Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 71762 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71762 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
It was like I didn’t exist.
Being homeless was a freeing experience.
The feds would keep searching for me since I owed so much on my mortgage, and they wouldn’t stop until they put me in prison or took all of my wages from whatever job I managed to pick up. I would work forty hours a week just to be piss-poor for the rest of my life. I couldn’t even afford to resume my education.
Starting over in a foreign country sounded like my only option.
I just hoped no one caught me.
I didn’t have a false sense of my appearance. I understood I was pretty, but I certainly wasn’t model material. But if I could ask for a job doing something else, like sewing or being an assistant, I could make some money to get by. And I would also work for a very powerful man. It might make it difficult for Knuckles to touch me. That was also the last thing anyone would expect me to do, get a job working for a famous person. People would assume Conway Barsetti would turn me in, but judging by the empty expression in his eyes, he wouldn’t give a damn who I was running from. He had more important things to do—like count his money and his women.
I returned to Milan later that night with a bag full of bread, cheese, grapes, and crackers. The villagers I met had pushed more food into my arms than I could carry. I ate most of it when it was fresh and saved the rest for dinner. I slept in a hostel that night and had a bed and a real shower after a few days without that kind of luxury.
Tomorrow, I would head to the audition and hope for the best. I didn’t have nice clothes, but my clothes shouldn’t matter because I wasn’t looking to be a model.
I’d even be a janitor—if it paid enough.
* * *
I had to check in like everyone else and was given a number to stick against my clothes. All the women there were already in heels and lingerie, dressed up for the part. Beautiful, skinny, and with enormous hair, they were all qualified to be the next model for Conway Barsetti.
I was the only one fully dressed—and that made me feel naked.
Most of the women raised their eyebrows when they looked at me then whispered something to their friends in Italian. Some even laughed at me, like I was an idiot for showing up dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. My makeup and hair were done, and I dressed nicely for a walk through the park, but in the context of the audition, I looked like the biggest freak on the planet.
Numbers were called, and women worked the stage like it was the real deal. They strutted, pivoted, flipped their hair, and threw smoldering gazes at the men sitting behind the table.
Conway Barsetti wasn’t there.
He must have more important things to do than pick out his next model. Or maybe he was watching—but he couldn’t be seen. I was a bit crestfallen when he was nowhere in sight. A beautiful man like that was fun to stare at.
They finally called my number, 228.
I walked up the stairs and passed the woman who just hit the runway. She didn’t contain her laugh as she passed me, wearing a silver bra and panties and heels that were so tall she was practically walking on her toes.
I ignored her and walked up to the table where the three men sat. All dressed in suits, they moved their eyes over my body, taking in every feature with experienced gazes. It wasn’t the look I received from men when I went downtown in a short dress. It was pragmatic, completely observational.
The one in the middle spun his finger. “Turn and walk.”
“I’m not here to audition to be a model.” I kept my hands by my sides and didn’t bother with a fake smile. I wasn’t there to impress them with my appearance, but my mannerisms. “I have a lot of other skills I think will be useful to the Barsetti lingerie line. I can sew, clean, cook, organize…anything. I’m looking for work, and I’m willing to fill any position you may have.”
The man in the middle had dark hair and eyes. A pen was held in his fingertips, and he absentmindedly rotated it within his fingers. His eyes were dark like coffee, with just a splash of cream. “Modeling is the position we’re trying to fill. You want it or not?”
I immediately wanted to challenge him until he caved and directed me to someone who could hire me in a different field, but judging by the hostility in his eyes, he was already fed up with me. It was unlikely anyone spoke to these men that way, not when they could make dreams come true. “Do I look like the modeling type to you?” I’d shown up in jeans and a t-shirt with flat sandals on my feet. I wasn’t photogenic like the rest of them. I didn’t smile with perkiness or smolder with my sensuality. I was plain and boring. I knew it—and they knew it.