Page 25 of The Ruin
I’m not sure what that says about the man I’ve turned into, but frankly I don’t care.
We’re at The Venetian now and the place is packed, as expected, but the area for our shoot has been roped off. Monica’s being photographed in a gondola boat that’s floating in the artificial canal, with another male model decked out in full gondolier regalia. The camera is ready, the lights and reflectors are all set up, everything’s been arranged perfectly.
As usual, Monica looks great in a tight-as-hell striped dress. It’s a nice change from the skimpy lingerie she had to prance around in earlier today, not that she ever seems to mind being undressed for the camera. I stifle a yawn, wondering yet again why I’m here. It’s not like anything could possibly go wrong. Makeup mishap? Touch it up. Hair flattens? Don’t care. Bloated? Yeah, right. You have to actually ingest solid food in order for that to happen.
I’m irritable, underslept, and I just want this to be over with.
This is the biggest shoot I’ve been on in a while. There’s an entire team for makeup, one for hair, another for wardrobe. A designer to arrange and manage the locations, not to mention the expensive celebrity photog and his entourage. I can’t stop thinking that it should be Brooklyn at the center of this impressive production, though. She’d set this shoot on fire. My wife is good at that. She’s not just hot, she’s got charisma and a vivacious, bubbly energy that’s contagious. Everything she touches, especially me, bends to her will. The phrase “her smile lights up the room” could have been written about Brooklyn. Monica, on the other hand, is the classic type of sultry-eyed beauty that mostly scowls and pouts her way through her gigs. I’m over it.
I fiddle with the cell in my pocket. It’s on silent and I resist the urge to check and see if Brooklyn has called or texted. We had a good time at the runway show last week, and things were starting to feel solid again. I’ve realized that I miss what we used to have—whatever it was. The night we watched TV together, it had felt like we might be getting back to that. But she hasn’t reached out since I left Chicago. Is she pissed at me, or am I being paranoid?
Sure, we have a lot to resolve between us still. Long conversations, hard compromises, tough teamwork. I know we do. But I thought we could make it work. Our relationship has seemed to be on better footing lately, and that’s something I’d like to keep moving forward with.
If only Guy hadn’t insisted I be a part of this fucking campaign.
Suddenly realizing the gondola is empty, I look around and spy Monica heading my way with a saucy grin. A sense of panic hits me.
Honestly, I like Monica. She’s been a friend—well, more of an acquaintance—for a long time, although we don’t run in the same circles anymore because I’m not the partier I used to be back in the day. But something has been different about her since we got to Vegas. She’s been all over me. Normally, I wouldn’t think twice. Hell, I’m so used to being fawned over I probably wouldn’t have even noticed. Yet her hands are on me constantly, she can’t stop giggling in my presence, and it’s no coincidence how often her breasts “accidentally” brush my arm.
Her behavior is just one more thing adding to my fatigue.
I know I could easily take her back to my lonely hotel suite at any time, but there’s nothing about the idea that appeals to me. I miss my wife.
Pulling out my phone, I shoot Monica an apologetic half-smile as I press my cell to my ear and pretend to take a call. Ducking my head, wandering through the corridors of shops and restaurants, I get as far away from the shoot as I can without actually leaving the hotel.
When I’m confident that no one has followed me, I check my texts. Nothing. Fuck. With every passing day it seems increasingly likely that Brooklyn is giving me the silent treatment for springing this Vegas trip on her without warning. Honestly, I know I should have told her sooner, but I didn’t want to deal with the drama that would have ensued. At this point, though, I’m regretting my cowardice. This trip feels even more unbearable without Brooklyn’s support.
A few laps around the casino floor and I realize that all this wandering isn’t helping my anxiety. Neither is thinking about my wife. I abandon both and head back to the shoot. It’s obvious when I get there that nobody has noticed my absence.
I take up my post again, watching from the sidelines as Monica is arranged, photographed, touched up, rearranged, photographed, and touched up again. A steady stream of tourists and hotel guests stop by the velvet rope barricade to watch. I’m sure they think it’s a movie production or something, and more than once I get asked who Monica is and what we’re doing. Quite an impressive crowd gathers on the perimeter, and Monica basks in the attention. Her entire demeanor changes now that she’s got an audience, like someone flipped a switch inside her. Her haughty scowl retreats, replaced by a self-satisfied grin she didn’t have before.
Ladies and gentlemen, Monica Shore. A woman who loves to be watched. Who loves to cater to an audience.
She’s always been good at putting on a show.
As the shoot finally starts to wrap up, the photographer announces to the crew that there’s a dinner reservation set for tonight that Guy arranged for everyone.
“And it’s on Maxilene, so you all better make the most of your drink tabs!” he says, drawing a few cheers.
I’m not really in the mood to spend my limited quantity of free time with the same people I haven’t been able to get a break from in God knows how long. The only thing I want to do now is take a hot shower, change my clothes, and order in room service.
Turning away from the gondolas, I loosen my tie and point myself in the direction of the nearest elevator. Unfortunately, I don’t get far.
“Luka!” Monica’s squeal grates on my last nerve.
Glancing over my shoulder, I try to keep the irritation out of my voice. “Yes?”
As she rushes up to me, she bats her eyes like a pathetic, injured animal. “Are you going to the dinner later?”
“Eh, I was actually planning to skip it—”
Ignoring my response, she leans in close, running one hand over my chest while adjusting my tie with the other. “Because I wouldloveto have you accompany me tonight.”
I’m torn. It’s been a relentless day. But the lure of a stiff drink is calling me. I could go, order a whiskey sour, do some schmoozing. Better than sitting in my room alone, and I could leave after an hour or so. I’m just about to respond when someone tugs at my other arm.
Turning, I find Brooklyn standing there, looking like a goddess. She’s in a modest sun dress, dark hair loose around her shoulders, fresh off the plane judging by the rolling suitcase she’s got with her. To me, she looks like she’s glowing, even standing next to Monica with all her heavy makeup, professionally poofed hair, and red-and-white striped bodycon dress.
“Actually,” Brooklyn cuts in, “he’s going with me tonight.”
