PANIC

Chapter Two - ROOK

There are a ton of girls milling around the building because Ronin is having an open casting call for the GIDGET models. I’m actually relieved I’m not GIDGET. Not that there’s just one, he needs like a dozen of them, I think. But I’m so over modeling, it’s not even funny. I can think of hundreds of jobs I’d rather do right off the top of my head. Like rodeo clown. I’d rather be a target for a raging bull than be a model.

The girls are here early to line up and they wind around the corner and spill over into the back lot. They are all dressed up, full make-up, heels, and they look cold. I’m still warm from my morning exercise, but I can feel the chill in the air. And just looking at their shoes makes my toes sad. I’m so glad I’m the new parts girl for Shrike Bikes. I get to wear jeans, and hoodies, and sneakers.

I totally got the better end of the deal.

Ford and I walk towards the parking lot as per usual and he gets annoyed at a girl who is standing too close to his vehicle. He always parks in the same spot in the back of the lot, just off to the left of the back door. He just got a new car—well, I’d never really call it new, but last week was the first time I’ve seen it. He used to drive a sporty little black Beamer but then he showed up with this… thing. “I liked the old car, Ford.”

He’s just about to open the door when this comes out and he stops to look back at me. “Really? Why?”

I crack a smile and so does he. “It suits you. This circa 1986 Bronco is just all kinds of wrong.”

“I needed a truck for winter. I still have the BMW, I just parked it in my mom’s garage.”

“You have a mom?” I laugh as the words come out.

“You thought I was a demon spawned from hell?”

I nod and laugh again. “I might buy a car. I’m gonna get something totally inappropriate for winter. Like a VW bus.”

“Or a convertible. I could totally see you in a Roadster.”

We both stop for a second. I’m sure the irony isn’t lost to the armchair psychologist in him. I just compared myself to a beaten-up old has-been and he compared me to a classic beauty. I smile. “Yeah, I love those. But I’ll probably end up with a truck too. It seems that’s the vehicle of choice around here.”

Ford nods in agreement. “What time are you and Ronin driving up tomorrow?”

“Well, I think Clare is supposed to get here tomorrow around noon, so we should make FoCo early evening, maybe? I’m not sure.”

“OK, see you then.” He turns back to his hideous truck and I notice that there are a lot of girls in the back parking lot now. They’re all staring at Ford and me. I make my escape to the back door, punch in my code, and then take the stairs up to the fourth floor.

There’s lots of people here today even though it’s a Friday. Typically Fridays are dead, but it’s open casting. Ronin already hired two models who have worked for Antoine before. And Billy is the only male model. But since they’re doing a catalog shoot with hundreds of clothing articles, they need a lot of girls. Plus, once the shoot is over they’re having a special fashion show in LA for the kickoff just before Christmas. It’s kind of a big deal for the models. A career-making kinda job.

I wave to Ronin across the studio, but don’t stop and chat. He’s busy talking to Roger, who is the main photographer for this contract. Antoine is officially on hiatus so he and Elise can keep an eye on Clare when she gets home from the clinic.

She was up there at that treatment center for four months and she’s barely out of the woods. My mom was a crack addict, she never did heroin that I knew of, so I’m not all that up on the consequences of that particular drug. But after hearing about Clare’s struggle this summer, I just can’t understand why anyone would even try that shit once. She had a terrible time. It made her slightly insane for a while. And she was in a lot of pain, I know that for sure because Ronin left some literature out in the living room once and I read it. The withdrawal from heroin is so bad, so painful, that most people just can’t do it.

Clare is lucky. She has Antoine, and Elise, and Ronin. And they’re all very rich. She got the best treatment money could buy. She was sequestered up in the mountains, away from all negative influences, and she was dragged through the program by people who love her until she could manage the commitment herself. It’s a miracle she got this far and we had a very serious conference call with the treatment facility yesterday about what she needs to do going forward. They’ve finally weaned her off the methadone, which is a long-acting opiate that alleviates the pain of withdrawal without getting her high.

Her last dose was two weeks ago and the doctor insists she’s done very well, but it only takes one slip-up. Just one and all that hard work will be for nothing. She’ll always be addicted to opiates, she can never take them without risking the possibility of withdrawal pain. “She will never,” he stressed, “be normal again.” The drug has changed her forever. She will always be tempted to take it, remembering the euphoria of the high and not the pain that comes after.

It scares the shit out of me just thinking about it.

I punch in Ronin’s apartment code and head to the shower and then peel off my clothes and start the jets.

Clare’s lifelong addiction issue scares me for two reasons. One, of course, is that it will be so difficult for her to stay clean. I feel sorry for her and I really do want her to succeed. But even more than that, it scares me because it practically guarantees Ronin a girl who will need him forever. And even though Ford won’t bring it up again, I’ll always be wondering if I’m just a project for Ronin. If I’m just a broken girl who needs a knight to save her.

I’m not broken. In fact, I’ve never felt so together in my entire life. I have everything going for me. I’ve got money, a cool job, friends, a place to live… I have it all. And I’m pretty sure my damsel-in-distress moments are over.

So if that was the reason he liked me, I’m gonna figure this out pretty fast.

I’m not convinced that Ford’s characterization of Ronin is correct. I mean, Ronin has said over and over that he thinks I’m strong and brave and I’m not getting the liar vibe off him. Not at all.

But still.

I’d rather know sooner than later if this is the case. I don’t want to ignore the warning signals that things are going off track and then wake up three years later and realize I wasted my time—it’s over.

I check the clock and realize I have to get downstairs to help out with the casting, so I pull on some jeans, a t-shirt, and a little zippered hoodie just in case I get cold. I slip out into the hallway and see Antoine and Elise standing down at the end of the hall in front of their apartment.

“Rook!” Antoine calls. “Ellie is going back to bed. Can you check the girls in today?”

I walk over to them and look down at Elise. “What’s wrong?” So far she’s had a pretty easy pregnancy, but she’s practically green this morning.

“Just queasy, that’s all. I need to go back to bed for a little bit, I’ll come help later.”

I take her hand and pat it gently. “I can do it, Elise. Just go rest.” I turn to Antoine. “Ronin and I can handle it, Antoine.”

“Are you sure?” he asks doubtfully. “There are hundreds of girls already lined up.”

I shrug. “Well, it’s a casting call, not anything life-threatening. We’ll manage. Just go relax, you guys.”

I don’t have to say it again—they are outta there. I smile as I go downstairs. The front door is still closed but everyone is already busy. Ronin and Roger are chatting over some notes when I walk up to them.

“Antoine said I can check the girls in since Elise isn’t feeling well.”

Ronin turns to me quickly. “What’s wrong with her?”

I take his hand. “She’s fine, just morning sickness.” I smile up at his worried face. I think it’s cute he worries over Elise so much. He’s really gonna be a fantastic uncle. When Elise told us after we came back from Sturgis Ronin was so happy he could hardly contain his excitement.

“You sure? I’m new at this baby stuff, I worry about her.”

“Antoine’s with her. If she needs help he’ll come tell us.”

He thinks about this for a few seconds and then puts his arm around me in a casual embrace. “OK. Billy!” he yells. “Show Rook how to check in girls up here and you can do first cut downstairs.”

Billy nods and I kiss Ronin real quick and head over. Billy is fussing with a laptop that is set up near the door. He points to it. “OK, Rook, it’s pretty simple. When they come up you check them in in groups of five. We put out an international casting call, so we will have hundreds of girls outside today. I’ll choose which ones can come up for a group interview and give them a number bracelet.” He points to the computer. “Then you fill in the form with their names and stuff, then hit enter. Ronin and Roger will get it over at the set”—he points to the large black partition segregating us from the interview section of the studio—“and they’ll send you a message when they want you to send them over. Then it’s just lather, rinse, repeat. Got it?”

“No problemo,” I answer back.

“OK,” Billy says, checking his phone. “It’s five minutes to nine now, so I’ll go start choosing and then send them up one at a time. Check them in as they come because pretty soon there will be a lot of girls lining up on the stairs.”

I salute and he heads down to the street level. The computer is set up on a tall cafe table and there’s a stool for me to sit on. But I take advantage of the silence and wander into the kitchen and grab a cup of coffee from the massive automatic machine, then make my way over to the computer table and wait for the first girl to arrive.

It takes five more minutes before the main door whooshes downstairs and the first girl’s heels click up the stairs. I bet she is a nervous wreck. I know I would be. I picture myself as I made my first trip up these stairs and I barely recognize that girl in my memory. I’m lost in my own recollection of weakness and fright when the girl comes into view.

I’m not sure what I expected, but this was not it. The girl is a few inches taller than me, which is saying something because I’m five foot nine, and her hair is long and naturally blonde. It’s got streaks of brown in it, like people pay salons hundreds of dollars to replicate, and her eyes are a striking blue-green. Blue-green. Who has blue-green eyes? She is so beautiful I’m almost speechless. I swallow. “Hi, I’m Rook and I’m gonna check you in.”

“I’m Océane,” she says. Her accent is French. I have to turn away to stop the sneer. What did I expect? Antoine has beautiful girls walking around here every day. I’m one of them, actually. But even though Billy said they put out an international casting call, I guess I just expected Denver girls to show up. I take a deep breath and start checking her in, trying my best not to worry about Ronin being around all these beautiful women for the next few months while I’m up in the middle of fucking nowhere prancing around in my t-shirts and jeans, picking up parts for Spencer’s bike shop and playing extreme croquet in the snow with Ford.

It only goes downhill from there. One extraordinarily beautiful girl after another walks up those stairs. Billy knows what he’s doing sorting the wheat from the chaff, because they are all stunning with a capital S. I’m still mulling this over, half-heartedly checking in girls as they come up the stairs and sending them into the studio in groups of five, when the freight elevator dings.

We hardly ever use the freight elevator. Most of the time everyone just takes the stairs because the elevator is slow and clunky. So this ding actually makes me stop what I’m doing and turn around just in time to see a thin blonde girl exit with a man in a suit. It takes me a minute to recognize her because of the cute outfit and lack of make-up. She’s wearing pink sweatpants, a white tank top, and a cropped pink zippered jacket to match her pants. Her fresh face is glowing, her eyes are bright, and she is the picture of health. Her long hair is tied back in a ponytail and she looks like she’s about to model for Victoria’s Secret Pink line. She walks past me, never even looking in my direction, and the white letters splash across her ass. Yup. Pink all right.

“Who’s that?” someone asks from behind me.

She disappears behind the tall black partition wall put in place for the interviews and I can hear Ronin’s roar of delight.

“Clare Chaput,” I reply absently in a whisper. “That’s Clare Chaput.”