Imitation (27 page)

“
I’m not bringing you. Not
tonight.”

I scowl and down the drink. Linc is
right about it helping. I am relaxed again after so much tension
building under the impossibly shallow conversations dinner
provided. I know the fashion show will be just as bad—possibly
worse as there is no pretense of helping the less
fortunate.

“
Do we have to stay the
entire time?” I ask.

“
No. But you should at
least make an appearance.”

Our eyes meet and I wish the car were
smaller. That Linc had been forced to sit closer. This backseat is
huge; each of us has an entire bench to ourselves. I want to ask
Linc to sit next to me but I don’t dare. The partition is up,
sealing our conversation inside but the driver can still see
through it and I don’t dare risk anything by moving
closer.

As if he’s read my thoughts, Linc
leans forward in the seat across from me and lets his hands dangle.
Slowly, he inches his elbows forward. I do the same until our
fingers brush and then intertwine. I look up and find him staring
at me with the hint of a smile pulling one corner of his mouth.
It’s such a simple, barely there expression but it sends a jolt of
heat through me—a lightning bolt straight to my gut. It is an
excruciating, lovely feeling.

“
What are you thinking?”
he asks.

I hesitate because my answer is
truthful to the point of ruining the moment. “It is amazing how
real I feel when you touch me.”

His expression darkens. “Then I never
want to let go. You should feel real. You’re real to
me.”

I smile but it feels sad on my lips.
“Just because you think I am doesn’t make it true.”

“
Just because you think
you aren’t doesn’t make it true, either.”

I have nothing to say to that. Or
nothing that won’t lead to an argument. Neither of us speaks
again—only twirling and twisting the tips of our fingers together
until we arrive at Grundy’s.

Before the car even stops, flashes go
off. The paparazzi are thick here too. Now that it’s dark, the
sight of them reminds me of the night of Melanie’s assault in the
alley, how I passed by all of those flashing cameras barely able to
walk. Seeing them flashing like strobe lights, all trained on me,
makes the bubbles in my stomach swish and swirl.

This was a bad idea.

Behind the safety of our tinted
windows, Linc slides his fingers free of mine, reaching up to run
them over my cheek in a quickly affectionate gesture that goes a
long way in calming my anxiety.

“
Ready?” he
asks.

“
As long as you’re beside
me.”

“
In that case, we’re ready
for anything.”

He climbs out, holding the door open
and extending his hand. I take it, careful to keep my contact light
and strictly business, but still not willing to let go as he leads
me past the buzzing and flashing.

The cameras continue to click as we
make our way inside and I’m not sure if it’s because of who I am or
just who they think I am. The guest list for the show will no doubt
include much more important people than me—even the Authentic
version—and I can’t imagine they’ll waste digital storage space on
me once the important players get here. But what do I know?
Everything that should be important in this world isn’t—and
everything that isn’t, is.

“
You’re doing great,” Linc
says when we’re inside the elevator. And I know he’s thinking of
the last time we made this sort of trek together too.

I give him a grateful smile. “I’m glad
you’re coming inside with me.”

“
Me too.” He squeezes my
hand. “I enjoy being your plus one.”

I make a face. “Even if it means
answering idiot questions from senators?”

“
Even then.”

I smile ruefully as the doors open. We
step through and I’m swept up in the hustle and bustle of the show.
We follow the crowd into a ballroom that has been transformed for
the occasion. Billowing white sheets hang from the walls and move
back and forth like ocean waves. I assume there is some sort of
breeze being manufactured but I can’t find the source. White
garland lights wind around vertical columns that have been erected
in the aisles. To my left is a long runway raised several feet high
with rows of chairs set around it. The walkway is lit with exposed
bulbs on either side, each one a different shade of
blue.

Guests mill about, wandering to and
from their seats and exclaiming over each other’s inspired wardrobe
choices. The bar along the wall is surrounded by people knocking
back drinks and inspecting the rest of us in a serious sort of way.
Men and women in black pants and white button-up shirts dart around
glancing wild-eyed at clipboards and speaking hurriedly into their
two-way earpieces. The overall vibe is harried.

“
It’s crazy in here,” I
say.

Linc makes a grand sweeping gesture
with his hand. “Welcome to the world of fashion.”

“
You sound like you know
what you’re talking about. Come to these often?” I
tease.

“
More than you
have.”

I poke him in the ribs.

Linc leads us to our seats on the edge
of the stage on the far right. Within moments of sitting, the
lights dim and people scurry to sit. I look over to see the chair
next to me being taken by a woman with bleach-streaked hair and a
dress that looks a lot like cellophane.

“
Well, hello, Raven,” she
says with a smile that is full of sugary fakeness.

“
Hello.” I return her
smile, hoping she doesn’t expect me to remember her
name.

“
It’s me, Floriana
Duganfell? From the charity board? We worked together on last
quarter’s polling dinner for Senator Ryan?”

“
Of course.”

“
It’s nice to see you out
again. I trust you’re feeling better from your recent …
experiences?”

I can tell by her open-ended sentence
she is fishing but I refuse to take the bait. I say only, “Yes,
thank you.”

She purses her lips, squinting at Linc
as if trying to place his face against the list of names of who
matter in her head. “And you are …?”

“
No one,” he assures her
with a brilliant smile.

The woman leans away, confusion
dotting her features, and frowns. Before she can formulate a
response, someone taps a microphone, the sound echoing, and the
crowd hushes. I smother a giggle and in the darkness, I take Linc’s
hand, tucking it discreetly between us.

On stage, a slight man in tight pants
and a too-small sport coat smiles at the crowd. “Can I have your
attention, please?” he says, his voice nasal and high. “My name is
Egleston Hawthorne. On behalf of Jorge Estrada and myself, I’d like
to welcome you to Grundy’s for the annual summer collection
preview. I think you’re going to love what Jorge has done this
season. Now, without further ado, the summer collection
…”

The man scoots off the stage as
pulsing music begins and the first model appears from behind the
curtain. A tall statue of a woman who’s only proof of mobility is
one foot in front of the other. Her face is a controlled mask.
Uncaring, devoid of life. But her face isn’t what they’ve come to
see. It’s her wardrobe everyone applauds for.

I can only stare in amazement. The
woman on stage is decked out in some sort of metal contraption. It
is strung around her body like rings on a planet. I can’t even see
where they attach to her. The only fabric she wears is a piece of
material stretched tight and thin over her chest and a pair of
shorts, equally small and snug, that barely cover her hind parts.
Her hair is done in an elaborate twist with more metal rings
floating around her head.

“
Whoa,” I say.

“
Ditto,” Linc whispers
back.

Beside me, Floriana claps excitedly,
her attention glued to the contraption being modeled onstage. It
shouldn’t surprise me considering the cellophane dress. I have a
feeling this woman will be first in line when the metal-ringed
outfit goes on sale.

The first model finishes her walk and
disappears backstage. Right on cue, the next girl steps out. The
applause pauses long enough for people to take in her ensemble.
“Oohs” and “aahs” vibrate around the room. Then the clapping
resumes and the words are drowned out.

This girl is slightly less over the
top, but it’s still ridiculous to me. Her hair has been somehow
plaited and set in place to look like a fan sticking out of the
back of her head. Her outfit, done in white and shimmering gold,
has the same shape. A large tail protrudes behind her, thick and
stiff so that it is a plaited fan that wraps around her waistline
from left to right. Her shoes are platform sandals that give her at
least another eight inches of height.

“
How can she walk in those
things?” I whisper.

“
You don’t like the shoes?
I thought for sure you’d want a pair.”

Even in the darkness I can see his
teasing grin. I stifle a giggle and catch my cellophane-clad
neighbor giving me the evil eye. “Sshh!” she hisses.

“
Come on.” Linc rises from
his chair and motions for me to follow.

When we reach the end of our row, he
pushes open an unmarked door and we slip through. The hall is dimly
lit but empty. To the right, I can hear the hum of voices and
assume it must lead backstage. Linc motions me left. We go a short
distance before he pushes through another doorway. This one leads
to a stairwell. As we climb, the layer of dust and grime coating
the floor mutes the click of my heels. I am careful not to touch
the railing.

“
Where are we going?” I
ask.

“
You’ll see.”

We keep climbing until we run out of
stairs. At the top, Linc opens a heavy door and ushers me out. I
wait while he wedges something in the opening to keep it from
locking.

“
What are we doing up
here?” I ask.

He shrugs as we wander the space. “I
couldn’t take much more of plastic-wrap Medusa. I figured you could
use a break too.”

I curl my fingers around his. “It
seems rooftops are becoming our thing.”

He smiles crookedly. “I like a girl
who’s partial to rooftops.”

“
I’m more partial to your
motorcycle.”

“
It doesn’t scare
you?”

“
No. Well, not in a bad
way.”

“
What do you
mean?”

“
It was a little scary at
first but after the initial rush of fear, it was just … a rush.” I
hesitate because admitting this feels like handing him a weakness.
Something I was trained not to do, but it’s Linc and I want to
share everything with him, not just facts. I want him to know how I
feel. About everything. Or everything I’m capable of feeling. So I
finish by saying, “Honestly, riding your motorcycle has easily been
my favorite part of this new life.”

He stops. There is a small smile on
his lips as he watches me. “You’ve never told me any of
that.”

I wrinkle my nose. “I didn’t want to
sound like an idiot.”

“
Why would you sound like
an idiot?”

“
Everything I feel about
riding your motorcycle sounds so … sentimental and poetic in my
head, but I’m pretty sure if I say it out loud, it will sound
ridiculous.”

“
Try me.”

I sigh as I gather my words carefully.
“Okay … I think, for me, riding a motorcycle is like running from
something and toward it all at the same time. Does that sound
ridiculous?”

He uses the backs of his fingers to
trace a trail down my cheek. “No. It sounds exactly right. I feel
that way too. It’s actually the only time I feel free of all of
this.” He gestures to the building we are standing on but I know he
means so much more than a fashion show at Grundy’s.

“
I get it. Riding with
you, I feel … bigger than I am. Like I could maybe matter. Like the
universe notices me.”

“
Ven, you do
matter.”

I shake my head. “Not yet. But I
will.”

We leave just before the show ends.
Linc is subdued after our rooftop conversation. He seems distracted
by his own thoughts and I am too wrapped up in mine to pursue it. I
rub absently at the mark on my neck, the inked numbers raised
slightly higher than the rest of my skin. I catch Linc watching and
quickly drop my hand to my lap. We ride the rest of the way in
silence.

Inside the elevator at Rogen Tower,
Linc hits the button that will take us upstairs and then picks at
his tie until it loosens and he pulls it free. He tilts his neck
side to side and sighs.

“
Better?” I ask,
amused.

“
Much,” he
agrees.

The elevator opens and I step out. A
single security guard is stationed nearby. He nods at us and we
make our way down the hall and to my room. The hallways are empty
of sentries. Most of them have been moved downstairs or doubled up
on the exits and rooftop. Daniel as a prisoner trumps me as a
prisoner, I suppose.