Twins

Flash, flash, flash. Pose, expression, pose, expression. This was the world of Levi Overholt and had been for many years now, the life of a model.

As the cameras died, he quickly walked off set, escaping the spotlights glare. His head hurt, he was tired and was done with this job. As he heard a rush of feet coming towards him, he groaned inwardly.

“Great job today, Levi!”

“Way to go man!”

“Absolutely breathtaking, as usual Overholt.”

The usual, unremarkable voices babbled on and he heartlessly tuned them out. He continued to walk away; he hoped to not have to deal with anything else, his tolerance approaching zero. Then a man walked directly in his path, a man wearing the most fashionable of clothing, desperate to look young, a man he despised.

“Why don’t you step into my office? Make sure I’ve seen everything about your, shoot,” he said with poorly disguised lust.

Levi followed him, without a word, irked by his forward suggestion, yet left with no other choice. Opposite to popular belief, he was a model, not a hooker, yet that didn’t stop this from happening at almost every job he took. He was caught in this game, as people like this ran the fashion world, the challenge came when he had to wriggle his way out of their clutches.

They walked down a long hallway, unusually deserted. It held all the décor of a typical fashion industry building, high end carpets, pictures of Vogue, unusual, “fashionable” plants. Even as they strode into the sexual predators office, Francis Delmont, the door and the very room held a high designer vibe. Yet no matter how good it looked, it couldn’t disguise the reason he was here.

“I’ve heard you’re quite a hard fish to catch,” Francis purred at him, while he sat on his desk, “But we can always make an exception, right? Rectify my, situation.”

And situation it was as he stared at the small tent in the man’s pants; he sighed, model didn’t equal slut, an unusual equation as others in the profession didn’t help to overcome the stereotype. He decided to play dumb, the best way to get out of the situation, yet the hardest to pull off; he seemed like anything but innocent.

“I’m sorry sir; I’ll make any exception you want. I apologize if I caused a situation in the photo shoot, if you could sir, could you tell me what I did wrong?” he said in a respectful, pleading tone, hating the falseness of his words, the need to suck up to this low life.

He was in luck, however, as Francis seemed to be aghast and had no real reply. He stood up off the desk and cleared his throat, walking around to sit in his chair.

“Well, erm, as long as you make sure to hold your standards high on the job, you will be fine. I noticed a lack of focus today. You can go, as long as it doesn’t happen again.”

“Thank you sir,” Levi mumbled softly and turned to leave.

“And Levi, I’m not an idiot. I can wait, you’ll want me eventually.”

With those last words in the air, he marched from the room, jaw set in anger. He continued to walk on, temporarily lost in his hatred. He found himself outside before he knew it, swarmed by reporters.

Flash, flash, flash. Pose, expression, pose, expression. He did his best to save face in front of the media, allowing his looks to do the talking, their cameras conducting the interview. He continued to do as he had been trained, turning bad timing into good public relations as his car was driven up, his savior from the reporter pests.

As soon as he was able he jumped in, words flying from his lips, “Home please, just home.”

With a silent nod his driver took off, building the limo up to incredible speed. The world whirred by as he sat there, stewing about the afternoon. Nothing ruined his day more than something like this. Over the years his love for his job had curdled, until it became just that, a job, work, not something he loved to do. He was still great at it, amazing if you asked his critics, but he had lost something on the way, something important.

He was everywhere, his face plastered on billboards, on tv in commercials, it made his family proud and gave him an escape. Yet eventually he realized that now he couldn’t escape himself, his love for fame was never what drew him to the job, not like so many of the others. It was the joy that fashion brought him, that click of the camera, the tantalizing light. He used to live and breathe modeling, now he found he didn’t breathe at all.

He finally noticed the world had stopped moving around him, he looked outside and realized they were here, his home.

As he exited the car he spoke to his driver, “Thanks Morgan, you can go home now, I’ll give you the day off.”

He thought he heard a thank you as he closed the door, but it was unlikely as his driver had learned to expect things like this, his employer’s strange ways. His phone began to ring as he walked up to his door, clear glass as only the rich can afford. He ignored the beauty of his house as he snapped open the phone, annoyed.

“Overholt.”

“Ah honey! You really must work out a new greeting, it’s hardly welcoming to your dear mother,” a familiar feminine voice answered.

He sighed as he remembered he had call display for a reason, to ignore these calls, “Yes mother, I’ll remember that next time.”

“That’s a dear; I was just calling to see how your shoot went.”

“It went fine mother, just as it always does,” he said, a reminder that he wasn’t a boy anymore as he opened his door, walking into the building.

“Yes, yes, you always say that. But maybe you can humour an old motherly aristocrat?”

“As you say,” he said as he threw his coat on a hanger, then he noticed something off…

Now distracted, he replied, “”Um, mom, I’m going to have to call you back, something’s come up.”

“You sure you’re alright dear? Oh don’t answer that, you’d lie anyways, I’ll see you later, okay? Perhaps over din-”

Without another word he hung up the phone, as he noted to himself that he should apologize later. But it was obvious that someone was here, he had spent too long honing his instincts to be wrong about this. He took his safeguard, his precaution as he slowly pushed a painting to the side of the wall. He pulled out a gun similar to the ones he kept hidden in every room of his home, paranoia paying off.

His house was very open, so he knew that no one was in the immediate vicinity, as the entryway had a view of his large living room. He walked with stealth over plush carpets and laminate floors, pistol cocked and ready. As he crossed, he tried to hear anything out of the ordinary. All that met his ears was silence, unnatural quiet.

He finally made it across and taking a breath, he turned around the corner revealing half his body, the other half hidden, along with his gun.

“Took you long enough,” said a large man across from him.

If looks said anything, he was a criminal with tattoos raveling around his burly arms, scar on his cheek and revolver in his left hand. The man was a threat, to him and perhaps…

The man continued to speak, obviously comfortable with the situation, “Not a talker are ya? That’s all fine with me. Damn twins almost always know how this business runs, whether they’re street trash or politicians, makes it simpler.”

He calmed his breathing, as he prepared himself for the action that would shatter this temporary calm. Then something moved behind the man, something that made him breathe harder once again, his second long meditation, useless.

“Told you you’d want me,” Francis said as he stepped out from behind the thug, a shotgun in his hand and the cold gleam of greed in his eye.