Strike a Pose (Blame It on Fame #1)

7. Willow

Chapter 7

Willow

“ A

re you sure this isn’t too skimpy?” Aspen asks me, staring at her ass in the trifold mirror.

We’re in a guest bedroom of our parent’s rented penthouse in Los Angeles, which has been transformed into a makeshift fitting room in preparation for the Grammys. Despite the fact that no one in our family sings, we’ve always been invited to the Grammys—along with every other award show in Hollywood.

“Aspen, how old are you?” I ask, staring into her blue eyes, almost exact replicas of mine.

“Twenty...” she says hesitantly. “I’m just worried it’s still too mature for me.”

“And by ‘mature,’ I’m guessing you mean ‘slutty’?” She nods sheepishly. “I’d worn much worse by the time I was your age,” I reassure her. “If it makes you feel more comfortable, wear something more conservative. But don’t worry about what other people will think.” I look over her dress, which is too stunning to be left on the rack. “Besides, they’ll only compare you to me, and we both know my style makes you look like Mother Theresa. ”

“I do really love this dress,” she murmurs, smoothing her hands down the transparent blue material that makes up the body of the dress. Beneath it is a matching strapless blue corset bodysuit that covers everything it needs to cover. Truly, I had worn much worse by the time I turned eighteen. “What are you going to wear?” she asks me.

I wave her off. “I’ll figure it out tomorrow.”

“But the Grammys are tomorrow.”

“This entire rack—” I gesture to the rack labeled with a piece of printer paper labeled “WILLOW” “—was made precisely to my measurements. It’ll all fit.”

“Fair enough.”

“Don’t worry, Aspen. I’ll wear something especially scandalous to keep people from talking about you.”

She frowns. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to. If my sister wants to wear a dress without being slut-shamed, she should be allowed to do that. If the press needs a Jordan to shit-talk, let them shit-talk me.”

Surprisingly, my golden dress with both sides left open, save for two measly ties that held it on my body, wasn’t press-worthy. At least, not when some pop singer wore a bedazzled G-string and pasties.

As much as I liked the gown that I wore to the main event, I much prefer the bronzed minidress with beaded fringe that I’m wearing on the mini red carpet spread out in front of the hotel hosting the afterparty. I’m also grateful to have my hair down in loose waves rather than in the stiff updo it was in earlier, with bobby pins poking my scalp half to death.

After granting the paparazzi a few photos, Aspen tugs me into the venue: a massive ballroom decorated with hundreds of flickering candles and golden roses. As we walk in, I feel all eyes turn to us. Aspen squirms at my side, walking over to a high-top where some of her friends stand, all greeting her with warm hugs. In contrast, I stare back at the other attendees, taking my time to scope out the crowd. I see some of my parents’ friends, who give me kind smiles and turn back to their conversations, some singers around my age who give me more poisonous smiles before slowly breaking my stare, and finally, some wallflowers who seem too stricken to even look at me.

Fame is a weird thing.

I’m beginning to walk to the same table as Aspen when I see a familiar blond-haired man along one of the walls, laughing with another guy who looks about our age.

“Hey, Riley,” I say, changing course and sauntering up to them.

“Willow!” he says, looking shocked. “I’m surprised you remembered me.”

I shrug. “I’m not as vapid as people make me out to be.”

Riley’s friend takes that as his hint to cough an excuse and disappear wide-eyed into the crowd.

“No, I didn’t mean that. I mean–I don’t–you’re not vapid at all,” he stammers. “It's just that you were pretty drunk, is all. And I didn’t think you’d remember someone as inconsequential as me.”

“I never forget someone who’s kind to me. And you’re not inconsequential, Riley. Why would you say that?” Although a small part of me enjoys the power that comes from making him so nervous, the majority of me mourns the sweet guy who had no clue who I was. It was nice to just be another face in the crowd for once.

“Well, I’m sure you know all sorts of important people. I’m probably the least recognizable person in this room tonight. Well, besides Nash,” he says, awkwardly pointing to where his friend was.

“You were invited to the Grammy’s after releasing your first album, and you’re currently on a sold-out tour. I don’t think anyone would call you inconsequential. So why are you so nervous tonight?”

“Maybe I’m a nervous person,” he responds. “How do you know so much about me?”

“You’re not a nervous person. And maybe I looked you up.” I cock my head, staring him down. He breaks my stare. “I’m serious, Riley. Look at me.” He does. “You deserve to be here as much as anyone else. Don’t let anyone tell you any different.”

He sighs, taking a sip of his beer. “You’re right. I guess I just get intimidated being surrounded by people I’ve been listening to on the radio since I was a kid.”

“Well, let’s get some air then. It’s too stuffy in here anyway.”

I gently grab his arm and lead him out of the main ballroom and into the hallway. He doesn’t back down from my touch, which surprises me. I walk us down the hallway, opening doors as I go until I find an empty reading room. “Much better,” I say, turning on a lamp and shutting the doors behind us.

“Thanks,” he says. “I just needed a minute. It’s been a long night of being starstruck.”

“And I guess talking to Willow Jordan doesn’t help, does it?”

“It definitely helps,” he says, fixating his eyes on me and giving me a small smile, showing off his dimples. Dimples on top of a face like that? Not to mention his impressive height and stature…I see why so many female fans go crazy for him. “Wh en I’m not thinking about the fact that you’re Willow Jordan,” he adds with a chuckle.

“So what tipped you off? You seemed pretty clueless on the roof the other night,” I ask, plopping down in one of the worn leather couches.

Riley sits stiffly on the one opposite me, still a bundle of nerves.

“Nash, actually. We saw you on the cover of a magazine. I feel like an idiot for not putting two and two together. You literally told me you were a model named Willow.”

I laugh. “I take it as a compliment that you didn’t realize who I was.”

“Why?”

“Because it means that a part of me is still normal. Every day, I feel like I drift further and further away from reality. It’s nice to see that I can still pass for a real person.”

“A real person? What do you mean?”

“Someone who’s not famous,” I say. “I’ve always had a public presence because of my parents, but it was never anything close to what it became after I started modeling. The past few years, it’s become harder and harder for me to seem like, or feel like, a regular girl.”

“Well, I’m having the opposite problem.”

“You mean you’re having a hard time adjusting to fame?”

He nods. “I never aimed to be famous. I just wanted to share my music with people. To be honest, I don’t even know how to be famous.”

“Why don’t we help each other?” I ask, without thinking. “You can help me remember what it’s like to be normal, and I can coach you on how to be famous.”

He smiles at me, his green eyes dark in this dim room. “You mean that?”

Self-consciousness fills me, a feeling I seldom have anymore. Was it stupid of me to ask that? Does he think it’s a dumb idea? He never even said he needed help, only that he was having trouble adjusting.

“I mean it,” I reply. “But you can say no. I just—I don’t have any non-famous friends. Everyone is as famous as I am, and so no one really understands normalcy?—”

“I accept your deal, Willow Jordan. Happily.” He grins.

His smile is so genuine it sends a spark down my spine whenever it's aimed at me. That smile was how I knew he wasn’t accustomed to fame that very first night—famous people’s smiles are much stiffer than Riley’s.

“Okay. I think we should start your first lesson tonight, then. In your opinion, who’s the most famous person here?”

“I saw Alex Stehling…” he says, referencing the EGOT-winning, eighty-year-old director.

“Seriously, he’s your choice?” I can’t help but laugh at his bewildered expression.

“Yes? How is he a bad choice? There’s not a single person in America who wouldn’t recognize that name. He directed Ephemera , and The Blood Meridian , and Last Breath , and?—”

“I know, I know,” I say, cutting him off. “I’m just laughing because, out of everyone in that room, you chose my godfather.”

“You’re joking,” he deadpans.

“Not joking. Come on,” I say, standing.

“And where are we going?” he stands hesitantly.

“To introduce you to Alex Stehling.”