He’s gorgeous, in a fabulous sort of way.
“Are you Des?” he asks, and if there was any doubt, his voice gives away his sexual alignment.
I keep my expression carefully blank. “Who’s asking?”
He hands me a business card:
Thom Rayburn, talent acquisitions
The Sidney Weaver Agency
12345 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York
212-555-6789
My first thought is whether his name is pronounced “Tom” or “Th-om”. Second, what does he want with me?
I blink at him, and then hand his card back. “Not interested.”
He laughs. “You haven’t even heard what I’m offering, Des.”
“Still not interested.”
“Have you ever heard of The Sidney Weaver Agency?” He moves to stand beside me.
The bus arrives in a squeal of brakes and a cloud of diesel fumes, and Thom boards ahead of me, and pays for two tickets. “What the hell do you want, Thom?” I pronounce it Tom, guessing that no one, no matter how gay, would go by Th-om. “And why did you pay for my ticket?”
“Sit down, sweetie, and I’ll tell you what I want.” He waves impatiently at an open pair of seats near the front. I slide in, and he moves in beside me. He smells like expensive cologne and faintly of marijuana. “Since you didn’t answer my question, I’m going to assume you aren’t familiar with the agency. We are the premier modeling agency. We represent all of the most successful and talented models in the world. And Des? We want you. We saw those photos from the gala on Mackinac Island, and honey, you looked incredible.”
I snort derisively. “I may not know your agency, but I do know models are supposed be size negative two, okay? And I also know I’ll never be that skinny. So you’re barking up the wrong tree, sweetie.”
“Negative two. That’s funny.” He pulls an electronic cigarette from his coat pocket and sucks on it, making the tip glow blue, and then blows out a cloud of odorless smoke. “For real, though. Haven’t you ever heard of plus size modeling?”
“So now I’m plus size?” My voice is dangerously even.
He has the decency to blush slightly. “I’m not labeling you anything, hon, that’s just what the industry calls it. And they need talent.” He takes another puff of the e-cig, and then puts it back in his pocket. “You know how many calls we got asking about you after those photos went up? Guess. I want you to guess.”
I shake my head. “Four?”
He snorts. “Try two hundred. And that was just the first day. All of them wanted to know if we represented you, and if not, how soon we could get you. Cacique, Torrid, Lane Bryant, Michael Kors, Betsy Johnson…they all want you. Which means we want you.”
Modeling? Me?
I don’t answer right away. “I don’t know anything about being a model.” I glance at him. “Plus, I’ve watched TV, okay? I’ve heard about the modeling industry, and how brutal it is. I’ve got zero interest in signing some contract that makes me an indentured servant.”
Thom looks aghast. “Des. Des. We’re not that kind of agency. God, I’ve never been so insulted in my life. Those kinds of contracts come from…god, they’re little better than fucking charnel houses, okay? We represent talent. Beauty. Class. And we can train you. That’s what we do.”
“I have tattoos.”
He blows a raspberry with his lips. “Um, Photoshop, duh. Not to make you look less like you, of course, but that’s the kind of thing we use it for. Cover up tattoos and blemishes.”
I pinch the extra flesh at my stomach between finger and thumb. “Yeah, blemishes.” I look away.
Thom shakes his head and looks sad. “God, you’ve had a rough time of it, haven’t you? You’re beautiful, Des. For real. Have you met me? Obviously I know what I’m talking about, right? My job is to find beautiful people and put them in front of a camera. I wouldn’t be here on this—” he lowers his voice and whispers in my ear, “very, very dirty bus in the middle of Detroit, if you weren’t what we represent.”
“Thanks, Thom. That’s nice of you to say. But all that aside, I’ve got a career plan. The semester is about to start. I can’t just leave.”
“A career plan, huh?” He eyes me, long, thick lashes touching his cheeks. “That’s good. Great. I’m sure you’ve worked your ass off to get where you are. But honey, think about this for one second. Really think. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity to get out of Detroit, to do something different, something exciting. You weren’t even posing in those pictures, you were wearing like, no makeup and your hair was great, but obviously done by you. And that dress? Honey, think about how amazing you could look in a couture gown, with professional hair and makeup. You have the kind of face, hair, and body that could sell mad copy, okay? I’m serious.”
“Thom—”
He takes my hand. “Des, this is coming from one fabulous bitch to another: You’ve got it going on, and you have to capitalize. People want you now. School will wait. Your career will wait. This opportunity? It won’t wait. You’re relevant now. I’ve got work for you now. In a month or two or three, they’ll have moved on, found someone else. You need to let me get you in front of a camera now. Not tomorrow or next year, but now, while they want your look.”
“Wow, Thom. You’re a really good salesman, you know that?”
He grins at me. “Sweetie, I didn’t get where I am in my career by sucking.” He pauses and puts an index finger to his lips. “Well, on second thought, that may not be entirely true…”
I color scarlet. “Oh my god.”
He laughs. “I’m only kidding…or am I?” He holds up his hands when I open my mouth. “For real, though. This isn’t just a sales pitch, Des. I’m serious.” He hands me his card again. “Google us. Think about it. Talk to your friends. And when you come to a decision, call me. But don’t wait too long, okay?”
“I’ll think about it,” I tell him.
“Come to New York, Des. You won’t regret it.”
The bus squeals to a stop, and Thom gets off. I watch him as he coughs and waves a hand in front of his face to clear the diesel fumes. He gets into a black car that apparently had been following the bus, and then he’s gone.
The rest of the way to my stop, I stare at the business card.