The Cutting Edge Page 2

  Getting up from the table and walking back to her desk, Carlee pulled a contract out of the top drawer. She traced her steps back to the table and tossed the document in front of her client.

  “It is yours,” she explained, “all yours. Every dream you’ve ever dreamed, a bucketful of fun times and happiness is yours when you sign the contract. The money is all up front. It is easy, legal, and clean. Just sign. That’s all you’ve got to do.”

  Picking up a pen, Leslie looked at the empty line that was waiting for her signature. Then, glancing back at the magazine ad, she put the pen down. Still staring at the ad she asked, “Carlee, how long to I have to decide?”

  “I could probably talk them into a week,” Carlee answered. “After all, they want you pretty badly. They’re not even considering anyone else at this time.”

  Handing the unsigned contract back to her agent, Leslie got up from the table, picked up the advance, review issue of Fashion and Style from the table and walked across the room to once again look out the window. Looking far below her, she was seeing more people than lived in her hometown. Yet, at this instant, these millions who didn’t care what she did didn’t seem nearly as important as the few folks at home who did. As her eyes watched a jetliner cross the sky, Leslie caught her agent’s reflection in the window.

  “Carlee,” she began. “I don’t have any jobs coming up so I’m going to catch a flight home. It’s been almost a year since I’ve been there, and I think that it’s time I go back and see my folks. Besides, I can’t hear myself think in the middle of the city. I’ll get back with you just as soon as I know what I need to do.”

  “Which way are you leaning, Leslie?”

  Leslie took a deep breath, “You have to grab a break when it comes your way, don’t you?”

  “Sure do. The clock is always ticking on beauty. You can only sell it for so long.”

  “Then you know the answer,” Leslie whispered. “But I need to go home and at least find a way to tell my folks.”

  Sweeping her blonde hair off her shoulder, Leslie quickly hugged Carlee and with strong, long strides, hurriedly exited the office.

  As the elevator sped down to the first floor, Leslie didn’t see the other people riding with her. As she exited the building onto the busy street, she didn’t notice the clouds cover the sun or the shouting of street vendors trying to interest her in a great deal on a Rolex. She didn’t even notice a city bus rolling by with her picture pasted on the side advertising Buffalo Scotch. Leslie was lost in thought, trying to justify what she was sure she would do. As she quickly walked to her apartment, one question kept creeping back into her thoughts.

  “Is it worth breaking Daddy’s heart?” After all, it was really him she was most worried about. Her mother always found a way to justify everything, as long as it meant Leslie was in the public eye.

  Passing by a Passion Nights ad in the window of a department store, she paused and watched two businessmen pointing at the model in the photo. She could tell by their expressions that their minds were not on perfume. Shaking her head, she suddenly realized soon she would be the figure creating all the talk. Hurrying away, she wondered if she was in the middle of a dream or a nightmare.

  3

  The plane roared west into the night. After Leslie had fought off the advances of two different traveling businessmen intent on buying her a drink in the lounge and finally gotten a window seat with no one seated beside her, she once again thought about the offer that Carlee had presented. In a way, it was just too good to be true. But, of course, everything had a price and it was the price that bothered her most. It was even that price that had made her fly home to fully consider her options. Simply put, she had to confront her past before she could justify her future.

  If she had stayed in New York, Carlee would have quickly worn her down. In a matter of days, maybe hours, the agent would have convinced her to go for it. But this was one of those decisions that only the person having to live with it should make. After all, they wanted Leslie Rhoads, or at least the skin, teeth, and hair that surrounded the real person. And that was what had always bothered Leslie about the business. No one ever seemed to get beneath the skin and find the real person. No one seemed to care where you were from or what you did, only that you didn’t put on any weight, kept your hair in good shape, and never broke out in rashes. Perfection was a look and that was it. Of course, it was a look that Leslie had been born with. It was the main reason she’d won so many pageants and been so popular in high school. Her life had always been about the way she looked.

  Over the last few years she had seen a host of other “beauti-ful” girls look in the mirror and suddenly become dissatisfied with the way they looked. Many began to dwell on one feature or another as the reason they hadn’t become the cover girl for SI or Cosmo. The end result was an appointment with a cosmetic surgeon and an attempt to improve on what most people would have thought was perfection. Of course rarely did these fixes lead to big jobs, only bigger disappointments and lower self-esteem. The fact was, a “look” couldn’t be manufactured; it had to be a gift of birth.

  As she thought back over all the years of hard work, beginning with local modeling for department stores during high school and college, and finally dropping out of school and trying the streets of New York, Leslie couldn’t remember all the times she had almost given up and returned home because the business had become too dehumanizing and lonely. Yet, after Carlee had latched onto her and convinced her that she had “the look,” she had endured all the long hours and hot lights just to get that big break reserved for so very few. And all it had taken was one person believing in her.

  Except for the liquor ad, her friends had supported what she had done. It seemed her mother actually lived through her work. But it was probably because of her dad’s support she had tried to maintain a certain higher lifestyle. She’d never done drugs, turned to alcohol or smoked, and even though there had been men in her life, she had not indiscriminately jumped into bed with anyone. She wasn’t pure in the sense of a high school girl who never missed Sunday school, but she was a long way removed from the lifestyle that most of her associates embraced.

  Probably because of her record, and the depth of trust that her father had in her, Passion Nights’ offer was so hard to accept. Not only would she be letting him down, but she would be allowing herself to be portrayed as something that she wasn’t. But everyone who looked at the ads wouldn’t know that. They would think she was just another cheap ride. On the other hand, the money, the chance at fame, the mere fact that it was a “big” job, made her feel she couldn’t really turn it down. This opportunity was what she had worked toward for years. After all, it’s not like she was doing a centerfold. Yet, deep down in her heart she knew that if she had problems distinguishing between a distinctive fashion statement and a straight pinup, there was no way anyone who knew her, as well as the millions who didn’t know her, would be able to separate the two.

  During the more than two hours she spent on the jet, and then another hour flying on a small commuter plane, she didn’t come up with a single solution to her situation that offered her any peace. When she’d left, she’d thought she was making the trip to try to convince or at least explain to her dad why she was going to take the job. But how could she tell him she had to do the smart thing when he’d likely see it as the wrong thing? As the pilot informed his passengers to buckle up, she was more troubled than she had been in Carlee’s office.

  4

  It was already past midnight when her flight arrived and the passengers departed at Springfield’s small terminal. Only six other people got off with Leslie and within minutes they all disappeared into the night. Commuter flight 646 was the evening’s last scheduled arrival, and although there were a few maintenance people, whom she could hear, but not see, the airport suddenly seemed completely deserted.

  Picking up her bag, she pulled out her cell only to discover the battery was dead. As she glanced around, she locat
ed a pay phone. Walking over to the relic from another age, she dropped two quarters in the slot and began to call her folks’ familiar number. She’d tried to reach them before leaving New York, but they had been out. Since they didn’t even have an answering machine and rarely turned their cell phone on, they still didn’t know she was coming. Now, halfway through dialing the seven digits, she stopped. No reason to wake them up and make them come down here at this time of night. She’d grab a cab and stay in a motel until tomorrow. After all, it’d be a whole lot better to discuss this on a good night’s sleep. So she hung up the receiver and hit the coin return lever.

  The sound of the quarters hitting the bottom of the coin return and bouncing out onto the tile floor echoed throughout the empty building. Leslie followed it as it rolled around a corner and then slid under an insurance machine.

  “Great,” she whispered.

  Returning to her luggage, she slipped her purse in her suitcase and looked around to locate the nearest exit. As she slowly stepped across the large empty waiting room the sounds of her heels bounced off the walls, hovered around the old terminal, and lingered as if she were walking in an empty shower room. If she had been this alone in New York she would have been scared, but she knew that it was nothing to worry about in Springfield. In fact, the solitary night offered its own kind of peace. Smiling, the warmth of being home flooding her senses, Leslie charged out into the fall night.

  When the automatic door ushered her into the night air she was greeted with a burst of cool September wind. Walking to the curb, she glanced one way and then the other for a cab. Seeing none, she sat her bags down and waited. The silence of her small town that had brought such comfort a few moments before now bothered her. It was like she had the whole world to herself. She wanted action, but instead she was given nothing but the chirping of crickets.

  “Well, kid, what’re you going to do now?”

  Leslie was amused she had spoken those words out loud. But talking to herself was normal behavior. She’d been doing it since she was a child and it had grown even more common when she’d gotten an apartment by herself. “So, what am I going to do now?”

  Taking inventory, she quickly realized that the only possibil-ity besides waking her folks was going back in the terminal and calling a cab company. Deciding on that option, she retraced her steps, found another quarter, looked up the number of the Blue Cab Company, and dialed. It took five rings before someone answered.

  “Blue Cab,” said a woman who sounded sleepy and bored.

  “Hello, I’m out at the airport and …” Leslie didn’t get to finish before the woman cut back in.

  “It’ll take about fifteen minutes, maybe a little more. Buford’s got another fare right now, but if you don’t mind waiting, I’ll send him out for you when he gets through.”

  “No, I don’t mind waiting,” Leslie quickly replied, “I’ll meet him out on the curb in front of the terminal.”

  “Suit yourself. He’ll get there as soon as he can,” the lady still sounded only half awake and completely uninterested in what she was doing.

  Nevertheless, Leslie offered a “Thank you,” but the woman hung up before she could have heard the words.

  Putting the receiver back in place, Leslie once again took a look around the old building. It’d been years since she had been here. The last time was in high school the summer she flew out to her Aunt Susan’s. She was fifteen. The place seemed so much bigger then. As she observed the old chairs and worn carpet, home suddenly looked tacky and old. This airport was out of touch with the real world. Kind of like the town itself. That’s why it was useless to explain why she had to do the ad. No one here was in touch enough with today’s realities to see it was harmless. They were so far behind the times, everyone who lived outside the city limits still had dial-up, if they had Internet service at all. Coming upon a gum machine, she rummaged in her purse for a nickel. Finding one, she dropped it into the slot, pushed the lever, and waited. Nothing came out.

  “Great,” she muttered. It was obviously not her night.

  Out of the corner of her eye she noted something she had not seen the first time she had walked through the terminal. In a closed lounge, now only lighted by flickering neon signs, hung a huge Buffalo Scotch poster displaying her smiling face. It was at least four times life-size. Setting her bag in a chair, she walked over to the lounge’s window to take a closer look, but before she got there, another fresher image caught her eye. Stacked on an overflowing newsstand in another closed shop were a couple of dozen new copies of Fashion and Style.

  5

  It’s out,” she whispered to no one. How did these people get it so fast? A small, hand-lettered sign was taped to the wall above the magazines. Moving closer, she read the words.

  SPRINGFIELD’S OWN LESLIE RHOADS ON FASHION AND STYLE’S COVER. LIMIT TWO MAGAZINES PER CUSTOMER.

  Smiling, she stood in front of the closed door for several minutes hoping that someone would walk into the building, look at the cover, and then her, and make the connection. It could be a janitor or maid, she didn’t care, she just wanted to have somebody stop, notice, and recognize her. When no one came, she finally moved back to the place where she had dropped her bag. Taking a seat, she got out her own copy of the magazine and studied the picture that was evidently so important to this town. After a few minutes, a broad smile crossed her face, followed by a little giggle. The thought of being a celebrity in her hometown was one she enjoyed a great deal. If she did the perfume ad she would be a celebrity everywhere. That thought suddenly appealed to her even more. Fame and fortune were headed her way.

  “This is so neat,” she whispered, not just talking to herself again, but answering, too. “Come on, kid, there has to be a better word than that. I mean that sounds like something you would have said when you were thirteen.”

  Suddenly realizing she was again speaking aloud, Leslie glanced all around her to make sure she was alone. Satisfied she was, she dropped the magazine back into her bag and checked her watch. It had been ten minutes since she’d called.

  Getting up and stretching, she once again picked up her bag and headed toward the exit. She was more than ready to find a motel and a bed. Once outside, she dropped the stuffed bag on the curb and looked toward town to see if any cars were lighting up the road. But as the minutes dragged by with still no cab, it began to appear that Buford was never going to get there. She’d almost given up and trudged back into the tiny terminal when she spied a set of lights leave the main road and turn into the airport parking lot.

  “Finally,” she breathed, picking up her bag.

  The car that pulled up to the curb was white, had no light on the top, and had nothing written on its door. If this had been New York Leslie would have thought it strange and backed off, but in little Springfield it was probably what all the Blue Cabs looked like. The old sedan’s windows were tinted, preventing her from being able to see in and probably Buford’s way of beating the summer heat. Taking a step toward the curb, she reached for the back door handle, but before she could grab the handle, the door jerked open. In a split-second, a man jumped out of the back seat, grabbed her, and shoved her into the middle of the car. Before she could even look up, someone got in beside her, slammed the door, and the car sped off.

  “What the …” but before Leslie could finish her question, someone shined a flashlight directly into her face. The light made it impossible for her to see anything.

  “OK, lady,” the voice was that of a male on the passenger side of the front seat, “Give me your purse.”

  “I don’t know where it is,” she gasped, her hands searching the seat beside her. As she felt the corner of her suitcase sitting in the floorboard, she hurriedly burst out, “It’s in my bag!”

  The reality of what was happening began to sink in. She was in trouble and there were no options.

  A person sitting directly on her left pulled the bulging leather suitcase off the floor and opened it. Tossing a pile of cloth
es into Leslie’s lap, he finally found her purse. Grabbing it, he pitched it to the person with the flashlight. Leslie could hear the man going through it as the car left the airport parking lot and headed for town.

  “Is this all the money you got, lady?” a voice asked after a quick search.

  “How much is there?” the man on her left demanded of the first man.

  “A couple of hundred and some credit cards. Not a real good haul. Did you find anything else in the bags?”

  “Naw, just a bunch of clothes and stuff. Nothing worth pawning.”

  Keeping the light directly in her eyes, the man who had gone through her purse barked to the driver. “OK, when we get to a crossroads, stop. Just make sure no cars are coming. We can’t afford to be seen.

  “Now, lady, when we let you out, you lie down in the ditch for five minutes. Then you can get up and flag somebody down. If you get up and try to see us—we’ll shoot you. Do you understand?”

  Leslie nodded.

  “Hey, look at this,” the one on her right hollered pulling the magazine off the top of the clothes that had been thrown in Leslie’s lap. “It’s her, isn’t it?”

  The flashlight man grabbed the magazine, shined the light on it and then Leslie, and uttered, “Well, we got ourselves a star here, boys. Jim, drive on into town and find a good quiet place. We’d better look this number over real close. She’s bound to have some more stuff on her.”

  As the car sped into town, the man who did all the talking looked through Leslie’s purse again. After he’d finished, he began to question her.

  “Where do you keep your drugs?”

  “I don’t use them,” she quickly responded.

  “Sure,” the inflection in his voice told Leslie that he didn’t believe her. “I’m not stupid. I’ve heard the stories. I know that all you models do junk. Now where did you hide yours?”