Fast (Not Like the Movies #2) Read online

  FAST

  By Lauren K. McKellar

  Copyright © 2017 Lauren K. McKellar

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  If you are reading this book electronically and have not purchased it or been gifted a copy via an online retailer, it has been pirated. Please delete this e-book and support the author by purchasing a copy form one of its many distributors.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover copyright: K.A. Last of KILA Designs

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Books by Lauren K. McKellar

  Chapter One

  There are three firm things I’ve learnt here at McWilliams & Co on the first day of my internship.

  One: Stilettoes mean you’re taken seriously.

  Two: Getting coffee is a major part of the job description.

  Three: No touching the models.

  “Or licking. Or biting,” Madison, the features writer at Lola magazine, says with a saccharine-sweet smile as she walks over to the shirtless man in front of us. The camera flashes, highlighting every dip and curve of his more-than-impressive chest. Four girls and one boy are transfixed, eyes wide, mouths slightly ajar.

  The girl next to me lets loose a small groan. “Lord, but I want to lick ....”

  I manage a small giggle.

  “Something funny, Quinn?” Madison raises one very well-manicured eyebrow at me, and I shrink back as far into the dark of the studio as I can.

  “No. No, sorry.”

  “Good.” Her mask never cracks as she looks up at the six-foot hottie with the killer smile. “This is Alessandro. He does a lot of promotional work for us.”

  Alessandro gives a wave that just about sends my partner in crime into a faint. “Hi, ladies. Gent. I hope to see more of you around.”

  Madison rolls her eyes as she walks away. “He’s also a terrible flirt and will try to get into your pants. And that’s why we have the no touching-no licking rule.”

  “Why can’t I ever have nice things?” my sideliner whispers.

  This time there’s no hiding my laugh. It’s an all-out bark, which I quickly cover with a cough when Madison looks around. She’s quick to remind me that thousands of people would kill to be in my position.

  But I wouldn't.

  The only person I’d kill for is already dead.

  “Sorry,” the girl whispers as our new boss turns back to the hall, leading us away from the studio as quickly as we entered it.

  “Don’t mention it,” I softly reply, stepping in behind the other five interns as we scamper after our fearless leader.

  “Macy.” The licker extends her hand, and I take it.

  “Quinn.”

  “Now that you’ve seen the studio, the design floor, and the account sales rooms, I expect no questions about where you need to go when I give you a job to do. Clear?” Madison folds her arms across her Camilla and Marc-clad chest. It’s last season—I know because I eyed the same shirt for weeks before blowing a month’s pay on the latest Givenchy handbag instead.

  “Crystal,” I say, amongst a sea of affirmations.

  “Now, each day you’ll have a different task to complete, but whenever you have a spare moment, I expect you to be working on a personal project. This project is an article and photo shoot on a subject of your choosing. Focus in on what interests you—fashion, or current affairs, or entertainment.” Madison counts off the examples on her nude-painted nails. “When it comes to the shoot itself, you’ll each be given a half-day in the studio we just toured along with access to one of our in-house photographers. Models, you’ll need to find—or perhaps you can volunteer for each other.”

  I shrink back into myself. Yeah right.

  “What about hair and make-up?” Straight blonde hair asks, directly in front of me.

  “You can sort that out yourselves, too. This is just to demonstrate what you’ve learnt during your time here—it’s not as if we’ll be using these in the magazine, unless they prove exceptional.” Madison’s eyes glitter like the flash of a camera. “Although we do have an entry-level position vacant at the moment, so submit something good and who knows what could happen?”

  The air changes—thickens with a tension as heavy as a fur coat. Macy’s hands curl into fists. The only male in our group takes a slight step forward. There’s no doubt that this opportunity is highly coveted. Everyone in our group tenses at the very possibility of it.

  Everyone except for me.

  “Want to brainstorm together?” the girl next to me asks, and I smile. Someone who doesn’t know my past. Someone who wants to hang out with me anyway.

  “Sounds good.”

  “Right.” Madison glances at a chunky wristwatch that I’m sure costs more than my 1996 Hyundai Excel. “I’m going to split you up and give you jobs you will perform each day between now and the end of your time here. Shantel, you’re going to be checking the design team has new pages.”

  The blonde struts forward, flipping her long hair over one shoulder and receiving more detail from our commander in chief.

  “Macy, you’re on mail.”

  My friend steps up with a little less spring in her step, taking instructions from Madison on what to collect and where to deliver it.

  The other three interns get called forth, given tasks that involve little to no brainpower but that still somehow embody the word magazine—a little bit of glamour and a whole lot of work.

  “Brian, you’re spending the morning in ad production. Tessa, you’ll be brainstorming creative concepts with the account managers. Aleira, can I get you to tag along with Dan, our photographer, liaising her shoots with the editorial team?”

  One by one, interns peel off. I smile. All these tasks pique my interest, even the ad production one. I’ve dreamed of being a part of something like this since I was a little girl. For a brief moment, I allow myself to forget that this can only be temporary and I hope, I really hope for an exciting task to fill my mornings for the next fortnight.

  Madison looks at me, her lips pursed. “Quinn ...”

  “Yes?” Please give me something good.

  Madison’s eyes flash to the side of my lips.

  My heart crashes. I bring my hand up to cover that part of my face. I thought my make-up covered it.

  Her mouth rounds in an O. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s fine.” I wave her off. “What did you want me to do?”

  For the first time since I met her, the features writer’s unflappable veneer is shaken. Her eyes dart around my face, then to
the clipboard tucked under her arm, as if there is an assortment of tasks left to choose from. “Coffee,” she finally says, pulling a piece of paper out from under the clip and handing it over to me. “You can get the coffee.”

  Chapter Two

  My heart falls faster than a rock to the bottom of the ocean. It hits the sand of my feet with a silent thud of dull pain.

  “Thanks.” I take the list from her, folding it neatly and tucking it into my black Givenchy handbag.

  “It’s a place across the road called French & Fresh. We have an account there under Lola. You’ll need to show your pass and mention my name to access it.”

  I purse my lips. Professional. I need to be professional. “Got it. And do you guys want any pastries or anything? Snacks ...?”

  The look that passes over Madison’s face makes it very clear what she thinks of that suggestion.

  “Just coffee then.” I nod toward my handbag.

  Madison straightens her shoulders. “Call me if you have any other questions.”

  “Great.” I follow her to the lift, waiting in a silence loaded with awkwardness.

  The doors slide open and she inclines her head for me to step in, pressing the button indicating the lobby in a reversal of position that makes my skin prickle. I should be pressing buttons for her.

  Minutes later, I step out into the white tiles of the lobby, a flurry of heeled and shiny-shoed feet blurring my vision. Head down. Walk fast. I hate this feeling that she’s inspired in me. Hate feeling like—

  The glass doors shift open either side of me and I step out onto the pavement, taking in a deep breath of the crisp Sydney air. If I suck deep enough, the scent of grass from the nearby Hyde Park cuts through the petrol fumes, and I still for a moment, savouring, relishing. Out here, I’m just one face in a million, with no one interested in me enough to stop and stare. I’m a wallflower on a corporate dance floor.

  I regain my composure and scan the street, focusing in on a glass windowed shopfront across the way with brown wooden stools littered over the footpath. There’s no sign proclaiming its name—it’s far too trendy for that—but a French flag flaps in the breeze under the awning. That must be it.

  As I wait at the lights, I pull out my phone and type in a quick email.

  To: [email protected]:01am 14/07/2017

  From: [email protected]

  Re: Living life in the past

  Dear Braden,

  Well, this is it. Today I finally did what Mum’s been nagging me to do for the last eighteen months—I started my internship in the city. Working for Lola magazine is nothing like I thought it’d be. I don’t know what I’d imagined—more Meryl Streep types strutting around, offering passive-aggressive insults while sipping on a latte? I’d be Anne Hathaway, of course, only with a better wardrobe than she starts the movie with—marginally. Let’s not forget that we do come from a country hick town, where the biggest department store is Target.

  After catching the train two hours from home, I performed something I’m now calling “the commuter dance”. It’s what I seem to do every time I need to exit this peak-hour train. I think you’d like it. Here’s how it goes. The train pulls into your station, and you push past all the tall people holding onto the rails, squeezing between bodies that smell like sweat and coffee. You “excuse me” your way past bored businessmen scrolling through Facebook feeds on their phone, up the stairs to the landing, over the top of a squatting tween-age boy whose day you just made because you’ve inadvertently flashed them. Still, you push on because that’s what you do. You stub your toe on a briefcase. You get your hand tangled in some teenage girl’s earphone wire.

  Eventually, you make it to those sliding doors, those beautiful sliding doors that send a waft of fresh fumey air into the carriage, and you breathe it in as if it’s Dior and you’re at the perfumery. Because that scent means everything. That scent means freedom.

  The doors beep and begin their slide close, and you shout louder, “excuse me, excuse me”ing your way around the carriage’s tallest, widest human, positioned strategically in the middle of the doorway. She’s blocking your passage. You’ll never get out in time. You’ll miss your stop. You’ll be stuck on this train forever and ever and ever.

  And then, it happens. Someone takes pity on the poor inexperienced train catcher, taps the Amazon on the shoulder, and you suck in a breath, slide past her stomach and tumble out the doors, taking a few steps as you regain air in your lungs.

  And there you have it. The commuter dance. It hasn’t failed me yet.

  I suppose you want to know about the actual internship, the whole reason I’m on the train in the first place. Well, so far, so good. We’re working under a features writer, Madison Winters, and she seems kind of strict, but fair. Exactly what you’d expect from a fashion magazine.

  There’s a position opening that one of us interns could possibly take, but I’m not going to apply. It’s just not for me.

  Because I can’t stop thinking about what happened that night. I know it’s been almost four years, Braden, but it feels as if it were yesterday. The events are crystal-clear in my head, always lurking in the back of my mind, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

  I never know when it will happen. In my dreams. When someone laughs too loud, just like you used to laugh. When I blink for just a fraction too long and my subconscious has enough darkness to take hold. It’s fast, Braden. My memories are just too damn fast.

  I think that’s why even though I’ve taken this step, I’m waiting for something to break.

  My heart hasn’t felt anything good since you left. I’m not surprised. It doesn’t deserve it. But sometimes I wonder ... I lie awake and stare at the stark ceiling and wonder if I’ll ever feel again. If I have it in me to care.

  Anyway, I should get back to it. The lights are about to change, and I need to hustle and do a different commuter dance all over again.

  Love,

  Quinn xx

  Chapter Three

  I finish the email, sending it off to a Gmail account that will never be opened, where my note to my older brother will never be read. I should stop doing this—writing these letters had been my way of coping when I was at university, when no one wanted to be friends with the girl with the strange scar and the tendency to burst into tears at any moment. I spent lunch breaks staring at my phone and pretending he was still here to keep the illusion alive. The illusion that maybe I wasn’t alone after all.

  Maybe I’m still not.

  What started as a way to cope has become so much more. Writing letters to the dead is addictive, like poking at a bruise. It hurts, but it feels so damn good at the same time.

  The little green man flashes on the traffic light. Glancing around, I see different people beside me to when I stopped, and I wonder if I was so caught up in my email that the lights had changed several times and I hadn’t realised. I cross the road at double speed with a sea of other people, each of us entirely alone in the crowd. No one speaks—everyone looks down at a phone, or a pair of shoes, or the bird poop that stains the road in a weird pattern resembling a Mickey Mouse head.

  Opening the doors of French & Fresh, I’m hit by a wall of sound and warmth, and I stand in line behind more busy people with busy, important lives. I take my phone from my handbag as I wait in line, checking my messages.

  Mum: Good luck today. You’ll nail it.

  Smiling, I tap out a quick reply. She’s the one who’s made me come here, and I don’t want her to worry that I’m not fitting in. That my face has made me more of an outcast than my heart has already.

  Quinn: So far, so good. Although I think I’ve committed one of the seven intern sins—thou shalt not mention carbohydrates.

  Mum’s reply comes through nice and quick.

  Mum: Ah. That old chestnut. Magazine people don’t eat. Didn’t they teach you that in university?

  I bark out a laugh, and the stick-thin woman waiting to my right turns to gi
ve me a look. I glance at the McWilliams & Co ID card sticking out of her jacket pocket and cringe. I bet laughing in public is against the rules of good interning, too.

  “Next,” the girl at the counter calls, and I step up.

  “Can I please grab one of those sandwiches in the display?” I point to a twisted knot of pastry gleaming under the counter light. Just because the rest of the magazine world won’t eat doesn’t mean I have to starve. “I’ll pay for that and a latte separately, then get the coffees on this list on the Lola account for Madison.”

  The server’s eyes dip down my body and back up to my face. “A latte?”

  I nod. “Yes. Please.”

  “Right.” She rings up my order and takes my money and my name, directing me to the side to await delivery. Somehow, I feel judged. Perhaps my coffee isn’t trendy enough. Glancing down at the list of piccolos and espresso shots that the waitress has given back to me, I realise it probably wasn’t.

  Quinn: It’s right up there with thou shalt drink trendy coffee with a name that lasts more than two syllables. And thou shalt not lick the models.

  Mum: No!

  I laugh, watching the little dots bounce on the screen.

  Mum: Please don’t talk about licking ANY guys. Ever. I’m happy for you to date now that things have ended with Chris, but you’re my baby girl, Q. I’m still holding out hope that you’ll end up in a convent.

  Quinn: Mum, I’m twenty-one. You know I’ve done more than just kiss a guy, right?

  Mum: CONVENT CONVENT CONVENT CONVENT!!!

  With a wide grin stretching my cheeks, I tuck my phone back in my handbag. Mum and I have such an open relationship—I know I’m lucky that I can talk to her about things like that. Despite her texts, I know she’d be thrilled if I were to bring a boy to the studio I live in at the back of her property. Hell, she’d probably buy the condoms for me.

  Of course, that would imply that talking to guys I like doesn't make me break out in a case of hives. Flirting isn’t just not my bag—it isn’t my shoes, my dress, or my killer lipstick, either.

  “Bet that smile gets you into a whole lot of trouble.”