So Pretty It Hurts

there was nothing that could undermine his self-assurance. So this is what happens to you, I thought, when you become an overnight sensation playing an investigator with the New York City medical examiner’s office, and every girl you meet wants to jump your bones.

“Do you want anything to eat?” I asked.

“No, I’d better just do coffee,” he said. “I really need to be out of here by about seven forty-five.” He shrugged off his brown leather jacket—not unlike the one he’d worn in Details—and laid it next to him.

After we ordered, I cut to the chase. I quickly described the weekend at Scott’s, my theory about Devon’s death, and how my career was now in jeopardy.

“It kills me to think of you in such a jam, Bailey, but what could I possibly do to help?”

“One of the guests last weekend was Devon’s booker, and it’s possible Devon was upset about something he was doing,” I said. “From what you know, is there anything a model booker could do that might tick off one of his clients?”

He leaned back into his chair, thinking. Because of the worried look on his face, I couldn’t help but flash back on the night in mid-September when he’d stood in my living room, experiencing the full impact of the news about the death of his close friend Tom. We’d hugged each other in consolation, and moments later we were tearing each other’s clothes off.

“Well, the thing that makes you angriest with a booker is when he—or she— doesn’t seem to be working hard enough for you,” he said finally. “Bookers always concentrate the most on their major stars, and it’s easy to get short shrift if you’re not in that league. Of course, bookers would like to make money off everybody, but they only have so much time and energy, so they tend to focus on the models with the clearest potential. Devon was a superstar and a real priority for the agency. But she wasn’t getting any younger, and her booker’s attention may have been slipping a little as he concentrated on upcoming girls—the ones who would make big money tomorrow.”

“I wondered about that. Anything else? Anything not aboveboard?”

“Most of the bookers I worked with—and remember, I was never some supermodel—were great to deal with. But I do remember there was one guy in my agency who was there one minute and gone the next. The rumor was that he’d gotten caught skimming money from the agency somehow, and he was booted out on his ass.”

“Any idea how he was doing it?”

“No. I actually probed a little because I was curious, but no one knew anything. Most of the guys I worked with weren’t exactly rocket scientists.”

“Do you remember his name?”

“Jason something. I’d call the agency for you, but they’d probably clam up and deny the whole thing to me.”

We spent the next minutes catching up—Chris answering my questions about Morgue, me answering his questions about my book. Finally he checked the time on his iPhone.

“I probably should split now,” Chris said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful. I think the bottom line is that there must be opportunity for some hanky-panky, because at least one booker tried it.”

“Thanks,” I said. “You’ve given me something to think about.”

There was an awkward moment as I wrestled with my coat. One of the sleeves was partially inside out, and as I tried to punch my arm through it, I realized I looked like someone writhing in a straitjacket. Not a sight, I realized, Chris would ever be treated to on dates with hot young starlets styled flawlessly by Rachel Zoe. Because by now, those were surely the girls he was dating.

As we made our way to the front of the coffee shop, a female customer, clearly recognizing Chris, went bug- eyed at the sight of him.

“I guess you get that a lot now,” I whispered.

“Yeah,” he said. “People sometimes insist we met at a party when they don’t realize they actually know me from the tube. It’s not a pain yet or too intrusive. But all it would take is one date with someone like Blake Lively or Jessica Biel—and my life as I know it would be over.”

“Or one of the Kardashians,” I said, smiling.

“Excuse me for not inquiring about your love life,” he said after a few moments, “but I’ll spare myself the torture.” We were outside now, on the sidewalk in front of my building.

“Chris, you could have anyone in the world you wanted.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he said, smiling ruefully. “But you’re the one who knocked my socks off, Bailey.” He leaned down and kissed me on the cheek again, but more tenderly this time, placing one hand on my shoulder as he did.

“If I think of anything, I’ll call you, okay?” he said.

With that he sprinted toward Broadway. I watched as he flagged down a cab and slid in effortlessly.

And then I heard my name called. Startled, I spun around. To my utter shock, Beau was standing behind me.

“Wh—what are you doing here?” I stammered. He was wearing a long camel-colored overcoat and a brown scarf wrapped around his neck.

“It’s almost eight o’clock,” he said with frustration. “We agreed to meet now.”

“But I thought I was coming to your place,” I told him. I realized suddenly that we had never really nailed down the details.

“Whatever,” he said dismissively. He seemed pissed, and it wasn’t hard to figure out why. “That guy there. Isn’t that the actor you were seeing?”

“Um—yeah, it was,” I said, faltering a little. “I needed his help—with my story on Devon. And finding out who’s been trying to sabotage me.”

“His help? Let me guess—did he and Devon know each other as members of the Big Hair, Small Brains Association of America?”

I almost laughed—at the absurdity of the comment and Beau’s obvious distaste for Chris—but I didn’t, which was a good thing. That would not have helped matters. And I could see that help was what I needed.

“Well, you’re partially right,” I said, trying to sound cooperative. “Chris used to work as a model, and I need information about modeling agencies.”

“And you had to have him up to your apartment to discuss it?”

“No, we were in the coffee shop. And he just dropped by for a minute, Beau—on his way someplace else. It’s no big deal.”

“No big deal. Is that right?”

“That’s really funny,” I said, starting to feel a swell of anger. “I’m not supposed to mind when a girl you used to screw in Turkey calls and suggests you meet up, and yet you seem irritated by the fact that I spent thirty minutes with someone who could help save my job and my reputation.”

I had a head of steam going now, like I was Joan of Arc trying to make my case on horseback to a legion of French soldiers. To my embarrassment, I sensed that Bob, the evening doorman of my building, was watching us out of the corner of his eye.

“Isn’t it really just more payback, Bailey?” Beau demanded. I’d never seen him look so annoyed. “Like your taking off for the weekend just because I had to be out of town.”

“That’s absurd.”

“Something absurd is going on here. But I’m not the one responsible.”

With that he turned on his heels and strode off angrily, the back panels of his coat flapping in the cold night air. I just stood there, not knowing what the hell to do. For a brief moment I felt a temptation to take off after him, but I then overrode the urge. I didn’t like how Beau had managed to turn the tables so that our spat tonight had been about some totally innocent activity on my part—excluding my flashback to the night I ripped Chris’s clothes off—rather than his fling with Abigail, the dig-site slut.

As I slunk into the lobby of my building, Bob offered a rueful smile. I wondered if he sometimes went home and yammered to his wife about me over a cold Bud. “There’s this girl in the building who seems nice enough, but no sooner does she get into a relationship with some guy than she’s picking a fight with him on the curb.”