Page 46 of Wicked Duty
I cross my arms and chew the inside of my cheek.
I remind myself that Lucy was nuts enough to involve herself with Roguilin. She’s a next-level attention-seeker, willing to risk her life if it means drawing the adulation of the most powerful people in the room.
But that familiar refrain is starting to lose its effect.
This is a problem.
Maybe I should change tactics. If I’m nicer to Lucy and encourage her to open up to me—use me as a safe place to vent her touchy-feely shit—she might grow to trust me. Notcompletely, but enough for her to reveal where she hid the wallet. The sooner the better.
Preferably before either of us gets shot.
For the remainder of this insipid evening, I trail Lucy around the ballroom while maintaining a little breathing space. I never come close enough to force an interaction.
I’m still trained on her when she finds her way to the congregating slate of other hopeful Runway Revolution contestants, each one dressed to the nines and bouncing off to one side of the massive charity event stage.
A mix of dread, anxiety, and anticipation smother my thoughts.
It must be time to announce the winners of tonight’s competition. Lucy’s put me through hell to reach this moment, so it’d be a waste if she didn’t advance…but also a relief. My job would become about three-hundred-percent easier if the judge’s booted her.
Guests funnel toward their various seats around the decadently dressed round tables, and representatives from the Runway Revolution team bring the room to order.
A woman in red floats to the podium, her dark hair held aloft in an elegant tail by a diamond cuff. “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s now time to announce the results of this year’s Fashion for Charity Challenge sponsored by Runway Revolution and our generous donors. Let’s give a round of applause for our contestants.”
Polite handclaps build through the space while the models blush, preen, and pose for the press photos, soaking up the crowd like sun-starved succulents.
The projection screen above the stage transitions to life with a flourish, the Runway Revolution logo eating up the center of the screen.
The woman in red addresses the crowd. “This year, we received over twenty-thousand applications and have worked tirelessly to sift through all those candidates and select the best of the best to compete.”
Wowsfollow her comments.
This is the first time I’m hearing exactly how competitive this event is. No wonder Lucy fought me tooth and nail to enter.
“The fifteen young women you see before you have risen to the challenge, conquering four increasingly difficult rounds of competition to be here tonight. They represent not only the crème de la crème in upcoming talent, chosen for their skill, style, poise, and industry promise, but the next generation of runway models everywhere. Please, join me in congratulating them on all they’ve accomplished.”
More applause. Morewowsand blah, blah, blah.
Get to the soul-crushing already.
“I can say for certain that these are faces to watch for in the industry.” She smiles at the contestants before turning her attention back to the audience. “Unfortunately, only the models featured in the five winning photos from this evening’s charity challenge will get a chance to move forward in this year’s Runway Revolution. With that being said…it’s time to announce our finalists.”
The models bounce and grasp each other’s hands, their expressions behind their pageant queen grins ranging from flustered to queasy.
“Will the photographers of the winning photographs also join us on stage for the reveal?” The woman waves to the table full of photo-taking opportunists seated closest to the stage.
Murmurs of excitement ripple through their camp.
Yes, I’m sure they’re all very talented. I’m also certain that most men would find a way to lick their own asshole if thatmeant spending every day surrounded by the gorgeous women on display.
Additional grumpy, cynical thoughts continue to attack me as the Runway Revolution people prepare to unveil the first photograph.
“In fifth place, with a score of 7.2, I give you Adrian Madriaga, photographed by Germaine Raphael.” When she tosses an arm toward the screen, the photograph bursts to life to the whistles and clapping of enthralled spectators.
The picture in question is a dramatic, colorful solo shot of Adrian—a tall, tan, leggy woman with wavy raven black hair and striking soulful eyes—posed elegantly against the charity’s backdrop. I don’t know much about fine photography, but from the whispers that swell around me, I glean that this photo is technically perfect but lacks emotional connection. Whatever the hell that means.
Adrian takes the stage and throws herself at Germaine Raphael, a burly, under-spoken photographer with a plain face and thick curly hair.
“In fourth place, with 7.8, I give you Marnie Finn, Wendy Gao, and Renee Toure, photographed by Stephan Q.” A new photograph graces the screen, this one a glamorous group shot featuring three contestants with celebrity guests. The photo has a bubbly, whimsical quality that I don’t love.
