Red (22 page)

D
one in pink and white and ruffles, the bedroom was as frilly as the top of a birthday cake. A little girl's dream room, complete with a canopy bed and white furniture decorated with tiny painted flowers, but too childish for a seventeen-year-old, especially one as worldly as Zoe Marie Tucker.

Her father had seen the room in a magazine, proclaimed it fit for a princess and had it re-created for her. That had been the year she turned six; by the time she turned eight, he was gone. Her life had changed dramatically with his leaving, but the bedroom had remained the same.

Zoe sat cross-legged on the gingham spread, naked but for her bra and panties, the photographer's business card in her hands. She studied it, eyebrows drawn together in thought.

Jack Gallagher. Fashion Photographer.

It was probably a gag. Probably a marketing ploy, a way to get a no-talent photographer a few clients. Or maybe it was a slick cover for a porno ring. At the thought of the girl from the mall, with her soft drawl and hesitant smile, being part of a porno ring, Zoe giggled. That would be like suspecting Mickey Mouse of child abuse.

Her gaze strayed to her nightstand and the picture of her and her father. She stared at their smiling images a
moment, then dragged her gaze back to the business card. If Becky Lynn and this Jack Gallagher were for real…

Zoe's heart began to pound. The magazines were always printing stories about how some celebrity or other had gotten discovered in an elevator or drugstore or disco. Someday it could be her they were writing about. Hadn't she always thought so? Hadn't her daddy always told her she was the most beautiful, the most special girl in the world?

She stood and crossed to her dresser mirror. She gazed at her reflection, seeing herself at seven, her daddy crouched behind her, his arms around her middle. “Princess,” he would say, “you're so beautiful, you should be on the cover of a magazine. You're the prettiest girl in the whole world.”

Nobody had ever made her feel so loved, so pretty and special, the way her daddy had. He had petted and loved her, he had bought her bows for her hair, lacy dresses and shiny black shoes with pearl buttons.

She had loved him so much. Why had he left her? Zoe grasped the edge of the dresser, gripping so hard her knuckles turned white, thinking of the last time she had seen him. That morning had been like every other. He had helped her bathe and dress; she hadn't fought him the way she sometimes did. She hadn't cried or made him cry. Tears stung her eyes, and she battled them back. She had been a good girl.

She tightened her grip on the dresser's edge, her fingertips starting to tingle. His leaving was her mother's fault. Her mother had been jealous of the attention he had given his daughter; she had been jealous of how beautiful he thought his little princess was. Her mother had been jealous because he had loved her more. She had heard them fight about her, about his feelings for her. Her daddy
had gone away because her mother was mean, spiteful and jealous.

But why hadn't he taken her with him?

Suddenly light-headed and queasy, Zoe pressed a hand to her stomach and struggled for an even breath. From the room next door she heard the sound of throaty laughter. Her mother's laughter. One of her
uncles
was visiting. One of her many uncles. A moment later, she heard strains of the bluesy music her mother liked so much, the music that always meant the same thing.

Zoe covered her ears, knowing what would come next. It did—the rhythmic thump of the bed hitting the wall.

Zoe threw herself across her own bed, and dragged a pillow over her head, hoping to muffle the sounds from the other room. If her mother hadn't been so cold when her daddy was around, he would have stayed. If she hadn't been so jealous, he would have loved them more.

Furious, she rolled over and tossed the pillow across the room. It landed on her vanity, sending her bottles of perfume and lotions clattering. She thought of the parade of uncles her mother had brought home over the past nine years, thought of the one in the other room now. She smiled to herself. She had fucked him. And a few others who had stayed around long enough, the ones her mother had liked best.

She had taken pleasure in knowing they liked her better than her mother, that they thought she was prettier than her mother. Just like her daddy had. The one in the other room with her mother right now, the one moaning and grunting like a pig, he thought she was prettier. He had told her so. She would bet he was thinking about her now.

The sounds from the next room stopped, and Zoe
crossed her arms behind her head and gazed up at the ceiling, smiling at the quiet, grateful that they were done.

A fashion model, she thought. She would like doing that. She would like knowing that people were looking at her, admiring her. She liked men thinking she was beautiful. It made her feel important, special. It made her feel powerful. She sat up and reached for the business card. Lying down again, she traced her fingers over the raised lettering.

Jack Gallagher. Fashion Photographer.

She smiled. Maybe this was what she had been waiting for since the afternoon she had come home from school to learn that her daddy was gone. Maybe this was what had been missing from her life, what she had yearned for so desperately that she hurt way down deep inside. She hadn't understood the ache, she had only known that it kept her from ever feeling satisfied.

She clutched the card to her chest, hope a living thing inside her. Maybe, at long last, this was it, the thing that would make her happy.

Zoe waited three days before she called the number on the business card. She figured it wouldn't look good to appear too eager. On the third ring, a woman answered, and Zoe recognized the voice as belonging to Becky Lynn, the girl from the mall bathroom.

Zoe identified herself, and Becky Lynn told her she was glad Zoe had decided to call. She made her an appointment to see Jack the following morning, gave her directions to the studio, told her to wear whatever she wanted to, then had hung up.

Zoe had been suspicious. Becky Lynn had acted as if
Zoe's calling had been no big deal, as if she talked to a dozen girls a day about modeling. Considering the rush Becky Lynn had given her at the mall, Zoe had also been more than a little annoyed by her attitude.

But now, standing in Jack Gallagher's studio, she knew she had no reason to be suspicious or annoyed. Besides noticing the unmistakable equipment and overhearing the phone conversation Becky Lynn was having, she could see that one wall of the studio was covered with fashion shots, many of which she recognized.

This Jack Gallagher was the real thing; he probably did talk to a dozen girls a day. Zoe crossed to the wall of photographs. She studied the girls in the ads, noting their hair and eyes and mouths, noting the length of their legs and the size of their breasts.

She was as beautiful as any of them. Her figure looked as good, better even. She glanced down at herself. She had chosen her clothes carefully, picking ones she thought best showed her assets: skintight, pencil-slim blue jeans, sandals, a soft clingy shirt with no bra underneath.

“Zoe?”

She turned. A man strode toward her, smiling. He stopped before her and held out his hand.

“I'm Jack.”

Her breath caught in surprise. She didn't know what she had expected from Jack Gallagher, maybe some sensitive, artsy type, but certainly not this sexy, macho-looking man.

She hid her surprise and took his hand, lifting her lips into her sultriest smile. “Hi.”

He held her hand in his, his gaze intently on hers, studying, assessing. Just as her heart began to thunder, he dropped her hand.

“Ever done any modeling before?” he asked, gaze still fixed on hers.

“Nope.”

“Ever had aspirations to model?”

She slipped her fingers into the back pockets of her jeans, knowing that the movement forced her breasts against the light knit of her shirt. “Nope.”

He swept his gaze over her, pausing on her chest, and she experienced a little thrill at knowing her ploy had worked. “But you're here today.”

She lifted a shoulder. “I was curious. And it's not that I'm averse to the idea of modeling. What girl would be?”

“True.”

He pursed his lips, and she had to admit he had a beautiful mouth. Strong and chiseled. Sexy. She caught herself staring at it and dragged her gaze back to his.

“Becky Lynn here thinks the camera's going to love you. But I'll tell you right now, although there's no denying you're beautiful, I have my doubts.” He motioned her toward the center of the room, walking with her. “You see, Zoe, the camera likes to surprise me. Sometimes it loves the face you expect it to, but sometimes it doesn't. Even more surprising, sometimes it loves a face you would never have given a second glance. So, we'll just have to wait and see.”

She drew her eyebrows together, not liking what he'd just said, not liking the possibility that she wouldn't photograph well. She rejected the possibility. “Are you going to take pictures of me today?”

“That's the plan. You up for it?”

He glanced at her from the corner of his eyes, and she realized he was measuring her every response, her every facial expression. She wouldn't forget that.

“Sure.”

“Great.” He stopped at an equipment table and picked up one of several cameras. He popped open a back and dropped in a roll of film, all business. “We're not going to do makeup or hair or anything like that today. That comes later. Today I'm just going to shoot you. I'll get an idea of how comfortable or how stiff you are in front of the camera. I'll get a good idea if the camera's going to like your face.”

While he talked, Zoe was aware of Becky Lynn moving around the studio, setting the lights, fixing the backdrop into place and arranging equipment on a trolley.

“Models aren't born,” Jack was saying, and she returned her full attention to him, “and the work is far from glamorous. Models are trained, it's hard work. Photographers aren't always nice guys. In fact, if things aren't going their way during a shoot, they're usually sons of bitches.”

“He should know,” Becky Lynn called from a corner of the room.

Far from being annoyed, Jack laughed and sent her a smile. Zoe watched the exchange, curious suddenly about the relationship between the photographer and assistant. She sensed a warmth between them, an understanding that went beyond that of business associates or even friends. But it didn't feel like sex, she decided. Not at all.

Zoe returned her attention to Jack as he started talking again.

“If a photographer has to give a model direction twice, he's not happy. Three times and he's downright foul-tempered.”

He guided her to the tall stool Becky Lynn had set up
in the middle of the room, and had her sit on it, facing forward. “I'll be straight with you, Zoe. I won't have time to coddle you, even while you're learning. If you want to move forward with this, understand that you're entering into a professional association with me. I'll be critical, and bluntly so. Curse me, hate me, just give me what I want. Forget everything you've ever believed about modeling. It's a cold, cutthroat business.”

He looked her in the eye. “You might as well find out if you can hack it now, before you've wasted too much of either of our time.”

Zoe returned his gaze evenly. If he was trying to scare her, it would take a whole lot more than that. “I can hack it,” she said, her softly spoken words edged with steel. “You just worry about making me look good.”

Jack stared at her a moment, his expression one of grudging respect and mild surprise. Then he tipped his head back and laughed. “I'll keep that in mind, Zoe.”

He turned to Becky Lynn who had come up to stand beside him. “Ready, Red?”

“Ready.” She held out a piece of equipment Zoe didn't recognize. “You want to double-check the light reading?”

“Are you kidding?” He grinned. “You haven't been wrong yet. Let's go.”

Jack started to shoot before Zoe had a chance to ask him what she was supposed to do. So she did nothing. He moved around her, never stopping, taking shots of her from all angles. While he did, he talked.

“The best models,” he said, “the girls who make it to the top, are special, Zoe. Besides their relationship with the camera, they're able to divorce themselves from who they are and become who the photographer needs them to
be. The first step is losing your self-consciousness, your fear of looking bad or foolish. Now smile for me,” he directed. “That's right, tip your head a bit to the right. Good.”

He stopped shooting and handed his camera to Becky Lynn. She handed him another, freshly loaded. He turned back to her, but didn't bring up his camera. Instead, he looked her in the eye. “You have to trust me, Zoe. I'm not going to let you look bad. But don't worry, in time you'll be able to feel comfortable in front of the camera. In time, it'll come naturally.”

She returned his forthright gaze. “I can do it now.”

He arched his eyebrows. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

Jack exchanged a quick, meaningful glance with Becky Lynn. Zoe narrowed her eyes, annoyed. She didn't like them sharing a little secret at her expense; she didn't like the way their silent communication made her feel—excluded and foolish.

She tossed her head back in challenge. “Try me, Jack Gallagher.”

She intended the double entendre. She saw by the sudden heat that raced into his eyes and by the way he slid his gaze appraisingly over her, that he'd caught it.

An answering challenge lit his eyes, and for a split second she wondered if she hadn't made a mistake—Jack Gallagher didn't like to lose, and she would bet money he rarely did.

“Okay, Zoe.” He inclined his head slightly. “I'll take you at your word. Let's go.”