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I check my phone for the thousandth time today, and not even one of the hundreds of red notification bubbles leaves me satisfied.
Radio silence from Gus Winter.
“What are you looking for?” Jay asks, raising his chin in the direction of my phone.
He’s seated on a couch nearby, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. His eyes are already bloodshot from the line he just inhaled, and his usually perfect hair is ruffled. I reach over and push his hair back for him. He winks in response.
“Nothing,” I lie before I hand him my phone. “Here. Take a picture of me.”
Sighing, Jay puts down his own phone and takes mine. “What for?” he inquires while he flutter-blinks three times—cocaine always makes his eyes dry.
He’s lucky I love him because he asks the dumbest questions sometimes. What for? I’ve been paid to post pictures of myself in nightclubs for the better part of the decade and yet he still asks. “For charity, Jay,” I snap.
“What charity?” he responds in all seriousness.
I breathe deeply, holding back a million insults. “I’m being sarcastic,” I explain—which is a miserable thing to have to say.
“Oh, a paid post.” He rises. “No shit. Why didn’t you say so?”
Again—he’s so lucky I care. Ignoring him, I lean back against the railing and stare off to the side, aware that my highlighter looks killer from this angle.
After all these years, it still baffles me that Jay isn’t better at taking pictures of me. Of the five or so he typically takes, I usually have to reformat at least half and the lighting is always abysmal. More often than not, I have to play around with image filters or send them to a photographer friend to make sure they’re good enough for my contracts.
“There,” he says, tossing my phone back. “You’re welcome.”
“Thanks,” I reply, ignoring the not-so-passive aggression.
From the pictures he took, I pick one where my tiny dress is on the verge of failing its one job—preventing a nip slip. I upload the image and tag my location at the club, as well as the singer whose vodka we’re drinking tonight. The singer’s team will send thirty thousand dollars my way in the morning—all in exchange for one picture of me.
Posted.
Within ten minutes, I have twenty thousand likes. Within half an hour, I’m up to fifty thousand. Even better than the likes, the comments are a stream of ego-boosting wonders. There are thousands upon thousands of people raving about everything from my dress to my high ponytail to my eye makeup.
Suck it, Gus Winter. He has no idea what he’s missing. Who cares if he ignored my text? Not me. I don’t need his approval. I can get plenty of approval elsewhere—from anyone.
Satisfied, I head downstairs to the club’s ground floor and lose track of myself in the gyrating bodies and flashing lights.
Chapter 8: Gus
What the fuck am I doing?
What the actual fuck am I doing?
The car rolls to a stop at a red light, and my driver lets out a soft exhale before he glances at his phone. Leisurely bullshit. The idiocy to look at his phone while I’m in his backseat tempts me to get his ass fired. I’ve destroyed careers for far less. But it’s the holiday season and I frankly have more important things on my mind.
Come and get me, August.
Annoyed, I read the text yet again. She must be out of her goddamn mind, taunting me after slipping away in the night like a dirty secret. Yet, here I am, chasing her.
I know better. I’m not twenty-two anymore, impulsively quitting my first job and selling my shit for a plane ticket so I can chase a woman to London. I know I shouldn’t do this. I already know how this turns out.
What the hell am I doing?
Chasing her, apparently. Ignoring common sense and experience, apparently.
I open another app. My stomach surges when I see a new image on Julia’s Instagram. This post wasn’t there ten minutes ago, so she’s updating in real-time.
She’s in a dark nightclub, holding a drink and wearing a red dress—or something vaguely resembling a dress. The skimpy garment is so revealing, I immediately begin to harden right there in the backseat of the car I’ve hired for the night. It dips so low, I’m not even sure how it manages to keep her nice breasts from spilling out.
