J. Huss - PANIC

“Just queasy, that’s all. I need to go back to bed for a little bit, I’ll come help later.”

I take her hand and pat it gently. “I can do it, Elise. Just go rest.” I turn to Antoine. “Ronin and I can handle it, Antoine.”

“Are you sure?” he asks doubtfully. “There are hundreds of girls already lined up.”

I shrug. “Well, it’s a casting call, not anything life-threatening. We’ll manage. Just go relax, you guys.”

I don’t have to say it again—they are outta there. I smile as I go downstairs. The front door is still closed but everyone is already busy. Ronin and Roger are chatting over some notes when I walk up to them.

“Antoine said I can check the girls in since Elise isn’t feeling well.”

Ronin turns to me quickly. “What’s wrong with her?”

I take his hand. “She’s fine, just morning sickness.” I smile up at his worried face. I think it’s cute he worries over Elise so much. He’s really gonna be a fantastic uncle. When Elise told us after we came back from Sturgis Ronin was so happy he could hardly contain his excitement.

“You sure? I’m new at this baby stuff, I worry about her.”

“Antoine’s with her. If she needs help he’ll come tell us.”

He thinks about this for a few seconds and then puts his arm around me in a casual embrace. “OK. Billy!” he yells. “Show Rook how to check in girls up here and you can do first cut downstairs.”

Billy nods and I kiss Ronin real quick and head over. Billy is fussing with a laptop that is set up near the door. He points to it. “OK, Rook, it’s pretty simple. When they come up you check them in in groups of five. We put out an international casting call, so we will have hundreds of girls outside today. I’ll choose which ones can come up for a group interview and give them a number bracelet.” He points to the computer. “Then you fill in the form with their names and stuff, then hit enter. Ronin and Roger will get it over at the set”—he points to the large black partition segregating us from the interview section of the studio—“and they’ll send you a message when they want you to send them over. Then it’s just lather, rinse, repeat. Got it?”

“No problemo,” I answer back.

“OK,” Billy says, checking his phone. “It’s five minutes to nine now, so I’ll go start choosing and then send them up one at a time. Check them in as they come because pretty soon there will be a lot of girls lining up on the stairs.”

I salute and he heads down to the street level. The computer is set up on a tall cafe table and there’s a stool for me to sit on. But I take advantage of the silence and wander into the kitchen and grab a cup of coffee from the massive automatic machine, then make my way over to the computer table and wait for the first girl to arrive.

It takes five more minutes before the main door whooshes downstairs and the first girl’s heels click up the stairs. I bet she is a nervous wreck. I know I would be. I picture myself as I made my first trip up these stairs and I barely recognize that girl in my memory. I’m lost in my own recollection of weakness and fright when the girl comes into view.

I’m not sure what I expected, but this was not it. The girl is a few inches taller than me, which is saying something because I’m five foot nine, and her hair is long and naturally blonde. It’s got streaks of brown in it, like people pay salons hundreds of dollars to replicate, and her eyes are a striking blue-green. Blue-green. Who has blue-green eyes? She is so beautiful I’m almost speechless. I swallow. “Hi, I’m Rook and I’m gonna check you in.”

“I’m Océane,” she says. Her accent is French. I have to turn away to stop the sneer. What did I expect? Antoine has beautiful girls walking around here every day. I’m one of them, actually. But even though Billy said they put out an international casting call, I guess I just expected Denver girls to show up. I take a deep breath and start checking her in, trying my best not to worry about Ronin being around all these beautiful women for the next few months while I’m up in the middle of fucking nowhere prancing around in my t-shirts and jeans, picking up parts for Spencer’s bike shop and playing extreme croquet in the snow with Ford.

It only goes downhill from there. One extraordinarily beautiful girl after another walks up those stairs. Billy knows what he’s doing sorting the wheat from the chaff, because they are all stunning with a capital S. I’m still mulling this over, half-heartedly checking in girls as they come up the stairs and sending them into the studio in groups of five, when the freight elevator dings.

We hardly ever use the freight elevator. Most of the time everyone just takes the stairs because the elevator is slow and clunky. So this ding actually makes me stop what I’m doing and turn around just in time to see a thin blonde girl exit with a man in a suit. It takes me a minute to recognize her because of the cute outfit and lack of make-up. She’s wearing pink sweatpants, a white tank top, and a cropped pink zippered jacket to match her pants. Her fresh face is glowing, her eyes are bright, and she is the picture of health. Her long hair is tied back in a ponytail and she looks like she’s about to model for Victoria’s Secret Pink line. She walks past me, never even looking in my direction, and the white letters splash across her ass. Yup. Pink all right.

“Who’s that?” someone asks from behind me.

She disappears behind the tall black partition wall put in place for the interviews and I can hear Ronin’s roar of delight.

“Clare Chaput,” I reply absently in a whisper. “That’s Clare Chaput.” 

GIDGET is the first project that Roger and I are working on exclusively. The first project where Antoine is not involved at all. So everything is just slightly more important than normal. At least for me—I’m a perfectionist ninety percent of the time and I’ve been obsessing over this contract since I won it a few months back. If I play my cards right I might be able to make a go of fashion marketing. Not that Rook and I need the money. Work stopped being about money a while back. I’ve lived in money for a dozen years now and at least half of those years I was earning a significant amount on my own just from modeling. The con jobs don’t even factor into my bank account bottom line because it sorta creeps me out.

Stolen money. We stole all that money. Ford, Spence and I ruined more than one family over it and I do feel a little bit guilty about that. People’s children should not have to suffer for the misdeeds of their parents, but we had our reasons.

I don’t touch that money. It’s in so many different trusts and offshore accounts I might not even know how to find it all again, should I ever want to.

I laugh at that internally as I pretend to listen to the group of girls in front of me. Ford would know how to find it. We might hate each other most of the time, but he’s got his skills, and manipulating money and keeping track of bank accounts is one of them. The three of us made a pact after that last job. No spending any of our new money until we all had careers that would justify the lifestyle change and avoid any scrutiny, because I’ll be honest here, we barely got away with one a few years back. It was a technicality really. Rules of evidence worked in our favor.

There was no paper trail because we were strictly virtual criminals, but one detective got nosy with a computer that was not part of the crime scene and he found a teeny-tiny nugget of info which led to something Ford had taken great care to hide. But because the detective had no warrant, meaning he’d accessed that computer illegally, nothing he got from it was admissible as evidence when the grand jury was asked to indict us.

We walked away free and clear and that little bit of info was sealed and not given out to the media, but the cops know what we did.

And they are patient. They watch everything, I’m sure.

Which is why we’re working our asses off. We’re patient too, and besides, all our cons, and that one in particular, were for revenge, not paying bills or vacations.

Ford, Spencer, and I all have the same work ethic and that’s one of the things that bind us so tightly. Each of us has been given opportunities through luck or paternity, and we never took them for granted. We’re professionally successful because we work hard, not because we steal. I don’t need to work, I have a shitload of honest money saved up, but I will be working once Rook and I leave this life behind because sitting on my ass is not an option.

I scroll down the laptop screen as the next group of girls walks in. So far there are maybe one or two who might fit with what we’re looking for. Tall and thin are a given, but beyond that I’m looking for fresh. Exciting. Clean-cut. And wholesome—it’s a retro pin-up type shoot, after all. We like to use pouty and depressed girls for the dark erotic shoots because they sell better, but this is a catalog shoot. Lots of bright artificial lighting is a must so the girls typically at the top of my model list are not really suitable.

I look over this group, absently smile at them as Roger does the interview, then we dismiss them and I choose no one. “Did you like any?” I ask Roger.

“Nah. Next.”

I’m just about to message Rook so she can send the next group when another girl walks into our makeshift room. It takes me a moment to recognize her because I haven’t seen her in over a month, but once I do my happiness is immediate.

“Clare!” I get up and scoop her up in a big hug. “We’re supposed to pick you up tomorrow!” She squeezes me tight as I lift her and everything just melts away. I put her down and hold her out at arm’s length so I can look her over. “You look so good, sweetie!”