Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight, Lean Cuisine, or Gilmore Girls.
1. Closer
I still wasn't used to it.
The posters, the billboards, the huge blow-up pictures on the sides of buses.
Everywhere I looked I saw… me.
There I was on the cover of some magazine, striking an innocent, awkward, flirtatious pose. That's what they were trying to sell me as—the naïve, loveable girl that just happens to be the newest "it" model. It's not like I'm ungrateful. I'm just still in shock. It has yet to sink in.
I remember how it started. It seemed like it was years ago, when in fact it was merely weeks, if even that long. I was walking down the street on the way home from BMCC, Borough of Manhattan Community College, when I saw the sign outside of the sleek, modern building.
"Models wanted," it read in big, artsy letters. Next to the sign was a big, shaded window that cast my shadowy, flattering figure. I grinned widely, and stepped into the big, warm lobby.
Forty-five minutes later, I had booked five photo-shoots and two runways. Every time I thought of the dumbstruck looks on that agency's face, I smiled to myself. I'm not conceited. You have to admit though; admiration makes the heart do strange things.
I was so booked up now with my schedule that I could only manage to squeeze in a few classes of the community college a week. I wasn't planning on giving up my education for a modeling career that would last a few years at the latest. It was only a matter of time until a newer, younger, fresher face popped up to takeover in my footsteps.
The strangest thing about this whole deal was the way Bella, my mom, had reacted. At first I thought that she would've been upset with me, or maybe even confused and worried. But no, she was perfectly fine. She treated it like it only a job, which is really all it was. She had only given me one piece of advice.
"Whatever you do," she had told me, "don't lose your head. Don't get caught up in a whirl of designer gowns and sexy, young male models. And don't forget what's important, Renesmee. Never forget."
Those had been her exact words, and for some reason, they had made permanent residence in my head. I think it was those words that kept me grounded, that kept me from diving head first into the bright, exquisite world of high-end fashion and modeling like the other star-struck girls.
I smiled to myself as I thought of that, me being different. I liked being different, and I liked being the center of attention and feeling beautiful. But I didn't let it go too far; at least I hoped I didn't.
I was walking swiftly down the street, the chilly wind whipping through my reddish-brown curls. It was hard to walk swiftly in the streets of New York, but I always managed to find a way. In the past few weeks it had become increasingly easier, now that the crowds almost seemed to part before me. I guess I was beginning to become recognized.
I was in the home stretch, my building was only a few yards away, when I saw the bus zoom by. My breath hitched in my throat. I hadn't seen this picture before.
I was standing, my body tilted to the left with my ankles crossed, my arms floating out gracefully from my sides, and my head cocked to the side, my big brown eyes wide with a mixed look of innocence and curiosity. My hair was down, flowing all the way to my waist in a mess of bronze waves. I looked so strange in this picture. It was awkward, weird, yet still somehow striking. The most beautiful, unusual picture I had yet to see of myself.
"Huh," I grunted to myself. A couple people walking by were staring at the picture, murmuring their opinions of it to each other. I couldn't catch their words over the sound of the traffic and the steady hum of people's voices all around.
I shook my head to clear it, then ducked inside my apartment building. I took the long flight of stairs up to my floor, feeling too jittery to stand around in an elevator. It took awhile, but I finally made it to the door of the loft. I jammed the key in the lock, and opened the door.
The spacey, brick loft that I called home instantly comforted me. My shoes tapped softly on the dark wood floors as I moved to the kitchen, where I immediately saw Bella.
"Hey!" She called out, catching sight of me. "How was your day?"
"Busy," I told her with a yawn.
She laughed. "Typical. Hungry?"
"Yeah." I was hungry. All it seemed like I was allowed to eat in the presence of my employers and other models were green vegetables and health food bars that tasting like granola and cardboard.
"I thought so. Check the freezer, I just bought a 100-dollar supply of Lean Cuisine today," she told me, standing up from her seat on the barstool.
"Yum," I replied with as much enthusiasm as I could muster.
She rolled her eyes at my remark. "Hey, it's either that or a burnt grill-cheese. Take your pick."
"You make it sound like such a tough decision," I said wryly. Bella waved her hand dismissively, and stalked off to watch TV.
I sighed as I picked at my Chicken Florentine, waiting for it to cool. I heard Bella humming along to what sounded like the theme song to Gilmore Girls. In a way, Bella and I's relationship was similar to that of Rory's and Lorelai's. Bella was only fifteen years older than me, a result of what she called, "A stupid, pointless losing of the V-card at my first homecoming." We were more like sisters, really close sisters. We had moved out of Renee's house to New York when I was 10, after she had finished up college in Phoenix. Renee had preferred for me to call her Mama; she had told me that Grandma was a little old since she still considered herself middle-aged. I just call my mom Bella. That's what she wants me to call her, but sometimes I cought myself calling her Mom by mistake.
I finished my dinner a few minutes later, and joined Bella watching TV. Half-way through the show, my cell-phone started to go off in the other room where I had set my bag down. I ran to answer it, and was greeted by the sound of a cool female voice that I recognized as belonging to my agent, Aileen.
"Renesmee Swan?"
"This is she," I replied, breathless.
"Hi, this is Aileen." Her voice sounded vaguely foreign, her English was laced with a strange, Irish accent. "We just got a call from a client that needs you for a photo-shoot tomorrow. I know it's last minute, but they're a big name, and they need a model."
"Um… I'm fine with it Aileen, but is there room in my schedule? I thought we were going to do some scouting tomorrow?" I asked. Thank God for Aileen. I would've probably missed thousands of opportunities without her.
She laughed. "Renesmee, trust me. This photo-shoot will kick butt. Way more important than go-sees." Suddenly, there was a loud crash in the background. "Oh crap. Hey, I gotta go. Some model just fainted, and crashed right into the rack of Charlene De La Cruz coats we just got in for the portfolios. Swing by tomorrow at seven a.m., I'll be waiting."
"Bye!" I said into the dial tone.
--
As soon as I woke up the next morning, my stomach clenched into a huge knot. It took two pieces of toast and a glass of juice for it to finally dawn on me. Today was my biggest photo shoot to date, according to Aileen. Then I glanced at my watch. 6:39. I gasped then flew out the door, still in the sweats I had slept in.
When I reached the agency, nobody seemed to take note of my haggard appearance. That was, until Aileen caught sight of me.
"Renesmee?" she inquired. "What… happened to you?"
I grinned sheepishly at the beautiful Asian girl before me. I always thought that it was weird that she looked Asian, but spoke with an Irish accent. Aileen was pretty enough to be a model herself.
"Fine, don't answer. Anyway, we got to fly. The shoot starts in an hour, and you have to get there for your hair and make-up," she told me, the words flying out of her mouth as she ushered me back out the door and into the frigid New York City air.
We got into the town car that was waiting just outside the street, and I sank into the leather seat with a sigh. "Aileen, what kind of shoot is this?" I asked her once she was positioned behind the wheel.
"It's for Marjani Mutuku, a very up and coming designer. She specializes in two things—evening gowns and…" she trailed off, obviously wishing I hadn't asked the question at all. She grimaced. "Lingerie."
My mouth opened with a pop. I glared at her. "What part of 'no nude ads' do you not understand? I will not prance around wearing only two scrappy pieces of black lace, leaving hardly anything to the imagination!" I cried. "Turn the damn car around!"
She glared at me. "It's tasteful lingerie. Trust me, this lady is trying to bring the classy, respectable woman back in style. You should meet her, she more uptight than my mother-in-law, which is saying something."
"You're married?" I asked her.
She laughed at me, all seriousness gone. "Yes, I am. And my husband's family is most conservative group of people I've met in a long time."
I smiled. "And how've they been treating you?" I'd always thought of Aileen as the rebel type.
"They're adapting," she said with an evil smirk.
I laughed along with her. I was beginning to consider Aileen as one of my good friends. It seemed that we had so much in common, even thought she was about ten years older than me.
We pulled up in front of a row of smaller, expensive looking buildings. I followed Aileen into the one with the big columns out front, and we entered through the dark, wood-paneled door.
The marble-floored lobby was tiny, and nearly deserted. The only sign of life came from the potted plants and the perky, eager man seated behind a huge desk.
"Welcome to Marjani Fashion and Design. May I help you two ladies?" he greeted us, his high-pitched voice already on my nerves.
"We're here for the shoot. Renesmee Swan from—" Aileen began.
"Oh yes! Delighted to have you here! Third floor," he interrupted. Aileen nodded gratefully, and we made our way to the elevator.
We stood in silence during the short ride up, and when the doors open we were greeted with a blast of tuneless contemporary music. I cringed away, but Aileen grasped me by the arm and led me into the center of all the commotion. The next half hour I was silent and obedient, the way the Aileen had instructed me to be. I did whatever I was told without complaint, my only job to dodge the set producers and their equipment as they flew by.
I was all set to go, clad in an extravagant deep plum gown covered with golden lace and bows. My hair was a mess of curls, tangled in an up-do that I hoped was supposed to look like it was falling down. I was wearing what felt like a heavy mask of foundation and fake eyelashes that went so far out I was having trouble seeing. I didn't quite understand how this was supposed to make me look attractive, but whenever I walked by the set directors and the help, they muttered things like "beautiful" and "gorgeous." I guess I'd have to take their word for it.
I was ushered on set, where I came face to face with one of the most beautiful men I had seen. His skin was warm chocolate brown, and his eyes were a soft amber color. His hair was raven black and shiny, and his smile was dazzling. My breath came in short, wracking gasps.
He held out his hand. "I'm Nahuel," he said, his voice smooth and creamy.
"Renesmee," I breathed back, struggling to find words, much less oxygen.
He grinned at me. "Pleasure working with you."
I nodded fervently, my hair bouncing crazily. I felt the bobby pins beginning to pop out from their hold of thick, bronze hair. All at once a huge section of curls fell onto my shoulder, and I blushed.
The photographer and the shoot director were shouted instructions and words of praise at me, and I realized they had already begun to take photographs. The set around us was obviously supposed to look like a fancy, plush apartment. I had no idea what to do.
Nahuel seemed to read my expression. "We're a couple," he murmured. "Getting back from a fancy party. We are happy to be alone… together."
I nodded, and another piece hair fell lose. I frowned.
"Don't worry hon! You're supposed to look a little disheveled… maybe even tipsy!" the director yelled at me.
I knew better than to nod this time. Disheveled, I thought. I can do that. I let the strap of my gown slide down my arm, exposing what I hoped was a modest portion of my chest. I looked up sweetly into the eyes of Nahuel, a sexy smirk dancing across my features.
"Perfect!" the director yelled, her voice seeming to silence a lot of the commotion going on around the set. It felt like everyone had their eyes on me. Suddenly, the music switched from bouncy contemporary to soft, sultry jazz. The lights dimmed, casting a seductive glow throughout the room.
"Closer! Get closer! You're in love, remember!" the photographer whispered-yelled at us. I moved so that by body was pressed up against Nahuel's dark, muscled one. I placed my palms on his chest, and gazed at him through my eyelashes, my lips pouted. Nahuel wrapped his arms around me, pulling me even closer to him. He tilted his head down, and I realized our lips were only inches apart.
"Dammit!" the director growled. "Act like you're about to make love! Like this is the last day of your lives with each other!" I blushed deeply, stiffening in Nahuel's arms.
"It's okay," he murmured, rubbing his hands up and down my back. "We're professionals."
I smiled, my confidence slowly coming back. Hell, I was in the arms of a sexy man. I should be taking advantage of this!
"Nahuel?" I whispered back. "Remember that, okay?"
He smiled. "Of course. I promise I'll back off if you need me to. Just tell me if I ever make you feel uncomfortable."
He already seemed to grasp my plan. "I will."
"Intimacy!" the director shrieked, her voice cutting through the music like a knife. "More passion!"
"If it makes you shut up," I mumbled. Nahuel barely had time to smile before I touched my lips to his. A whoop of joy came from the director, and the photographer murmured a string of praise to us.
Nahuel's hands rubbed along my shoulder, pushing my straps down even farther. I brought my hands up to his neck, winding them around the back of his head. I wave of fire engulfed me, and I wondered if Nahuel felt it too. I was barely aware of the shoot going on around me, my only concentration on the man who had me in his arms. Our kiss was becoming more heated, yet it was still slow and sultry. I briefly thought back to when Aileen had mentioned the designer as being uptight, and I wondered if she had approved of this shoot. I didn't dwell on it long though, because I was suddenly aware of how good Nahuel's finger felt running up and down my spine. We broke apart for a second, and I realized that we were still in a photo shoot.
"Remember to pose," he breathed, his lips moving against my ear. I did as I was told, and began to pose, remembering that I was trying to sell the gown. Nahuel had his cheek against my face, his heady breath sending bursts of pleasure throughout my body. I was facing away from the camera, so I turned my head to the side for a profile shot, Nahuel's head moving flush against mine. I closed my eyes, struck a pose, and let the feeling of adrenaline over-whelm my conscious.
Too soon the music stopped, and the lights cut back on. I frowned as Nahuel pulled away from me, a wide smile on his face.
"Wow," I breathed.
"I know. That was… amazing," he replied.
I didn't have quite the courage to tell him that that was probably the best kiss I'd ever had. I didn't have the chance either, because once more I was whirled away, back to the dressing area where I was stripped of my gown and underwear. I blushed violently in the nude, even though I was concealed behind a sheet being held up by a random girl. I threw on the clothes handed to me as quick as I could, only realizing afterwards that what I had so hastily thrown on was in fact a skimpy nightgown with a built-in bra and a lacy, satiny pair of underpants. Aileen had been right, it was tasteful, even beautiful, but I still felt unnaturally exposed.
More make-up was applied to my still-flushed face, and my hair was pulled in a complicated braid tight against my head. I thought it looked weird and unattractive, and I wondered why they had chosen this particular hairstyle. Then I saw my hairstylist approaching me, a long, deep brown wig in his hands.
Oh. At least that explained the ugly hairstyle. "Why am I wearing a wig?" I asked, curiosity breaking through my silent shell.
He smiled. "The model you're shooting with has almost the exact same color hair as you do, and the director said that she wanted you in a wig so that you didn't look like brother and sister," he explained, securing the mass of dark hair on my head. The color of the wig matched my eyes exactly, and I couldn't help but stare at how different—how sexy—I looked…but still tasteful.
Of course.
A/N: Can anyone guess who she is modeling with next? hehehe... i'm so devious, aren't I?
I haven't decided yet if I'm going to do Bella POV at all... although as of right now i'm thinking that might not be such a good idea. what do you guys think? BTW, in this particular story, it is never revealed who Renesmee's father is, but I can assure that it isn't Edward. also, i just want to point out that i made up all the designer's names, cuz i wasn't in the mood to research a bunch of different designers. if you have any cool names you want to volunteer up for me to use, that would be awesome. i'm always looking for funky, unique names. and for all you Once Upon a Pom Pom fans, don't worry. I plan to update as soon as i can.
REVIEW PLEASE!
