Chapter 5: The Pick-Up Line That Should've Stayed Dead
My brain lagged behind the voice on the phone, struggling to compute the words she’d just said.
Famous?
Me?
The girl who once duct-taped her sneakers because new ones were a luxury?
“How... how is that even possible?” I stammered, half-sitting, half-collapsing on the edge of my bed. I sounded like I’d just witnessed a UFO land on my lawn.
Margaret’s voice on the other end was cheerful, almost amused. “Miss Quinn, your shoot from today was picked up immediately. Hollywood Fashion Magazine ran your photo on their digital cover. Apparently, the public can’t get enough of your face.”
I stared at my reflection in the mirror across the room. Same girl. Slightly better eyebrows.
“You’re telling me they’re willing to pay... for me?”
“More than willing. They’re thrilled. Starting tomorrow, you’ll be booked on celebrity-tier schedules.”
I blinked. “Schedules?”
“Yes. Photoshoots, interviews, wardrobe planning. Just show up to the office. We’ll guide you through the transition.”
“Right...” I breathed out.
“Oh, and congratulations, darling. You’re about to become a household name.”
Click.
The call ended.
I screamed. I didn’t even mean to—it just exploded out of me. I spun in a circle like a malfunctioning Roomba and flopped face-first onto my bed, shrieking into the covers. When I finally came up for air, my face hurt from smiling.
I was famous. Me. Famous.
==
“Okay, start over,” Tessa demanded, tugging me by the wrist as strobe lights flashed across the club’s ceiling. The place was packed wall-to-wall—grinding bodies, shouted conversations, bass pounding through our shoes.
We were celebrating, apparently. I hadn’t intended for it to involve thumping music and sticky floors, but Tessa had dragged me out like a woman possessed.
“There’s nothing to ‘start over,’” I said, yelling over the music. “I told you exactly what happened.”
Tessa narrowed her eyes, pulled out her phone, tapped something, and within seconds, she shrieked so loud half the club turned to look.
She shoved the phone in my face.
It was me—from today’s shoot. Full color. Glamorous lighting. A headline that read: WHO’S THIS NEW FACE?
“Oh my God,” she breathed. “This is real. It’s happening. You’re in! Marla, this is huge!”
“I know.”
“We are celebrating until your heels snap off, I swear!”
I chuckled, tugging at the borrowed blue dress shirt I was wearing. Tessa always insisted I raid her closet. Mine was... uninspiring.
“You sure we can’t just do pizza and a movie?”
Tessa looked personally offended. “Absolutely not. Stay here. I’m grabbing us shots.”
She vanished into the crowd.
I sighed, tapping my fingers on the table.
The dance floor pulsed. Lights strobed. I was trying to relax—really—but a creeping sensation crawled over me.
I looked up.
Some guy was staring at me. Older. Greasy. Wearing too much cologne and an overconfident smile.
I looked away.
Too late.
“Hey there,” came a voice like cigarette ash and sandpaper.
I turned to see him towering over me.
“Need something?” I asked, trying to sound polite but firm.
He grinned. “Yeah. Help. My heart just fell the moment it saw you.”
Oh no.
He was one of those.
“That’s… tragic,” I said flatly.
“Come on. Just a dance.”
“I’m good, thanks.”
He reached for my hand.
“Hey—what are you doing?”
“Relax, babe. Come with me.”
I yanked my hand back, but he tightened his grip.
“Let me go,” I snapped, louder now.
“You heard her,” said a new voice—sharp, calm, and utterly familiar.
I turned.
And there he was.
Cassian Locke.
My least favorite man in the world. In a charcoal suit. At a club.
Why was he always dressed like a board meeting was moments away?
“I need to teach this girl a lesson,” the stranger snarled. “Back off, man. Who even are you?”
Cassian stepped closer, arm curling smoothly around my waist.
“I’m her boyfriend,” he said.
My jaw nearly hit the floor.
What?
The stranger looked between us—between Cassian’s broad shoulders and my dumbfounded face—then backed off like he’d just touched a hot stove.
“Didn’t know. Sorry, bro.” He slunk away.
Cassian didn’t move. His hand stayed firmly around my waist.
I cleared my throat, pointedly.
Nothing.
I elbowed him.
Nothing.
So I pried his arm off like a barnacle.
“Don’t mistake this for gratitude,” I snapped, turning to leave.
“That’s how you say thank you?” he called after me. “Real classy, Red.”
I stopped. “You told me not to show up again. I’m following orders.”
He shrugged, smirking. “Changed my mind.”
“Changed it why?”
“Maybe I enjoy watching you pretend not to like me.”
“I don’t like you.”
“Your eyes disagree.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet, here I am.”
I scowled. “Next time? Don’t touch me. Your charm’s toxic.”
He watched me with that maddening half-smile, eyes dark and unreadable.
“You’re welcome, by the way.”
I spun on my heel and pushed through the crowd, heart hammering like I’d just run a marathon.
And the worst part?
Some small, traitorous part of me liked the way his arm felt around my waist.
Ugh.
You must be logged in to post a comment.