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started writing furiously on it. “Here’s my address and phone number—in case you get lost. See you tomorrow,” she said, thrusting the piece of paper at me.
    Frannie stood at the door, silently clapping her hands and looking as happy as Jim Lange making a connection on The Dating Game.
    Really? Two steps forward, one step back. I finally get a modeling gig, and an opportunity at a nicer place to live than the roach motel, but a girl roommate? One who didn’t want me around? Me? Jack Stevens? Even this small town boy has standards.
    “I have to think about it,” I said in my most grown up voice, taking the piece of paper.

    G reat. I’m being backed into a corner and given some punk kid to be my babysitter. Jack Stevens. Even his name wreaks country bumpkin. Bet he hasn’t even graduated high school. Some dropout wanna-be. I’m twenty-fucking-five years old! Not that I look a day over nineteen. I’m a successful supermodel. My face has been on Cosmopolitan and Vogue magazine covers and billboards in Times Square.
    And now, because Dan walked out on me this morning, and with my history , the powers that be are putting me between a rock and hard place. Forcing me to have a roommate. Or I’ll have to find another agency. Bet they’ll turn this pretty boy into their own personal narc. I don’t need one. Just because the love of my life has left doesn’t mean I’m going to fall apart and run to the dealer on the next corner. I may run to the liquor store, but that’s it.

CHAPTER 6

    I woke up around ten o’clock on Saturday morning. Sleeping in felt great. I stretched and grabbed a smoke. As I lit up, I spotted the scrap of paper with Rebecca’s address that she had given me last night. Park Avenue. Suddenly, I burst out laughing. The theme song for Green Acres ran through my head and Eva Gabor, or was it Zsa Zsa? I always got those two confused. Da-dah Da-dah-dah something about Park Avenue, I hummed in my head. Man, I sucked at lyrics. Good thing I didn’t come to New York to be a singer.
    Right. I’m gonna move in with that arrogant bitch. Not happenin’. She was so full of herself and she clearly didn’t want me moving in. Why did Frannie think this was a good thing? But looking around the shit hole that I’d been living in for the past three months, maybe it wasn’t a bad thing. I’d been ignoring the peeling paint, the thin walls, and the stale stench of the carpeting. I mean, it was pretty much all I could afford, and I didn’t have another choice. But now, another choice was literally handed to me last night.
    I finished my smoke, ran all of my laundry, and four hours later checked out of the motel. Fighting the famous New York City traffic and cabs, I found myself parked in a parking lot collecting a ticket from some guy who smelled like the urinals at Folsom Field. I silently prayed that my truck would be okay. My 1973 Ford F-100 was my baby. My brother Jim helped me rebuild the engine, I’d lost my virginity in it, and gotten laid more times than I could count in it. She’d gotten me all the way to New York.
    I stuffed the ticket in my back pocket, and pulled out the address Rebecca had given me. I looked at my map, made a couple mental notes then slung my duffle bag over my shoulder and headed in the direction I thought I was supposed to go. It wasn’t until a few blocks later that I realized the numbers were going up, not down, so I turned around and back tracked. Half a mile later, and nearly getting run over by a taxi or two, I finally found her building; a large, dark red awning looming over a heavy-set doorman standing guard.
    He looked me up and down, and warily eyed my duffle bag as I walked up. I had half a mind to head back to my truck and go back to Colorado. The snobby attitude of the doorman and the dirty smells of the streets and car exhaust were making me homesick for the sweet smelling air of the Colorado Rockies. But I had a contract now. I had to stay.
    I reached for the