Red (11 page)

She liked it. It made her feel invisible, made her feel, somehow, stronger.

Smiling to herself, she lifted a hand to her jaw and trailed her fingers across it. The swelling had gone down, the vivid bruise had faded to a yellow-green shadow. The bruises on her body, too, had begun to fade; the ache between her legs had subsided. Now it only hurt when she remembered, when her defenses slipped, allowing the nightmare to seep into her head.

She would take one more day to sleep and heal, then she would clean herself up and hit the streets in search of a job. If she had to, she would knock on every door, talk to every business owner or shop manager in Hollywood. Someone would hire her.

The next day was a bust, and the next two after that. No one was hiring. They took one look at her and said no. Most times, they hadn't even given her an opportunity to beg.

Every evening, exhausted and discouraged, she locked herself in her motel room and spent the night thinking of the minutes and hours ticking past, eating up her paid-up week at the motel, worrying about what would become of her if she didn't find a job.

Becky Lynn closed her eyes and pictured some of the girls she saw on the street, many of them obviously younger than she, their eyes outlined in black, their skirts short and tight, their hair teased high. Their expressions desperate, lost.

It was laughable, but she longed to help them. She had caught herself wanting to offer them advice, money, a way out. She, who in some ways was worse off than they; she, who would face a similar decision, a similar fate
if she couldn't find a job.

Becky Lynn curved her fingers into fists. No way. She wouldn't end up like them. She would eat garbage and sleep in the street before she would sell her body. She would rather die than be touched the way Ricky and Tommy had touched her.

She returned her attention to the phone book's Yellow Pages, open on the bed in front of her. Until now, she had tried every business she had come upon, from coffee shops to boutiques, banks to souvenir shops. She had never worked anywhere but the Cut ‘n Curl. It made sense to use her previous experience to try to find a job. It would give her an edge. She didn't know why she hadn't thought of that before.

A piece of the motel's stationery and a pen in her lap, she ran her index finger down the list of nearby beauty parlors. A few she had already tried, the rest she listed on the paper with their addresses. To save time, she located them on the phone book map, then made her own map, closest shop to farthest, relisting them in the most efficient way to visit them.

The next morning, she set off for the first shop on the list. She had passed it several times, she realized, as she reached the address, but hadn't known what it was.

The exterior of the shop was faced with pink and green marble. The street number and shop's name was done in shiny brass, and a green-and-white-striped awning stretched from the double glass doors almost to the street.

Becky Lynn frowned. She had learned quickly that there were two kinds of establishments in Hollywood—ones for the rich, and ones for those who were not. She had also learned that the ones for the rich hadn't wanted her to cross the threshold. Most had doormen or valets
who stood guard outside to ensure that someone like her, who either didn't know the rules or chose to ignore them, wouldn't happen across.

This shop was no exception. Only today, this moment, the guardian of good taste was not at his post.

She darted a quick glance over her shoulder. What the heck. It was a long shot, but what did she have to lose by trying? She ducked under the awning and strode to the heavy double glass doors. The worst they could do was ask her to leave. It wouldn't be the first time.

She stepped through the door, and the throbbing beat of Tina Turner's “What's Love Got To Do With It?” hit her like a hammer. As did the smell of freshly brewed coffee.

She moved her gaze over the room before her, and she caught her breath. This shop was nothing like the Cut ‘n Curl back home. It was huge. And fancy. Overstuffed white leather couches graced the sitting area, balanced by delicate chairs made of striped chintz. The tables were made of the same green and pink marble pieces as the shop's facade, their bases of brass. On a marble buffet sat a silver coffee service and tray of delicious-looking pastries, the likes of which Becky Lynn had never seen before, and certainly not at the Tastee Creme back home.

She stared at them a moment, her mouth watering, then dragged her gaze back to the room. The walls were hung with black-and-white glossy photographs of women celebrities. Becky Lynn crossed to them.
Brooke Shields. Isabella Rossellini.
She looked closer.
Renée Simonsen. Daryl Hannah.

The photographs were signed.
Heart pounding, she swung to another wall, this one covered only with writing. She crossed to it, then stopped, her mouth dropping.
Sig
natures.
She blinked, not believing her eyes.
Farrah Fawcett. Nancy Reagan. Kathleen Turner.

Becky Lynn took a step backward, away from the wall. She didn't belong here. Dear Lord, she had been turned out of dumps the last few days; a place like this would never hire her.

“My God, is that your natural color?”

Startled, Becky Lynn whirled, hand to her throat. The woman who stood across the room from her wore black, silk trousers, an equally soft white blouse and a thin, black tie. She looked classy, sophisticated. Like a woman of means and style.

Becky Lynn pictured herself, her faded jeans and T-shirt, her threadbare sneakers and plain face. She didn't belong here, Becky Lynn thought again, curving her arms across her chest. “Pardon, ma'am?”

“Your hair color.” The woman took several more steps into the room. “Is it your own?”

Becky Lynn brought a hand self-consciously to her hair and swallowed hard. “Yes, ma'am. Mama always said it reminded her of strawberry soda pop.”

“Strawberry soda pop?” the woman repeated, her eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement. “How delightful. And how descriptive.”

The woman closed the distance between them. She met Becky Lynn's gaze evenly. She had the bluest eyes Becky Lynn had ever seen—and the kindest. “I'm sorry if I startled you. If it's any consolation, you startled me, too. Did Mac let you in?”

Becky Lynn shook her head. “No, I…the…the door was open.”

The woman shifted her gaze to the glass door, then
brought them back to Becky Lynn. She moved her gaze over her, as if suddenly realizing that the girl standing before her wasn't expected and didn't belong. Her smile faded. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“I'm…s-sorry,” Becky Lynn stammered, taking a step backward. “I'll leave now.”

The woman drew her eyebrows together and cocked her head, and Becky Lynn could see that she was both confused and suspicious. Her gaze slid to the silver service, then to Becky Lynn. “Did you want something?”

Becky Lynn caught her bottom lip between her teeth.
Ask her. You have nothing to lose.
“Yes, I—” Her voice quivered, and she struggled to control it. “May I speak to the owner or manager, please?”

“I'm Sallie Gallagher,” she said. “I own this shop. Can I help you?”

Becky Lynn clasped her hands together. “I'm, um, looking for a…a job.” Emotion choked her, and she cleared her throat. “I was hoping you might have something.”

The woman opened her mouth, an automatic “no openings” forming on her lips. Becky Lynn recognized it from the dozens of others she'd heard in the past few days.

Her heart sank and tears rushed to her eyes. But even as they did, they warred with desperation. She wouldn't give up without a fight. She couldn't.

“Please,” she said quickly, before the woman could speak. “I'll sweep, scrub sinks, run errands. Anything you ask. I have experience. And I…I really need a job.”

The woman drew her eyebrows together again, studying Becky Lynn. She looked her in the eye once more. “You have experience?” she asked in a soft, thick voice. A voice that reminded Becky Lynn of the Mississippi River in August.

Becky Lynn nodded, her pulse beginning to pound. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Where?”

Becky Lynn hesitated, then pushed aside her worries of being tracked down or found out. “At the Cut ‘n Curl back home. I shampooed customers, and swept, ran errands, took care of inventory and even mixed colors…sometimes.” The last she fudged on, but figured if she had to, she could fake it.

“Back home,” the woman repeated. “Where is that?”

Becky Lynn wrapped her arms around her middle. “Mississippi, ma'am.”

“I see.”

She was going to turn her away! Becky Lynn saw it in her eyes, heard it in her voice. Desperate, she said, “I'm a hard worker. I learn real fast. And I'll…I'll…” Once more tears swamped her, and again she struggled to hold them off.

The woman pursed her lips, as if deep in thought. “You really need this job, don't you?”

Becky Lynn nodded and hung her head.

“Are you in some sort of trouble?” Becky Lynn looked up and away, and the woman frowned. “With the law?”

Becky Lynn jerked her gaze up. “Oh, no, ma'am. Nothing like that. I wouldn't ever do anything…like that.”

“You're not into drugs, are you?”

Again Becky Lynn shook her head vehemently.

The woman lowered her eyes for a moment, then met Becky Lynn's again. “Okay, I'll give you a chance. One chance. I can only pay minimum wage to start, and I'll expect you to work your tail off for it. But if you prove yourself, if you manage to fill some cracks around here, I'll give you a raise.”

Becky Lynn brought her hands to her chest.
A job! She had a job!
The words raced through her head, making her dizzy with relief and gratitude.

“Thank you, ma'am! Thank you!” She burst into a broad smile, the first since Ricky and Tommy had cornered her. “I won't let you down. You'll see.”

The woman smiled back. “I hope not. Now, let's get some things straight right off the bat. Call me Sallie, please. ‘Ma'am' makes me feel ancient.”

“Yes, ma—Sallie.”

“Next, I need to know what I should call you?”

“Becky Lynn,” she answered, flushing.

Sallie smiled again, warmly. “I'll need you to fill out an application and a W-2. If you would like to start today, we could use you. We're booked solid.”

“Oh, yes, ma'am…I mean, yes, Sallie.”

“Good.” Sallie Gallagher held out her hand. “Welcome to The Image Shop, Becky Lynn.”

I
n the four years that passed since his life-altering experience on Gina's couch, Jack saw Gina as often as possible. He didn't call it love, and neither did she. Neither of them thought of their relationship as an exclusive one: Jack knew Gina saw other people, slept with other people; she knew the same about him. Sometimes they would lie together and laugh about their experiences, or share intimate details of their other relationships.

Jack checked his watch, noted that Gina was now, officially and characteristically, thirty minutes late. Unperturbed, he continued studying the proof sheets from a job he had wrapped yesterday. He and Gina understood each other, had similar likes, dislikes and experiences; they enjoyed each other's company. And their sexual chemistry together was good. Very good.

So if what they had wasn't deep or emotional, it was honest. And in a town and an industry that thrived on illusion, hype and ego, that was a rare and special thing, more dependable, more trustworthy than love could ever be.

Over the years, he had closely guarded what they had. So had she.

Jack thumbed through the proofs, his lips lifting with satisfaction. The job, for a small but exclusive clothier on Melrose, had paid well and the shots were good. He
paused on the most powerful, most effective shot of the group and studied it, pleased. Shots like this one in his portfolio, his book, would take him a long way.

Too bad the client's opinion differed from his on which shots were the best.

The client's loss. Jack had told him so, and the man had thanked him and gone with his own choice, anyway.

Jack made a sound of disgust, tossed the proofs on the light table and stood. It never ceased to amaze him that someone would pay him good money for his expertise, then totally disregard it. Sometimes human nature was so ridiculously fucked.

He stretched, then checked his watch again, wondering what time Gina would actually arrive. He couldn't complain, even if he were the type; Gina modeled for him for free, a gift of her time and talent, a gift of her well-known face. Her face in his book gave him added professional stature; it opened doors that would otherwise be closed to him. A pecking order existed in the industry, the top girls worked with only the top shooters, star power with equal star power.

And Gina's star shone considerably brighter than his.

For the moment.

Jack stretched again, itching to get to work, his nerve endings humming with the need to do
something.
He loathed inactivity. His time in his studio, his time spent on his photography, was limited. Every day that passed had to bring him closer to his goal; every day that didn't, ate at him. He burned to be further along than he was. He yearned for the day he could toss his success in Giovanni's face.

Impatience surged through him. He fought it, but still it
churned inside him, burning in his gut. He crossed to his studio's back wall. To it he had pinned his best photographs, copies of his ad work—the Rolex watch ad for a Rodeo Drive jeweler, the beach piece he'd done for the tourist commission, the album cover for a hot local rock band.

Jack moved his gaze critically over each shot, understanding the folly of loving them just because they were his own. Satisfied, he shifted his gaze to the center of the wall, to the two-page spread from
Los Angeles
magazine he had pinned there, a constant reminder of who he was and where he was going.

Carlo's spread. Carlo's work.

He gazed critically at his brother's work, determination and dislike eating at him, fueling him. Carlo had rocketed from a nobody-beginner like himself, grubbing for jobs, to a photographer with budding name recognition, a photographer who had his choice of jobs and models.

Not because of talent or hard work, but because he was Giovanni's son. His acknowledged son. Jack flexed his fingers. In the past two years, he had watched door after door open to Carlo, he had watched Carlo grow in professional stature. He knew from his sources on the grapevine, that Carlo supported himself with his photography, supported himself in nice style, and that he had for a long time.

Being Giovanni's bastard didn't open any doors. But that was okay. He would show them both, he would make it without favors or entrées.

He and his half brother had run into each other on the street. Carlo had seen a piece of Jack's work, and had laughingly mentioned it.
“Small jobs become you, Jack,”
he had said.
“Keep it up.”

Jack had wanted to lunge at him, had longed to knock him to the ground and bloody his nose. Instead, he had smiled coolly and asked his brother if he would be able to do anything at all without
Daddy's
help.

When Carlo's mouth had tightened at the barb, Jack had experienced a glimmer of satisfaction.

But only a glimmer. Because as much as he hated to admit it, Carlo had talent. Jack narrowed his eyes, studying his brother's work. Carlo had developed a style similar to his father's, striking, simple, highly sexed.

Jack had discovered that, for himself, he preferred movement, he preferred daylight and shooting outdoors because of the opportunities both afforded him. He had also discovered that he preferred complexity of composition and light, the baroque instead of the minimal.

He had talent, he knew he did. And not a moderate talent. He had something special, call it an eye, or vision, or skill. He knew it with his gut, with that place inside him that responded with an
ahh
when the shot was right. And it responded that way a lot.

Jack turned away from the photo-wall and faced his small studio, a mere six hundred square feet. Compared to Giovanni's twelve thousand, his space was laughable. But it was his. He worked hard to maintain it. He waited tables at night, at a trendy bistro in Beverly Hills; during the day, he called on ad agencies, combed the fashion mart with his book, shot up-and-coming models.

The door burst open, Gina with it. “Sorry I'm late!”

She raced into the studio, portfolio tucked under her arm and tote bag slung over her shoulder, her long blond hair wild from the wind. She drove a bright red Alfa-Romeo convertible; he had never seen it with the top up.

He grinned and cocked his head to the side. “Bad morning?”

She crossed to him, dropped the tote, stood on tiptoe and planted a friendly kiss on his lips. “I had four go-sees. I'm getting pretty sick of this shit. I mean, when are they going to start booking me on the strength of the work I've done? Why do I have to come in for a face-to-face?”

Jack shook his head, his lips lifting. “Because, my beauty, the client wants a chance to gawk at you.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Maybe even get a chance to see you in your skivvies.”

She snorted. “More like a chance to feel me up in my skivvies. The old fart patted me on the ass. Can you believe it? I should be beyond this crap.”

He laughed. “Ah, the burden of being an object of beauty.”

She slipped her T-shirt over her head and tossed it at him. “Eat me, Gallagher.”

“Later. We have work to do.” He caught the bundle and sent it back to her. “Clothes are behind the screen.”

She muttered something about all work and no play, but took her bag and shirt to the changing area. Today, they were going to work inside. He was going to work with his medium-format camera and tripod, both of which he found confining but necessary. He needed variety in his book.

“How'd it go with the Klein people?” she called from behind the screen.

“It didn't.” His rep had gotten him and his book an audience with the Calvin Klein people. They'd been looking for a new shooter for the designer's spring collection catalog. It would have been a financial boon for his career, but more, it would have elevated his professional
stature by light-years. “They liked my work but said I didn't have enough experience.” Jack snapped a Polaroid back onto his Hasselblad. “They said to come back in a few years.”

She peeked around the screen at him. “I'm really sorry, Jack.”

He met her eyes, in them he saw genuine regret. He shrugged. “There'll be other opportunities.”

“At least you got in the front door. Your name's in front of them now.”

“Right,” he muttered, frustration and impatience eating away the ability to be satisfied with such a small step. The only thing that meant anything, that counted for anything, was landing the job.

While she finished changing, he busied himself with setting the lights, loading film backs and arranging the other equipment he might need for the shoot. He couldn't afford an assistant, and he wouldn't want to stop the momentum of the shoot by having to scramble for more film or something else he might have forgotten.

“At least Carlo didn't get it, either.”

Jack's hands stilled on the film back, and he turned toward the screen. “What did you say?”

She hesitated. “I heard through the grapevine that he got a call, too. And that he didn't get the job. If it's any consolation, I'm sure it kills him that you got a call.”

Jack frowned. “Word's out on the street that I got a call?”

She hesitated again. “Well, it's not a secret, is it? I mean, this is a small industry.”

“Who else went in besides me and Carlo?”

“I'm not sure.”

Jack drew his eyebrows together, a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach—a feeling that she knew something she wasn't telling him. He shrugged off the sensation, his wild thoughts. What did she know? And why wouldn't she tell him? They told each other everything.

“You almost ready?” He passed the light meter over the set, testing the reflected light, even though he would have to reread it after she sat down. “I'd like to do this while were both still young.”

“Testy bastard,” she said cheerfully, coming out from behind the screen. She wore tight, ragged blue jeans, a black leather jacket with a plain white T-shirt underneath and black biker boots. “What do you want me to do with my hair?”

“Leave it for now. I want it wild.” He moved his gaze assessingly over her. He wanted a tough, almost butch look. Her all-American blond, blue-eyed beauty contrasted with the toughness, creating a kind of visual shock. “Take off the T-shirt. Nude under the jacket is going to be great. And let's darken your eyes.”

Minutes later, Jack was positioned behind the camera, Gina in front of it. At the camera, time stood still for him. The world around him ceased to exist. Reality became the rectangular image he saw through his camera's eye.

He and Gina worked together easily, at times seeming to read each other's minds. “Great, good. Cock your head…that's right.” She responded without hesitation or question to each of his demands.

It was a pleasure working with her, as it was with any experienced model. She'd lost all self-consciousness years ago, she understood how to give a shooter exactly what he needed, understood how to improvise when the shooter
didn't know what he wanted, filling in the blanks. When he worked with Gina, he didn't have to think of anything but the shot.

When he felt he had enough good shots to choose from, he straightened, his focus shifting back to the world of the living and breathing. He grinned. “You were great, love. As always.” He crossed to her and kissed her. “We've got some really good stuff here.” He kissed her again, this time more deeply.

She curled her fingers into his shirt and angled a provocative glance up at him. “No wonder I feel like celebrating.” She shrugged the jacket from her shoulders, leaving her torso bare, then slid her hand up around his neck and drew him down. “Come here and let me show you my appreciation.”

Never a man to argue, he did just that.

Later, Jack prepared the film for processing while Gina changed into her street clothes and removed her makeup. He smiled to himself as he sealed and marked each roll of film, already thinking ahead to the test shoot he had scheduled for three-thirty. He had seen the girl at the mall and had approached her about modeling. Only fourteen, she would be accompanied by her mother.

“Want to go eat?” Gina ducked her head out from behind the screen. “My schedule's clear and I'm starving.”

“Sounds good. Mexican?”

“Too heavy. How about Thai?”

“Fine with me.” He slipped the Hasselblad into its case, then packed the lenses.

Gina had laid her portfolio on the equipment table, next to his camera bag. Curious, he picked it up and began
leafing through it, stopping on two images of her he had never seen before.

The images were about sex. Both head shots, in them she looked directly into the camera, her lips parted and curved slightly up, her eyes sleepy and satisfied. The ad might be hawking a new fragrance, but the sense of smell had little to do with what was happening here between photographer and model.

He recognized the photographer's style. And even if he didn't, in this business, everybody knew which photographers had which clients.

This was Carlo's work.
Wildflower
was Carlo's client.

She came out of the bathroom. “You wouldn't believe what I heard about Patti Han…” Gina's words trailed off as she saw what he was looking at. “What are you doing?”

“Looking at your book.” He met her gaze. “Any reason I shouldn't be?”

“Of course not.” She cleared her throat and shifted her gaze. “Why don't we go eat now? I'm starving.”

“So you said.” He returned his gaze to Carlo's image of her. “You didn't tell me you'd done a shoot with Carlo.”

“Didn't I?” She smiled stiffly. “It must have slipped my mind. I did it a couple months ago.”

“These are good.”

“Thank you.”

“Very good.”

She crossed to him and held out her hand for the portfolio. She looked guilty as sin. “Thank you. Again.”