Red (31 page)

B
ecky Lynn picked her way through the throng of partiers, aware of the increased distance every step put between her and Jack, grateful for every inch. If she'd had to face him a moment longer, she would have totally humiliated herself.

Her vision blurred with tears she vowed would not fall, and she made her way upstairs to the bedrooms. She found an empty one and ducked inside, locking the door behind her.

She crossed to the bed and sank onto an edge, beginning to tremble. She brought her hands to her face, breathing deeply, working to compose herself. Seeing him had hurt—hurt so bad it had felt as if her insides were being ripped to shreds. She had known once and for all and for certain, that nothing had changed, that Jack hadn't changed.

With Jack, it had always been about him. Everything. What he felt and what he needed. His career, his hopes and dreams. Back then, she had been so grateful for every scrap of attention and kindness he had tossed her way, she hadn't cared. She'd been willing to give him everything and get nothing in return.

Jack hadn't congratulated her. He hadn't wished her well or even asked if she was happy. Everything about her
had changed—her looks, her career, her entire life—and he hadn't commented.

He hadn't apologized for how he had hurt her. He had never apologized.

She stood, crossed to the mirror above the dresser and gazed at her reflection. Did she look different to him? Did he think she was beautiful now, did he think she was special? Or was he disappointed in the way she had changed? Was he jealous of her sudden success? Was he even surprised?

All he cared about was his vendetta with Carlo. It was all he had ever cared about.

She swung away from the mirror. That line he had started to feed her, about all the things he hadn't said to her but should have, what a bunch of self-serving, manipulative garbage.

And she had fallen for it hook, line and sinker. She made a sound of self-derision. He'd said a few apologetic things to her and she had been ready to fall into his arms. What a fool she was. What a hopeless romantic.

Jack wanted to steal her away from Carlo. He wanted to make a fool of Carlo, the way Carlo had made of him. She was just a pawn to Jack, a way to get to his half brother. Unlike Carlo, Jack couldn't even be honest about it.

She swallowed hard, past the knot of tears that formed in her throat. She lifted her chin. She wouldn't settle for scraps anymore. She was Valentine now; she deserved more.

She gazed into the mirror once again. She brought a hand to her cheek and trailed her fingers across it. Funny, she didn't look any different to herself. She looked into the
mirror and saw the person she had always been. It was the camera that molded her into a beauty. Oh, the makeup helped, the professional hairstyling, the beautiful clothes. But to her she was still the ugly girl from Bend, Mississippi, the one the boys had barked at.

She lifted her chin. But to everyone else, she was Valentine. So she played along, pretended; she acted the part, became the illusion. She didn't believe in it, but she had learned that if everyone else did, she didn't have to.

She straightened her shoulders and turned away from the mirror. She had been hiding up here long enough. Carlo would be looking for her, and she didn't want Jack to think he had reduced her to tears.

He almost had. But not quite.

Never again.

She unlocked the door, opened it a crack and peeked out. As she did, another door opened and a couple, a man and a woman, stumbled out. They'd been making love, obviously; the woman's hair was a tangled mess, her dress twisted and rumpled. And they were also, obviously, high.

Valentine started to ease the door shut, when the woman turned and she realized it was Zoe. Her stomach dropped. In the year and a half since Zoe had told her about her and Jack sleeping together, she had seen the other model a great number of times. She, too, had signed with The Davis Agency; she had become a busy and successful model. But they had never spoken to each other, even the one time when they had been booked for the same shoot. But Becky Lynn had caught the other model looking at her, regret and need in her eyes.

Becky Lynn couldn't forgive Zoe her betrayal, it still burned hot and bright inside her. As did her anger and hurt.
But over time, she had come to realize it hadn't been Zoe's fault. It had been Jack's. Zoe had been so vulnerable to him, she'd had such a need for love and approval, she had so longed to impress Jack. Becky Lynn understood why the other woman had done it, she understood how it could have happened.

None of those things excused Zoe's behavior, but understanding them allowed Becky Lynn the ability to worry about the other woman. And according to the industry grapevine, she had reason to worry about Zoe. Word had it that she was getting heavily into drugs, that she had missed some go-sees, that she had started showing up late for shoots.

And that she slept around—a lot. That, coming from people who worked in an industry like this one, one that traded on sex and beauty on a day-to-day basis, meant something. It meant that Zoe's behavior had gone beyond abnormal. She was out of control.

The man kissed Zoe, then released her and ran a hand over his hair, making sure it was smooth. He swept his gaze over Zoe. “Better straighten yourself up, babe. You look like shit.”

He turned on his heel and walked away, and Valentine's heart went out to Zoe. In that moment, Zoe looked as if the man had taken out a gun and shot her.

Zoe ducked back into the bedroom, and making a snap decision, Valentine glanced down the hallway to ensure no one was looking, then followed Zoe into the other room.

She found the other woman in the adjoining bathroom, standing before the vanity mirror, fumbling in her purse with hands that shook.

She lifted her gaze to Becky Lynn's, her beautiful blue eyes dulled by drugs. “You following me into a bathroom? I think we played this scene before.”

Becky Lynn ignored her sarcasm. “We need to talk.”

“Do we?” Zoe found what she had been seeking and pulled out a small cosmetics bag. “I thought we'd said all we had to say to each other a long time ago. But back then you were just plain Becky Lynn. Now you're
Valentine.
”

Becky Lynn winced at the memory. As she recalled, the last time they had spoken, Zoe had done all the talking because she'd been too busy being ripped to pieces.

She took a deep breath and pushed the hateful memory away. “We need to talk about you this time. We need to talk about what you're doing.”

“Yeah? And what am I doing?”

“Screwing up your life, your career. People are talking.”

Zoe laughed and opened the bag, but instead of taking out lipstick and a comb, she retrieved a small mirror and a vial, a razor blade and a straw. She set them on the counter, then looked defiantly at Becky Lynn. “Do you think I give a fuck if people are talking? Do you think I care what they're saying?”

“You should.”

“Well, I don't.”

Becky Lynn stared at the other woman, horrified as Zoe laid out a line of fine, white powder on the mirror, cut it, then bent and snorted it through the straw.

Becky Lynn folded her arms across her middle, repulsed. “Don't you think you've had enough? Zoe, for God's sake, don't you see what you're doing to yourself? You're out of control, you need to get a handle on your life before it's too—”

“Oh, Lord. Here comes a lecture from Miss Goody-Goody.”

Becky Lynn turned her head, sickened as Zoe snorted another line of cocaine. It hurt to watch Zoe do this to herself. And she felt responsible. She shouldn't, Becky Lynn told herself. Zoe had problems long before she had ever spotted her in that mall.

But if she hadn't discovered Zoe, if she hadn't brought her into this business, maybe her life would have taken a better, healthier turn. She wanted to help her.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked softly.

“You want to know why?” Zoe swayed on her feet as she stuffed all her drug paraphernalia back into the bag. “Because it makes me feel good. Real good.”

“Do the men make you feel good, too?” Becky Lynn took a step toward her. “Did that man make you feel good? But for how long? Ten minutes? Twenty? What about finding something that will make you feel good for twenty years? Or a lifetime?”

She reached a hand out to the other woman. “There are places you can go, Zoe, places you can check yourself into where you'll learn to feel good without drugs and sex—”

“Knock off the sanctimonious bullshit! I can handle the drugs. And the sex, well…the sex is part of the business.”

“It doesn't have to be.” She laid a hand on Zoe's arm, imploringly. “Look at me—”

“Yes, let's look at you,
Valentine.
” Zoe shook her hand off. “Carlo gets you jobs. Carlo makes sure you're seen, makes sure you're noticed. Where would you be without him? Fighting and clawing for each booking, just like the rest of us.”

She leaned toward Valentine, eyes bright with anger.
With resentment. “Tell me this, what's the difference between balling one man for jobs and balling twenty? No difference, I think. So don't stand there thinking you're so much better than me.”

Becky Lynn forced back her hurt, forced back the urge to turn, walk away and leave Zoe to destroy herself. She owed this woman nothing. But she couldn't just walk away. “I don't think I'm better than you. I'm worried about you, that's all. I hate to see you throwing your life away. I'll help you. Just ask and I'll do anything.”

“Ask you for help? Beg, maybe?” Zoe took a comb out of her purse and began working it through her hair. “You'd like that, wouldn't you? You'd like to get back at me for Jack.”

Becky Lynn shook her head. “Maybe that's the way you think, but I don't. I want to help you.”

“I don't need, or want, your help.” Zoe dropped her comb into her purse, straightened her minidress, and started out of the bathroom. “So if the sermon's over, please excuse me.”

Becky Lynn watched her go, heartsick at what had become of the woman she had thought she'd known. “Why do you hate me so much?” she asked softly. “What have I ever done to you besides try to be your friend?”

At her words, Zoe's steps faltered. She turned and met Becky Lynn's eyes. In hers, Becky Lynn saw regret, so bitter and sad she caught her breath. Then, without a word, Zoe walked away.

For a long time, Becky Lynn didn't leave the powder room. She sat on the vanity stool and gazed blindly into the mirror. She hurt for Zoe, for her confusion and pain, ached at her own inability to help her.

And she reeled from what Zoe had said to her. Zoe thought she and Carlo were lovers. If Zoe thought it, so did everybody else. Why hadn't she realized that before? It made sense; after all, she and Carlo had lived together for some time, he had discovered and groomed her, he used her for so many of his jobs, many called her his muse.

Her cheeks burned with embarrassment and indignation. Of course, no one would ever consider that they were simply friends, or just business partners. Oh, no, they had to think they were sexual partners.

Industry standard, she thought cynically. I'll give you something, if you give me something in return. That kind of sexual bartering went on all the time.

Jack and Garnet.

She fisted her fingers. And now she and Carlo were being lumped into that same category. It made her sick.

Her indignation faded as an idea occurred to her. She could use her relationship with Carlo to discourage that kind of sexual bartering. To a certain extent, she already had been.

She hated the blatant come-ons as much as the sly innuendos, she hated being forced to constantly dodge invitations for sex. The world already believed that she and Carlo were lovers, let them believe it more. Let them believe she was completely devoted and ever-faithful to her lover. She would let everyone know that Carlo was the only man for her.

Two models strolled into the bathroom, chatting with each other and laughing. Becky Lynn recognized them but couldn't recall their names. They stopped when they saw her.

“Sorry,” one of them said. “We didn't know you were in here. All the johns downstairs are occupied.”

“It's that time of night,” the other one said and giggled.

“Go ahead.” Becky Lynn stood and ran a hand over her sheath. “I was just leaving.”

She left the bedroom and stepped into the hallway, realizing as she did that she had left her evening bag on the vanity. She turned and walked back into the bedroom, stopping just inside as she heard the two models talking about her.

“Isn't she the one who came out of nowhere to become everybody's favorite face.”

“No kidding. And what about that name.
Valentine.
Really, she couldn't use Nancy or Cheryl or something ordinary like the rest of us?”

“What is her real name, anyway.”

“It's probably something like Mildred.” The model made a gagging sound. “It must have been too awful to use.”

Becky Lynn's cheeks burned and she decided she could do without her purse. She turned to leave, but their next words stopped her.

“It sure doesn't hurt to have a photographer like Carlo Triani mad about you. Talk about getting a leg up on everybody else. It's just not fair.”

“I don't know. I think I'd rather do without. I've heard things about him.”

“Really? What?”

The first girl lowered her voice to an exaggerated whisper. “I heard he likes men.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

“Carlo Triani?” The momentary silence was pregnant with thought. “No way. He's like a man possessed in the way he pursues women. He's screwed almost everybody. Just like his old man.”

“I know. But my source was awfully reliable.” She giggled. “Maybe he swings both ways. It's not unheard of, especially in this town.”