J. Huss - PANIC

“Let’s watch at my place, sis. I have a better TV and besides, you never visit me at home anymore.”

“I’m sorry, Ronin, I’m a bad sister too.”

“Please. This is definitely hormones talking.” I punch in my code and unlock the door, then wave her into the living room but she heads straight to the bathroom. I plop on the couch and kick my feet up on the table, then flip through the DVR and find some Ellie shows. She likes all the typical shit that I’d normally never be caught dead watching, but this is how I spent my childhood. Sticking to Elise’s side like glue as we navigated our way through a very fucked-up home life. She had a little TV in her room and six nights out of seven I was in there sleeping with her instead of my own bed. We’d watch Jenny McCarthy and Jackass, then the Top Model show later, after Antoine took us in. It was kind of a joke, right? Since we lived with Antoine and half the time I had famous models taking me on tours around foreign cities and Elise was in a position to make and break careers with a whisper in Antoine’s ear.

She had wanted to be a model, even though she’s so small. She knew the high fashion stuff was a no-go, but the erotic stuff didn’t have those kind of requirements. And that’s how she ended up here. Well, Antoine had a much smaller studio over in North Denver, so that’s where Elise dragged me that afternoon, about six months after our family disintegrated. She was so nervous and I was only ten years old, too young to understand what she was about to do for money. So I was just scared. And when Antoine came to get her from the front room Elise started to tremble and I just flipped out and refused to let her go with him. I tried to fight him, in fact.

I can laugh now, but I was so fucking afraid for her. I thought for sure this guy was gonna do something horrible, why else would she be so scared? And then I’d be alone, totally alone.

But Antoine let me come back into the studio and he took so many pictures of her that day—fully clothed—that I fell asleep on the floor. The next thing I knew, I was being homeschooled in India while he photographed important people and used Elise as his make-up artist.

It was surreal how Antoine changed our lives.

When we came back from India he bought this building. We lived in a high-rise apartment during the renovations and I had private tutors because every few months we’d pack up and go somewhere else. I’ve been to more countries than I can count. And we always did fun tourist stuff when we were there, even though I could tell Antoine hated all that shit. He took us anyway.

I tell myself he’s not like a father to me, or a brother. And that’s true. Because there isn’t a word to describe how much Antoine means to me. Father just doesn’t cut it because my father was such a bastard, I’d never saddle that moniker on the guy who literally saved me and my sister. Antoine is like… like a best friend more than anything else.

When the building renovations were finally over three years later, Elise and I grew accustomed to this life and forgot all about the violence and fear we left behind. That’s when Antoine enrolled me in Saint Margaret’s for the end of eighth grade and I met Spencer. Ford was already in high school, so I didn’t meet him until the next year when Spence and I started ninth grade. Antoine, Ellie, and I still traveled, but not as much. Things settled down little by little, and pretty soon Antoine was just… sorta famous. I’m not even sure how it happened. He was well-known in certain circles before this transition, but at some point he became someone you had to book a year in advance to get your fucking picture taken. That’s when all this contract shit started. And that’s when I started modeling seriously myself.

I’d been discovered way back in India. Everywhere we went someone wanted a picture with me in it because, well, I was a handsome fucking devil, what can I say? But when I was almost seventeen I was approached by big-name designers. Jeans at first, then underwear, then sportswear, and once I turned eighteen, some of the more tame erotic shit. Then the woman who was running the closet got pregnant and quit. So I was in. After that the FIRE contract came up and they wanted Clare and me to model together, but Clare opted for fashion and glamour contracts and signed with an agency that took her all over the world for the next two years. And she came back an anorexic addict. So the girl I ended up doing that FIRE contract with was Mardee.

Mardee.

You know when you see a group of guys and they have the token girl? The tomboy who they never see as a girl, so she gets a pass into their inner circle? Well, that was Mardee. The little sister in our con circle. Spence, Ford, and I were only doing stupid pranks back then, not the major hacking we did later. And we used Mardee for a shitload of small-time money-grabs. I liked her, sure. But Ford really liked her, and Mardee and I were a little bit drunk one night… so. Yeah. We did the drunk fuck and were too young to understand we were supposed to back away gracefully the next day. She wanted to give modeling a try and Antoine actually thought she was perfect so… the rest is history.

I’ve spent the last few years trying to understand all the mistakes I made that year, but even after all my recent hardcore introspection, I’m still not sure I could have changed things. I could’ve let Ford have her, but I’m not convinced she would’ve listened to him if he told her no modeling because the girl could only be described as a whirlwind. She blew into our little group and twisted us all up, then left all the damage in her wake.

And all four of us participated in it. It wasn’t just her, it wasn’t just me, or Spencer, or Ford. It was all of us. We got caught up in the shit and the shit kicked our asses.

Us guys share that regret and I suppose that’s what keeps us so connected. Her death mixed with the knowledge of how much power we have as a team. How much damage we’re actually capable of. Because after Mardee died, we wielded that power to the extreme for the better part of a year.

Until we conned the wrong guy.

The bathroom door opens and I drag myself out of the past. Elise comes back with red eyes and a sniffly nose. “What’s wrong, Ellie?” I asks her softly. She drops down next to me and I wrap her up in my arms and pull her close. “You’re just emotional because of the pregnancy. Don’t cry.”

She cries harder.

I should know better. When you tell a girl not to cry, they really think you’re telling them to go for it.

“Tell me,” I say in French, because French is the language of Antoine and our charmed life with him. It’s a reminder that we are good, and happy, and normal. “You can tell me, Elise. I’m a good listener.”

“I’m gonna screw up this kid, Ronin,” she replies in English. “I have no idea how to be a good mother.”

“Oh, come on.” I tsk my tongue at her. “You’re just being silly now. And you know what?”

She looks up at me with her red and watery eyes. “What?”

“You did a pretty good job with me. You raised me since I was a baby. You changed my diapers and fed me and made sure I took baths and brushed my teeth. When people used to ask who my mother was when I was a kid, I’d always tell them you. It kinda freaked some people out once you got to be a teenager.” She stops crying for a second and huffs out a half laugh. “You know exactly what to do with a baby because you’ve already done it with me. And barring that one near-grand jury indictment, I came out just fine.”

She laughs for real now and I know I’ve won.

“You’d be a good father too, Ronin.”

“Yeah, I really would.” I kiss my sister on the head as she wipes her tears and settles down. “I’m looking forward to being a father, actually. And your new guy will be the perfect petit garçon to practice on.”

We watch a bunch of Vampire Diaries shit for the next couple hours and she tells me the whole story, explaining every freaking detail of Stefan, Damon, Elena and what the fuck ever. I try to listen, but I’m too preoccupied with daydreams of baby girls who look like Rook to do more than give her an obligatory nod every once in a while. 

My life has gone from fast and fabulous to dead-ass boring in one week. Last week I was Rook, super naked model for Antoine Chaput and the human canvas for Spencer Shrike’s amazing artwork. Now I’m a receptionist who has no idea how to subtract negative numbers and requires a paid tutor even though she is twenty fucking years old. The phone rings and I pick it up. “Good afternoon, Spencer Shrike Bikes, this is Rook, how can I help you?”

You see? This is my new life.

“Yes,” I say back to the person on the line as I click through the bike production schedule on the computer. “We have a Skype conference scheduled for next Monday at ten thirty AM mountain time.”

I make appointments. I pick up tailpipes from the chrome guy down in La Porte and painted frames from the body shop in Fort Collins. Sometimes, if my day is really exciting, I also swing by the upholsterer’s shop in Loveland and grab a bike seat or two.

“Great, I’ll call you five minutes before the meeting and we’ll get your bike in production,” I say enthusiastically to the guy on the other end of the phone. “Thanks!”

I hang up the phone and turn back to the shop. Ford’s presence startles me because I didn’t hear him walk over. “What’s up?” I ask.

Ford’s job here is still undefined. I’m not sure why he’s on the show, let alone what his purpose is in Spencer’s shop. But no one cares what I think. I’m a fucking receptionist now, so I have to make coffee, and take sandwich orders for all these men, and when we have person-to-person meetings with important people who are gonna be on the show—we’ve got famous bikers coming out of the fucking walls already and we’ve only taped two days—it’s my job to flirt with them.