Chapter 11
Callum
Beneath the moving spotlights and steady inflow and outflow of eager contestants, I maintain vigilance from the window in the back wall.
A show banner with lipstick-stylized print flutters above the stage as the last of the modeling hopefuls—walking hangers in high heels—eat up the runway with long, graceful strides.
All these women are beautiful or striking, but Lucy’s the only one who held my attention. She was breathtaking in that little silver dress and those fuck-me heels as she caressed me in front of the judges. A repeat of this morning, only fully clothed and in public.
Residual lust stirs while irritation tightens my chest.
I could wring her neck for her little stunt. What the hell possessed her? From the way the judges’ eyes lit up afterward, I knew she impressed them. But Lucy’s supposed to be lying low, not standing out. And definitely not dry-humping her bodyguard in front of a crowd.
After the last contestant finishes, we get a short recess of about ten minutes. I head toward the backstage area to monitor any movements. I’ve got eyes on Lucy through a thick black curtain. She’s pacing back and forth, just like the rest of the supermodel flock.
Half of me wants to storm in there, grab her, and drag her reckless ass home immediately, before the event’s even over with. But after that crap she pulled earlier, there’s no telling what she’s capable of.
I wouldn’t put it past her to cause a scene that gets me booted. Anything to finish her precious audition.
The irritation starts to boil over.
Deep in my pocket, my phone vibrates. I retrieve it and answer without even checking the caller ID.
“Callum?” A warm, familiar voice greets my ear.
Unease takes root, dampening some of the irritation. “Maya? Everything all right on your end?”
“Everything’s fine. I was just calling to check on the audition. How’s Lucy doing?” Oh, wait ’til I tell her big sister what she did. “I tried calling her, but it went straight to voicemail. Lucy always has her phone on and charged these days.”
I stifle a groan. “She needs a new phone for security purposes.”
True, even if the way I went about confiscating her old one wasn’t entirely by the book. Lucy’s attitude and failure to keep me apprised of her schedule pissed me off…enough that I acted impulsively.
Yet another reason she irks me.
“I see.” Maya’s doubtful tone reveals that I’m not hiding my animosity as well as I think I am. Not if she’s sensing something odd from an entire continent away. “I know she’s a handful, but give her a pair of heels and a runway, and she’s right at home. Has she walked yet?”
The pride in Maya’s voice cuts through some of my lingering anger. Just because Lucy is a huge pain in the ass doesn’t mean I need to ruin today for Maya.
I scowl at the floor. “She went about a half hour ago. I think she did…well.”
Lucy struts through my memory. It’s almost comical, how confident she was up there compared to her hesitance when we arrived this morning.
“That’s great.” Maya exhales sharply. “I know she puts up a tough front, but it’s a mask. She’s not as strong as she acts.”
She threw a pot of boiling water across the kitchen and sliced my throat open with her bare hands.
“The people who follow her on social media think she’s cool and mysterious.
They call it edginess or whatever, but it can come off as snotty and bitchy sometimes.
I promise she doesn’t mean anything by it.
” Maya’s apologies are too damn late. “Lucy’s also great at appearing calm when she’s falling apart inside. I call that her model face.”
My eyes return to the subject of our conversation. I listen to Maya rattle on, but I seriously doubt Ms. Runway Barbie over there possesses that much depth.
From where I’m standing, all evidence points to Lucy Marlow being nothing but a vapid, shallow, self-absorbed exhibitionist in waiting.
After a small eternity of pleasantries—by which I mean three minutes of chitchat that feels like several hours—I terminate the call with a gruff, “I need to go.” I slip the phone into my pocket and do another perimeter sweep.
Immediately, I notice that Maya and I weren’t the only ones discussing Lucy Marlow. I pass a pair of photographers commenting on her promise, her “sassy attitude,” her face’s “photogenic angles,” and how her eyes “catch the light beautifully.”
My jaw clenches. I don’t like the way Lucy causes a stir everywhere she goes. Makes my job a lot fucking harder. I was honestly hoping she’d bomb today, but—
A voice lurches through the speaker system.
The contestants freeze on the spot, loyal subjects listening for their ruler’s decree.
“We will now announce the round two finalists.”
Indrawn breaths swell around the room.
I chew the inside of my cheek, hoping Lucy’s not on the list.
“Adrian Madriaga, Wendy Gao, Yvette Williams, Kristina Jackson, Lucy Marlow, Heather Kincaid—”
Bursts of excited screams nearly deafen me. I even catch Lucy jumping up and down like a child at a birthday party when someone breaks out the cake.
I only learned about this Runway Revolution audition a few hours ago, but even I know what happens next.
Round two finalists advance to round three immediately, then three to four, and so on until they get to some big final show with the few remaining women. Fan-fucking-tastic for me.
The room turns over as the contestants who didn’t advance are ushered out, and the remaining young women hurry into dressing rooms to change into their round three outfits.
I return to my place at the back of the ballroom with a perfect view of the stage.
Through the earpiece I copped on arrival, thanks to a quick call to the producer from Shane Gallagher, I eavesdrop on the conversations of other security personnel while watching the entrances and exits.
After fifteen minutes of models strutting like their lives depend on it, Lucy appears at the head of the runway.
A striking red gown the show must’ve provided hugs her sleek figure, showcasing her stunning features. One knee pops out of a mile-high slit that reaches all the way to her hip.
My greedy eyes drink her in. The woman’s practically sin incarnate. A temptress created to incite lust and lead horny men straight to hell by our dicks.
Remember, she’s shallow. Arrogant. Spoiled. Even if she could win Personality of the Year, she’s a client. Your job.
As soon as the previous contestant finishes her final pose and pivots off the catwalk, Lucy’s up. Poised. Cocky. Mysterious. Working her sultry, evasive eyes in sync with her long, mesmerizing legs while she prowls down the runway and hypnotizes the audience, daring them to glimpse away.
My muscles coil tight, alert and anxious, and I work to maintain a neutral facade.
I’m going to blow my cover if I don’t stop underestimating her.
What kind of trick will she try next? Thanks to her unpredictability, I can’t relax. I need to be ready at a moment’s notice to preempt another wild act designed to provoke reactions from judges and viewers.
As much as it pains me, I have to admit that Lucy has talent. She stands out from the other women like a glittering amethyst geode in a room full of cubic zirconias.
Which equates to more work for me, since the goal is to keep her flying underneath the radar.
Lucy struts to the end of the stage and strikes a suggestive pose, almost like she’s making love to the dress sheathing her statuesque body.
Hell, even if protecting her wasn’t my job, I’m not sure I could pry my eyes away.
My annoyance flares again when I recall all the crap she’s put me through in the last week. Sexy body and seductive confidence aside, she’s still the same pain in the ass, immature, temper-tantrum-throwing woman who’s gone out of her way to irritate me ever since our first meeting.
My ire lingers while the other contestants join Lucy onstage for the photo portion of the evening. Cameras flash as the women stand at odd, uncomfortable-looking angles.
The judges rise from their seats, half of them going off to deliberate, while a few remain to help supervise the shoot. One of the male judges hops onto the stage to offer individual feedback to the contestants one by one.
When he gets to Lucy, he stops, watching her for longer than he observed any of the others. He caresses the curve of her face, tilting her head more toward the light.
Fire erupts in my veins the second his fingers connect with her skin. My temperature rises even more when Lucy’s body tenses and her smile falters.
That fucker’s going down.