“And if we hadn't agreed to that, what would you want?” He is staring at me openly. His appraisal is mixed in with genuine interest, as he is anticipating my response. He looks so calm, so blasé,yet he is here, chasing me again around the globe.
“I want to go to work,” I say calmly. I don’t want to risk angering him, but he looks to be getting angrier and angrier in my presence by the minute.
Those big hands are back on the countertop.
“I thought you wanted to disappear,” he murmurs darkly. The door swings open, and I fly around, but the timid girl standing in the doorway gapes at us.
“Leave,” Callan instructs harshly. She does, and I spin to face him again. What on earth is happening right now?
“What do you want, Callan?” I mutter, trying not to think too much into this. He searches my eyes, and I hear the distinct sound of his teeth grating, making the hair on my neck stand up.
“Stalin will escort you home,” he informs me. My mouth drops open to disagree, but in three quick strides, his long thick legs have him pushing free of the loos. Urgh, men!
I’m not the only top model here, and when Monica Omal takes a seat opposite me, I groan inwardly. Luckily, Oscar calls me, and I spend a few minutes on the phone to him, and shortly after, I’m escorted through to another room.
“Good luck!” Monica sings falsely. She has never liked me, and I have always remained polite, but after my surprise visit from Callan, I can't be bothered with politeness. I ignore her and follow the assistant. I hear Monica mutter how rude I am, but given that she hasn't wished anyone else good luck, I’m assuming the others have picked up on how insincere she is. It’s no secret she despises me. This day is turning out to be pretty crap.
It's nearing midnight before I leave the casting, and when I do, I’m too tired to argue with Stalin. I’m trudging my way to his car when Monica comes strolling past, her hand held out as if to give me something.
“Here, you left your manners.” Her mouth snaps into a false smile, and Stalin raises his eyes to me. I shake my head and let him take my bag.
“Good night, Monica,” I drone. God, what a miserable cow.
“We must be doing well. Got yourself a driver, have we?” Her eyes take him in with distaste. “Mafia lend you him?” she chortles, giving Stalin the once over. I continue to ignore her. “I did wonder what those bruises on your knee were from?” she scoffs smugly. I eye her and shake my head. Has she nothing better to do? I feel sorry for her. “It’s rude to ignore people,” she calls harshly, as I slide into the car.
“It’s also rude and bitchy to insinuate my client’s talents are based on how tough you think her knees are and not on her professional achievements and staggering success, yet here we all are.” Stalin’s voice is dark, deadly. “Your own look rather worn. What’s the saying: takes one to know one?”
Monica’s eyes pop wide.
“How dare you!” she squawks, tugging at her hem to cover her reddened knees. Gross.
“I think I noticed a pimp around the corner. He may have availability.” He points with his meaty hand into the dark. A gold tooth flashes in the night as he gives her a bone-chilling smile. “Or if you're feeling more adult, feeling brave enough, you could always come and hang with us mafia.”
Stalin nods to the car. She storms off, and I gape at him when he gets behind the wheel. A laugh bursts free, and I’m mopping up tears. I know for a fact she will be worse than ever now, but that was just priceless. I want to go and hug the mountain, but instead, I lean back into the seat, sighing gratefully. I’m glad today is over.
I blink and capture a big, suited chest before my eyes roll shut. I moan and twist into something, smelling a familiar and dark scent. It’s a huge comfort, and I inhale it as I snuggle down and hum out my satisfaction.
“Zara?” My eyes feel too heavy, but when I hear my name for a second time, I prise them open and blink in confusion to find Callan staring down at me. “You've been asleep for nearly fourteen hours,” he tells me. I blink again. Fourteen. What’s he talking about? “Did anyone give you anything?” he asks this time, trying to bring me round. I’m becoming more alert, more awake.
“No, I’m just tired.” I rub at my eyes and yawn. My voice is croaky.
“Are you sure?” He lifts my eyelid, and I pull back, covering my face.
“Don’t do that. I will look ugly.” I laugh, and he smirks, but checks me over once more. “What time is it?” I’m groggy, and for the first time in forever, I have a dull headache on waking. I rub the sore area, and this only fuels his concern.
“It’s nearing two p.m.” He gives me a pointed look when I gasp in shock. “Are you sure you didn’t eat or drink anything whilst you were there?”
I shake my head.
“No, I always take my own food and drink,” I say. “I work long days. I’m due a day off,” I tell him, then scoot off the bed. “Shit, I have a shoot!” Callan is blocking me and pushes me back down on the bed.
“You can’t be serious. You’ve slept for England. You look exhausted.”
“Probably all the sex,” I snap. He doesn’t get to order me around. I stand again, but his palm knocks me back. I give him my angriest look, and we stare it out for a moment.
“Call your agent and cancel.”
“I can’t!”