Strike a Pose (Blame It on Fame #1)

3. Willow

Chapter 3

Willow

A fter the ball drops, Aspen, Heena, and I head to the unofficial (but pretty official) afterparty. The party is thrown by one of the wealthiest socialites in the city, incontestably known for hosting the best events in the city. Tickets to his parties are invite-only and rarely cost less than $5,000 each. Tonight, he’s rented out the top of the Empire State Building for a whopping $20,000 per head.

On the ride here, we all quickly change out of our warm Times Square clothes and into much skimpier outfits. Heena’s gorgeous dark green dress is covered in finely bedazzled snakes with dramatic shoulder pads. Aspen is wearing a simple blue slip dress. I’m in a sheer glittered dress with a plunging neckline and slits along either side. I’m only wearing a nude thong underneath, leaving my bare chest visible through the transparent fabric.

“How do I look?” Aspen asks before we exit the car.

“Gorgeous. What about me?” Heena asks as she tightlines her eyes with black eyeliner.

“Perfect. And me?” I ask.

“Naked.” Heena grins .

“You can thank my stylist for that,” I parry.

“As if you didn’t ask for something sheer.”

“Well, if my dad asks, it was all my stylist.” I wink.

When we walk into the party, all eyes immediately turn in our direction. Thankfully, most turn back around disinterestedly—that’s what I like about these parties. They’re so exclusive that nobody here is gawking at me or begging for an autograph…because I could be doing the same thing to them. I recognize almost everyone here, either from the tabloids or the internet. I heard that every celebrity from the New Year’s show was invited and, judging by the assembled group, I’d say most of them came. I mean, even the hosts of the New Year’s show are here.

The three of us head toward the bar, where the crowd parts to let us through. Even in a room full of famous people, the three of us have sway. We order our drinks, and the bartender gets to work on them immediately.

“You’re Willow Jordan, aren’t you?” I hear someone ask Aspen.

“No, I’m Aspen Jordan.”

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry,” the girl says.

“Don’t worry, it happens all the time. I’m Willow.” I smile good-naturedly, peeking my head out from behind Heena.

And it’s not just a polite white lie; Aspen and I truly are always getting confused for each other. We both look just like our mother, sharing her sky-blue eyes, golden hair, and sun-kissed skin. The biggest difference between us is our height—and with me standing at 5’10 and Aspen at 5’8, that’s not saying much.

“Oh my God, you’re both here,” she squeals.

“And Heena Badahl is here too,” Heena adds, not one to get lost in the crowd.

“Wow, I–I’m,” the girl stutters, opening and closing her mouth several times without saying anything. Now that I’m looking closer, she looks around Maple’s age. “I’m a little starstruck,” she finally gets out. “Don’t worry, I don’t want a photo or anything. I just wanted to tell you how much of a fan I am.”

“Thank you so much,” I answer. “Who are you? I mean, how did you get an invite?” I ask out of curiosity. As I mentioned before, not many people gawk at these parties.

“My dad’s company owns the building,” she admits.

“Wow, good for you.” Aspen laughs. “Other than us, of course, have you met anyone else interesting tonight?”

“Oh, tons , ” the girl says. “Sam Carter, Isolde Vega, Henry James–”

“Where is he?” Heena interrupts. Heena has had a massive crush on Henry James since he picked up a clutch she’d dropped on the red carpet a few months ago. She’s been looking for him ever since, claiming it was her ‘Cinderella moment.’

“Who, Henry James?” the girl asks.

“Yeah,” Heena replies.

“I saw him about fifteen minutes ago, near the back.”

“Well, it was so nice to meet you,” Heena responds, already leading the way toward the back. Aspen and I shoot the girl apologetic smiles as we follow Heena.

“It was nice to meet you guys, too!” the girl earnestly calls out after us.

“I don’t see him,” Heena says, craning her neck. She’s the tallest of us all, and with tonight’s four-inch heels, she’s taller than most of the men here.

She goes off in search of him, and Aspen finds one of her friends, leaving me alone in the sea of people. As I scan the crowd for someone worth talking to, a man sidles up beside me .

“Willow Jordan, right? God, you’re even hotter in person,” he says. He looks vaguely familiar. I think he’s internet famous or something like that. Nothing notable.

“Yeah, thanks. I’m actually here with friends, so I’m not looking for any—” I start as his hand wraps around my waist. “I’m serious. Back off.” I shove the man.

“Come on, don’t play coy with me.” He smirks, tightening his grip.

“Fuck off, ” I say, pushing him with all my strength as he stumbles backward.

He sneers. “Wow, I guess what they say is right. You really are a bitch.”

“Oh really, just because I don’t want to fuck you, I’m a bitch?” I ask. I know I’m making a scene and should just walk away, but I’m fuming.

“Well, when you show up wearing that, yeah,” he says, staring at my chest. “I mean, you have your full tits out.”

“Yeah, dumbass, I’m a supermodel. I get paid thousands to wear shit like this.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you should have some more self-respect and not whore yourself out like that.”

I scoff, finding the sense to walk away before I start swinging. Needing to cool off, I head out to the secret 103rd-floor balcony, snagging a bottle of champagne on the way out.

It’s freezing outside, but the champagne warms me up quickly. After a few minutes, I get tired of looking out at Manhattan and decide to sit down, leaning against the lookout’s half-wall.

I hear the door open behind me and turn my head sluggishly to see who it is. The champagne has done its job and I feel pleasantly fuzzy.

“Shit, what are you doing out here?” a man asks.

I don’t recognize him. He’s wearing a grey hoodie underneath a brown Sherpa-lined jacket, jeans, and cowboy boots. He looks to be around my age, with a five o’clock shadow and wavy dark blond hair peeking out from under his hood. He’s tall and broad enough to be a professional athlete, but something tells me he’s not.

“Having a drink, if you don’t mind,” I slur.

“You must be freezing! How long have you been out here?” he asks, taking off his jacket and walking towards me. He has a charming southern twang.

“What do you care? Shouldn’t you want me half-naked anyway?” I bristle.

“No,” he says, looking slightly offended. “Put this on. Do you have any friends here? What’s your name?”

That last question stops me in my tracks. I seriously don’t think I’ve been asked that question in months.

“You don’t know my name?” I ask cautiously.

“Should I?” he asks, shaking his jacket in front of me, trying to get me to take it. I obligingly shrug it on.

“No…I’m Willow. Who are you? I haven’t seen you before.”

“I’m Riley.”

“What brought you to this party?”

“Um…an Uber?”

“No.” I laugh. “Wait, you take Ubers?”

“You don’t?”

“Only a few times.” I don’t want to mention that I can only use screened drivers for security reasons.

Most of the guests here wouldn’t use Uber either. I take another swig of champagne.

“Hey,” Riley says slowly, like he’s approaching a spooked horse. He sits down next to me and gently takes the champagne bottle from my hand. “I think you’ve had enough for tonight, Willow. ”

“Seriously, what brought you here, cowboy?” I slur, looking at his boots stretched out in front of us.

“I’m a singer.”

I knew he wasn’t an athlete.

“What do you sing?”

“I only have one song you might know. But my first album just came out, and I’m going to be going on tour soon. So, maybe you’ll be hearing more of me soon.”

He’s just starting out. That makes sense…the boots, the accent, the kindness. Fame tends to chip away at those things after a while.

“What’s the song?” I ask.

“‘Moonlight and You.’ Have you heard it?”

“I don’t think so.” I shake my head. Everything blurs even more than it already was. “I’ll listen to it later.”

“You don’t have to.”

“No, but I want to.”

“Well, thank you.” He smiles. “Do you mind if I smoke out here? It’s kind of why I came out,” he adds after a brief silence.

“Sure,” I say.

I’m expecting a blunt, but instead, he pulls out a cigarette. I accidentally laugh out loud. He’s just so…different from everyone else at that party. It’s like a breath of fresh air—metaphorically speaking, of course.

“What?” he asks out of the corner of his mouth as he lights up.

“I thought you meant weed.”

“Do you smoke weed?”

“Sometimes.”

“Then I’m sorry to disappoint,” he says.

“You didn’t disappoint.”

He gives me a friendly smile out the side of his mouth not pursed around the cigarette. “So, what do you do, Willow? ”

“I’m a model.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Ah, like high fashion and all that?”

“And all that,” I confirm.

“So you do the runways and stuff?”

“I do,” I answer, keeping it vague. It’s so refreshing to have someone treat me normally, and I don’t want it to end.

“And ads?”

“Yep. All of the above.”

“Wow, that must be so cool.” He takes a deep inhale of the cigarette.

“It is pretty cool. But it can be exhausting.”

“What do you mean?”

“The constant traveling, the toxic diet culture, the creepy directors, the eyes on you at all times, the shit-talk you hear about yourself online, the perverts thinking they’re entitled to your time, or worse, your body…” I trail off.

“Oh. I guess I didn’t think about that.”

“Don’t worry, Riley. I think your karma is too good for any of that to happen to you. And surely you’re too nice for anyone to shit on you.” I grin at him sincerely, patting his shoulder like I would a dog.

“Thank you?” He laughs. “You seem pretty friendly too.”

I reach for the champagne again. Riley gets there first, moving it to the other side of him, out of my reach.

“Give me that,” I pout.

“No. You’re already drunk. You don’t need any more.”

“You know, most men would want me drunk.”

“So you keep saying. Lucky for you, I like my women conscious, consenting, and ideally not hypothermic.” He takes another puff.

“You know those things are really bad for you,” I respond.

“So is getting drunk on the balcony of the Empire State Building in January.” He laughs, a sound I’ve decided I enjoy .

“It’s hardly January,” I answer.

“Would December be any better?”

“Touché.”

“Speaking of which, I think it’s time we get you inside before you actually get hypothermia.” He stubs out his cigarette.

“Ugh,” I whine. “I feel fine.”

“You’re three sheets to the wind. I bet you can’t feel a thing right now.”

“Where are you from?” I ask. His accent is alluring.

“I’ll tell you if you get up.” He stands, offering me his hand. I take it, and he pulls me up. “North Carolina. What gave it away, the clothes or the accent?” He grins bashfully. “And where are you from?”

“New York City.”

“Ah, so you’re home,” he says, holding the door open and guiding me back inside. Maybe I was cold…the blast of warm air feels so good.

“Willow!” Aspen calls. “I’ve been looking all over for you. It’s late. We should get going.”

“Where’s Heena?” I ask.

“She’s off looking for you too. I’ll text her to meet us by the car,” she says, grabbing my hand.

Riley clears his throat.

“Yes?” Aspen asks him pointedly.

“Um, she has my coat,” he says, nodding toward me.

“Oh, sorry.” I shrug the coat off and hand it back. “It was really nice to meet you, Riley.” I smile as Aspen drags me to the elevator.

“You too,” he calls as the doors shut.