Strut.

Now, let’s pay a visit to Alexis momentarily. This reckless, beautiful girl is currently eating lunch with three of her friends at this cute little lunch place on 16th Street.

They don’t serve pizza there. Keep this in mind.

Alexis is eating this cute little salad, no dressing, out of this cute little plate that’s square and modern-looking and still much too big for the amount of food it has on it. She’s drinking sparkling water out of a cute little martini glass. Oh, this is what life at the top is like.

Surrounding her are three other girls, three other models, I’m sorry. They’re clearly distinguishable from mere girls, of course. They sip on similar drinks and nibble similar salads. They laugh and chat loudly because they can, not because they have anything to say to each other.

Alexis usually stays silent behind this mindless babble. She’s above it, of course. Alexis is actually above most things, but that’s if you’re asking her.

Charisse, Valerie and Avian aren’t, though. This, this is really the highlight of their week. Lunch with the best. They feel honored, a little jealous, but wholly, completely honored that they alone are considered this close to the Flight girl. That they’re the ones that know her, even though they don’t really know her at all.

Valerie comes from old money. She bought her way into this scene.

Charisse was a model in France, but she decided New York City would better benefit from her talent. Really, she’d had an affair with a married man and was in deep waters when it came to his wife.

Avian worked at a strip club in Vegas, where a talent scout picked her up and actually saw her through. Avian was probably the only one between them with real talent, and she was also the only one touching her thirty-dollar salad, crunching awkwardly on the lettuce. Charisse kept giving her looks of scandalized contempt, as if to say, How dare she eat like that in my vicinity?!

See, the modeling world is a deathly competitive one. Just because Avian, Valerie and Charisse act like friends doesn’t mean they really are—and you can bet Charisse will be gossiping about Avian’s unknowing slip-up next chance she gets. “Omigawd. She is such a fatass. She finished, like, half her salad. Ew! If I ate so much I would barf!”

Oh, Charisse. She won’t even eat a quarter of her salad and she’ll still barf.

Alexis hasn’t touched her plate, and so every leafy green Valerie and Charisse consume is like one step farther away from stardom, at least in their minds. Maybe if they could have that kind of self-control, they could be as good as Alexis. Maybe if they would just eat a little less, just purge a little more, they’d be her in place in just a matter of weeks.

It’s stupid of them, really, because everyone knows Alexis isn’t going anywhere. Cameron won’t let her. It’s in the contract.

They look so pretty in the magazines, these girls. Really, they do. They’ve got little kids fawning over them, wanting to be them someday.

Alexis lifts her fork, spearing a carrot. She’s miserable.

Alexis does not want to be here eating, or rather, not eating with these shallow girls. But Cameron thought it was a nice idea, a nice girls’ lunch. A nice chance for the paparazzi to catch Alexis in what Cameron deemed ‘normalcy acts.’ “It makes you so relatable,” he’d told her. But it’s not like Alexis had a choice, anyways–that’s in the contract, too.

So there she is. And there he is, tucked away in the corner, tapping away at a laptop, eating a sandwich piled with meat and cheese, homestyle French fries and a baked potato on the side. It looks so good to Alexis’ poor, deprived stomach. After this, maybe they’ll go find a hotel room so she can taste it on his lips.

Alexis reluctantly turns her attention away from Cameron and back to the conversation, looking blankly between her so-called friends. They’re talking about shoes. Luckily, shoes are one of Alexis’ favorite accessories.

“Oh, I saw that pair the other day. They were cute,” she comments. And just like that, those shoes are bound to fly off the shelves. There’s a popular fashion blogger sitting two tables over. Cameron knows this, of course. This is the whole idea.

Alexis is immediately drawn into the conversation; now that she’s shown some interest, the girls won’t let her drift away again. They vie for her attention. The talk quickly turns from shoes to coats (namely the debate between pea or fur) to dresses to parties to boys. They’re easily distracted, see.

“So, Alex! Who’s your new boy toy?” Valerie trills, partly curious, partly just wanting to say what a whore she is behind her back.

Alexis gives her a look for the nickname. “No one at the moment,” she replies, eyes wandering to Cameron but quickly darting away. Cameron’s not a boy toy. God. He’s more of a constant, but once-in-a-while thing, not a true boy toy like Valerie is referring to. One that you meet every night, sometimes twice, but dump within the month. Alexis rolls her eyes. Please. Boy toys were so last season; Alexis had moved on to one-night stands. Much more mysterious, much more convenient.

“Oh, please, ma chérie. Don’t hide things from us!” Charisse presses, showing off a little of her cultured, European side. Her white, white teeth glint in the chandelier light.

“Well…” Alexis trails off, too lazy to search for a good lie to such a stupid question. “I guess I just haven’t met anyone lately. And there’s Charles, you know.”

“Oh, like Charles has ever stopped you before!” Valerie laughs her high-pitched, glass-breaking laugh. Charisse nods in agreement. Avian, to her credit, looks sufficiently uncomfortable by now.

Alexis just shrugs, looking at Cameron again. This time he’s looking back at her. He smiles knowingly and taps his watch, his shiny, gold Cartier watch. Alexis pretends to look at the time on her cell, then says, “Actually, I’m late. I have this appointment. Sorry, ladies, I’ll see you later.” She smiles a pretty, fake smile and gets up. Cameron is already there to escort her to the door. He’s wearing a fitted black suit, and he looks good.

“You want to go find a hotel?” Alexis smiles again, this time alluringly. Cameron just laughs.

“Sorry, darling. I wasn’t lying about the time; you really do have a meeting to go to.” He leans closer. “Maybe later,” he whispers, his breath passing hot over her neck. She can smell the food on it. God, she wants him now.

Cameron pulls away, and her shoulders drop. Her pace quickens in annoyance, making her heels click angrily against the cement. This is not a good day.

Alexis isn’t fully aware of how bad a day this really is for her, however.



Ross exits the cab, handing the driver a twenty and telling him to keep the change, though the fare is $27.55. Before he can do anything about it, Ross has slipped out of the car and meshed into the crowded sidewalk. He honks his horn furiously, mixing with the noise of the surrounding Manhattan traffic. Ross smirks at the sound as he saunters up the museum’s steps. He enters the sleek stainless steel double doors and walks into the entrance hall. Ignoring the suggested admission of nineteen dollars, he breezes by security, waving them off with talk of being a member, he’s here all the time, he’s working on a college project.

Ross is twenty-nine and dropped out of college after a semester, but that hardly matters now.

He walks quickly through the halls, not sparing a glance for the exhibits of ancient fossils and extinct animals around him. No, today, Ross Cester is on a mission.

He winds through the halls, glancing at every black head of hair he sees. At last, his face lights with recognition, and he walks up to a man hunched over a notebook, talking to one of those ill-informed museum guides. This one looks quite uncomfortable. Ross smiles at him, but his smile is so intimidating it only makes the man more anxious. Ross waits impatiently for the black-haired man’s cross-examination to finish, tapping his shiny black shoes against the marble flooring.

After nearly three minutes, a long time in Ross’ opinion (because after all, time is money), the man finishes. He scribbles a few last notes before turning to Ross, a weary look on his face.

“I told you I didn’t want you coming here and disturbing me. This is the reason I couldn’t meet you otherwise, if you didn’t hear me right.”

“Oh, that was what you said?” Ross laughed falsely. “Sorry, when someone tells me a time and place they’re somewhere, and I want to see said person, usually I just end up there. Funny how it happens, really. Quite convenient.”

The man grimaces and turns back to his notes. “I’ll be finished in about twenty minutes.”

“I won’t even take that long.”

The man puffs out his lips in thought, lines appearing between his brows. “Fine. Fucking fine. Get your way like you always do, Cester.”

“Lord, such language! Tone it down, there may be children within earshot!”

“Shut up,” the man hisses. His tired eyes stare Ross down.

Since the beginning, Zhang Li has never been an easy man to work with. He’s quite greedy, and also quite genius, and this makes for a very self-involved person. He has backbone, too, enough to stand up, at least momentarily, to Ross. Apart from standing at six foot five, Ross has enough connections to hang you by the throat with, so needless to say, he doesn’t experience this sort of rebellion very often. It’s refreshing, really. And that’s why Ross keeps coming back to Li, in addition to him being the best of the best.

Li works as a private investigator. It’s strictly under the rug, and strictly illegal, some of the methods he uses. If it’s ever been in print somewhere, spoken anywhere near a video camera, even one with no sound, he can find it. Ross knows this, and more importantly, Reagan knows this. She’s the one that ordered him here, after all.

Li sighs. “What do you want this time, Cester?”

“Now, now. What’s with this last name business, Zhang?”

“You know perfectly well my name is Li. And you choose not to call me by it. I’ll do the same.”

Ross chuckles. “Actually, I was under the impression that last names came, well, last.”

“I’ve told you–I’m fucking Chinese. In China—”

“Do you see a Great fucking Wall anywhere around here?”

Pause.

“No. You don’t. That’s what I thought, Zhang.”

“Goddamnit, Ross,” Li mutters. Li is stubborn, he admits it, but God, this man is impossible. Not to mention childish and devious and, well, nearly every negative word you could think of. Li isn’t about to fall into the vat of words that could describe Ross Cester, though. “Just tell me what the hell you want. You said it’d only be fifteen minutes.”

“Actually, I said twenty. And it’s been–” he pauses to check his watch. “–Four. So. Let’s get down to business.”

“Right. Whose life do you want to ruin now?” Li fidgets with his papers, avoiding looking up Ross.

“Please, that term is so harsh. I prefer to call it social Darwinism.”

“A very aggressive form of it, then,” Li snaps, shoving the packet roughly into his briefcase.

“Oh yes.” Ross grins, his smile a would-be handsome one if not for the telltale glimmer in his eye. He’s already fishing out a manila folder from inside his seemingly bottomless jacket, tossing it down on the bench next to Li. Li looks at it tiredly; it’s thick with papers, photos sticking out ragged along the edges. Ross’ smile gleams brighter as he sees the look of distaste on Li’s face. “Pay’s gonna be good this time, Zhang.”

“Is it?” Li questions, his expression turning farther south. “Because last time, you only gave me about thirty bucks.”

Ross scoffs. “Come on. It was a hundred and thirty, at least.”

“Which is a lot less than my going rate, Ross.” Li’s voice has turned sharp and business-like, and he slides the envelope back across the bench, towards Ross. “No.”

“Let’s not be too brash, Li,” Ross says in a softer, dangerous voice. “I need this, and I need it from the best. If you don’t agree, well…” He smirks. “I’ll make you.”

Li sighs again, looking back at Ross. “Then listen, Cester. You’re not ripping me off again. Guys who do a hell of a lot worse job than me make twice as much. I’m not settling for that, Ross. I want a thousand dollars, and I’m not starting until I get it. This is making up for your debt.” Li’s eyes and voice are stony, staring at Ross for a moment to make sure he gets the point.

Ross considers the Asian man’s face for a moment in which Li’s composure breaks and becomes visible unsure of how wise it is to ask more of a Cester than they offer. He picks up the folder again with the hope of breaking Ross’ gaze. “I think, Li,” Ross says in the same quiet tone, “that you’re forgetting who’s calling the shots here. Who has the upper hand.”

“Obviously, Ross, I have the upper hand, because I’m the one you want something from.” He’s flipping through the folder as he talks, determined not to fold. “Why do you need information about her, anyway?” he asks, holding up a picture.

“None of your business, Zhang,” Ross says. He sounds angry, probably from being challenged, from not immediately getting his way. He runs a hand through his gelled hair, then adds, with an air of exaggerated defeat, “Fine. You’ll get the money by tomorrow.” Ross’ eyes are dark as he stands. “See you soon.”

Ross walks out of the room, his shoes clicking on the floors loudly. Li looks at the folder again, his eyes moving quickly over the words printed there.

“Why would he want to know about Alexis Flight?” he mutters to himself. He stares at the page for another minute, then shakes his head, slips the folder into his briefcase along with the others, and follows Ross out the door.