrugged. “When I have to.”
We both stood there awkwardly for a beat. A couple wound past us toward a table, holding plastic baskets heaped with salad, and I shuffled to the side to let them by. “So, regular gig? In a sandwich shop.”
Vee laughed. “Wouldn’t Peyton just die?” Her face flushed. “You know what I mean.”
I chuckled. “She totally would. This place hardly screams glamour. Where are the rhinestones and fur?”
“Those are on my other shirt,” she said. “I didn’t want to start out too Hollywood, you know?” She stuck her fingers through a gaping hole near the bottom of her shirt.
“Order’s ready,” the woman behind the counter hollered. I turned. She was setting a paper sack and three paper cups on the counter.
“That’s mine,” I said to Vee. “I’m sort of working with my dad. Otherwise, I’d stay.”
“That’s cool. You can buy the album when it comes out.” She winked. “So are you, like, working for your dad now? Everything’s good?”
I shook my head. “Just for today. Helping out. But, yeah, I guess everything’s good. Shelby say anything about Luna these days?”
“She wouldn’t dare. Maybe to Gib, but not me. She knows how I feel about the whole thing. I wouldn’t be surprised if Luna was somehow behind what happened to Peyton.”
This time it was my turn to blush; my cheeks felt hot. She had no idea. But it was probably best kept that way.