Raw Deal (Beauty for Ashes: Book One) Read Free

attention on Hayden. She seemed to have forgotten that I existed. “Eww, you’re all sweaty, Hayden.”
    Hayden flexed an impressive bicep. “Yeah, Coach worked us hard.”
    I looked at my watch. I needed to get to class. Had I really just told Monica that I was going to the after party tomorrow? The thought of it filled me with nervous dread. I’d probably be on my own all evening. Either that or I’d be Monica’s invisible sidekick, while she flirted the night away. I wasn’t sure which was worse.

Chapter 2
     
    I started modeling when I was thirteen. One of my mom’s work colleagues had suggested that I do a modeling course to help me overcome my shyness. Apparently, her daughter had been quiet and shy when she was younger, and a modeling course had helped to draw her out.
    I’d liked the idea, so I’d enrolled for a five-week course over summer vacation. But for me, it hadn’t been about overcoming my so-called shyness. It’d been the allure of glamor, fame, and wealth as my naïve imagination ran wild and conjured up visions of a stunning, dark-haired primadonna ( moi ) sauntering down a runway in a sparkly gold bikini, while the world salivated at her feet.
    The course was both rigorous and fun. I was taught that I shouldn’t let my height make me feel awkward (I’ve been 5’8 since I was twelve!), and that I was exactly the kind of person that agencies wanted. Unfortunately, I was taught to walk by straight women, not by glamorous effeminate men like on Top Model .
    When the course finished, I told my mom that I wanted to be a model, and I managed to secure a few bookings. We moved to England, and I caught the eye of an agent at an open call at Transition agency in Manchester, a city half an hour away from our home in the Wirral. And the rest, as they say, is history.
    Whether modeling helped me with my shyness or whether I just grew out of it, I don’t know, but on the whole, I was still a quiet, reserved kind of person—not shy but just more of an introvert than an extrovert.
    I pondered all this as I packed my things after Thursday night’s fashion show. It was hard to stand out among so many beautiful girls. How exactly was I going to stand out and become a supermodel? Especially with my chilled personality? A lot of the models I met were what I called champagne people: vivacious with effervescent personalities. How was I going to compete with that?
    I glanced around the room as I shook my hair free from the numerous pins the hairstylist had used to sweep it up. The models were all chatting away to each other, and some were flirting with the male models.
    I kicked off the oppressively tight shoes I was wearing. Each pair of shoes I’d been given tonight were at least two sizes too small. I’d sauntered down the runway in agony, with a deadpan expression hopefully masking my anguish. My feet were a sorry sight, and the thought of going to a party and having to dance was not very appealing right now.
    Modeling looked so glam, but it wasn’t. Celebrity models had it good, but puny modellettes, like myself, were a dime a dozen. However, it did have its perks, like my seven closets full of hot clothes that I had acquired from generous designers all over Western Europe. I never went shopping, because I had more clothes than I knew what to do with. For tonight’s party at school, I’d brought with me a gray Weston dress that Ché Weston herself had let me have after a photoshoot in Paris last year summer. I pulled it out of my purse. It was slightly creased but still wearable.
    A shirtless male model walked past and I averted my eyes before he thought I was checking him out. He disappeared behind a rack of clothes to change.
    I looked at myself in the mirror. Many times, hair and makeup for fashion shows was too ‘knock your eyes out’ to wear anywhere else but on the runway. For tonight, though, Vinnie Hoffman had wanted a ‘less is more’ look, hoping to achieve an ‘ordinary people’ feel