I, Immortal

Chapter Twelve

Ch-ch. Ch-ch. Cameras flashed three-sixty around me as I quick-stepped out of the building and into the gray drizzle outside. I kept my head down as a porter held an umbrella over me. The chauffeur silently opened the door and I gratefully slid into the warmed seat, thankful for the heavily tinted windows that hid me from the paparazzi. If there was one thing I hated about fame, it was the paparazzi. I felt all too relieved when I could avoid them. My face was on every newsstand in the world, and that unfortunately included tabloids. In the three years since the procedure, I'd been in two fabricated marriages, broke up with five fake girlfriends, inherited a secret sum of money from an uncle I'd never known I had, and apparently been near death twice. Ah, tabloids. They made me want to rip them to shreds. And then tabloids went completely digital with the rise of virtual reality, so I couldn't rip them up anymore.

"Good mornin', mister Kearney." The driver greeted me with his weary Scottish lilt. He knew the drill and quickly weaved the car through traffic to evade any paparazzi who might have the nerve to follow us.

"Good morning, Farrar." I replied, sliding my hands along my wet coat. The cool water droplets felt good on my fingers.

"Did you enjoy visiting your family this weekend?" He inquired, pulling to a stop at a red light.

"Yeah," I shrugged and looked at the rain outside my window. "It was nice. We cooked out. Dad grilled steak, and Mom made strawberry shortcake."

I didn't feel like talking, but Farrar pressed me for more information on my visit. I truthfully couldn't find much to say. Food good. Weather lovely. Family tension same as usual. My mom had come to accept my superhumanity and the spotlight that came with it, but my dad had nothing but rude remarks and 'helpful advice' when I shared about my fame and fortune. I don't see why you enjoy chasing the spotlight, he'd said, Who do you think you are? Someone who needs popularity to be satisfied? Your life sounds pretty pitiful, from what I can tell.

I took a deep breath as Farrar's friendly interrogation finally hit a lull. Talking about family only brought up thoughts and memories that made me uncomfortable. In three years, I had risen in fame. Everyone loved me, went crazy over me. But my parents? Still uninterested in my accomplishments as ever. At the very least, my mom was slowly coming to terms with me. During my visit, I almost felt like she was actually a bit proud of me. But that could have been the steak and shortcake doing things to my mind.

"We're here, mister Kearney." Farrar announced.The car slowed to a stop, and my stomach twisted into a knot as I realized we had reached the end of the drive. I always liked the trip better than the arriving. Driving seemed to be a peaceful and contemplative experience without need of an end.

A porter opened the door and held an umbrella over me until I reached the door where Margarita, the assistant photographer, ushered me inside and took my coat. The studio was warm and bright from the umbrella lights and softboxes set up in the middle of the room. Nothing was more unbearable about a photoshoot than having to stand under a bunch of hot lights for an extended period of time. If not for the rain, we would have had the shoot at an empty lot or amusement park. I could have stood in the cool breeze, and at the very worst, held a fake ice cream cone made from shortening and corn syrup. I didn't mind the rain, but the photographer and her crew did. And a model, immortal or not, had no say in choosing locations regardless of weather.

I followed Margarita to the dressing room where a stylist was pushing clothes around on a rack. Margarita rapped on the door. "Xander is here." The stylist shot a wild-eyed glance at me, grinned, and pulled a line of clothes from the rack.

"I have the perfect outfits for you. They'll go so well with your eyes." She held the clothes up to me, nodded satisfyingly. "Wonderful. Try this on. And these."