Closer (Stage Dive 4.60)

not even trying.”

“My life hurts,” I whined, but did as told. The woman was going to kill me.

She lowered her voice, taking a step closer. “He’s looking at you.”

“Who, Ziggy? It’s his job to look at me.”

“No. I mean, his eyes were on your ass. Hell, they were glued to those globes.”

I snorted. “I’m sure you’re mistaken.”

“I most certainly am not.”

A man in fluorescent workout gear approached from over by the dumbbells. Before I’d even finished registering him, Ziggy was there, putting himself between us. The guy held out a scrap of paper and pen, face a mixture of “c’mon, man” and “please.” Ziggy just shook his head.

“Can’t you see she’s busy here?” Kwana scowled. “Ask for an autograph later.”

“No autographs.” Ziggy’s tone was final. “Only at official engagements.”

With a heavy scowl, the dude stomped off toward an elliptical machine.

“We’re back in the private room next time,” said my trainer.

I nodded. “Might be best.”

“Heel raises, please.”

“Man,” I bitched. It was an important part of my workout process.

“Oh, just do it.” Kwana sighed. “You want those calves looking good when you wear your fancy shoes, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Get on with it then. One of these days I’m going to start charging extra every time you complain.” In all honesty, the woman deserved the money. I was a whiny baby when it came to exercise. She lightly placed her hands on my shoulders. “That’s it, Mae. Nice and slow. Get up high.”

I concentrated on my breathing and balance, ignoring the burning in my leg muscles. It was all for a good cause. Soon enough the happy exercise hormones would kick in and I’d be glad for the effort. Hopefully. It was all part of the job, along with extensive waxing, facials, manicures, hair, lashes, massages, and a beauty routine to end all others. Just because I wasn’t size zero (or even close) didn’t mean I could get away with being unfit or lacking in the rest. Shoots could be grueling enough, let alone if your energy levels were low or you were behind on maintenance. Trust me, being yelled at by a stressed-out designer because you didn’t bring your best to the show was not fun. Also, word got around. For such a big industry, it could be amazingly small at times.

“You’re doing great. Keep going.” Kwana’s gaze jumped to the front wall of windows behind me. They faced the street. A frown crossed her face.

“What’s wrong?”

“Paparazzi are outside.”

She was right. They were crowded up against the glass with their cameras. A whole feral pack of them. Shit. Meanwhile, Ziggy had his cell pressed against his ear. A faint frown crossed his face as he watched the mass of people gathering at the window.

My stomach sank. “Is there anyone else here?”

“No one they’d be interested in,” said Kwana.

“Guess we’re almost finished anyway. Sorry about this.”

Ziggy strode toward us, slipping his cell into his jacket pocket. “We should go before more arrive.”

“Someone leaked the story, didn’t they?” I asked.

“It looks that way.”

I hung my head and swore silently.