Twice The Trouble Book 2 of 2: Twice The Love

Chapter 27: Solace

Stacy

"I'm sorry, what?" I frowned at my long-term friend and employer, Chris Bowen.

Chris is 27, with a muscular build, pecan brown hair, pale blue eyes, and he wore a fitted pink button-down tucked into white slacks. He used to be flamboyantly gay, now he's simply discreetly gay. His words, not mine.

My good friend of six years let out a bothersome sigh as he reclined in his tall black leather chair behind his mahogany desk.

"One of our male models resigned just yesterday, after his recent contract expired. He said he didn't want to renew it."

"And why not?" I crossed both my arms and legs, feeling annoyed by the unexpected turn of events in Glam Models, the upscale agency I'd been working at since the age of thirteen.

"I don't know. I tuned him out after he handed in his resignation letter. He just kept droning on some bloody excuse I didn't quite catch. Anyway, the main point is, we luckily found a new recruit." Chris straightened up in his leather chair and slid open one of his desk drawers, leafed through some documents before he triumphantly presented me with a long, crisp white folder.

Inching forward, I warily reached for the thin folder and flipped it open to scan the resume of our new male model.

My sky blue eyes furiously raced over the black and white print, my blood simmering as I dug my perfect fingernails into the corners of the crease-free application.

"No," I expostulate, hurling the folder across the room, incidentally landing on Chris's desk.

Chris looked taken aback by my belligerent behavior. "What the hell, Ace?"

"Anyone else," I hissed, picking up my dove-gray fringe bag and sliding it over my shoulder as I stiffly jumped up from my cushioned chair. I fixed Chris with a steely gaze. "Just not him."

My boss of six years gauged my enraged face, my rising and falling shoulders, the taut set of my chin.

"What's wrong with hiring Eric Ortega?"

"Everything!" I snapped, my fingers tightly gripping the gray handle of my fringe bag.

"Look, Goddess." Chris addressed me in a formal manner, using my screen name I work under--the pseudonym I chose for when I did magazine interviews, billboard ads, magazine shoots, and other modeling stints. Goddess, as in Eris, the goddess of mischief. "Is he really that bad?"

"Yes!" I sank down on my chair again, slouching like a child instead of the 19-year-old I am.

"Can't you just hold on a little longer?" Chris cajoled as he put one hand on the white folder sitting on the marble desk in front of him. His pale blue eyes were pinned on my sky blue ones.

For a long time we just held a staring contest, neither of us daring to break eye-contact.

Until the metal door burst open and in came none other than Eric Ortega, blond haired and all six feet of him clad in a mocha brown shirt and coal-black pants stretching down to a neon pair of sneakers.

"I'm here!" Eric arrogantly declared, his hazel eyes instantly zooming in on my cleavage, as if his eyes were programmed to be boob-seeking missiles.

"STOP STARING AT MY CHEST!" I exploded, covering myself with both hands.

"Oh, that's right." Eric leered at me as he took the chair opposite mine. "You wore that dress so people could check out your shoes. My bad." He snickered as if he just told a witty joke.

I squeezed my fists resting on my apricot-clad lap. I chose an apricot v-neck dress with short sleeves and knee-length skirt paired with charcoal gray flats for my meeting today at Glam Models Agency. Had I known he was coming, I would have just stayed at home.