My Stepbrother, the Artist Read online

  My Stepbrother, The Artist

  © 2015 Sybil Ling

  Cover Photo Copyright Can Stock Photo Inc. / bloodua

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental. The characters are all products of the author’s imagination.

  Please note that this work is intended only for adults over the age of 18. All characters represented as 18 or older. All sexual relationships depicted are between adults who are not blood relatives.

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  * * * * * * * * *

  Diana is only half-focusing on the movie. In the other half of her mind she’s acutely aware of Zach, of her proximity to him, of how he seems so relaxed and nonplussed by what just happened — what almost happened — between them. She can’t stop thinking about what would have happened had their servant Eugene not knocked on the door at that moment, if they would still be sitting and drinking beer and watching this movie like they were friends, like they hardly even knew each other, and like they hadn’t … already …

  Diana turns her head just enough to look at Zach and watch his face, staring intently at the screen. She can hear the actors talking but she’s not paying attention to what’s happening in the movie anymore. Zach lifts the bottle of beer to his lips and takes a sip, and as he does his eyes shift over in Diana’s direction, the two of them locking gazes. He slowly lowers the bottle and swallows his mouthful of beer, turning his head enough to be able to look at her more comfortably, Diana doing the same. She can see the minuscule reflections of the flat-screen in his eyes.

  They look at each other like that for a long time, Zach and Diana, and though neither of them say anything Diana can feel a thousand thoughts flying through her brain, myriad emotions, worries, concerns, and feelings all bombarding her at once. She just wishes that Zach would do something, would let her know with his actions or words what he intended for them to do tonight, when he invited her over. But he’s just sitting there, frozen, staring at her the exact same way that she’s staring at him.

  And then he moves. Diana’s heart leaps in her chest as her stepbrother leans just a little bit closer to her, and she can once again smell him, can smell that manly scent that she remembers so clearly from that night, this time mingled in with the subtler scents of pizza and beer. But it’s there, and he’s there, Diana’s eyes almost close as she inhales, her memories taking her back to a place where she was young and drunk and oh, so vulnerable.

  “Diana,” Zach says, his voice deep, husky once again. Diana swallows, feeling herself lean towards her stepbrother as well.

  “Zach?” she answers, her heart hammering in her chest.

  Zach continues to lean forwards and Diana moves towards him too, the two of them going infinitesimally slowly but, in Diana’s mind, closing the distance between them so quickly.

  “What are we doing, Diana?” Zach asks, and Diana feels her heart drop for a second. She swallows, unsure of what to say, unsure of what she wants, but knowing that whatever she says next will either give her that thing or take it away forever.

  She licks her lips, feeling them suddenly dry, and opens her mouth to respond.

  “We’re watching a movie,” she says slowly, her voice heavy with breath, “and we’re about to kiss.”

  * * * * * * * * *

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  The flashbulbs of three cameras go off in a rapid staccato, the bright light momentarily blinding Diana as she stands stock still, wearing the latest in haute couture fashion: a long, dark green dress with black stilettos and her hair up in a messy bun.

  She hears the directions of the photographers being yelled at her, one over the other, the three of them all trying to take advantage of this exclusive opportunity to photograph the Diana Simms. She ignores all of them and moves on her own instead, staring without a smile at each of them in turn. The shutters go off like mad as she makes eye contact with each camera. The men are certainly getting the most out of the $20,000 each of their magazines paid for this photo shoot.

  Off to the side, standing amid the chaos of photographers’ assistants and wardrobe artists, is Diana’s manager, Dean Finnigan. The thick, bald man is smoking his usual cigar, arms crossed as he watches everything like a hawk. Any excuse to kick one of the men out of the building is more than welcome; all Diana needs to do is say is one word and they’d be gone.

  Diana continues to stare blankly as flashing light after flashing light goes off, temporarily destroying her retinas a little bit at a time. She breathes in a sigh and lets it out, her indifference and boredom only helping to portray the ideal persona that the fashion directors want.

  More instructions are called out, and more instructions are ignored. The voices and noises of the cameras become a blur, blending into one another to create a dulling white noise that ultimately means nothing to Diana.

  “All right, five more seconds!” yells Dean over the din, and the sound of snapping cameras somehow increases as the photographers struggle to get as much of the model as possible.

  Soon enough Dean yells out, “Okay, that’s it boys, pack it up!” A few more snaps and the photographers lower their cameras, each of them red in the face, flushed with the excitement at having spent the last hour and a half with the one, the only, Diana Simms.

  “That was amazing, Miss Simms,” one of them says as a wardrobe artist quickly runs forward to lead Diana away. “Thank you so much for the opportu-”

  “Okay buddy, you got what you needed. Now’s the time to leave,” Dean interrupts, stepping between the photographer and Diana, blocking his line of sight.

  Diana’s expression doesn’t change; her face is still masked with total ambivalence to this entire experience. It isn’t like any of this is new to her, of course. Having become a model at the tender age of seventeen and doing it for the past six years, she’s used to the chaos, the noise, the never-ending compliments and praise over how she looks.

  Diana allows herself to be lead away from the photographers with their extremely expensive equipment, away from the assistants and the rushed, harried atmosphere. She’s ushered by the wardrobe assistant into one of the dressing rooms and soon the priceless dress is being unzipped, Diana’s limbs slack and malleable as her clothes are taken off for her, as though she were an invalid child.

  Once it’s all off and Diana is left bare, she reaches for her panties and slips them on just as a swift knock comes at the door and it opens, Dean poking his head inside.

  “Decent?” he asks, the noise and confusion coming in from behind him having dropped down to a manageable level.

  “Come in,” Diana says, her voice sounding as unimpressed as she is. Dean walks in as the wardrobe assistant walks out, leaving the two of them alone together. He seems unfazed by his client’s partial nudity. Instead he beams at Diana as she slips on a bra, her face still slack, still devoid of life.

  “That was beautiful, honey,” Dean says to Diana, speaking to her as though she were his daughter and not his paycheque. “They loved you out there, honestly. I don’t know how you do it, but you encaptured that dress. That feeling, that, ah … that moment!”

  Diana only gives Dean a half-smile, just to placate him.

  “So we’ve got some new magazine deals coming through,” Dean continues as Diana gets dressed. “Shoots with Vogue and Glamo
ur, and a red carpet party for Sizzling, that new action movie coming out. Nick Cage asked for you specifically.”

  “Nick Cage?” Diana asks, sounding dubious. “Can’t he get his own date?”

  “What can I say, he’s in love with you,” Dean replies. “Anyways, you’re expected to show up. GQ has already done a piece about how you love movies, so we need to run with that while it’s still hot.”

  Diana just shrugs, not needing to respond. Dean doesn’t seem fazed by her silence.

  “Anyway, let me know if you need anything,” Dean says, and he leans forward, kissing Diana on the cheek. She doesn’t return it. “I gotta jet, but I’ll text you later, okay? We need to figure out what you’re going to wear for Cage.”

  “Whatever,” Diana says.

  “That’s the spirit,” Dean responds, already halfway out the door. It shuts behind him and Diana is left alone in the dressing room, the noise from the main room having dropped down to practically nothing.

  Diana sighs and sits down in front of the dressing table. She stares at her reflection in the mirror and sees what everybody else in the world sees: a skinny, young girl; high cheekbones; past-the-shoulders blonde hair, currently a bit messy from having that dress stripped off of her so hastily.

  She grabs the brush that’s sitting on the table and begins straightening her hair as she assesses the rest of her features: she has a thin frame, one that speaks of too many meals uneaten; smallish breasts, but ones that complement her figure nicely. Down below the bottom frame of the mirror she would see thighs that leave a gap when she sits, with long, slender legs below those, and feet that have only known baby powder and comfortable shoes when she has to walk anywhere, lest she develop a blister or callous.

  Diana is beautiful. At least, that’s what everybody says. When you grow up in money and become a model so young, it’s not uncommon for everybody (your mom, your agent, the public, the world) to tell you that you’re beautiful. Beautiful skin, beautiful hair, beautiful features, beautiful genes. It all becomes the same thing over and over again. Words spoken, meant to flatter Diana and inspire others to become like her.

  But after six years of hearing those words day in and day out, it’s easy for their influence to become dulled. They fall flat, and soon enough it’s no longer a compliment for Diana to hear that she’s “beautiful,” or “gorgeous,” or “the love of my life” by the hundreds of fans who send her letters she gets every day. No, the words instead just quickly blend up into the same nonsense, the same white noise that she heard today and ultimately ended up tuning out.

  You see, Diana realized, from a very early age, that it didn’t matter what she actually did, or who she actually was as a person. When you’re in the spotlight it’s hard to have secrets, and it’s even harder to get away with something without somebody noticing. But whenever Diana did do something that was considered “bad” (like bring boys home, for example, or stay up all night partying and doing drugs) then the public, and her agent, and her own mother, would just laugh it off because, as we all know, “girls just wanna have fun”.

  Diana found that she couldn’t express herself. She couldn’t rebel, or break out of this mould that she’d been thrust into. Ever since six years ago, when her mom took her to her first photo shoot and the rest became history, she’s been stuck in this state of limbo. Diana couldn’t be who she really wanted to be (whatever that was) but became, instead, the beautiful woman who adorns the covers of fashion magazines, and who appears in TV commercials and YouTube ads, and who is beautiful, beautiful, forever and always beautiful.

  But what’s all of this beauty and fame worth if it means that everybody, everybody, wants to be with you? Wants to love you, or be your friend, or otherwise just spend a little bit of time with you?

  It means nothing. When everybody says the same thing and wants to give you the best life in the world, it starts to lose all meaning. Everybody thinks she’s beautiful, and everybody is in love with her. She can’t count how many professions of love, or legitimate, legal marriage proposals she’s received in the mail from complete strangers. These are people she doesn’t know, and who don’t really know her. Know the real her, that is.

  Do you want a confession? Well, here it is: Diana has never been in love. Not real love, anyways. Oh sure, there were times when she was 17 and 18 and all the model boys wanted her in the biblical sense — then she thought that she was in love. How could she not? Boys were telling her how beautiful she was left right and centre, ready to give themselves to her, ready to shout out to the public about their new-found puppy love, and about how they’re going to get married at 20 and spend the rest of their fabulously famous lives together.

  But none of it lasted, and the boys eventually got bored and started fights with her and said it wasn’t worth it, and then went on to the next best thing. Diana’s heart has been broken in many different ways by many different men, and she quickly learned that the easiest way not to get hurt is to put a wall up around you, blocking out all those things that hurt you in the first place.

  So she’s never really been in love. And in much the same way, because everybody everyday tells her the exact same thing over and over, she’s never really considered herself to be beautiful. Sure, she has eyes, and she can look in the mirror and see what everybody else sees. On an entirely objective level she knows that she’s beautiful. But there’s a difference between being beautiful and feeling beautiful. Diana’s beautiful, she knows that. But inside, deep inside of herself, she’s never actually felt like a beautiful woman. Everything she’s seen of herself in the commercials, or on magazine covers, has always been Photoshopped or altered in some way. Either that or she’s wearing enough make-up to rival the counters at Macy’s.

  Nobody has ever seen the real her. Nobody has ever seen her cry, because who wants to see a cultural icon expose herself as a human being? Nobody has ever held her and told her that she matters. Nobody has ever heard her talk about the thoughts and opinions she has that maybe they aren’t exactly what the public wants her to think about or say out loud.

  But she still has them, and that’s all right. That’s perfectly fine, because when it really comes down to it, nobody is perfect. Nobody. Not even her. People may idolize her, and worship the ground she walks on and buy her clothes and the make-up she wears, but she’s just a human being like everybody else, and just like everybody else she’s capable of being ugly, and uninteresting, and a person.

  Diana gives herself a bit of a shake and looks at her reflection again. The noise out in the main room has died to nothing now; everybody’s gone home. She’s alone in the building (well, not really alone: her bodyguard, Max, is dutifully waiting by the front entrance for her to come back down. He would wait for 30 days and 30 nights, if she so desired.)

  Diana takes one last, deep sigh and stands up, slipping her flats back on and grabbing her bag before leaving the dressing room. The main room seems strange, now that nobody else is here. It’s like looking at an empty stage after a play has finished: you could swear that this whole other world existed not half an hour ago, but now it’s just wooden floors and fake mood lighting.

  Diana makes her way down the stairs to where Max is standing, waiting for her.

  “Miss,” he says with a short nod of his head. His deep voice rumbles like a lion’s, and Diana allows herself a smile to this man who has saved her from many an excited mob before. And speaking of which …

  “There’s a limo waiting just at the curb,” Max tells her as he puts his hand on the door handle, ready to push it open at her command. Diana can see the fleshy blobs of people’s faces through the frosted glass of the door, outlined by the sun that’s just starting to set. Diana fishes into her bag and grabs her sunglasses, putting them on and succeeding in hiding half her face.

  “Okay,” she says with a nod, and Max opens the door.

  The screams immediately fill the air as Diana makes her way out into the awaiting crowd. The New Yorkers somehow knew abou
t her photo shoot, as they always do, even though these things aren’t announced to the public anywhere. Max clears the way, yelling at people to back up, as Diana follows him, feeling myriad strangers’ hands trying to grab at her, get her attention, get just one look or acknowledgement from her. More than once Max has to push people back, and the tension from the people is thick. It’s a long, claustrophobic thirty seconds before Diana reaches the limo, the door being opened by Max as his hand on her back shoves her inside. Then comes the clunk of the door and the noise from outside is shut off.

  The car, already running, pulls away from the curb, leaving Max and the crowd behind. Diana breathes a sigh of relief as the long, black limo pulls into the Manhattan streets and blends into the sea of yellow taxis, other black limos, and general obscurity. Falling back against the leather seat, Diana looks out the window, watching the faces of strangers flash past her, some yelling at the limo for cutting them off as it turns, some peering into the tinted glass, trying to get a glimpse of whoever could be inside.

  A muffled tune begins to play from Diana’s bag and her attention is roused. Opening it up, she reaches inside to pull out her cell phone. She looks at the screen and sees Dean’s number, calling her. Why is he calling me already? she thinks. Maybe Nick Cage changed his mind.

  Swiping to receive the call, she holds the device up to her ear.

  “Hi Dean,” Diana answers, that bored drawl already in her voice. “What is it now?”

  And nobody is there to see it, but Diana’s face slowly drains as she listens to Dean, her eyes widening, her mouth opening into an ‘O’ and spreading a look of concern and disbelief over her beautiful features.

  Chapter 2

  People walk around the large, open warehouse with glasses of champagne in hand, servers carrying trays of hors d’oeuvres and more drinks for anyone who would like them. The dark suits and ballroom gowns of the patrons are in contrast to the mid-afternoon sun that hangs over the Beverly Hills sky. The only person who is not dressed for the occasion is the man they are all here to see: Zach Daniels.