Page 18 of The Ruin
The thing about walking in a show is, it’s live. Hundreds of people are watching, and even though they’re there to see the clothes, one step out of line and every pair of eyes in the entire venue is on you—and God forbid youtrip. I knew a model once who fell backwards onto her ass at a show in Beijing, and she never walked a runway again. Shooting for print is a piece of cake in comparison. Only the best photos are ever seen by the public. You lose your balance, or your look isn’t perfect, and the photo gets deleted in a millisecond. On the runway, cameras are flashing so fast from every angle that any misstep will be immortalized for all eternity.
No pressure or anything. It’s just the hugest gig I’ve ever booked. No big deal.
“Is it too late to back out?” I ask desperately. “I’m out of practice.”
“That’s exactly why we’re here early,” Luka soothes. “Now show me your strut.”
With that, he gives me a playful smack on the ass, and I can’t help letting out a nervous laugh. I’m lucky I have a husband with the kind of influence to make this practice run possible.
Clearing my mind, I focus on a point of light at the far end of the venue and try to get in the zone, silently reminding myself that this’ll be just like my early days. I used to walk with a Mona Lisa smile on my face, but that was because I was so gleeful to be modeling professionally that I was trying to hold back a grin the entire time. Now, though? All I feel is nerves.
After a few laps around the runway, Luka waves me back over.
“How was that?” I ask, panting a little.
“You’re beautiful,” he answers, avoiding the question—which tells me all I need to know. I’m stiff and my anxiety is showing; I can feel it and Luka can obviously see it.
“I just need more time,” I say, but before I can skitter off, he tugs me closer.
“Wait, I meant to show you this. Here.”
He pulls up an email on his phone and hands it to me. I glance at the screen, skimming the words but not really processing them. I’m too nervous.
“What do you think?”
“Looks great,” I say distractedly, holding the phone out to him.
Luka clears his throat with an amused smile. “Did you even read the email? They’d like an answer before end-of-day.”
“Oh.” I look at the email again. It’s an offer for a job modeling an upcoming line of winter coats and accessories for a high-end department store. “Yeah. Sounds fine to me.”
I hand his phone back, a little thrown. This is the first time Luka has consulted me about a gig. Usually I pass my contracts over to him for approval and co-signature, or if he gets an offer directly he’ll either accept or pass on my behalf and then catch me up later. The fact that he’s asking for my input in advance makes me feel like we’re a united front. A team.
The other thing I’ve noticed is that, just like the early days of our relationship, Luka has been more involved with my shoots than he is with the other models’. But he’s not being possessive and controlling like before—he’s just observing and occasionally offering support. If it weren’t for the way we ignore each other at home, I’d almost think he wanted to spend more time with me. I don’t know whether to be elated or confused. It would be a lot easier to pretend my way through this marriage if I knew we were both pretending…but after our talk last night, I’m not sure Luka is pretending. And I know my feelings for him are real, and always have been, whether I want them to be or not.
He types on his phone and then slips it into his pocket. “Done and done. Why don’t you give it another go? This time in heels. And try to relax if you can. This should be fun.”
“Maybeyoushould put the heels on and take a turn out there,” I grumble. I slip out of my flats and into the stilettos he insisted I bring for practice, but inside I’m grateful for all of this.
Luka takes a seat down in the VIP section and watches as I walk the length of the runway again, more focused this time as I try to memorize the feel of the flooring, the number of steps I’ll need to take before I pause and turn. As my heelsclip, clip, clipacross the floor, I can’t help thinking back to the last time I gave Luka a private runway show. It had been just like this, only me and him. His eyes riveted on me, drinking me in with open desire. It had felt like I moved only for him then, like my walk was some kind of foreplay. And later that night, back at his place…I shiver at the memory, my pussy clenching involuntarily.
Shaking off the sexy flashback, I try to concentrate. On my posture, my form. My stride. Influential people will be watching me up here tonight and I want to be perfect. But the look of appreciation on my husband’s face doesn’t hurt, either.
“Nice.” Luka leans forward in his seat a little as I pass by him. “More sass, Brooklyn.”
More sass. I almost roll my eyes, but shoot him a withering glare instead.
“That’s more like it,” Luka says appreciatively. “You’re going to be in a pantsuit first, harsh eye makeup, 80s style, and then some kind of plastic wrap dress after that.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Really, a dress made of plastic wrap? Is it see-through?”
Stopping before him, hand on my hip, I practice a spin on my heel.
He grins. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t mind if it was.”
His eyes rake over my body, but I force myself to keep walking. I’m not sure what’s going to get to me more this evening—my nerves, or the sexual tension building with Luka.
“There. Just like that. Your lines are perfect.”
