Chapter 9
Nine
Lou
“Crime and punishment grow out of one stem.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson
For the first time in years, I wake up without trepidation.
My eyes open with no worries at what trauma the day will bring.
For the couple of weeks I’ve been in Stowaway, even knowing I’m safe here, my sleepy brain didn’t believe it.
I’d wake with the same tight-chested anxiety I’ve carried with me for too long now.
Not today. There was no fear buried deep in my belly. The smile on my face was true instead of the lie I wear more often than not.
I don’t move from my bed to the bathroom as silently as possible, for fear of reminding someone of my presence. There’s no sifting through memories to ensure that the dishes were all done, the counters clean, the trash taken out. All major penalties in Pierre’s world.
Here, I won’t be punished for existing.
One of these days, I’ll have to leave a dirty dish in the sink overnight just to remind myself that I can. Maybe I’ll throw my clothes over the back of a chair for a couple of days. Something to test the waters and my reactions that have been trained by torment.
When I enter the kitchen after my shower, Juliet is coming in through the back door.
“Perfect timing,” she says, handing me one of the two mugs she carries. “I went over and stole Grady’s coffee.”
“Ooh, thank you,” I say, smelling the caramel notes before I take a sip. “I didn’t realize how close you two are.”
“Yeah, he’s like a brother. You know, annoying and boorish,” she says, but laughs.
“It’s nice. What you two have? It’s nice,” I say. “He’s nice.”
“He has his moments,” she says, somewhat dismissively, as if he’s the last person she wants to talk about, or has something else on her mind. After a few sips, she tunes back into her surroundings. “What’s on the agenda today?”
“I was hoping we could get in touch with Luke’s guy. See if I can get a handle on my finances. Then, I’d like to do something defiant.”
“Defiant. I like the sound of that,” she exclaims. “What do you have in mind?”
“Honestly? I have no idea. All my ideas have been silly. Like, not vacuuming the carpet for a day, or leaving the toilet lid up. I don’t know how to just live anymore.”
Juliet stills, staring at me with tears pooling in her big blue eyes.
“Don’t do that. If you cry, I’m going to cry. I’ve done enough of that.”
“That fucking shit-eating asshat gave you crap for things like that?” She sounds…wounded. I don’t want pity, but I love that she’s hurt on my behalf.
“Verbally, yes. He has a lot of rules. It was best to follow along because the more upset he got, the more violent he got,” I admit. “But we’re not going there. Today is Fuck Pierre St. Germain’s Rules Day. Officially.”
“Can every day be Fuck Pierre St. Germain’s Rules Day? Officially?”
“I like the sound of that.”
“Okay, first, we call Luke. Then, we call Luke’s guy. Then, we figure out how to rebel,” she confirms.
It takes a few hours, but David, Luke’s friend, has the process rolling.
Essentially, he’s able to move my money with a system of what he calls decoys.
Admittedly, I was confused by the process, since it’s so far outside of my knowledge of finance.
Luke spoke very highly of David, though, and I trust that.
Growing up, our family financial status was never discussed, but I was aware that we didn’t have much. Or, at least, didn’t spend much. For all I know, my parents squirreled money into a nest egg.
Investing and saving wasn’t anything I learned.
Before I started dating Pierre, all my money sat in a regular checking and savings account.
I was irresponsible. Spending ridiculous amounts of money on frivolous things.
Shopping sprees, lavish vacations, jewelry that I didn’t even like but was emblazoned with the hottest designer name.
I felt like I had to. As if the industry required me to be a model, even in my off time. Even when I wasn’t being paid. I never gave myself downtime, which got very expensive. Not to mention, exhausting.
Pierre was the one who pushed me to hire an accountant and financial advisor. I hired his. Only for it to be one more way I’ve been tied to my tormentor. Controlled by my abuser. The more ties there are, the harder it is to free myself from them.
When David agreed to help me, he offered to do it without a fee. I refused. He fought me on it until he started pulling my accounts up.
The one good thing that came from my relationship with Pierre is that he paid all the bills. My money was for my own incidentals and entertainment, what little of that there was. My accounts have blossomed in the three years since moving them to a knowledgeable advisor.
David says, within forty-eight hours, I’ll have my financial freedom back. From there, I’ll have to learn how to stand on my own two feet again.
Juliet rolled her eyes when I said I’d be paying her rent for the time I’m in Stowaway.
She didn’t argue, though; I think she understands how important it is for me to accomplish every step.
She eagerly agreed to go with me to shop for a new car and clothes that fit me. Not designer. Not luxury. Practical.
“Have you thought more about work?”
“Some,” I admit. “I should, at least, call Carolyn. She’s been emailing.” My agent is great at what she does, yet extremely business-oriented. Complaints about anything that happens outside of the studio or on set aren’t something she entertains. I don’t expect her to be sympathetic to my cause.
“Have you emailed back?”
“A couple of times to let her know that I’m safe but not ready to discuss anything else,” I admit. “I’m going to need something to occupy my time, soon, though.”
“Do you want to go back to modeling? Nothing says you have to.”
I’ve thought about this a lot since fleeing Los Angeles.
If I could choose anything to do with my life, what would it be?
Modeling wasn’t something I dreamed of as a child growing up in rural Arkansas.
The thing is, I don’t remember dreaming of a job.
My daydreams were filled with imaginary faceless people to love and who loved me back.
People who nurtured a loving spouse, playful and happy children.
But never what I did daily to earn a living.
“I miss the work itself. I don’t miss the lifestyle,” I finally tell her. “I’m not sure I know how to have one without the other.”
“Being out of Los Angeles or New York would help,” she says. “Or even Paris and Milan. Luke has made it work staying in Portland, so nothing says you couldn’t do something similar.”
Juliet makes a good point. Most models live in the bigger fashion cities because it’s more convenient. Especially when starting out and running to go-see after go-see every day. Those days are over for me, though. They have been for a while, now.
“I don’t have to work as much, either,” I say.
“No, you don’t. You can afford to be picky. Only work when and where and with who you’re comfortable with.”
“The travel will be more difficult,” I suggest. “But the payoff of a quieter life could be worth it.”
“It is, trust me. I’m glad Luke never moved out of Portland. I love traveling, don’t get me wrong. But there’s something great about coming home to a slower pace.”
“I guess it’s at least worth a conversation with Carolyn about it.”
“If she isn’t reasonable, maybe it’s time to find an agent who will be,” Juliet says. “Micah would love to steal you away from Carolyn.”
“You’re right,” I agree. As nice as it’s been hiding away here for a couple of weeks, it’s not a sustainable way of life. Or, not a healthy one, anyway. I need a life, some work and hobbies. A social life. “I’ll give her a call tomorrow. For the rest of the day, though, we have some fun.”
Juliet eyes me, aware of my tendency to put my problems on the back burner. Delaying them and making them tomorrow’s problems, too. When all you do is fret and worry all the time, though, you constantly crave a break.
“Right. Rebellion,” she says. “What’s something we can do in Stowaway that your piece of shit ex would hate?”
“Anything I do here, Pierre would hate,” I tell her. “Is there a dive bar here?”
These things may seem small to others. For me, they’re experiences I’ve only dreamed of. Well, I’ve been to my share of dive bars, but in Manhattan and Monaco, they aren’t really dive bars.
My agency found me young. By the time I was legally allowed to walk into a bar, I’d already been on the covers of most major fashion publications. Carolyn had always coached me to believe my free time wasn’t mine.
“Everything you do, you do to be seen and you expect to be seen,” she said so often, I feel like it is tattooed on my skin.
“There’s The Wave Break,” she says. “It’s exactly what you’d imagine a tiny beach town bar to be.”
“What about a tattoo parlor?”
“Oh, fuck,” she says, surprised. “Are you sure about that?”
“Now that I’ve had the idea, yes.” I can get away with it. There are a handful of active high fashion models with small tattoos. With my name, reputation, and experience, I’d still get booked. Not for everything, but I’m over the days of wanting everything. “Yes. Hell fucking yes, Jules.”
“Okay,” she says, laughing. “There’s only one place here, unless you want to go into Portland.”
“No. It has to be here. In Stowaway.”
“Like a memento,” she says, and I nod. “Stewie is your guy, then. Get ready, let’s go.”
Leap.
Four little letters neatly scrolled along my collarbone. A statement. A reminder. A motto.
Stewie, a grizzled man in his sixties with a white beard grown down to his oversized belly, was patient and gentle with me. He ribbed Juliet, who he’s known her whole life, at every opportunity, keeping us all laughing. I think he was nervous I’d have a low pain tolerance, it being my first tattoo.