29. That Girl
That Girl
Romi
A thousand rooms, a thousand versions of charming. My feet ached with the piled up interest of every night I'd stood in heels for people who paid for the leather.
My handler marched me toward the big "moment.
" It was a two-minute photo op with the Rich Wild Syndicate models, the brand's lead chemist, and the makeup artist responsible for this year's viral "wet glass" look.
I was supposed to anchor the center, arm out, chin high, the regal face of the brand.
My body moved on autopilot, and every smile was a lie.
"Romi, love, let's do a little more profile on this one," said the photographer, snapping her fingers like summoning a dog.
Didn't like that. I turned, offered the angle, and my eyes caught the light just right.
I could've held the pose for hours. My muscles knew how to do this better than they knew how to relax.
The other models watched me out of the sides of their eyes, not in a mean way—more like they were checking if I ever dropped the mask. I didn't. The chemist, a mousy white girl in a lab coat and four-inch heels, tried to make small talk. "It's crazy, right? You're prettier in person."
I gave her the warmest, dead-eyed smile I could muster. "You too."
Every time a flash popped, the afterimage burned the memory into my skull: Cam, standing inches from Skye in the glass lounge, bodies angled in a way you didn't need a telescope to interpret.
The tilt of Skye's head to her face, flower to sun.
The way Cam closed the space between them, all that pent-up energy focused on someone else.
I knew what those conversations with her felt like.
My insides twisted, and I almost lost the thread for a second.
Focus. I forced myself to get my mind right for this next stretch, doing inventory of things I could control.
My dress was on point, makeup flawless, my brand obligations nearly fulfilled.
All I had to do was get through the next hour without looking like I gave a fuck about anything but these photo ops.
I ran through the campaign talking points: inclusivity, innovation, legacy.
Recited them like Hail Marys in my head, crowding out the sound of my heartbeat.
The handler guided me down the stairs. My head stayed up, but my mind was still in that room, watching the angle of Cam's back, how she angled into Skye's space and Skye let her.
I knew what it looked like when Cam wanted somebody alone.
She'd blown up a whole room to get me to herself once.
So watching her fold into Skye like that, the question wasn't whether she meant it.
It was whether she'd just done it again, the same trick, pointed somewhere else.
Except if that person was Skye now, then I didn't know which one of us was the side chick.
After the last camera flash, I smiled for the photographers, then left. No dramatic exit. I slid past the security guys, nodded to a PR rep, and found the first hallway not crawling with someone wanting a piece of me.
It was a service hallway, plain as hell and smelling of cleaner and heat from the fluorescent overheads.
I leaned against the wall and let myself breathe for the first time in an hour.
The quiet didn't last long. A couple event staff rushed by, not seeing me, but it was enough.
I ran a finger over my lips, checking for smudges, and forced myself to process what I'd seen.
I thought about texting Zaniyah, asking for her take, but I already knew the answer: speak on it. Which was a nonstarter.
What was I supposed to text Cam, exactly? Hey, can you not make fuck-me eyes at your ex in front of the whole industry, because it makes me feel like a joke? Thanks, babes.
I'd rather die.
The real problem was simpler, uglier. I'd bought it. All of it. Cam's wide eyes when she said she wanted to know me. Her breathless confessions about wanting to be close to me. The way she'd looked at me in that hotel room, like someone special instead of another conquest.
I ate that shit up like I was starving, too.
God, I was so fucking stupid. She really had me geeking, knowing I'd see her tonight. Hell, I had even got a Brazilian and sprayed my ankles with my good perfume for her.
She'd said all the right things, got out of bed naked to kiss me silly.
Made me believe she meant it when she said this wasn't just physical.
But words were easy, we both did those for a living.
Niko had been earnest too, right up until she was on every podcast calling me a user.
Right up until she turned our private shit into her comeback narrative.
What if Cam was doing the same thing? What if all that wide-eyed sincerity was just the better performance? What if I was somebody she'd be vague about later, in an interview, when the next one came along?
She wasn't about to have me out here like those girls who lost their damn mind over a taste of pussy, I could get over this.
Had done harder things. I'd survived label wars, social media pile-ons, some oldhead rapper who'd once made a Pixo going in on me after I curved him.
At least I got to take this L in private.
I flexed my fingers, rolled my shoulders, and willed my heart to slow. What I needed was to go home. Call Z, crack one of the good bottles, and talk so much shit about everyone in this building that the only crying I did tonight was from laughing. That sounded like a time.
A door banged somewhere down the hall, and I straightened, letting the Queen out again, every inch of me smoothed and ironed and ready for inspection.
The hallway was colder than it had any right to be, all the heat of the party siphoned out by the endless hum of the ventilation. I leaned against the wall, keeping my breathing slow, one palm flat against the cinderblock. I used the chill to bring myself back to calm.
I heard the footsteps before I saw anyone. They weren't in a hurry. No frantic scuffing, no high-heel clatter, more of an even tread. I closed my eyes, counted to four, and told myself that if it was a fan or an intern, I'd give them the photo and get back to my regularly scheduled crashout.
It wasn't.
Cam stopped dead at the mouth of the hallway, two body-lengths away, fine and full of audacity, apparently. For a second, we stared at each other.
"Mind if I crash your escape route?" she said.
I didn't move. "If you want," I said, not quite meeting her eyes. "Seems like you worked for it."
She rocked back on her heels. "Took three laps and a fake bathroom trip. You're really committed to the disappearing act."
"That's the theme of the evening," I said.
She stepped closer, but not all the way. She kept her hands visible, like I was some nervous animal she didn't want to spook. "I saw you watching."
"Yeah. Well." I shrugged, tried to play it off, but my face burned. "You made a hell of a scene in there. Hard not to watch."
Cam let the silence sit. "It's not what you think."
"You don't have to explain," I cut in. "I told you—I'm not trying to be messy or get in between whatever history you have. Z told me exes can get real complicated sometimes—"
"Maybe," she said. "But I care if you think I'm out here being messy for the hell of it."
I studied her face, tried to find a lie, but there wasn't one. Just a tired, stubborn kind of honesty.
"She's not my type," Cam said, then caught herself and corrected. "Not anymore. Not since that night in VIP together."
My pulse picked up, and I resented it. "That's rich," I said, forcing a smile. "You got a whole harem out there and you were just, what? Waiting for me to realize it was my turn?"
She frowned. "That's not what I'm saying. I'm saying—fuck, I'm saying that what happened in there wasn't some setup. I needed to tell her to her face that she had crossed a line. With the leak."
"She didn't take that well, I'm guessing. She wants you back. That part I already know. Question is how long before you—"
"Nope. You already got us broken up in there." She tapped her head. "Talk to me, Romi."
I didn't love being clocked like that. Didn't love more that she was right—I was filling in the blanks, already halfway to the version where this went bad. "Okay," I said. "Then tell me. What'd she say?"
"She told me she hopes you break my heart. So, no. Not well."
The words hit different than they should have. Break her heart. Shit. I could actually do that to her, couldn't I? This thing between us was real enough to leave damage. For both of us.
I let myself look at her then. Her hair was perfect, face still beat from the event, but there was a new cut to her cheekbones—tension, worry, something else she wasn't letting out.
There was no trace of the disrespectful woman I'd dragged on that festival stage, but the look in her eyes was the same as always: daring me to be honest with her.
"Cam, what do you want from me?"
She hesitated, then took the last step closer. Now we were a foot apart, the hallway gone tunnel-vision tight. "I know you said you didn't know what to do with us. I guess I want to know what this is. What you want it to be."
I didn't have an answer for that. All I saw in my head was the image of her with Skye, and the times she lit up the whole room by being herself. All I felt was the ache in my ribs, the way my hands curled into fists any time I tried to make sense of wanting her.
"I don't know," I admitted. "I don't know if I want anything. Or if I just want to not want it."
She nodded, like she understood. Maybe she did.
"I'm not playing with you," Cam said. "I'm not trying to—" She searched for the word. "I'm not running game."
I believed her. That was the scary part. "Zaniyah says I should be careful. That girls like you—" I broke off, annoyed at myself for sounding like a PSA.
"Girls like me?" She raised an eyebrow, but didn't push.