In Too Deep Read online

  Madison threw her trench over her shoulder, arms crossed over her black cashmere sweater, her jeans stuffed into knee-high black crocodile Manolo boots. She was still traumatized from the ridiculously long car ride to Williamsburg. She shivered, drawing her coat closer to her, hoping to ward off the obviously contagious bad fashion plague that haunted the neighborhood—so many boys couldn’t possibly be wearing such tight jeans by choice. And going anywhere in Brooklyn just wasn’t natural in the first place—the subway went underwater for God’s sake! Not that she’d know from personal experience, of course—she’d rather die than take the train . . .

  As she watched the model stretch out on the floor, her chin raised to the lens, she was decidedly unimpressed. Madison knew somehow instinctively that, as nervous as she was about getting in front of the camera, there was no doubt that she could pose way better than some emaciated fish stick with no tits and zero sex appeal. The girl threw her hair back over her shoulders, and thrust her nonexistent breasts out for the camera. This was all the more comical considering that she was wearing a giant blue ball gown—quite possibly one of the unsexiest outfits on the planet. She looks like she got lost on the way to prom, Madison snickered silently as she looked around, taking in the brilliant white walls and the endless hustle of photographers’ assistants milling around the room holding expensive-looking cameras in their hands. The assistants were all dressed so similarly that it looked as though they were in uniform—the same tight black jeans and dirt-colored hoodies up top, the same high-concept dark eyeglasses, the same choppy haircuts. Madison could tell she was in Williamsburg just by looking at them.

  “All right—where’s my next victim?” a voice called out, the words reverberating over the annoying, incessant house music booming through the room. Sam Wise walked over to Madison, sizing her up on the short journey over, his appreciative gaze sweeping from the roots of her hair to her booted feet in a matter of seconds. Sam Wise was in his mid-to-late forties, with dark, gray-streaked hair and a matching beard atop a totally worked-out bod—which was highlighted to perfection by the cutoff sleeves of his Strokes T-shirt and tight, ripped, faded jeans. Despite the body, he wasn’t quite the hotness—there was something about his face that was a little too angular, his body a little too ripped to be genuinely gorgeous. And his thick British accent made it sound like he had about a pound of marbles rolling around in his mouth . . .

  “I’m Madison Macallister,” Madison said in her most businesslike voice as she stuck out her hand for Sam to shake. Sam just stood there looking at her hand in front of his like it was a dead fish—or a plus-sized model—and shot her a nasty grin as he took drags off a truly foul-smelling clove cigarette with one hand, rubbing his unmanicured beard with the other. “I’m here for my test shoot?”

  “Sure you are, love,” Sam said lazily, pointing with his gross cigarette to the back of the loft. “Trot on back there and put on the swimsuit in the dressing room.”

  Oh. No. He. Didn’t. A swimsuit? Hello? She thought this was a high-fashion shoot—not a Maxim cover. And trot? Did she look like she was wearing a fucking bridle?

  “Swimsuit?” Madison said weakly, dropping her hand to her side. “Antonio didn’t tell me I’d be wearing a bathing suit today.”

  “I’m telling you,” Sam shot back, on the verge of nastiness. “Now trot on back, love, before I lose what’s left of my patience.” And, with that, Sam turned his back on her sharply and began arguing with an assistant sporting an actual mullet—he probably thought it was ironic—and an Elliott Smith T-shirt, in a heated tone of voice.

  Madison took a deep breath and exhaled loudly, wishing she’d taken one of Edie’s Valiums before she left the apartment this morning—she could definitely stand for being a little more relaxed right now—especially since she was about to get almost-naked in front of a sleazy photographer and half the hipster population of Williamsburg. As she pulled back the curtain to the dressing room, Madison gazed at the swimsuit hanging up on the wall in horror. She picked it up like it was a tarantula, turning it over in her hands in disbelief. Okay, it was Dior, but the actual bathing suit consisted of little more than a few strands of black dental floss that were meant to crisscross her body, barely covering her naughty bits. In the not-helping-things-department, the back of the suit was the most hated of all bathing suit designs—a thong. Basically, there was going to be one narrow strip of dental floss up her ass, effectively exposing all the lumps and bumps on her behind in the most unflattering way possible.

  It was official—she was doomed.

  Well, there was nothing to be done about it. Unless I manage to cut off my circulation with all these strings and drop dead, Madison thought as she stepped out of her boots and jeans, her hands like ice. As she was struggling to tie the suit in such a way that it covered most of her unmentionables, she heard a gruff voice outside the cubicle.

  “You all right in there, love? You need any help getting into that thing?”

  Madison grabbed her boobs with one hand, and peered out of the curtain at Sam’s lecherous face, wishing she had a stun gun or a cattle prod. Why did old guys have to be such dirty old men?

  “No,” she said firmly, making sure the curtain covered ever inch of her, “I’m fine. I’ll be out in a minute.” She snapped the curtain shut with all the dignity she could muster, not relaxing until she heard the sound of his boots on the cement floor walking away from the dressing room. She wished more than anything that there was a mirror in the dressing room so she could check and make sure every bit she could actually cover was hidden—but no such luck. Makes sense—if the models actually saw what they were wearing, there’s no way they’d ever leave this room. Madison giggled softly to herself out of nervousness more than anything else, and threw back the curtain with a deep breath. So the photographer was a sleaze—who cared? It wasn’t exactly the first time some random guy had tried to get into her pants. She bent down and held her head upside down, then stood up quickly, flipping her hair back so that it had some fullness, and walked, barefoot, out into the center of the studio toward Sam, who was scowling at one of his cameras. The bustle of the room stopped completely as she stood there, and Madison suddenly became acutely aware that every pair of eyes in the room was focused on her. She crossed her arms over her chest, and bit her bottom lip, wishing she could disappear. She’d never felt so . . . exposed in her life.

  “That looks smashing, love,” Sam said appreciatively, with a little too much enthusiasm for Madison’s taste. “Trot over to the backdrop and stand on the X on the floor, all right?” Sam placed one hand on Madison’s shoulder, his fingers massaging her flesh as he led her over to a small red X painted on the floor. Madison stood there awkwardly, the lights in her face blinding her completely. She felt like she could barely keep her eyes open—the lights were practically shrieking they were so fucking bright. She felt so totally naked—didn’t models usually get their hair done or at the very least couldn’t they spackle some more makeup on her face?

  “Don’t I need makeup?” she asked tentatively, bringing a hand up to her cheek as Sam raised the camera to his face.

  “You look perfect, darling. Just perfect.” As Sam stared at her through the lens, his tongue wagged out of the corner of his mouth, wetting his thin lips lasciviously. “Now, give me some attitude—one hand on your hip. Yes, that’s lovely . . .”

  As she stood there trying not to squint into the light, a hand on her hip, Madison had the most curious sensation of being shrunk down to fit into the camera lens, her image trapped and preserved there in a slick dark image that hundreds of eyes would peruse. It made her feel slightly sweaty and queasy, and she hoped to God that she wouldn’t start perspiring like a line-backer standing there, trying her best to ooze sex appeal when she felt about as attractive as a dead fish. And trying to be sexy never worked—she just looked like a dork when she forced it. It wasn’t like she could really relax when Sam was looking at her like she was wearing his lunch. As the camera f
lashed around her relentlessly, she knew deep in her soul that she looked stupid and awkward and, most of all, stiff as a board.

  The problem was, so did the photographer.

  “All right, that’s enough,” Sam said with annoyance, lowering the camera and scowling at her. “Are you sure you’re cut out for this, love?” Sam asked as he popped another cigarette into his mouth, one of his assistants running over to light the tip. Madison nodded, unable to speak. At that moment, she didn’t even really care if she’d blown it—all she wanted was to get her clothes back on and get the hell out of there. Without uttering another word she dropped her eyes to the floor and practically ran to the back of the studio, pulling the dressing room curtains roughly closed.

  Once inside, the disappointment washed over her like a tidal wave, and she held onto the wall, willing herself not to cry. So, she’d blown it. There’d be other chances—there had to be. After all, she was Madison Macallister! And that had to mean something, didn’t it? Bending over, she struggled back into her tight jeans, shoving her feet into her socks and boots, worrying that if she stopped for a moment, she might lose it. Just as she was about to pull her sweater over her head, she felt a rush of cold air on her back, and a hand on her shoulder. She yelled out, whirling around to face Sam, who stood there with a peculiar look on his face.

  “Shhhhhh, babe. No yelling,” he said with a wry smile, reaching up and smoothing her hair from her face with one large, meaty hand. “We don’t want everyone coming in here, now do we?”

  Madison watched as if in a trance, as Sam’s hand slipped from her face to her shoulder, then made its way down toward her naked breast. What the fuck? Was there a giant sign on her forehead that read AMERICA’S NEXT TOP PROSTITUTE? Don’t panic, she told herself. Just don’t fucking panic. And then—before she could think to scream or call out—her body took over as she brought one denim-clad knee up between his legs, knocking him senseless.

  “You little bitch.” Sam groaned, staggering out of the curtain to the amused faces of his team, and falling onto the hard cement floor, his hand between his legs, his face contorted in pain.

  “Oh yeah?” Madison retorted, shoving her head into her sweater and throwing her trench over her shoulders, then placing both hands on her hips defiantly. “Well, it’s better to be called a little bitch than to act like one—don’t you think?”

  Madison jumped as the studio erupted in applause and the hipster entourage clapped for her en masse as she walked across the floor purposefully, praying Sam wouldn’t suddenly regain his strength and follow her before she made it to the exit. As she slammed the door behind her, still shaking, Madison’s tough-girl veneer fell away, and the tears that had come so close to falling in the dressing room now stained her cheeks as she stepped into the large freight elevator, pulling the door closed behind her.

  girls on film

  Being in the same, small space with an ex and a current crush was always a less than desirable situation—and one Drew was now experiencing firsthand. The prospect of trying to film a documentary with his ex as an interviewee and his crush as his helper was proving to be nothing less than a nightmare. It was an afternoon that Drew had been dreading—and one he could’ve kicked himself for setting up in the first place. He knew, even as the words left his lips, that including Madison in the movie was a bad idea on so many levels—but as he stood there yesterday afternoon listening to her talk about her burgeoning modeling career, the sun slicing through her platinum hair, he just couldn’t seem to stop himself. And when she mentioned that Antonio guy, his blood really started to boil for reasons he couldn’t quite explain to anyone in the immediate vicinity—much less himself.

  “Could you move that light over just a bit,” Drew asked Casey as he peered through the lens of his camera where Madison’s perfect—albeit badly lit—visage filled the frame. Casey began to move the lamp in question and in the viewfinder Drew could see the hard shadow cutting underneath Madison’s nose float away and soften, dispersing over the perfect angles of her cheek. “There,” Drew said. “Don’t move it an inch, Casey—she looks perfect—and you’re not so bad yourself,” he added with a smile, taking in Casey’s new ’do, the silkily straight golden hair that now fell to her shoulders and shone under the hot lights. Casey immediately blushed in that way Drew absolutely loved, bringing one hand up to her neck and raking it through her newly straightened hair, a look of wonder on her face—as though she couldn’t quite believe those soft strands running through her fingers so effortlessly were her own. Truth be told, Casey’s new hair definitely looked hot, but, all hotness aside, he kind of missed her untamable tumble of curls. With her new, straight hair Casey looked undeniably gorgeous, but kind of ordinary. Without her curls, and wearing a black sweater and yellow and green plaid mini that looked suspiciously like it had been plucked from Mad’s overstuffed closet, Casey looked almost like every other Upper East Side princess he saw on a daily basis. And, at the end of the day, Drew wasn’t sure how much he really dug Casey’s new look. Wasn’t he dating her because she was so different than the other girls at Meadowlark? It’s just hair, he told himself, wiping his moist brow with one hand. Stop being such a woman about everything . . .

  “It’s a vast improvement—brought about by yours truly, of course,” Madison said jokingly, pointing at her chest, which was covered by a satiny beige blouse that tied at the neck in a huge, expertly tied bow, the full sleeves spotlighting her long, delicate hands. Throwing back her blond tresses over her shoulders, she stared into the curving, black eye of the camera, her gaze cutting through all of the exactingly cut glass and the maze of complex hardware into Drew’s own eye, the intensity and beauty of the deep green hue making something curl up and flip over deep inside his stomach.

  Is she coming on to me? Drew thought, a nervous sweat breaking out on his palms. Being in the same room with Mad and Casey would be difficult if Mad was in a coma. If she was going to turn it all on like she seemed to be doing, it was going to be impossible—impossible for his head, heart, and pants to make it through this day intact. Drew shot a quick glance at Casey to see if she’d noticed Mad’s smoldering look—or his admittedly sweaty response—but she was bent over, fiddling with a snaky pile of white extension cords, and hadn’t seen a thing, or at least that’s what he told himself . . .

  “So we’re almost ready then, right, Drew?” Casey said, straightening up, her eyes scanning the production checklist that she held on a clipboard in one hand, the other tweaking the knobs of the sound deck. “The lighting is set. The sound is set. We can go ahead and shoot.”

  “Oh,” Madison said, her eyes breaking away from the camera, that unearthly halogenlike glow she had been radiating, catching Drew so incredibly off guard, dimming down to her regular, eighty-watt output, “I thought we were already filming.”

  Drew looked up from the viewfinder and again caught Madison’s gaze. The spark, the smolder, the sex that had been there just seconds before was almost completely gone and she quickly looked away, a wandering hand reaching up to twirl a strand of hair around her finger. It’s the camera, Drew realized. She couldn’t care less about me—it’s all for the camera. She lights up, comes alive in front of it. There was no doubt about it—Madison Macallister was a star.

  “Okay,” Drew said, trying to sound as businesslike as possible as he pressed record and the red light atop the camera began to blink. “We’re rolling.” Drew pulled away from the camera and consulted the set of questions he’d printed out hours before, holding the piece of white computer paper in front of him like a shield.

  “So, what’s it like being rich?” he asked bluntly, trying to get the ball rolling as Mad stared at him unblinkingly, her face glowing like a fallen star in the harsh white light of the halogen bulbs.

  “You tell me,” Madison said evenly, a half-smile turning up the corners of her lips.

  “Very funny,” Drew said sarcastically. His dark hair flopped down over his eyes, and he pushed it back with annoyan
ce before continuing. “What does being rich mean to you?”

  “Well,” Mad said, looking thoughtful, “the politically correct answer would probably be that I don’t have to wait in line, I have endless options, and get whatever I want—at the expense of everyone else.”

  Drew’s mouth fell open slightly. Jesus—in the relatively short time they’d known each other it was probably the most thoughtful answer Madison had ever given him about anything even remotely political. Who was this poised, thoughtful, gorgeous girl sitting in front of him? As he watched her ready herself for the next onslaught of questioning, Drew was filled with the sneaking suspicion that he might not know Madison as well as he thought he did . . .

  “But it’s all I’ve ever really known, so it’s kind of hard to be objective about it,” Madison continued, her gaze level, her voice calm and purposeful. “It’s probably a hard question for you to ask—and a tougher one for me to answer.”

  “Well, give it a shot,” Drew said with a grin.

  “Talking about money is vulgar,” Madison said with obvious distaste. “I feel all itchy just thinking about it.” Drew watched as Mad proceeded to rub her slim arms through the slippery satin of her blouse.

  “When was the first time you realized you were rich?” Drew asked, changing the subject and attacking the topic from another angle.

  “Hmmmm . . .” Madison cocked her head to the side, looking thoughtfully into the lens again, her green eyes catching the light. “I think I was around six, and we had this Guatemalan housekeeper who used to bring her little girl to work with her—she was about my age.” Madison reached over to Drew’s desk and grabbed a bottle of Evian, taking a long swallow before continuing. “Anyway, she was always totally amazed by all my toys and stuff, and that’s when I realized that not everyone lived the way I did.”