Ford's words sting. Like bad.
Because not only am I young, too young to do anything fun with everyone else Ronin hangs out with, I'm also pretty fucked up in the life department. I mean, that was my whole deal, right? I was tragic. So tragic they had a campaign with my name on it. So fucking tragic I was living in a homeless shelter when I turned up here.
My appetite is gone after four bites of my sandwich and my stomach roils with the thought of eating anything else right now. I grab my phone off the table and leave the diner, walking slowly back to the studio. The doors are locked since it's after hours so I key in my code and then start to walk up the stairs, but change my mind and take a seat on the bottom step. I can hear a whole bunch of shit going on up there—lots of people here still. But I feel pretty alone.
I basically have no friends.
I have Ronin, but he's a boyfriend, so I'm not sure if that counts. Plus he's far away.
I have Elise, but she's more like a boss than anything else. Plus she's far away too.
I have Antoine, but he's… I don't even have another relationship to compare Antoine to. I can't even imagine in my wildest dreams of approaching Antoine and asking him if he wants to catch a movie or something.
None of the other models talk to me. Val, that tiny blonde girl who walks around naked every chance she gets, is sorta nice. But she's never asked me if I wanted to do anything after work. Plus, she's on vacation with almost everyone else while we do this STURGIS contract.
Billy is OK, but I'm too young to participate in his brand of fun.
Spencer is really cool actually, but he's running like four companies. He's got a bar, the Shrike Bikes, the TV show, and the painting. He's got no time to be my friend.
And that's pretty much it as far as my social circle goes. It's pathetic. And even though Chicago holds the worst memories of my entire life, I suddenly wish I was there so I could at least attempt to look up an old friend. Maybe Stacy Juniper who was my foster sister for almost a year at one house. Or even some of my old foster parents. They didn't all hate me, some of them just had bad luck, not enough time or money to keep other people's kids. Stuff like that.
It's dangerous to have only one friend, who in this case for me is Ronin. Dangerous because you start to depend on them too much.
"Rook! There you are," Antoine calls from above. "Come up to the third floor, we have to go over the show details."
"Yeah, OK." I drag my ass upstairs and when I get to the third floor it's just Ford, Spencer, Antoine, and me.
"Are we ready, then?" Ford asks me.
"Sure," I reply, even though I have no idea what we should be ready for.
"OK, command central for the show is down here." He waves his hand and we all walk forward, then Antoine opens the door and waits until we all enter before pulling it closed behind him.
It's a huge room, not as big as the studio upstairs, and the ceilings are only ten feet tall instead of two stories, but it's still pretty big. There's nice light coming through the windows even though it's starting to get dark outside, and there's a table and a shit-load of art supplies packed onto of one of those red tool boxes professional mechanics have.
"This is where I'll do all the painting, Rook," Spencer says. "So you can have some privacy, then when I'm happy with the art, we'll go upstairs to shoot."
I nod out an OK.
"Over here, Rook"—Ford takes over—"is the production center for the show. All painting sessions will be recorded."
For the first time I notice there's a whole team of people over on the other side of the room. There's also a massive bank of monitors, wires going everywhere, camera equipment, and microphones. I look back to the guys and Ford continues.
"Each of you will have a team assigned. Antoine gets team one, Spencer gets team two, and Rook gets team three. I won't even tell you their names, they don't exist. If you need anything, you ask me. That guy over there sitting at the console"—I look and a big guy wearing a black Metallica T-shirt waves to us—"is our director, Larry. Larry runs pretty much everything but you three. You shouldn't ever need to talk to him, but he'll be talking to me to make sure we're making something people will want to watch when we're done."
I stop listening after that. I just smile and nod.
Uh, huh
, I tell them.
Sure, yes, I totally have it. No problemo. I'm in. Yes, sounds about right
. I give Ford every meaningless affirmation I can think of because I do not give one stupid shit about this show.
Basically what he said was, I have three dumbasses who get to follow me everywhere. Two cameramen and a sound guy. Plus Ford, because what kind of fun would this be if Ford wasn't tagging around all day long? Of course, Ford assures me he won't be around all the time—sometimes Antoine will need him or Spencer might have a question, but I'm probably the one who will need his guidance the most, you know, because of how young I am.
He is such a dick.
The only bright spot of this whole meeting is the revelation that my crew is not allowed in my apartment, but that's only because they have it all wired up anyway, so there's no point in cramming us all in that small space.
When I'm all out of nods and Ford is finally tired of hearing himself talk, I am excused.
By this time it's nine o'clock and Ronin never called me. And since Ford was so thoughtful this afternoon when he informed me I'm not Ronin's type, Clare is, I think the worst. I end the day sitting all by myself on my bed, literally huddled in the corner as I try to stay out of the camera.
Tomorrow,
I tell myself,
tomorrow will be so much better than today.
Today is just a day that had a lot of new stuff in it, a day filled with confusing things, so it felt weird and scary.
But tomorrow those things will be less new, so I'll be less confused and it will be so much better than today.
At least I tell myself that.
But it's a lie and even my damaged psyche understands this, because tomorrow I will be naked in front of all of them and I'm sure, even compared to the whole groping experience I had with Billy that first time I did anything here at Antoine Chaput's erotic art photography studio, this will be scary as hell.
Because this time I know exactly what's happening.
And I signed on for every single second of it.
Chapter Seven - RONIN
"She didn't respond to the buprenorphine treatment."
That's it. That's all this asshole doctor says. Like I know what the fuck this drug is and what it means that Clare's not responding to it. I want to punch his fucking face in.
I take a deep breath instead. "Can you explain that to me? I'm not quite sure what it means."
"Oh," he says with a smile. "Sorry, I just figured you'd be familiar with treatment. Sorry."
I stop listening for a second because I'm pretty sure this fuckwad just insulted me. Just assumed because of who I am, I'd be a drug addict, too. Elise grabs my arm and shakes me.
"… but she's a heavy user, so we think a long-term methadone taper would work better."
"Right. So what's the problem? Put her on it."
"She's refusing. She might need to leave. She's playing with us, Mr. Flynn. She thinks she can force us to give her euphoric levels of opiates to relieve her withdrawal symptoms, so she's refusing everything. She's thrown herself into rapid detox four times in the last two weeks, then accepts the methadone to come out of it, and it starts all over again. This is not what we do here. In fact, her manipulation is unacceptable."
I rub my face with my hands. Now I just want to strangle Clare. "Where is she?"
He points down the hallway. "Room 23."
"Wait here, Elise." I disentangle Elise's clutching hand from my arm and head down the hallway. I knock once, then walk in.
The TV is blaring People's Court and Clare is slumped over in bed, obviously high off her ass from a large dose of opiates. "Well," I say in a soft whisper. "It's gonna pretty hard to have a conversation with you if you're constantly fucked up."
Her head slowly tilts in my direction. "Help me, Ronin."
I sit down on the bed and push her hair away from her hollowed and black-ringed eyes and my heart hurts for her. This is so difficult, I hate seeing her this way. She looks nothing like the girl who came to live with us in tenth grade. All I see is Mardee, the day before she overdosed. Clare tugs on my heart in so many ways. It kills me to see her like this, but it's a pain that I'm ready to let go. I can't take it anymore. "I'm trying, sweetie. I'm trying. But you're being bad. They might kick you out and seriously, Clare. You can't come home if they kick you out."
Her head rolls to the side and the tears spill out. "It hurts."
I've never taken drugs. Like ever. I'm probably the only fucking person alive who's never smoked a joint. Hell, even Antoine and Elise toke up every now and then. But I've never had the desire. I don't understand this not wanting to get better. I'm clueless. I've read the pamphlets that tell me this is out of her control. Her body chemistry has been changed by the drug and she can't fight it. It's too powerful.
But I still don't get it.
"Clare, they're gonna put you on a new treatment and you will agree to it, do you understand me? I can't fucking take this anymore. Why do you
want
to be sick?"
"It hurts!"
"Yeah, that fucking sucks. But you know what? Who gives a shit? It's either take the hurt or die. Do you understand that? You either take it or
die
."
"I'd rather die." And then she turns away and mumbles it again. "I'd rather die."
She calls my bluff. Because I can't let her end this way. I can't.
I get up and walk out, heading back towards Elise and Dr. Assface, and come in at the middle of a conversation about getting Clare to sign new consent forms. "Mr. Flynn, I was just explaining to your sister that if she had family members here to make sure she signed all the consent forms and followed the program, we'd consider letting her stay."
Elise looks at me, her eyes pleading. "Please, Ronin. I've had enough. I can't watch another girl die from this shit. I can't do it." Assface walks off mumbling something about privacy and I run my hands through my hair as Elise continues. "I've seen too many girls go down this path, I've had it, Ronin. We need to
make
her get help. If we stay, she'll listen. We can drag her though this program, she'll get better."
"And then what, Elise? When she gets back to Denver and she's got all her fucking friends taunting her with drugs? It'll start all over again."
"Just let Antoine and me handle that part, OK? But I need you to stay here, Ronin. She's always listened to you."
"Rook is just starting her contract, Elise. I can't stay up here in the Buttfuck Mountains. I need to get back, she's got a shoot tomorrow and I'm her manager."
"Rook is not dying, Ronin. Rook is getting her picture taken. She signed that contract, you told her not to. So if she's big enough to make that decision, she's big enough to deal with the repercussions. Teach her a lesson about signing shit just to spite you."
And Elise is right, of course. Rook asked for this, she wanted to do it. She made a big deal about it. It was her decision. "But she never really understood the deal, Elise."
"Yeah, like I said. Repercussions for being stupid. Clare made stupid decisions too, and if Rook was in dire need, I'd say fine. Put her first. But Clare is family and she is
dying
, Ronin. If you walk away from her I'll never forgive you."
And there it is. The ultimatum. Rook or Elise.
And as much as I hate to do it, I choose Elise. Because what choice do I have? What choice do I have? This tiny woman is my only true blood family left.
Chapter Eight - ROOK
Even though I woke up several times during the night remembering to squish myself up against the wall to avoid the camera in my bedroom, I'm ultimately sprawled out, ass cheek fully exposed from my crooked shorts in the morning.
Note to self: Wear pants to bed from now on.
I'm annoyed, tired, and in no mood to fight the pathetic excuse for a shower that is my claw-foot tub sprayer system, so I grab some clothes and head over to Ronin's apartment to take a shower in the Beast. It's early, barely five AM, but Chaput Studios will wake soon because these people are morning freaks. How in the world can Spencer be a morning person? I mean, I can see Ford getting up at the butt-crack of dawn, he's got one of those sketchy A-type personalities, I bet. But Spencer?
Nonetheless, there are a bunch of people already in the studio when I enter and make a mad dash for the stairs that lead up to the apartments. I spy the camera crews and several of the guys—Team Rook, from the panicked look on their faces—scramble together their equipment.
I run down the hall, press in Ronin's door code, and rush inside before they can catch me. It's stupid, I know, they'll get enough footage of me this summer to embarrass my non-living relatives from the grave, but I can at the very least have an hour of personal time with Ronin's better-than-sex shower.