Fast (Not Like the Movies #2) Page 4

  I hate to think what Braden would say.

  “I probably shouldn’t. You know. Work and all that.” I wave a hand, vaguely gesturing at everything and nothing as I walk away. “But it was nice seeing you.”

  “Nice seeing you too.” Liam gives me a small smile, only the look in his eyes says it was anything but.

  And all I can think as I walk away is that I haven’t seen that look there in a while.

  Not since the day my brother died.

  ***

  Macy flops into her seat, fanning her hand in front of her face, no doubt to try and cool herself after juggling eight coffees across the road to McWilliams & Co in what has turned out to be a scorcher of a day.

  I asked her to go and get the coffees this morning so I could avoid Liam. It just feels too soon to see him again.

  “So let me get this straight. Incredibly hot guy finds you in the bar after a chance coffee meeting. Incredibly hot guy asks you to spend the night at his place. As we leave, he asks you out. And you say no?”

  “Incredibly hot guys can be incredibly overrated,” I fire back my answer, but my heart isn’t in it. Macy let me have some space last night, and it’s only now she’s demanded to know what went on with Liam and me as we said our goodbyes. Each time I think of his face when I said no it makes something in my chest twinge, as if the hurt look in Liam’s eyes has a private line there and can call any time it wants.

  “Is it his penis?” Macy winces. “There’s nothing worse than a little willie.”

  “Can you two please take your schoolgirl chatter elsewhere?” Shantel sighs, flicking her line-straight blonde hair over her shoulder as she turns back to her computer screen.

  “We don’t need to take it anywhere because this conversation is done.” I give Macy a pointed look. “I’m just not interested in Liam. End of story.”

  “Small penis,” she mouths at me, and I snort-laugh. It feels good. It feels like something I haven’t done in a very long time.

  We both turn back to our computers. I stare at the letter on screen in front of me from a reader to the magazine editor, asking why her writing was never picked to be featured or win a prize.

  Without consciously making the decision, I open up my email server and start to type.

  To: braden.hamilton@email.com.au12:01pm 15/07/2017

  From: quinn.hamilton@email.com.au

  Re: There are worse things I could do ...

  Dear Braden,

  I ran into Liam yesterday. I know. It’s been a long time—three years, nine months and twelve days, to be precise. He left town one week after your funeral—just up and vanished, no forwarding address, no goodbyes or corny farewells.

  At the time, I hated it. Hated him. Now, I still don’t understand, but I don’t think I’m angry. He mustn’t have known how much I needed him. Or maybe he did, and that was part of why he felt the need to go.

  When I saw him yesterday he looked good—older, but in a way that suits him. It’s as if his eyes have seen more, his body filled out to enable it to transport the weight of the world that sits on his shoulders.

  Seeing him scared me, in a way. Memories came flooding back, ones that reminded me of that night. I used to like him a lot. I don’t know if you knew—if you did, you never said anything. I’d often stare at him while you two were swimming, finding any excuse under the hot summer sun for the three of us to spend time together.

  Makes me feel guilty now. I should have been spending time with you just because you were you.

  Last night, I wanted so badly to kiss him again. To taste his lips, to feel those strong shoulders ... but of course, I can’t. My future is back home with Mum, with you. Not here in Sydney with a boy from the past.

  Liam said you’d have been disappointed with my decision to stay in Emerald Cove, to work on the local gazette, but I feel you’d understand. He doesn’t know you like I know you. Or maybe he’s forgotten.

  This is just a temporary gig, one that I won’t be sad to end in a week and a half when I return home and start my new job. I’ll sneak into your old room, tug one of your old football jerseys over my head, and think about the plans we once made. The plans you once made. I’ll replay every conversation I remember over and over in my head, mouthing the words along with you, focusing hard on the timbre of your voice, the way your eyes smiled more than your lips ever could.

  Because that’s what scares me more than anything. Forgetting you would be the worst thing I could ever do.

  And I won’t leave town just in case.

  Love,

  Quinn xx

  Chapter Eight

  “How is it all going?” Madison leans against the end cubicle, the dark-haired boy sitting there craning his neck to meet her gaze.

  “Good,” all six of us murmur as one.

  “Excellent. Today, instead of your normal morning tasks, I need a few volunteers for a special job.”

  Shantel’s hand shoots into the air like an arrow from a bow.

  “Shantel and ...” Madison’s eyes flick over the boy by her side, the two dark-haired girls I haven’t spoken much to yet, Macy, and then ... “Quinn. Come with me, please. And bring your personal items.”

  I push out my chair and give a questioning shrug at Macy, who smiles highway-wide in return. My shoulders relax as I make my way out of the open-plan office and toward the reception area.

  “I’ve been making good progress on my assignment.” Shantel struggles to keep pace with Madison as she powerwalks ahead.

  “That’s good.” Madison nods, stabbing the up button on the lift.

  “I think it’s going to really impress you. I’ve focused on ...” She darts a furtive glance in my direction. “I’ll tell you another time.”

  “I’m not going to steal your idea.” I follow Madison into the lift when the doors ping open.

  “I know.” Shantel smiles loftily, then, when Madison steps ahead, whispers, “I don’t think you could pull it off.”

  I stare at the roof of the lift as it lurches up. Lord help me.

  The doors open to one giant room. Windows let in the stale afternoon sun, dust motes dancing in the air as if they were working the camera set up on the tripod in the middle. Racks of clothes line the side of one half of the space, bursts of colour and texture as varied as the Australian outback. Burnt reds, olive greens, clouds of white and dusty pink feathers make up a variety of different fashions pinned to mannequins and slung over racks.

  “Candice? You in here?” Madison calls, her nude heels click-clacking over the slate as she strides toward the camera.

  “Mads!” A dishevelled mop of blonde hair pops up from behind one of the rows of clothes. Candice pushes her black thick-rimmed glasses up her nose. “Ah good. You brought the fluffers.”

  I pause. “Fluffers?”

  For the first time, Shantel’s cool exterior breaks. “As in, porn fluffers?”

  Madison gives a wicked grin. “I don't know any other kind.”

  Alessandro steps out from a white curtain that blends into the wall on the opposite side to the clothing racks. He licks his lips, a lascivious light in his eyes. “Ah, here are my girls.”

  Shantel looks at me with wide eyes. My stomach flips. They can’t be serious. Do they truly expect us to—

  “Relax, ladies. We use the term fluffer, but that’s not what we mean,” Madison says, and yet I don’t feel any more assured. “Basically, we need people to stand in for the models so we can gauge the best looks for them on camera. That way we don’t have to pay the models quite as much for their time.”

  “What about Alessandro?” Shantel plasters a professional smile on her face. “Surely you don’t want to waste his time either.”

  “We couldn’t get him out of this place, even if we tried,” Madison deadpans.

  “It is true.” Alessandro’s Italian accent is as wide as the arms held at either side of his body. “I am friends with boss. You learn to love me.”

  “I’m sure I will,” Shan
tel simpers.

  I laugh.

  “What?” She shoots me a dirty look.

  “Nothing.” I fight the smile that pulls at my lips, but it’s hard, it’s really damn hard.

  “Whatever,” she huffs, turning back to Madison who’s watched our exchange with a tight smile.

  “Candice, these are two of our interns, Shantel and Quinn. Shantel and Quinn, this is Candice. She’s our shoot stylist.” Madison points to the blonde who walks out from the rack, waving. “I’ll leave you here in her capable hands. She’ll get you sorted into different outfits. When you’re finished, feel free to head home.” Madison disappears behind the lift doors, leaving Shantel and I with the stylist and the cocksure model.

  “Okay, I’m going to grab an assortment of outfits for you, then you can head behind the curtain to change.” Candice takes one hanger from the rack and loops a brown furry shape over her arm, a wispy lace number draped over the top. She adds a few more items then hands the stack to Shantel, shooing her toward the curtain.

  Candice looks me up and down. I shrink into myself, wishing I had something other than my blue skinny jeans and my three-seasons-old sass & bide top to hide behind. “I can see why she chose you. You have an interesting look.”

  I can’t help it. My hand flies to my mouth as my heart plummets in the opposite direction.

  Candice’s eyes round. “I didn't mean—”

  “Don’t worry about it.” I flick my hand as if brushing away her comment. Normal. I just want to be normal so badly, even if it’s not how I feel inside. “It’s fine.”

  “Okay. Well, let me get you some clothes.” She selects a few more outfits with seemingly less discretion and points me toward the curtain Shantel disappeared behind just a few short moments ago.

  Once inside, I drape the colourful material over a wicker chair. Shantel wraps the brown fur around her, twisting this way and that in front of the skinny wood-edged mirror propped up against the wall. “I’m a natural.”

  I bite back my laugh. When it comes to admiring herself in the mirror, Shantel is king. “You sure are.”

  She struts out of the changing area, and I kick off my shoes, strip out of my clothes, and hold up one of the outfits Candice has selected. The thin black lace material seems stretchy enough when I test it with my hands, so I pull it over my head, putting my hands through to the armholes. It tightens as I drag it over my chest, and I unclip my bra at the back, placing it carefully on the chair so I’m standing in just my beige G-string. After congratulating myself on my practical underwear choice—no visible panty lines for this little black duck—I squeeze into the tight material again, now that I have enough wiggle room to pull the dress down without losing my lingerie.

  “Quinn? Are you ready?”

  “Coming,” I call back, shifting the material as far down as it will go. I swivel around, the lacy floral edge covering my butt. Just.

  I walk out into the studio space, my bare feet cold against the concrete. I give the back of the dress a tug. “Does this come in a bigger size at all?”

  “Sample sizes only.” Candice doesn’t make eye contact with me as she gathers folds of excess material from Shantel’s outfit and keeps them together at the back using a bulldog clip.

  “Maybe we could swap. I think I’m a little slimmer than Quinn,” Shantel offers.

  “I think that sounds great.” I eye her large coat with envy, but Candice shakes her head.

  “Nice try, ladies. You’ll stay in the clothes you’ve been given. Now, Quinn, I want you over here.” Candice taps a spot on the ground with her ballet flat. “Shantel, I’ll get you in the foreground with Alessandro.”

  Alessandro swaggers over to a spot close to the camera. The black shirt he wears hugs the body of a lion, all lean muscle stalking its prey.

  Shantel pony-walks over to join him, draping her forearm over his shoulder so their bodies touch.

  Candice clicks away with the camera, pausing every so often to scroll through images on the screen at the back. I stare straight ahead, trying not to think about Liam.

  It’s hard.

  Far harder than I’d thought.

  “Okay, girls, can you please change into these?” Candice points to two hangers at the end of the rack and Shantel struts over, eager to choose her pick. Thankfully, she takes the one with less material, and I grab the remaining garment and head to the curtain to change.

  Shantel’s already naked, standing side-on to the mirror. She barely glances at me as I walk in. “Don’t take too long, will you? I want to work on my project if we get some time after this.”

  “Got it,” I reply, placing my new outfit over the chair.

  Shantel leaves me in peace and I grab the hem of the dress, pulling it up and over my arse, my hips, my boobs—

  My boobs—

  Seriously. My boobs.

  The dress clings to the middle of my chest like someone’s sewn it there. It digs in, and while the top half of the dress covers my eyes, I know without doubt that the resulting line of the material has divided me into some kind of quadro-boobed half-nippled freak.

  I jump around, wriggling like a fish out of water in a valiant attempt to squeeze the dress up and off, but to no avail. It’s stuck.

  “Quinn? You all right in there?” Candice calls from the other side of the curtain.

  I freeze. What on earth am I supposed to say? Yes, but I have turned into a kind of half peeled prawn, where the skin is your dress and my boobs are those little leg bits.

  “Quinn?”

  No. I have to keep trying. “Just a minute.”

  I wriggle and writhe, thrusting my left arm up then my right in an attempt to get the dress off. Vicious thrust left—vicious second thrust right—and finally, some leeway! The dress inches up off my right boob, freeing it.

  “Yes,” I whisper, jerking my left arm into the air to try to dislodge the remaining bit of material.

  “Quinn, I don’t know what’s taking so—oh.”

  Oh God.

  Oh God no.

  The swish of the curtain tells me Shantel is back in the makeshift change room, and that she’s the solo audience to my one-boob-out, one-boob-cut-in-half show.

  “Can I please ...” I swallow the lump of embarrassment cratered in my throat. “Can I please have a hand?”

  “Sure.” Shantel’s voice is upbeat, and I huff out a breath of relief. Thank goodness. Maybe she’s a more decent person than I’d first thought. Perhaps underneath that competitive exterior is a nice woman just looking for the right opportunity to—

  “Alessandro!” she calls.

  I freeze.

  She wouldn't.

  “Yes?”

  “Can you please come give poor Quinn a hand here?”

  She would.

  “It’s fine!” My squirming resumes at a frantic pace. I wiggle like it’s an Olympic sport. Everything I have is in this movement. My legs join my arms in the action, twisting my body this way and that at rapid speed. It’s bad enough Shantel has seen me naked—I can’t let Alessandro see me, too. “I just need a moment to—”

  My foot catches on the base of the chair, and my body jerks forward. Cool air assaults my second boob, free from its bindings, but my relief lasts a millisecond before the realisation that I’m falling sets in.

  My knees hit the concrete ground first, my hands shifting in front of my face just in the nick of time to avoid my nose bearing the brunt of my injuries. My chest feels like two pieces of melons left out in the sun too long—squishy, bruised and altogether rotten.

  “Shit,” I breathe as pain cloaks my body. I press my eyes shut, biting down on my lip to try to stem the tears that prick at the backs of my lids. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.”

  This would have to be the most humiliating moment of my life.

  At some point, a piece of material is placed over my arse, covering my beige G-string. So much for practical clothing choice. Nanna knickers wouldn't have been big enough to hide my humiliat
ion in after the muffled snort from Alessandro, the concerned voice of Candice, and Shantel’s smug laugh that seemed to echo all the way from the studio to the building’s front doors.

  Chapter Nine

  To: braden.hamilton@email.com.au19:31pm 15/07/2017

  From: quinn.hamilton@email.com.au

  Re: I am a quadro-boobed freak

  Dear Braden,

  Today I hit a new low—being caught near naked by a glamorous magazine lady, a male model, and my fellow intern. Yep, the trifecta of awkward audiences is now complete.

  I can laugh about it now, but at the time it hurt like hell. And after Mum saw the bruises leaving a patchwork of purples and pinks up my legs and over my arms—there’s no way I’ll show her my hips or chest—I felt a little justified in the tears I let fall at the studio, even though it meant I was a red-faced, snotty mess by the time I left the building.

  Of course, I ran into Liam outside. He was leaning against a street pole, arms folded, the crisp afternoon breeze scudding the clouds across the sky and his dark fringe across his face. When his eyes locked on mine, I took off into a run. I jumped on the early train just as the doors slid shut, able to hide from him, from the questions, from the absolute humiliation I felt at them having to dry-clean the sweat-marked dress that had caused me so much embarrassment already.

  But even managing all the steps in the commuter dance couldn’t keep my mind off those hazel eyes and the hurt I’d seen there. The hurt I caused by running away.

  And I couldn’t help but think that maybe he finally gets it now. He gets that when he left all those years ago, I felt like someone had sucker-punched me in the gut. I felt like I wasn’t okay, wasn’t a good choice to kiss, and that I wasn’t enough to stick around for.

  Losing you felt like losing a limb, a part of me I needed every day of my life.

  Losing him felt like losing a piece of my heart.

  Love,

  Quinn xx

  ***

  Day four of my internship and I’m still no closer to finding a topic for my special project than I was at the start of the week. I mull it over as I walk up to the multi-storey building on the corner of Park Street, thinking of all the different ideas Macy and I discussed. After much debate, Macy settled on an anti-animal testing campaign, a subject which she’s passionate about.