Despite all the bad PR lately, this agency didn’t get to the top without knowing all the ins and outs of the business, how to launch huge careers, how to stay relevant. Maybe the bad press will even work in my favor, if it means fewer models are coming to these auditions.
I briefly wonder if he’s going to be here. My stomach does a little flip at the thought, even though I remember him telling me that menial tasks like auditions were beneath him. He only worked with already-established supermodels, he’d said. Looking back, I should have recognized right away that that kind of arrogance wasn’t going to end well for me. Still, a little chill goes down my spine as I imagine him here. This is his domain, after all.
“Are you here for the audition?” The pleasant voice of a woman behind the gleaming black reception desk grabs my attention.
I head toward her and glance at the clipboard lying there. Guess I was wrong about the bad PR. The page is covered top to bottom with names.
“Yes,” I say, keeping my voice confident despite my anxiety at being here. “Brooklyn Moss, signing in.”
I sign my name, then head toward the waiting area she indicates. The office is exactly how I imagined it: gorgeous, modern, and spacious, with lots of chrome and glass and black leather. There are also huge framed photos on the walls—not of models, but of breathtaking landscapes and architecture, like something out of National Geographic. I can see the city of Chicago spreading for miles out the floor-to-ceiling windows.
The open seating area where the rest of the models are waiting is packed. All I see are glossy lips and perfect, shining hair, long legs, and arched brows. I expected no less. I might stand out in most crowds, but at a casting call for models, I’m just another pretty face.
When I was just starting out, I was sure my eagerness and determination to work hard and “give it my all” would get me to the top. That if I just wanted it badly enough, I could make it happen. Now? I’ll be the first to admit I was incredibly naïve. The older me has learned through experience that this is a brutal profession I’ve chosen, that competition is dog eat dog.
Booking jobs is hard, even with a face like mine. I’m not conceited about it; I simply know I have a remarkable face—people have been telling me I should go into modeling since my teenage years. I guess it was easy to stand out in the Midwest with my father’s height and strong jawline, my gorgeous Italian mother’s olive skin and incredible cheekbones. The icing on the cake is the beauty mark set just above my pouty lips—I basically won the genetic lottery. But even with the gift of beauty, I haven’t launched into the supermodel stratosphere. Not yet.
Maybe today will be my big break.
I force myself to look nonchalant as I sweep past a few couches crammed with hopeful young women, all of them pretending they aren’t measuring me up. There’s nowhere to sit, so I lean against the wall and try not to slouch. Then I glance around at everyone else, my expression as warm and open as possible. I might be ambitious, and of course I’m competitive, but I’m not the mercenary type. After all, 99% of us aren’t going to make it. There’s no reason not to be friendly. We’re all in this together.
Unfortunately, most other models don’t see it that way.
I estimate there are about fifty girls here, and I study their faces to see if I recognize any of them. I was relatively successful in the Chicago scene during high school, modeling for local companies, doing print ads, and gaining traction in the tri-state area. Auditions were a breeze for me back then; scouts took one look at my “exotic” face, snapped a few pictures, and threw me jobs so fast it made my head spin. But eventually things stalled, and I realized that I needed representation. Steady gigs and national exposure required an agency like KZ Modeling.
I’ve had KZM in my sights for as long as I can remember, as I suspect most of these women have, but could never get an appointment…until now.
I have a hunch the company’s recent rebranding efforts go a lot further than simply changing their name to Danica Rose Management—that they’re looking for brand new, undiscovered talent to act as the new face of the company. That means they’ll be promoting the hell out of whomever they sign next. Booking huge international campaigns. Maybe even flying them out for fashion events, or to walk the red carpets in Hollywood. My mind spins with all the possibilities. I want this. I’m ready.
The scent of spicy male cologne piques my memory, but when I look around, I don’t see anyone except the rest of these hopefuls, all of them female. Even so, my pulse jacks up, ticking hard inside my chest as my lips begin to tingle. That kiss…those lips on mine…
Shit, Brooklyn, quit this. I give myself a mental shake. I can’t allow the indiscretions of my past ruin my future. I screwed up my chance with this agency once—I won’t do it again.
“Want to sit?” A blonde uncrosses her legs and shifts to the edge of the ottoman she’s perched on, giving it a little pat. She’s in a knee-length black leather skirt and a tight white blouse, her outfit teetering between professional and sexy, and her fresh, dewy complexion screams youth. She can’t be much older than eighteen.
I blink, suddenly feeling old at twenty-two. But I smile anyway.
“Sure, thank you.” I take the seat and keep my posture aligned but relaxed.
“I’m Marin.” She flips through a magazine, while absently handing me one. “You might as well browse. It takes the edge off.”
“I’m Brooklyn,” I say. I accept the media, but don’t open it. Her hand trembles slightly as she flips the pages too fast to be absorbing anything. I don’t tell her I’ve auditioned enough that nerves no longer apply. There is no edge for me anymore. Just steely determination and hope.
I subtly watch her, noticing her profile as she cocks her head and tucks her hair behind her ear. She’s got a classic beauty, a symmetrical face with full lips, rounded cheeks, a perfect brow. I imagine her in a white dress, walking the streets of Bellagio with a gelato in hand. I’d capture her just as the streetlamps come on to soften the already muted golds and yellows of the buildings, the softness of Lake Como behind her as she grins directly into the camera.
What an Instagram photo that would be.
She glances up and catches me staring. Smiles and returns to her ardent page flipping. “Are you new? I’d remember your face if I’d seen you around before.”
I want to laugh. New? Chicago is my hometown. I haven’t lived here in over three years, but my face still graces a few advertisements around the city.
“I live in LA now, but I grew up here.”
That gets her attention. “Really? I’d think this place would have snatched you up already. I mean, just look at that face.” She waves a hand in a circular motion around my head. “You definitely don’t look like anybody else. I actually expected you to have an accent.”
I get another flash of that mysterious cologne scent. Nope, not going there. I’m over it.
“I had kind of a hard time breaking out in Chicago.” It’s true enough. No need to get into the details of my humiliating flop with KZM, the subsequent career nosedive, or the fact that I’d been desperate for a fresh start and a place to lick my wounds.
“What made you decide to try LA?” She closes her magazine and rests her hands, palms down, on top of it. Her expression is eager, as if I might have some wisdom to impart.