TRAGIC: Rook and Ronin, #1 (3 page)

I continue walking and go through the door, then jog down the stairs and go out to the street. It's just a way to pass time and it will give me another excuse to walk past again in a few minutes when I go back up.

Downstairs it's busy because there's a baseball game today. We rent out our parking lot out on game days since we're practically across the street from the stadium. Our lot is already full, the attendants standing guard to prevent anyone else from coming in. The streets are packed with people and there are lots of bars and restaurants to make the place look safe and trendy. And for the most part, it is. But at night, you do not want to be a girl alone in this neighborhood.

I wave to a couple of guys I recognize from elementary school standing on a corner handing out flyers. Probably for a party this weekend.

Our building is an old factory that Antoine bought back when the property values in Five Points were shit. It's six stories tall, but we gutted the top three floors to create the massive windows that allow for natural light to pour into the studio. It's all about the light with Antoine. One half of the sixth floor contains our apartments. I have one and Elise and Antoine have one. There's a large open terrace off the studio where we do most of our outside shots. Most of the other floors are either empty or used for artistic shoots.

The neighborhood has grown up with the new stadium. It used to be pretty bad, but after living here in Antoine's studio for the past twelve years, this building and neighborhood, crime statistics and all, is the only place I'd ever call home. I people-watch for a few more minutes, then head back up and enter the studio just as Elise is tugging the girl across the room. I want to talk to her so bad, but I catch Antoine in the doorway to his office and Elise jerks her head at me as she tells the girl to wait near the window.

I watch her walk and look over at Antoine again. He's smiling, but he's talking in French about Clare. She called him and gave him an earful and I know from the tone of his voice that Clare is wearing him down, weaseling her way back into another job. I sigh and follow Elise to try and calm Antoine's nerves.

The new girl will have to wait a little longer because no matter how many times I tell myself I don't give one fucking shit about Clare, I can't help myself. I still do.

Chapter Four - ROOK

Elise walks towards Antoine, but turns back when I start to follow. "Go over to the window, he wants to shoot by the window today. And just do what you're told, OK?"

I nod and she walks away with a brisk pace as I make my way to the window, looking up and gawking at how magnificent this place is.

Studio is not really the right word for it, it's several stories tall, and now that I think about it, it's the top floor of the building, even though we're only on the fourth floor of what appears to be a six-story building on the outside. There's a long modern staircase made up of concrete stairs and metal railings that leads up the far side of the room near Antoine's office, and the second story is loft-like with a set of double doors in the middle of the open hallway.

When I turn to the windows, I can totally see why Antoine would want to shoot pictures over here. They are massive. Two stories tall, each ten feet wide and the golden sunshine pouring through them lights the whole place up like heaven. Like angels with trumpets are about to fly in and celebrate the beauty that is this room.

The floors are a polished warm oak, and the whole place is filled with different set-ups. Like sets or something for photographers. Ladders and those umbrella things that you see in photo shoots to reflect light this way and that.

Antoine, Ronin, and Elise are arguing in the back room, but I can't understand them because they are all speaking French. Suddenly the door slams and I jump a little at the noise, but then enjoy the silence as they finish their argument in private. I'm sure Antoine took one look at me and refused to even bother getting out his camera.

I peer through the window and enjoy the view. It's spectacular and looks out onto a busy street. There are a few tall buildings nearby, but it's mostly small businesses contained within old historic buildings—various stores, restaurants, and bars. I watch the people below, going about their lives. I watch the women in particular. How many of them have lived with abuse? I try not to think about it really. It's over now. It's behind me and I'm sorta moving on. There have been a few incidents at the shelter with some of the druggie men, but I have a knife. I cut one guy across the arm when he touched me in my sleep. Since then they've left me alone.

I hate that place though. And all these women over on this side of town seem happy. I'm sure there are plenty of them who suffer abuse and are good at hiding it like I was, but from this vantage point, it seems unlikely that they are anywhere near the type of situation I was in back in Chicago.

Jon and I met in high school. Well, I was in high school, and that's only on a technicality because I never actually
went
to school. He was five years older. I realize now that lots of abusers look for young girls because they are easier to control and scare into silence, but at the time I just thought it was cool that an older guy liked me. He thought I was sexy, he told me things no boy ever told me. He treated me like a woman even though I was a girl.

I liked it at first. That he was tall and strong. He had his own place, a car, a job, a brand new college degree. It seemed like a perfect opportunity for me. A way to escape my stressful life and let someone else think about all these things people require for survival for once. No teenager should have to worry about living day to day the way I did.

So I let him take care of me. And maybe for a little while I could fool myself into thinking his strange obsession with controlling everything about me was normal, or a way to express his love.

But then his fists got involved, and by that time I was so dependent on him there wasn't a chance in hell I could make it on my own any more. He never lifted a hand to me at first, but slowly, over the course of several months, he alienated me from the few friends I had, asked me to quit my job, and moved us out to the country where he had access to a small family home that was sitting unoccupied.

And that's when it all changed. He spied on me, he monitored things like gas and groceries. Weird shit. And I was just too stupid to figure it out. Or just too young maybe.

Life in Chicago was the only life I knew before coming to Denver. It started out better than it ended up, that's for sure. I used to have a family. A mom at least. But she's been gone for a while now. I have nothing left of her, not even a picture. So the image of her burned into my memory is all that I have.

I'm pretty sure that memory is a bit skewed. For example, I picture her in a dress with an apron, but I'm almost positive that I'm thinking of one of the moms on RetroTube at night, and not my mother.

My mother didn't bake pies, she smoked crack.

But that's what happens when all you have left is a memory. Things change over time, other memories and images invade and reshape it.

You forget things.

And mostly you tend to forget bad things and I find that to be dangerous. Because if you forget the bad things, chances are those bad things will come back to get you again.

I try really hard to keep my memories of living with Jon fresh so I don't forget.

And I don't even care if this is healthy or whatever. The counselors at the shelter hinted that it's best to let the past go, but I don't agree and it's my life, my death. So I'm the one who gets to make the final decision.

I feel satisfied at that because I love making my own decisions.

Like today, for instance. I walked out of that job after they accused me of stealing. They did fire me first, and I could've stayed and groveled, but I didn't. I walked away.

Now I'm homeless, jobless, and broke. But at least I'm not scared and at least I'm not broken and at least I'm not letting people who know nothing about me dictate who and what I am. Even though I spend my nights with drug addicts and criminals, and probably rapists and maybe even murderers—I am less afraid in that shelter than I was at home with my ex-boyfriend.

The noise of a camera shutter snaps me back to reality. "No, don't move, Rook. You're perfect right there."

I take my attention back to the window and the memories, ignoring Antoine. If that's what he wants, then fuck it. What do I care? This whole thing is probably a set-up anyway, to get me to do porn movies or something.

The shutter continues to snap, but Antoine becomes more and more chatty. Directing me to move my arm, or tilt my head, or close my eyes, or frown.

I do it all just like he asks. Just like Elise told me to.

And I never once smile.

And he never once asks me to.

"What are you thinking about, Rook?" Antoine says later, when he's fussing with his camera and everyone else except that Ronin guy has left.

I look over at Antoine. He's tall and thick. Not fat by any means, just thick. His hair is dark and his eyes are blue, like mine, like that Ronin guy. He's wearing dark jeans and a black t-shirt, and for an older guy, late thirties maybe, he's handsome. Not hot or cute, but definitely handsome in a chiseled jaw and scratchy face kind of way.

I can see why Elise is his lover.

"None of your business," I answer him after my pause.

His reaction is lost on me because I turn back to the window.

"Do you enjoy modeling?"

I shrug. "It's a job."

"Do you have a book?"

I have no idea what that means so I just say, "No."

This time his reaction is not lost on me because he bellows out a laugh. "No? If you're a model you have a book. Show it to me." He pulls out a card and offers it. "Here is my e-mail, send me your photos."

I take the card and meet his eyes this time. "I am not a model and I have no book, whatever that is. I just need a job. The invitation card said $100 an hour. I just need the money."

"Test shoots pay in pictures, child. You don't get paid for today, but I'll give you a CD with your images, just give me your address and I'll send it when it's ready."

I'm the one who bellows out a laugh this time. "Pictures? I don't need any fucking pictures! I need money!" I walk back over to the style station and Elise is watching me with a nervous expression. "Where's my bag? I'm leaving. What a waste of time. Pictures!"

My hoodie is still in the little changing area and I whip the tank top off and pull the thrift store bargain over my head. When I come out from behind the partition I thrust the shirt at Elise. "Here."

She accepts it and I grab my bag and walk out the door.

Pictures!

What a load of shit! I just wasted my whole day, I'm on the wrong side of town, I'll never get back to the shelter in time to get a bed, and I have no money to even take the bus because I needed a ten-dollar coffee from freaking Starbucks!

I descend the stairs as fast as I can and when I get to the bottom I just stand in front of the heavy oak door, unsure of what to do next.

I collapse on the bottom step and start to cry.

Chapter Five - RONIN

Her name is Rook. She's wrecked, those were Elise's words. She and Antoine are fighting over the TRAGIC campaign. Elise says no way, Antoine says she's the only one that can do it. With one look out his door, he picked her. He fell in photographer love with her.

I smile to myself thinking of his words, because I knew it.

We need her.

But Elise has power in this house. Elise, no matter what Antoine says, wears the pants in their relationship because if Elise is unhappy Antoine cannot live with himself. He falls to pieces when they fight.

So we work on her for almost half an hour inside the office. We wear her down, we make promises. We will watch Rook, we promise. We won't push her, we'll be careful. We promise all these things if Elise will let us keep this girl.

We want her that bad.

Of course, for very different reasons. Antoine wants to shoot her, I want to keep her. Antoine wants to take pictures of her gorgeous body and her fragile face, but I want to peel away her layers and see what's underneath. Antoine wants to make her famous and I want to hide her away in my room, under the covers of my bed, under me.

By the time we get Elise to agree to our plan, I'm half afraid the girl might've left, but as soon as we open the door she's there, next to the window where Elise left her. She's looking outside, so deep in thought she hears nothing. Not the dozens of workers who mill about in her immediate vicinity and certainly not us as we extract ourselves, full of longing (Antoine), pity (Elise) and desire (me).

We walk up behind her and still her gaze remains fixed on the people down below. You can just see she's not with us, that her thoughts are spinning and her life is chaos. It's written all over her face and Antoine sighs as he sees it too. I can read these girls almost as well as he can by now—that's my job. To get them worked up—to make these girls feel things—to bring those feelings out. Paint those feelings on their faces so when Antoine lifts his camera he's not capturing the body, but the mind.