Twenty-Three
TWENTY-THREE
ROOM FOR TWO IN THE W
I’ve barely made it off the bus when Emily corners me by the open bay where my suitcase is stowed. She looks like she’s been up for hours—full make-up, hair done, dark jeans and a baby blue silk tank top.
“There you are. I need you in hair and make-up right now.”
I stare at her, my body still heavy with sleep. “Hair and who?”
She starts walking, expecting me to follow. I do.
“Didn’t you get my email? We’re doing a quick shoot this morning. I called in some favors. Everything’s being set up now inside the venue.”
“A shoot? This morning?”
She flashes me an irritated look over her shoulder. “We need photos of you and Kick for merch, a new background, eight-by-tens, the works. And we need them tout suite so yes, this morning.”
“Will there be bagels? Maybe some fruit?”
Emily rolls her eyes and tugs on my arm so I’ll walk faster. We make our way up a wide concrete ramp into the main backstage hallway of tonight’s venue. It’s big enough to drive a dump truck through it. A fleet of dump trucks. We follow the circle to an even wider section of the backstage concourse where a full-blown photo shoot is being set up. Two people dressed in all black are unrolling a pristine white infinity backdrop while two more set up huge light boxes on either side. A girl in a buttery yellow hat with a twelve-inch brim rolls in a rack of clothes with two more people rolling two more racks behind her. I’m still in my jammies with sleep crust in my eyes. My hair’s twisted into a topknot with half of it falling out in chunks and there are people rolling in racks of clothes for me to try on.
“This way,” Emily says and guides me into a side room. There’s a long counter set-up with what looks like the entire contents of a Sephora along with rows of hair straighteners and wands and hair dryers and tools I’ve never even seen before. Two director’s chairs are set up in front of the counter surrounded by four bright-eyed stylists ready and waiting to make me presentable.
“This is Mari Gold,” Emily says. “I’ll go find Kick.”
“I’m here,” Kick calls from the doorway.
My stomach swoops at the sight of him, obviously just back from another run in the morning humidity. We’re in Charleston today and the heat is already ten degrees above favorable.
Emily scowls at his sweaty appearance before saying, “Go shower and then meet us back here ASAP. We’re on a tight schedule. And don’t shave.”
“Can I shower too?” I ask hopefully.
“No. You need more work than he does. We’ll,” she leans into my shoulder and quickly straightens back up, “give you a few swipes of deodorant.”
“Wow, harsh.”
I plop down in one of the director’s chairs and the glam squad immediately gets to work prepping my skin and combing out my hair while the girl in the hat holds up looks on hangers for Emily to approve. I’d offer to wear my own stage clothes but I can tell by Emily’s clenched jaw this is her show and she is not open to anyone’s opinion but her own .
“Mari,” Emily calls, “how do you feel about booty shorts?”
The make-up artist is dabbing something onto my upper lip so I grunt out what I hope sounds like fine, whatever. I doubt Emily would listen if I said no.
“Hey,” Kick says, easing into the chair next to me, his hair still dripping from the shower. He looks pointedly around the room. “Wild, right?”
“Did you know about this? Emily said she sent an email?”
“Heard about it this morning as I was leaving for my run.”
“Who did your color?” the hairstylist interrupts, combing his fingers through my hair. He’s got a bright red mini-goatee that’s grown out to a point, a septum piercing, black winged eyeliner, and bright red hair to match the goatee. “It’s stunning.”
“My…manager.”
“Your manager? I’ve never met a manger who does hair this good. Are they in Nashville by chance? Are they with a salon? If not do they want to work for a salon?”
“Actually, managing is sort of a part-time gig. Hair’s the focus.”
“Do you happen to have a photo of your manager? My salon is in East Nashville and we have a certain…look to maintain.”
I slide my phone out of the front pocket of my hoodie and pull up a photo of Cass. He gasps. “Perfection.”
“She does her own hair, too.”
He fishes a card out of the bedazzled fanny pack around his hips. “I’m Gregry. Please have your talented manager-slash-hairstylist give me a call?”
“Sure,” I say, already composing a text to Cass to tell her about it.
The stylists go quiet after that, focused on making us photo worthy within Emily’s strict timetable. Every time I glance at Kick in the mirror, he’s looking back at me which makes me blush and look away which makes him chuckle which makes me blush harder. I need to get control of my transparent face if I’m going to survive this tour .
Kick and I are released at the same time and hurried over to Hat Girl and her racks of clothes.
“You look hot,” Kick whispers and I can’t argue. Gregry styled my hair in long, spiral curls and then teased them out, pulling part of the sides up into an almost side-pony-knot situation. My make-up is severe but cool—dark eyes, dark lips, pronounced blush that would look clownish if I tried to do it myself. I look a little bit dangerous but somehow still like me.
Kick’s fully rocked out, hair combed straight back and tucked behind his ears so the ends curl out around his neck, overnight stubble, enough eyeliner to make an impression, something smooth and inviting on his lips that I need to stop looking at right this second.
“I’ve pulled looks for them both to try on,” Hat Girl says, thrusting several hangers-full at both of us but talking to Emily. “These should work to start. We’re thinking three looks total, right?”
Kick and I stand there, holding the clothes, looking around like, here ?
I wave my hand to interrupt Emily and Hat Girl. “Should we take these to the dressing rooms?”
“No time,” Emily says, irritated we’re not somehow already dressed, “we’re ready to shoot.”
Kick’s eyebrows shoot up. “You want us to strip down right here?”
“In front of God and everybody?” I add.
Emily sighs. “We’re on the clock and I don’t have time for you two to be traipsing back and forth from the dressing rooms half a mile down the concourse. Let’s go.”
Is Emily seriously suggesting I strip down to my underwear in front of Kick? And thinking we’ll all stand here while he strips down to his underwear? I look around the room and make a quick decision before draping my outfit over the back of the make-up chair.
“What are you doing?” Emily says, exasperated .
I start pulling the four long clothes racks into a sort of misshapen W. Kick figures out what I’m doing and jumps in to help. When we’re done, we have two makeshift dressing rooms in between the clothes racks that will afford us at least the illusion of privacy.
“Fine,” Emily says, “get dressed. Everyone’s waiting.”
I situate myself in my side of the W and peek over at Kick’s side. There are enough cracks between the clothes that I can see him pull his t-shirt over his head. He does it in that movie-guy way, reaching one hand behind his head and pulling the t-shirt up and over. He’s careful not to mess up his hair, which makes me giggle.
“You spying on me, Goldie?” His voice is low and teasing.
I bite my lip, taking in his long, sculpted arms. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”
“Then why do you look so interested?” he says, bending over to pull off his shorts.
I can’t see below his ribs, the clothes blocking my view. But I can imagine. I bet he’s a boxer briefs guy. When I lean in closer to find out, he catches me and I quickly look away.
When I turn back around, his back is to me and he’s bent over pulling on some black pants. I get my boxer briefs confirmation.
“I know you’re looking,” he whispers.
“Just making sure you don’t need any help. Those pants look pretty tight.”
He jumps as he tugs them up and over his very full and squeezable ass. Then he turns and looks me in the eye as he slowly, ridiculously, pulls the zipper up tooth by tooth.
God, this guy.
I shake my head and turn away, pulling my arms into my hoodie and lifting my hands up into the neck to spread it wide as I pull it off, careful of my hair. When I slip off my pajama pants, I hear a low noise and look up to see Kick, hands gripping the garment bar, eyebrows high, one corner of his mouth lifted in a knowing grin.
“Do you mind?’ I say, pulling on the skirt I was given. The very, very short, black argyle skirt.
“Just wondering if you’ve got photos of your little doggie on your underwear.”
“Perv,” I say, but I’m smiling.
I should be embarrassed, I guess, but I like the look of open want on Kick’s face. I like it a lot.
When I pull on the assigned paper thin white t-shirt, my black bra practically glows underneath. “Umm, excuse me?” I call out.
Emily and Hat Girl round the corner. Their expressions slide from worried to confused.
“My bra?”
“Bra?” Kick says, his nose sticking through the hangers. Emily pushes him back to his side.
“I love it,” Hat Girl says. “It totally adds to the look.” She pulls a boxy pink and black argyle cardigan off the hanger and helps me into it. Next come black knee socks with one wide, white stripe down the side and black combat boots that are taller and chunkier than my Docs. Hat Girl pulls me out of my see-through dressing room to a kit full of jewelry. She starts layering on necklaces and bracelets and rings until she’s satisfied I’m camera ready.
“She’s perfect,” Emily says.
“Is the skirt too…short?” the stylist asks.
“Might as well give the people what they want,” Kick says, rounding the corner in distressed black boots, skin-tight black slacks, a fitted black t-shirt and a black collar-less leather jacket covered in black zippers. Hat Girl gives him a chunky skull ring for his middle finger and ties a thin strip of leather around his throat. She stands back and stares at him, shaking her head.
“Something’s missing.”
Emily joins her and they both stare while Kick drums a steady rhythm into his thighs with his thumbs, itchy from the scrutiny.
“I think we should lose the shirt,” Hat Girl says. “Just go with the open jacket.”
“Yes,” Emily says.
Hat Girls starts pulling off Kick’s jacket and he looks at me, helpless, which makes me laugh.
“Might as well give the people what they want,” I parrot back to him.
He flips me the bird as he pulls his shirt over his head and puts the jacket back on, abs and pecs peeking through. My mouth fills with saliva.
“Good,” Emily says. “Let’s go.”
Kick and I take an extra moment to give each other an obvious once over. We look good, separately and together. Like a duo. Like a couple.
Like sex.
I try not to think about that last part.
Kick’s hand purposefully brushes mine as we walk out to the set but my attention is suddenly and entirely focused on the photographer walking toward us. The photographer who’s photographed my sister on multiple occasions. The photographer who’s been to my sister’s house for dinner. The photographer who, by the pointed look on his face, knows exactly who I am.
Emily preens. “Kick, Mari, this is our photographer, T.O., a genius if I do say so myself. He’s photographed all the greats and is doing us a massive favor by being here today.” She turns to him. “I owe you my life.”
“Promises, promises,” T.O. says, his gaze focused on me.
“Mari Gold,” I offer, sticking out my hand and hoping he’ll take the hint.
He shakes my hand too long. “Yes, Mari Gold. I’ve heard so much about you. It’s like I’ve…known you forever. ”
“And this is Kick Raines,” I say, sliding my hand out of T.O.’s and trying to plan a way out of this situation.
T.O. has my mother on speed dial. Polly put him on the map when he shot her for heartbrEAK Magazine . He was fairly well known before that shoot but after, he became one of the most sought-after photographers in the biz. I can’t imagine what strings Emily had to pull to get him here on such short notice but here he is, staring at me like keeping my secret is going to cost me dearly.
“So, T.O.,” Emily says, “we’re needing some standard press shots and maybe a few posed live shots? We’ll be using these for various marketing elements for the tour and socials, of course. Would be great to end up with eight to ten usable shots.”
T.O. shifts his focus from me to Emily, sniffing at her like she’s a bottle of wine he’s considering. “Sounds simple enough.” His piercing blue eyes find mine again. “You two ready?”
“Let’s do this,” Kick says, excitement in his voice. Shedding his shirt has given him a new level of confidence. He’s practically bouncing.
T.O.’s two assistants guide us onto the set, a pristine white infinity backdrop that runs all the way out onto the floor without any corners or creases. We’re situated next to each other, facing front, arms at our sides. Even though we look like we’re posing for passport photos, I know T.O.’s eye. He’ll make us look like superstars.
Everyone on set freezes as T.O. starts to shoot.
“Do we smile or play it cool or what?” Kick murmurs through mostly closed lips. “I feel naked over here.”
I giggle and T.O. keeps shooting.
Kick and I are shoulder to shoulder, his shoulder higher than mine. I risk a quick side-eye and see he’s side-eyeing me too.
“Good,” T.O. says. “Good.”
Click. Click. Click.
T.O. hands his camera to an assistant who hands him a different camera in one smooth motion .
“Forget I’m here,” he says. “Just be with each other.”
Kick chuckles to himself and faces me, bending down slightly so we’re nose to nose. “You wanna be with me, Goldie?”
Click. Click. Click.
“I don’t think that’s exactly what he meant.”
Kick walks a circle around me and I follow him with my eyes. “You know what they say about all work and no play.” He boops my nose and T.O. captures it.
I’m about to argue, tell him to stop playing around, that this is serious, when Kick grabs me around the waist and tosses me over his shoulder, spinning me to face the camera. I can’t help the wild laugh that shoots out of me, which T.O. practically salivates over. Kick’s hand is gripping my naked thigh, his arm holding my legs in place so I don’t fall and how, again, did I get here? How did that night in the alcove morph into us flirting in front of a camera so Emily can put our photo on a t-shirt?
Kick grins over his shoulder at the camera with me flailing in the air, one arm around my legs, his other arm flexing his bicep. When Kick sets me down, I shove him away from me but it’s playful.
“Good, Polly, keep that up,” T.O. says.
“It’s Mari.”
“Right.” Click. “Mari.” Click. Click. “Pardon my mistake. You just look so much like a girl I know named Polly.” Click.
He’s photographing my see-through face while dancing on the edge of outing me. Probably thinks he’s capturing some sort of magic — me, desperate to stay hidden and him attempting to shed my mask in the name of art.
He captures a few more photos and we’re sent back to change into our second looks.
I want to talk to T.O., explain my situation, but he’s surrounded by a handful of assistants. Even if I had the chance, Emily hurries us along, keeping us on schedule. Hat Girl’s on my side of the W holding up a new outfit for me. This time Kick practically knocks the rack over trying to peek at me. I throw a pair of jeans at his head and he ducks back behind the clothes.
My next outfit is a black party dress with a million layers of short black tulle and a bodice with such a deep-V it’s more like two strips of fabric coming out of the skirt to cover my boobs. Gregry pulls my hair up in a slicked back ponytail and the make-up team adds more dark eye make-up. My look is finished with mid-calf cheetah print combat boots.
Kick’s hair gets roughed up and he’s in ripped black jeans and a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, unbuttoned except for one lone button near his belly button.
We look…really good. The fans will go feral for these photos, which is probably Emily’s goal.
We take some live shots on the stage, guitars in motion, singing to each other into unplugged mics. If I wasn’t so stressed about T.O. spilling his guts to the entire tour, I might even say I’m having a great time. Because being with Kick is always a great time.
“What are you thinking about so hard over there?” Kick says, keeping his photo-ready smile on as he strums his guitar.
How I like you so much even though I shouldn’t.
How hot you’re going to look in these photos.
How terrified I am it’s all about to come crashing down.
How much I’ll miss you when this tour’s over.
“Food,” I say. “I’m really, really hungry.”
“Emily,” he hollers, “can we get some snacks up here for my better half?”
He is so not making this easy.