Fake Model by Cassie Mint

Seven

Coral

Ihaven’t cried like this since I was sixteen and our family cat died. The sobs wrack my whole body, scouring my throat raw for hours until I finally hiccup to a stop, exhausted. I curl deeper into my blankets, mushing my face into the pillow, a hollow ache pulsing through my chest.

God, this day. What a disaster.

Billie and I came crashing out of our bedrooms right after our phone calls. She was chalky white, deep shadows bruising her eyes, and I was no better.

We confessed in stilted whispers. No details, but the vague problem. We’d both gotten tangled up with each other’s boss.

Neither man knew our real identities.

We were screwed. Caught up in our own lies, our hearts breaking in tandem. Well, we’re twin sisters. We do a lot of stuff together, but this was a new one.

In the end, the solution was easy. Horribly simple. Billie set out to meet Archer in my place, while I called Mr. Koven by video chat so he wouldn’t see my two good arms. We did the other’s dirty work, turning down the men so they’d never discover our lies.

My normally unruffled boss was wrecked. Torn apart by one day with my sister. I hung up when it was done, tossing my phone on my bed spread and bursting into tears.

Such a mess. So many hurt feelings. All because Billie and I swapped places.

I sniffle, tugging my blanket higher over my shoulder. I can’t help but torture myself, wondering what might have happened if I’d met Archer properly. As myself, as Coral. The shy, curvy twin.

Would he even have noticed me? Would he have called me sweetheart and found excuses to touch me the way he did today?

Or was it the supermodel he wanted all along? Billie Blue, the beautiful, confident twin.

Thoughts of Archer make my heart throb in my chest. It feels so sore, like it’s been stewing in sea water just like my legs.

Will he be upset when she turns him down? Angry? Will he ever think of me after this?

I bury my face in the pillow, groaning. I know down to the marrow in my bones—I’ll think of Archer every single day.

* * *

The knocking starts just after midnight. A frantic pounding on our front door, the sound echoing through the still rooms. I squint at the lit up screen of my alarm clock, my eyes blurry from crying.

Is it Billie? I never heard her come home. I push myself upright, swinging my legs out of bed. My limbs ache like I’m a thousand years old as I hobble across the room, tugging my robe off the door hook.

“I’m coming!” I call, even though the knocker won’t hear me over their racket.

What if Billie’s hurt again? The memory of getting that text, of reading she was in the hospital, makes my blood run cold.

I don’t know what I’d do without my sister. Especially now, when I’ve pushed the only man I’ve ever felt drawn to away.

Archer…

It can’t be him. It won’t. I refuse to get my hopes up. I knot the belt of my robe tightly at my waist, shuffling out of my bedroom into the shadowed apartment.

It looks different at night. The plants cast weird shadows, and moonlight spreads over the floorboards in silver pools. The wood creaks under my feet as I creep across the rug, wincing at the steady banging.

Whoever it is, they’re going to wake up our neighbors. I push back my shoulders and throw open the door.

“Do you know what time it…”

I trail off, stunned. Archer stands in the doorway, gripping both sides of the frame. His jaw is clenched tight, and his eyes are dark as they flick over my body, checking both my wrists.

He scowls.

“I thought so. You have some explaining to do, sweetheart.”

My grip flexes on the door. I could slam it in his face. It would serve him right, coming here in the middle of the night, banging on our door loud enough to wake the dead. Digging up our address from god knows where. Except…

Except there’s hurt beneath the anger in his eyes. Hurt and confusion.

Archer looks baffled.

“You’re not Billie Blue. Why did you lie to me?” he rasps.

I shrug miserably, waving a hand down myself.

“Billie hurt her arm. She couldn’t do the shoot, but she couldn’t lose the opportunity either. So, um. She sent me.”

He nods along, impatient. His blond hair looks silver in the moonlight. It’s out of his tie, hanging over his broad shoulders.

Shoulders that I clung to just a few hours ago. That I dug my nails into and rocked my hips against.

“Yeah, I guessed that.” He rakes a hand through that hair. “But afterwards. When it was the two of us. Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you run?”

I can’t do this. I can’t have this conversation. I’ve had it so many times before—with disappointed parents and teachers and speech therapists, all those people who rooted for me and I let down, even though I tried my best.

So I deflect, pushing back at him.

“How did you find out?” I raise my chin, trying to mimic his confidence. His control. “And why did you come here?”

Archer scrubs a hand over his mouth, stepping back. The way he’s looking at me—it’s like I’m a stranger. Like he doesn’t know me at all.

My bruised heart crumples into a ball.

Time slows down as I watch him shake his head. As I watch bitterness twist his mouth as he turns to leave.

“Wait.” I dart forward, grabbing the sleeve of his black sweater. He stills, vibrating with tension—like a battle horse held in check by flimsy reins. “D-don’t go. I’m sorry.”

His skin is hot through his sleeve. His arm is sculpted, deliciously bulky, like he’s used to lifting far heavier things than cameras. I tug lamely on the fabric.

“I d-didn’t think you’d want me,” I whisper at his boots. “Not when you found out who I really am. I’m not a model, Archer. I’m a maid.”

He blows out a slow breath. He turns back to face me, his big leather boots pointing at my bare toes.

“Something didn’t seem right when I saw your sister.” His voice is dull. Robotic. “Part of me knew it wasn’t you. So I found her on social media, and in one of her photos, there you were.” He bites out a harsh laugh. “The woman I’d lost my mind over.”

I tug on his sleeve again, but he stays put. Immovable. And when he keeps talking, his words are curt.

“The two of you must have had a good laugh.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“No?”

I shake my head, tears brimming. When I risk a glance up at him, one spills over and rolls down my cheek.

Just like that, his ice melts. Archer ducks his head, fussing over me, cradling my face and wiping away the stray tear. He looks horrified to see me cry, cursing himself out under his breath.

“Wait. No. Shit. Don’t be sad, sweetheart. Fuck—I keep doing this. What the hell.”

“I’m sorry!” I wail, backing up into the apartment. Archer follows, kicking the door shut behind him. “Y-you’re right to be mad. I would be too.”

“Okay, well, I’m done with that now. It’s over with. So there’s no need to cry, alright?”

I nod, even as more tears slide down my face. Archer casts around wildly, then ushers me back to the sofa.

“Sit here. Shall I—shall I get you something? A glass of water?”

“N-no thank you.” I plop down onto the sofa cushions, my arms wrapped around my waist. “You don’t have to stay,” I tell my knees.

Archer pauses. The apartment is quiet. His next question is so careful.

“Do you want me to go?”

“No.” I tear at the loose thread on the cushion. “I never want you to go again.”

It’s too much, too honest, way too intense for someone I only just met today. I cringe, waiting for him to mutter some excuse and leave. To get away from my crazy.

Instead, Archer lets out a ragged sigh. It’s the sound of pure relief. He crouches in front of me, his big fingers so gentle as they tuck a stray piece of hair behind my ear.

“Why don’t we circle back,” he murmurs. The moonlight sparkles in his gray eyes. “You thought I wouldn’t want you because you’re a maid. Is that right?”

I hiccup. “Uh-huh.”

“Bullshit,” he says immediately. “I’d want you whatever your job. I’d want you even if you worked knee-deep in garbage all day.”

I giggle, wincing as it turns into a watery snort.

“Now, the most important question…” Archer tips onto his knees, the thud echoing through the floorboards as he leans forward to drag his mouth up my neck. “What’s it like, exactly—your maid costume? Paint me a picture.”

I huff, even as I can’t keep the smile off my face.

“It’s a uniform, not a costume. It’s not like my boss makes me clean in a skimpy little French maid outfit.”

“Good.” Archer nibbles my earlobe. “That’s one less man I have to kill.”

I hesitate, then place my hands on his collarbone. Gingerly, like he might explode upright at any moment. When he hums and stays put, I run my palms over his shoulders, biting my lip. His scent is everywhere, surrounding me, and I want to drown in it.

“Are there many on the list? Men you need to kill.”

“Hundreds. Thousands. All the men who ever looked at you and wanted you for themselves.”

“I don’t think—”

“Believe me, sweetheart.” He licks a stripe over my pulse point. Heat pulses through my core. “There are thousands.” He shakes his head sadly. “They shouldn’t have to die. But life can be cruel.”

He’s funny, my photographer. Surprisingly playful given how thunderous he’d looked this morning, striding around and barking orders at the beach. He laughs when I tell him so, tossing back his head and exposing the thick column of his throat.

I’ve been thinking about that throat all day, ever since I watched him drain that water bottle.

I lunge forward and suck a bruise on it while I can.

The room changes. The air crackles with energy, and my breathing stutters. Archer rocks back on his heels.

“You left me aching, sweetheart.”

I nod, stealing glimpses at his lap. The hard outline of his cock juts along the leg of his jeans. My abdomen twists, my nerve endings zapping under my skin.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur. My fingers itch to reach for him. To hold the length of him in my palm.

“I won’t rush you, sweet girl. But I’d give anything to sink my cock deep inside you.” My breath rushes out of me as his mouth quirks. “Would you like that?”

Would I like that?

I squirm on the sofa cushion, hot and restless, already whimpering at his words.

“Archer. Yes.”