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Summary: Pretty on the outside. Not so much on the inside.

Author’s Note: Lost track of this story a long time ago. Still has that “Mahogany” vibe going on in it, but I have too many characters rearing their heads, wanting to turn this into something else.

Thanks for reading.

*

“There’s Pryde,” murmured the spiky-haired blonde in a ripped up pink sweatshirt. She popped her gum and elbowed the strawberry blonde before she could finish her sip of water from the fountain. She looked in the direction of her pointing finger and made a sour face.

“What’s she doing here?”

“Thought she was on house arrest.”

“That’s cold.”

“I’m not the one that got pulled out of classes and ended up being homeschooled, Sal,” Tabitha reminded her. “God, she’s such a priss.” They watched the petite brunette stroll by, not sparing so much as a glance or hello to the crowd of students milling around in the hall. She thumbed her smartphone screen as she made her way to the third classroom on the left.

“Must be nice to roll like that, though. I want her shoes. And her bag.”

“Bet it’s a knockoff.”

“Bet it’s not.” The focus of their discussion wore an alphabet soup of designer labels from head to toe and minimal makeup. Her hair had been flat-ironed straight, and she pulled it back in a high ponytail. She didn’t walk down the hall; she strutted, compliments of her modeling coach and dance instructor.

They watched her pause by the door, still going through her phone, and both girls burned with envy as a medium-height, fresh-faced blond approached her, a teasing smile on his face. “Oh, no way,” Tabitha grumbled. “Tell me I’m not seeing that. He’d better not be trying to hook up with her.”

“The nice guys always want the bitchy girls,” Sally pointed out. “Doug should know better.”

“He’s dumb for a smart guy,” Tabitha mused. They watched Kitty look up at him, clearly annoyed at being interrupted. “Look, he’s totally complimenting her, and she’s brushing him off.” They watched Kitty shrug back from him when he reached out to examine one of her dangling earrings. Her shift of her weight to one hip, arms crossed beneath her breasts, spoke volumes: I’m too good for you. Her ponytail whipped out behind her as she spun and left him alone in the hall. But Doug Ramsey still had a loopy grin on his face as he went on his way.

“Ugh. I hate her.” Sally unwrapped a cherry Jolly Rancher and popped it into her mouth. “He’s not supposed to like her. He’s supposed to like me.”

“Practice being a bitch.”

“She’s in my dance class. She’s such a show-off.”

“Wonder why she came back,” Tabitha speculated.

“I heard her talking with Jubes. Her mom thinks she needs more interaction with peers her own age. So, we’re stuck with her again.”

“Think she goes to launch parties?”

“Who cares?”

“I do. Bet it’d be totally cool. Think of the people you’d meet.” Tabitha looked green with envy.

“Eh. I guess. Still… her mom had to pull her out of school. Her life can’t be all that great.”

“Pretty lucky not having to go to gym, though,” Tabitha pointed out. “It’s physical fitness week. Yuck.”

“Time for chin-ups. And pain. Lots and LOTS of pain.”

“Shut up,” Tabitha told her sweetly.

*

Ororo hurried down the block, raising her hand to flag down a cab on the crowded street. “C’mon, c’mon,” she grumbled. “TAXI!” she shouted. Two of them whizzed by and ignored her even as they stopped at the intersection for a red light. Their back seats were empty. Ororo fumed. “Assholes,” she muttered. “TAXI!” She ran to catch up to them, but they both shook their heads. “Seriously? You don’t want a fare?”

Ororo stared down the length of the past couple of blocks, watching traffic for signs of another possible cab. She saw an orange Checkers cab that had a bickering couple in the back of the car and sighed. Nope. The number six bus was headed for the stop, but it was northbound and wouldn’t get her close enough to her go-see. If Remy hadn’t had a shoot of his own booked, she would have hitched a ride with him, but her show wasn’t until one, and he’d left right after his morning gym workout.

She continued her fast walk, high heeled-pumps permitting, and she tried to hail a lime green Charter cab, but the blond driver shook his head, pointing overhead to the “Out of Service” placard on the roof of the car. “What’s the point?” she asked him futilely. “Seriously?” It was the middle of the day, so it made no sense to her. The day was windy and brisk, making her shiver inside her snugly belted, spring-weight, short gray trench. She blew a stray tendril of hair out of her mouth, wishing she’d pulled it back into a chignon after all.

She continued her walk down the next three blocks, beginning to abandon hope as she checked the clock on her little tracphone. “SHIT!” she hissed. She had twenty minutes before she was late, and worse, not hired for her next show. “TAXI! HEY! Give a girl a chance!” She was fuming, hating her pumps now that she was likely to have to walk, or even run for the next bus.

She tried to hail the next cab when she caught something blue from the corner of her eye, and she tried to move aside, but someone caught her arm in passing, and reflexively, she twisted around and began to swat the man who accosted her. “Leggo! I don’t know you!” she snapped.

“Whoa, whoa, HEY! Darlin’, I…OW! Shit!” She bashed him with her mock Fendi bag “ when she made it, the real thing would be calling her name “ and brandished it again.

“What do you think you’re doing, putting your ha- oh. Oh, God. I’m so sorry.” She recognized him more clearly once she had the chance to get a look at him. It was Short Stuff, the gruff little cabbie who picked her up by the river. He looked less bruised from her ineffectual swatting than he did from the burn he received from his spilled cup of coffee regular. He pouted up at her, shaking dripping coffee from his hand and wiping it haplessly on his battered blue flannel fleece.

“Damn it. That’s what a guy gets fer tryin’ ta do a good deed. Ya look like yer in a hurry, darlin’.”

“Shoot… yeah. Hold it.” Ororo stopped at a hot dog cart a few yards away and grabbed a handful of napkins from the dispenser. “Darn it… I’m sorry. I suck. You surprised me.”

“Remind me never ta sneak up on ya on purpose, Blue Eyes,” he grumbled, but he appraised her with open interest. “Some get-up ya have on. Where ya headed?”

“I’m running late to a go-see.”

“How far do ya need ta go?”

“Why?”

“My cab’s right over there,” he explained with more than a little annoyance. The hand that held the depleted coffee pointed to a yellow taxi across the four-lane street.

“Really? Hey!” she cried out as he took her hand and tugged her after him with no further explanation.

“C’mon, kiddo, let’s jet.”

“There’s such a thing as crosswalks!” she huffed after him as he made them weave between cars in the busy street, nodding and trying to smile at pissed off drivers.

“They’re fer sissies. Ya wanna ride, or what?”

“Twentieth and Marauder Street. The big gray building with all the mirrors.”

“I know that one,” he agreed. He opened the back passenger door for her and stepped aside to let her climb in. She dutifully tucked her hands and purse on her lap so he could close it before ambling around to the driver’s seat. He climbed in, parked his cup in the holder and peered at her in the rearview. “Big job?”

“Could be. Couture show.”

“Ya’ve done one of those, haven’t ya?”

“I’ve done a few smaller ones. I’m going to be modeling Piotr’s line again, and Janet Van Dyne’s.”

“Not bad.” He sounded less than impressed. “Ya could model a potato sack and make it work, darlin’.” That mollified her slightly.

“Can you take the short way, please?”

“Right away, yer Highness. Dump coffee on a guy, interrupt his lunch break, but it’s all about you.”

“A fare buys me a ride and the chance to be a pain in your ass,” she countered with a shrug. She peered at his business license taped to his dash. “Your name’s James?”

“Let’s stick with Logan,” he advised, raising his heavy brow at her in the rearview. “It’s still Ororo, right?”

“Yup.”

“So, whaddya do between jobs?”

“Try to keep my time between jobs short,” she replied. She watched the cars ahead of them slow down with impatience and started drumming her fingers on her purse. “Look for more jobs. Sit for more shoots with Remy. Go to the gym. Nothing remarkable.” Raven and Jean-Paul both made her work her ass off, but it was paying off. She was about to kill someone for a donut, just one sugary sweet, glazed carbohydrate bomb of fatty goodness, granted, but it was paying off.

“Remy, huh?”

“He’s a professional photographer. He did my portfolio.”

“Sounds like he’s yer hook-up.” She frowned at him slightly.

“He’s been helping me, sure.”

“Sounds like a nice little arrangement.” She glared at him this time, and Ororo decided it was time to ignore him. She watched the cars whizz by as the flow of traffic picked up again. A bike courier in a tight red spandex shirt darted by, making her wish she owned a bicycle. She savagely reminded herself that Logan was doing her a favor and going at least a little out of his way. She listened to the crackle of his hand digging into the small white plastic bag at his side. He fiddled with the wrapper on his sandwich and folded it back enough to take a large, grateful bite. The scent of spicy mustard and salami tickled her nostrils and her stomach growled in response. “Damn, darlin’. Was that you?”

“Huh?”

“Sounded like somebody woke the beast. Have ya eaten anything yet?”

“No time. I just grabbed a Red Bull before I left.” He glared back at her in the rearview and shook his head.

“That ain’t no way t’do. Ain’t no point in starvin’ yerself to do what you do.”

“I don’t starve myself,” she argued, but his pastrami was torturing her with its meaty temptation. “I just watch everything carefully.”

“Sounds fucking miserable.” He crammed a couple of chips into his mouth, and his speech was garbled by the low sound of crunching. “Glad I ain’t got yer job, Blue Eyes.”

“I’m glad when I can get it,” she countered.

“Beauty and pain,” he muttered, shaking his head again.

“So, is this what you do?” she asked, diverting his criticism. He shrugged and pulled a face.

“What? Driving a cab? I’m livin’ the dream, darlin’! It don’t get any better than this.” She chuckled, and he winked at her. “It’s an honest livin’. Pays some of the bills.”

“What pays the rest?”

“Odds an’ ends. Whatever gigs I can find.” Her smile faded. Ororo went back to staring out the passenger window and she suppressed a sigh.

Odds and ends. That was what Vic called it, back in the day.

*


He told her to tone it down and stay inconspicuous, so Ororo took to wearing hats, even when it was hot outside. Her favorite was a Dodgers cap that she pulled down low over her blue eyes. Her white ponytail stayed tucked beneath the collar of her nondescript, men’s gray quilted jacket, keeping her neck warm. Victor’s crew referred to her as “Blue,” something she initially resented, but he reminded her that a false name was a benefit in his “line of work.”

She kept her meeting places random and casual. Vic’s clients were always surprised by his runner, miles tall with those lush, pouting lips. Drops and pick-ups were always brief and discreet. Sometimes she greeted them like an old friend and walked arm in arm with them, tucking their merchandise into their pocket. When squad cars rolled up, she tucked her hands into their pockets in the guise of trying to warm them and found the rolls of bills fastened neatly with diamond-studded clips.

Some of his crew were uneasy that he picked a female, and one so young to run for him. Victor rested assured that he had a girl who wanted it badly enough that she wouldn’t let him down; a girl wouldn’t brag about her take to the wrong people, and Ororo was cautious.

Ororo stayed at Vic’s place “ she couldn’t really call it living - for several months. When she wasn’t “working,” she spent as much time as she could downtown. Spending too much time in his apartment created too many opportunities for her to run into the wrong people when he brought clients home. They always stared at her when they came out from behind closed doors, and they leered at her hungrily, even with Victor standing there. Still, there were advantages, like hot water, a roof, and three squares. At night, when she finally turned in, Ororo watched his large TV in the dark, scenes of old episodes of the Honeymooners or I Love Lucy throwing flickering, grayish-blue light over her skin where she huddled on Victor’s leather sofa.

Victor put her on the pill, a necessary evil. She looked at him like he’d lost his damned mind when North turned the car into the parking lot of a clinic one afternoon. “Why are we stopping here?”

“Gotta hook you up with some birth control. Ya gotta be practical, Blue. We’ve dodged a bullet so far, and we’re playin’ house, but we ain’t Ward and June.” He leaned over her and unlocked her door, opening it and giving her a little shove. She frowned. “C’mon. Go get it done. I’ll pick ya up for lunch.”

“I don’t have any insurance.”

“It’s a clinic. Yer fine. Here.” He took a roll of hundreds out of his pocket and peeled off a few, tucking it into her pocket for her. “Tell ‘em ya want the pill.”

“What’s wrong with a diaphragm?” His blue eyes crinkled, and he shook his head.

“They ain’t made of steel, darlin’. They can break. They can slip. Accidents can still happen. You want an accident?” She shook her head and averted her eyes. His hand reached for her, fingers tickling her jaw, then gripping it to make her look at him. “No. Ya don’t. Be a good girl, Blue.”

“I am good,” she argued petulantly. “You know I’m good.” She wasn’t in the mood for him to give her a hard time. He stared down at her, then leaned in, invading her space, grinning at her annoyance before he gave her a sloppy, possessive kiss. She tried to argue with him, but his mouth urged her to open, and his fingers tangled in her ponytail. She felt him grope her breast, hand easing inside the flap of her heavy jacket, ignoring North in the front seat. Ororo smothered a whimper and broke the kiss uneasily. “I’m going.”

“Call me.”

“I will.” As she climbed out, he swatted her ass before she could evade him. She tsked in disgust and flipped him the bird as she headed into the clinic. She heard North chuckling behind her before he steered them out of the lot.

It wasn’t the life she ever imagined having. She missed her mother and grandmother, and Ororo missed having female friends, or any friends. She had no job experience except for a brief summer stint at a Chik-Fil-A when she was fifteen, and she couldn’t sign up for high school without a parent to complete her paperwork. Ororo couldn’t afford to end up “in the system.” At seventeen, she walked that fine line of still being a minor, and her resources were scarce. That’s where Victor Creed came in.

He occasionally gave her little gifts, nothing extravagant enough that she could turn around and sell. Ororo often wore his clothes because they were big and comfortable, and they accomplished the goal of not making anyone look twice at her on a crowded street. Victor’s landlord was suspicious of their “working” relationship, but Ororo never had to fill out rental paperwork or a credit check to live there, something she thanked God for regularly; in hindsight, she wondered if Victor paid him off to look the other way. Her body filled out slightly from regular meals and from proper rest, no longer spending all of her waking hours walking and searching for shelter. But Ororo never lost that precarious feeling of dread, that everything could be snatched from her hands the next day.

The people Ororo arranged drops for were other dealers, and Victor was their point man. She spent an uncomfortable twenty minutes in the Crown Victoria’s cushy rear seat waiting for him in the warehouse parking lot on the edge of town, failing to make small talk with North, who drowned out her tentative questions with twangy country music. She knew that the fresh rock was cut, mixed and wrapped for sale in the back room, and Victor didn’t want her inside, making any of his crew antsy or being a distraction.

She cleaned his apartment but didn’t cook much, so he often brought food home in white Styrofoam boxes, proclaiming “Honey, I’m home!”

“How’d we do?”

“We? What’s this ‘we’ shit? I did fine, darlin’. North said ya made that drop on Palm and Fifth.”

“Here.” She would produce the contents of her jacket pockets on the dinner table as she opened up the takeout containers, watching him as he counted it or examined the merchandise in its pristine plastic pouches. She never spoke to him until he was done counting it all. Once the money was accounted for and put away, he would be chatty, talking shit and teasing her as they ate. It felt domestic sometimes, but the bubble popped every time he got up to leave the house to run an errand, tucking his Glock into his coat pocket.

She lied to herself that she was safer with Vic than without him.

*


“Yer zonin’ out there, darlin’.”

“What?” she huffed, jerking out of her reverie at the sound of his rasp. Logan turned and glanced at her over his shoulder for a moment, his dark eyes looking concerned.

“You okay?”

“Yeah… yeah, I’m fine. Anxious.”

“I’ll get ya there on time, kiddo.”

“You’re sure?” The traffic hadn’t improved, and she felt like they were crawling along the street. She checked the clock on his stereo and cringed. He caught her look in the rearview.

“I won’t let ya down, Blue Eyes. Never fear.” His loud, strident voice blasted out of his window as he rolled it down, startling her. “C’MON, FER FUCK’S SAKE! ARE YA COLOR BLIND?? THE LIGHT’S FUCKIN’ GREEN!” The heel of his hand abused the horn and leaned on it, and Ororo tingled with a mixture of embarrassment and amusement, noticing people glancing into the cab’s windows from the street. A bike courier rode past them, flipping the bird at Short Stuff. They inched further along in the traffic, then plowed through the intersection. Logan took a sharp left, manhandling the steering wheel in his meaty grip. Dimly, Ororo noticed he had nice hands, despite his slightly dirty nails.

To his credit, time in the back of his cab was much more entertaining than the number six transit, and she had a little room to stretch her legs. The floor heater’s vents blew warm air over her legs, unthawing them from her brisk walk, bathing her skin through the flimsy, sheer hose she wore.

“Warm enough?” he inquired, reading her mind. “Ya ain’t wearin’ much, doll. Outfit looks like it’s givin’ ya a draft.”

“I’m good,” she offered.

“Bet ya are,” he murmured under his breath.

“What?”

“Nuthin’.” He flicked his glance away from hers and diverted from the route she figured he’d take.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Don’t run that meter, buddy. I didn’t ask you to take the long way!”

“Pssssh… c’mon, now, act like I know what I’m doin’, darlin’. Everyone else is headed this way and climbin’ over each other’s asses tryin’ ta get to work. Think yer the only one who has somewhere to be? This way’s shorter. We’ll work our way around it.” He avoided a snarl of traffic just off the corner of the garment district, neatly cutting off a man in a black Benz, who joined the peanut gallery of drivers who’d flipped him the bird since Ororo got into his car. Ororo grabbed the peeling vinyl safety bar of the passenger door reflexively as he swerved again, spinning the wheel like he was diverting the Titanic from the iceberg.

“Geez…”

“Would ya rather be walkin’?”

She hesitated a moment. He flicked his eyes at her again from the rearview. “Just say the word, and we can end yer fare here…”

“I’m good,” she told him curtly. She left off the part where she thought he left her stomach back on Fifth Street, and she was glad, after all, that she hadn’t eaten.

“That’s it, right?” They were two blocks down from the shimmering high-rise. The rainbow surge of brightly colored cabs and delivery trucks were reflected in its surface, and Ororo released a breath she didn’t realize was trapped in her chest. Her panic ebbed away until she checked her watch again.

“Shit. Okay. That’ll do. Here.” She fished in her purse for a wad of bills, relatively sure at least one of them was a ten-spot. “I’ve gotta go.” She thrust the money at him, shoving her hand through the small window in his safety screen. He took it, and his fingers grazed hers, but she released the cash before he caught all of it. “Sorry. If it isn’t enough, I’ll catch you next time, scout’s honor!”

“Ya don’t look like any Girl Scout I ever met, darlin’… how do I know yer good for it?”

“You do. Trust me.” She launched herself out of the car before he even pulled all the way up to the curb, nearly tripping herself as she closed the door. It slammed louder than she intended, and he gave her a sour look.

“Careful, Blue Eyes! Don’t tear up my ride!”

“Sorry! Later,” she called over her shoulder, giving him a halfhearted wave. He watched her in amusement and slight disgust.

“Sheesh…” He helped himself to another bite of his sandwich. “Nice legs. The crazy ones always have the best legs…” He turned the car back into the stream of traffic and hit the speaker on his smartphone, answering his next fare.

*


Ororo hustled into Marauder Towers, feeling the back draft lift her hair as she shoved her way into the revolving door. The interior of the building took her breath away. The front lobby was an atrium with ceilings at least two stories high, and she heard her footsteps echoing against the pristine marble floors. Ororo hurried to the visitor’s desk, where a no-nonsense receptionist in a security uniform gave her half her attention, barely sparing it from her computer screen.

“Who are you here to see, ma’am?”

“I’m working. I’m in the show in the auditorium.” The woman gave Ororo her full attention at that statement, and her brows rose into her hairline.

“Day-um…” she muttered. “All right. Sign in. Name and time in. Take this visitor badge, please. The auditorium is up the elevator, five floors, take a left, and cross the ramp. The rest of the signs will point the way.”

“Is there a bathroom?” Ororo’s bladder didn’t give a damn about her timetable.

“Second corridor to your left.” She took the badge gratefully and hustled off after scrawling an illegible signature. Ororo’s thoughts were a chaotic litany of curses and self-scolding. She managed to find the rest room, and the two women in line ahead of her were nice enough to let her go first. Ororo caught a glance of herself in the mirror and saw her wild, windblown hair. Great. Late, and sloppy. The dispenser was out of seat covers; she settled for upholstering the seat with as many tiny, rice paper-thin squares of TP as she could jerk off the roll.

A quick rinse with the insipid-smelling foam soap and cursory flick of her hair sent her sprinting as fast as her pumps would allow toward the elevator. She heard it ding when she was several yards away. A handful of suits and a young man with a fully laden mail cart squeezed in, and she waved them down. “Can you hold it, please?” she called out. They didn’t hear her. She watched it close just as her outstretched fingers punched the “1” button. The man in front looked slightly contrite as he stepped aside to make room, but several others just looked annoyed. “Five?” he asked.

“Yes,” she breathed, giving him a grateful smile. He smirked and pressed her floor, stealing a look at her legs. Ororo blew a stray tendril of hair out of her eyes.

“Nice. Hold everybody up. Why’m I not surprised?” a gruff alto growled out from the back of the car. Ororo winced, then sighed. She flicked a look over her shoulder at Cal, who smirked at her. “Nice hair. Just fall out of bed?”

“At least it was mine.” Ororo smothered the urge to laugh when she heard the mail room boy mutter, “Ooooooo…!” under his breath.

“You’re funny. That’s funny. Don’t hurt your brain.”

“I won’t. But you just hurt my eyes.” It was a pot shot. Callisto was edgy, as usual, garbed in black leather and a killer pair of Loboutins. Her almond-shaped, blue-gray eyes were ruthlessly penciled in black kohl and her lips were a slash of blood red. Everything about her was sharp and hard, a look that worked on glossy paper, but she was unapproachable “ unapologetically so “ in person. She was still needle-thin, owning the mannequin physique that was so highly prized.

Ororo was glad to have curves and enough flesh to keep her warm. Cal had to be freezing in her tight, thin leather. She smirked at Ororo.

“That all you got?” Ororo ignored her, giving Cal her back. “That’s what I thought.” Ororo felt her amused gaze and the flesh of her nape shivered. She rolled her eyes silently. So this was her day. Great.

The elevator dinged, and Ororo headed to the ramp, crossing the bridge between suites and enjoying the view through the reinforced glass corridor. Even though it wasn’t her first show, she felt giddy about the size of the venue. Her legs tingled as she finally adjusted to the warmth of the building and as she continued to hurry toward the dressing suite. As she turned the corner, she caught a glimpse of Cal in her peripheral vision, where she paused to speak with a concierge with a Bluetooth in his ear. So much for Ororo lagging behind…

She made her way to the dressing room, and as soon as she opened the door, the barrage of noise and activity nearly blew her back. Roughly a dozen models darted about in changing robes, having their hair styled and sprayed and makeup daubed with precision. Her stomach twisted with excitement, and she caught Greer’s eye. Greer looked up from the three-tiered makeup caddy she’d just popped the lid on and immediately sprinted across the room, grabbing Ororo’s arm.

“Kiddo, you’re so late! What held you up? Selene’s on the warpath.”

“Traffic,” Ororo offered guiltily. Greer gave her a hard look.

“Uh-uh. There’s traffic every day, girlfriend. That’s a fact of life. Don’t ever let it make you late for a show. C’mon. Your outfits are over here.” She guided Ororo over to a vacant chair at the long vanity. She nodded to the robe. “Throw that on so I can do you up.”

“She’s supposed to take off the robe, then,” joked Betsy Braddock from the next bank of chairs, dutifully looking up as her artist applied some false lashes. Ororo envied her flamboyant purple hair, impressed by the noticeably British accent. “I’m Betsy.” Ororo shook her hand briefly; she had a hearty grip.

“Ororo Munroe.”

“Remy’s muse,” Betsy qualified. “I saw your black and whites on a go-see with Janet last week, luv. The lighting he used loves you.”

“Hurry,” Greer interjected. Ororo shucked her coat and headed for the changing screen with the robe slung over her arm. She stripped down to her bikini briefs, letting her clothes puddle around her feet, and she slipped into the robe, single-knotting the slippery sash. Greer met her at the vanity and began patting on some moisturizer.

“What are you using on your skin? It’s dry.”

“Some stuff I got at CVS,” Ororo shrugged.

“No. No, no, no. Go straight to Macy’s and hit the Clinique counter. Don’t use that cheap shit. You’re skin’s so important, Ororo, you’ve got to baby it. And you’re lucky to have such nice skin, too.”

“Duly noted,” she sighed. Greer was on a roll today, and she spent the next fifteen minutes lecturing her about everything she was doing wrong, from how she should pluck her brows to her untrimmed cuticles. She was still preaching about the benefits of whitening strips, even handing her one out of her purse when Selene strolled up. True to form, she looked pissed.

“You showed up.”

“I know.”

“Late.”

“I know. Sorry.”

“Unacceptable. I could send you packing, you know. I’ve got a whole stable of models your size and just as hungry to be here, who obviously had better attitudes and showed up on time.”

“I’m so sorry,” Ororo told her genuinely. “I had a heck of a time getting here.”

“Didn’t we all. You’re due out on that catwalk in ten minutes. Ten. Minutes. Makeup, hair, outfit, flawless. You understand that, don’t you?” Ororo opened her mouth, but Selene held up her hand to cut off anything resembling pacification. “Greer, go ahead and finish her. Take your time. Cal’s her height.” Ororo’s mouth dropped open.

“Seriously? She just got here! She was just out in the hallway a minute ago!”

“In black leather?” Selene pointed out, unamused.

“Yeah.”

“That’s her first ensemble for the show.” The blood drained out of Ororo’s face, and she stared down at her hands in her lap. Her day kept getting better and better. “She’s runway-ready, Ororo, because she’s a seasoned professional. Ororo, do you know why you’re here?” Ororo looked up at her as Selene leaned back against the vanity, folding her arms beneath her breasts. “Because you’re Piotr’s new favorite. He sees your potential, and he likes your look. He says you’re memorable, and the way you wear his line works. I told him to make me see it. I’m still on the fence, frankly.” Tears sparked behind Ororo’s eyes.

“Then maybe you should give him my regrets.” The words were out before she could stop them, and Ororo felt how hollow her voice sounded to her ears. “Greer, go ahead and work on the next girl.” The aggravations of the past half-hour evaporated in the face of Selene’s pisstivity, and the dressing suite’s walls seemed to be closing in on her. The chatter and scrape of hangers sliding across metal racks mingled in the fog of her brain. Ororo felt herself break out in prickles of sweat and goosebumps. Greer tried to stop her, reaching for her, but Ororo jerked her wrist free. Greer caught her again before she could walk away. Selene glared at her audacity.

“You won’t leave me shorthanded just as we’re about to start the show,” she hissed.

“You just finished telling me I’m easily replaced,” Ororo spat. She threw her free hand up in the air. “Make up your mind. Let Cal wear my outfits. Go down on her, for all I care.” Betsy’s eyebrows flew into her hairline, and her quick jerk of her head toward the strident sound of Ororo’s voice made her stylist drag a line of lip gloss across her cheek from the corner of her mouth.

“You realize who you’re talking to? Doesn’t she?” Selene turned to Greer, who looked slightly sick, her hands moving in pacifying gestures.

“Selene, let me get her in makeup. It won’t take long. A smoky eye and neutral lip. Two minutes, tops. Let’s get this show on the road.” Ororo still simmered, blue eyes locked on Selene’s piercing black. Adrenaline pumped through her veins and she felt her eyelid aching to twitch.

“I’m going to Piotr after this is over.”

“Fine,” Greer offered as she tugged Ororo back to her makeup chair. “Everything will be fine.”

“That purple garment bag. The gray silk,” Selene snapped. “With those shoes.” She spun on her heel, black curtain of hair fanning out behind her as she shepherded the rest of the models, beginning to line them up.

“Jesus,” Greer muttered, glaring at Ororo. “Seriously? That wasn’t cool.”

“You could’ve let me go.”

“You’d never work again. Not even at Starbucks or Chik-Fil-A. You don’t want that woman giving you a bad reference, girl.” She went back to sponging some foundation onto Ororo’s skin in short, wispy strokes, gradually transforming her. “Look up,” she demanded as she dabbed concealer under her eyes.

“Tell me again that this is worth it,” Ororo muttered.

“You tell you,” Greer suggested as she burnished her cheekbones with a layer of bronzer.

Miserably, Ororo admitted that she was right. It didn’t take the stench off of her morning so far. Greer finished her makeup and quickly handed her off to Anna Marie for hair. Anna furiously back-combed it and aimed a huge can of Aqua Net at the growing, wavy mass, practically choking Ororo with the hair-set. “Girl, ya don’t wanna get on Gallio’s bad side, y’hear? That woman’s no joke.”

“Understood.”

“Betta be,” Anna chided. She fluffed and toyed with her hair, deciding on the right hair clip and opting for some silver bobby pins. “I love this stuff. I can do so much with it.”

“Knock yourself out.” Ororo remembered back to her first time in Ali’s salon and how petrified she was about having her hair cut. The memory made her flush in chagrin. Her hair had been such a neglected, damaged mess.

And so had she.

Anna didn’t have any plans to let Ororo breathe any time soon as she kept hitting her pouf of white plumage “ the only way Ororo would describe it at this point “ with the lacquer. She twisted and coiled sections of it away from her face and pinned it snugly, mercilessly against her scalp.

“Why were ya late?”

“Traffic. Cab. ‘Nuff said.”

“Girl, next time, put on yer roller skates,” Anna tsked. “Woulda got ya here sooner.”

“I knew the driver. That helped. At least he didn’t try to rob me by taking the long way.”

“Every way is the long way during rush hour, shoog.” Anna continued to tease her hair; Ororo winced at the tug of the rattail comb. “Ya betta hustle.”

“I know.” Anna gave her hair a few final pats and tosses and called it good.

“Go!” Ororo grabbed her garment bag and hurried again to change. The unzipped it and let out a low whistle at Piotr’s latest, mentally going into sticker shock. “This thing’s silk,” she muttered to herself. She dropped the robe and carefully slithered into it, mindful of the long, fragile hem. It felt like liquid sex pouring over her skin. She zipped it up and the drafty air of the dressing room caressed her back, left exposed by the cut of the gown. Ororo went to the shoe racks, finding the pumps tagged with her name. She drooled over the cool, slick feel of the charcoal snakeskin and gleaming silver stilettos; Piotr had a perfect eye. She stepped into them and assumed her strut, heading toward the walkway to the stage.

“Wait,” Selene snapped. “There’s a necklace that goes with that. Don’t go out there half-assed and unfinished, Munroe.” One taloned hand whipped out and jacked Ororo up by the arm with surprising strength, and she found herself wrangled back toward the vanity before she could say Bitch, please! The cool, metallic finish of the strands of hematite and seed beads rested just below her collarbones when Ororo dutifully lifted the back of her hair to allow Selene to fasten the tiny clasp. That was the last time she wanted that woman that close to her throat; she shuddered.

“That’s a lot of ass stuffed into that dress, Selene,” Cal warned as she took a brief sip of green iced tea. “Petey better start making his line with spandex.”

“Fuck you,” Piotr snapped as he hurried by with an armload of garment bags. “I never use synthetics.” Ororo smirked at the sour look Cal gave him, keeping her lips curled as Callisto pinned her with an annoyed look. She flipped Ororo the bird, making her shrug as she gave Callisto her back… long, lean and bare. She stopped behind Betsy and smothered a sneeze at the whiff of hairspray and body glitter that assaulted her.

“You’d better not be getting sick,” Betsy warned her, glancing at her over her shoulder. “At least not by me.”

“Uh-uh. Nose itches.”

“Don’t go out there with a booger hanging out there for everyone to see,” Betsy suggested cheerfully. She nodded at her outfit. “I like the bling.”

“Wish I could take it home.”

“You can’t afford it,” Betsy reminded her as they approached the walkway and peered out at the crowd. Ororo squinted at the flickering flashbulbs, and suddenly she felt too warm as the bodies around her began to close in, waiting their turn to make an appearance. She fanned herself, scalp aching from the hairpins, and she felt the pinch, acutely, of the snug pumps shodding her feet. Her world tilted for a moment, and she turned away, heading back toward one of the vanities. She picked up a folded program and fanned herself with it, drawing in thirsty gulps of air.

“You all right, ducks?” Betsy murmured, laying a cool hand on her shoulder.

“Mmm…I just… need a minute.”

“All right.” Betsy’s blue eyes looked concerned, but she gave her shoulder a squeeze, then gently took her elbow. She steered her toward a small cooler on the side table and reached into it for a water bottle, uncapping it and inserting a drinking straw. Ororo dutifully sucked down some welcome moisture while Betsy rummaged through her own purse and retrieved a half-unrolled pack of Lifesavers. “Ate today?”

“Uh-uh.” Ororo popped one of the peppermints into her mouth, and her stomach growled in response.

“You look gray. Don’t be foolish, ducky. Should’ve at least grabbed a juice on your way out the door this morning.”

“It’s been that kind of day,” Ororo muttered as she crunched into the candy and sucked down half the water, then set it down quickly as she caught Anna Marie’s glare; she was compromising the perfection of her lip gloss.

“Off we go,” Betsy nagged cheerfully as she shooed her back toward the entrance of the stage. Callisto shoved past her roughly.

“Noooo, you just didn’t,” Ororo insisted, taken aback. Her manicured hand planted itself on her hip and she narrowed her blue eyes.

“Watch and learn, little girl,” Callisto drawled as she headed for the runway, her strut fierce and wearing a fuck-off smirk on her lips.

“Hate her,” Ororo hissed under her breath.

“Who doesn’t?” Betsy shrugged. “You’ll freeze to death with all the shade she’ll throw your way if you let her, dear.” She leaned in closely and murmured, “But it doesn’t hurt to watch a pro.” Ororo nodded mutely, even though she was still fuming.

The fashionistas in the front three rows and the photographers loved her. The room buzzed and thrummed with applause and furious clicks of cameras. Callisto’s strut was impeccable. Ororo caught Jean-Paul in the audience, fingers steepled against his lips and watching Cal intently; she wondered if he’d coached her, too. Cal did her pivot and snapped her weight to one lean, sharp-boned hip. The camera flashes became blinding and hot. Cal reached the edge of the stage and lingered there, unzipping the jacket to reveal the fragile, sheer black blouse underneath, and she let the jacket drop from her shoulders and slung it over one, ad-libbing and delaying deliberately while the models behind her waited their turn. Her look was hard and unyielding, her attitude was unaccommodating and demanding, and the crowd ate it up.

“Sheesh,” Ororo muttered.

“It’s her world. We just live in it,” Betsy agreed. “We have to follow that.”

“Hell, no,” Ororo tossed back. Callisto made her last pivot before she exited the stage and found Ororo watching her. Eat shit, she mouthed, then smirked. “Heifer,” Ororo muttered under her breath as she donned a confident smile and faced the music.

Disco music. Her favorite. She forgot the expensive leather biting into her toes and the torturously snug coif that was giving her the slow stirrings of a migraine. Ororo worked the runway, feeling the hot glow of stage lights and camera flashes, catching glimpses of fashion writers texting on their tablets as they watched her, taking furious notes. Ororo profiled, doing slow, smooth pivots to let them take in Piotr’s handiwork, allowing them to capture the soft drapes and tucks of his gown that slithered over her curves. The women in the front rows watched her enviously. She caught Jean-Paul’s eye and he winked. Ororo smothered a chuckle and finished her turn, moving off-stage and into Greer and AnnaMarie’s capable hands.

“Go, go. Here. This next. Give me those.” Greer snatched her shoes once Ororo toed them off and she hurried back to the changing area. The second number was a color that could only be described as “putty,” and it wasn’t Ororo’s favorite, but it was supposedly “the new black” for spring. She was out of the first dress and into the next quickly, skirting around Selene and finding another pair of mules shoved into her hands as Greer sat her down.

“That’s a good look for you,” she remarked. She swabbed Ororo’s lips clean with a makeup sponge loaded with lotion and applied a new matte shade. Anna went back to work on her hair, and Ororo sighed in relief as she removed the pins.

“Love this stuff,” she drawled. “Better than playin’ with Barbies when I was a kid.” She combed it back from her face and coiled it into a mercilessly snug chignon, but Ororo could live with it. The hematite necklace was swapped for strands of seed pearls and Swarovski crystals. Ororo shoved her feet into the taupe mules and slid the slender bangles up her wrist.

“That’ll do,” Greer told her. “Go. Go, go!”

“Don’t worry, Blue Eyes, you can change back into your comfy Kmart clothes before you go home,” Cal mocked as Emma helped her out of the leather and chiffon. Emma looked slightly mortified, and her eyes darted away from Ororo as if to say I’m not with her. This crazy bitch doesn’t speak for me.

“And you can go back to your street corner,” Ororo told her cheerfully.

“There’s only room there for you,” Callisto sang back.

“Then try the docks.”

“Stop,” Selene snapped. “That’s enough of that. We’re professionals. All of us. Act like it.” Both women went back to their respective corners, finishing makeup and hair.

The show was a hit. Despite Selene’s earlier threats, Ororo wore all of the ensembles Piotr set aside for her, and the rest of the afternoon was a blur. Sashay. Strut. Pivot. Strut. Change. Repeat. Ororo shoved aside the memories of huddling in her jacket on curbsides and park benches, invisible to all who passed, and she came alive under the spotlight.

It was delicious.





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