Chapter 8

"You look like hell," Sofia frowned, entering the large tent that was being used for makeup.

"You should see the other girl," I replied, smiling weakly and trying to be patient while Erin, my personal artist on the Sports Illustrated shoot, tried to get rid of the thin bags under my eyes.

"Barros?" Sofia said. "I just saw her. She looks okay."

"Nooo..." I giggled. "Not Ana. I'm talking about Fernanda. I think she's still in my bed."

"Which one?" Sofia pulled up a canvas director's chair. "Just make her eyes black or something."

"Or something," Erin sighed. "She does this to me on purpose, you know."

"Fernanda Lessa," I told Sofia, since there were two of them. Fernanda Tavares was the older of the two and kind of stuck up, but I'd do her anytime, anywhere ... given half a chance.

"I know she does," Sofia said, speaking to Erin and ignoring me.

"Hey! I'm right here, you know." I pouted a little. "Anyway, all I have to do is sit on some rocks. Have you seen that bikini they want me to wear?"

"No," Sofia shook her head.

"It's freakin' tiny! God! They're gonna put my clit on the cover if they're not careful," I said. "That'll be a big seller."

"Hold still..." Erin grabbed my jaw in her gentle, but strong fingers and I had little choice. "You'll be lucky to get in the magazine at all if you keep this up."

"I'll go see Gabby," Sofia said, meaning the wardrobe supervisor. If there was a problem with the suit though, she'd have to take it up with Maggie, who was the SI editor in charge of the shoot and the person who had the final say about who was wearing what.

"So how was your night, anyway?" I asked, kind of mumbling the words as it was hard to talk.

"Pretty good," Sofia told me, smiling so I'd know I was forgiven. "That guy you thought was gay..."

"Terry?"

"Perry," she corrected me with a grin and a nod. "He's definitely not gay."

"Ummm?" I arched my eyebrows and Sofia was grinning at me. "Ooh uck im?

"Stop talking!" Erin was trying to airbrush my lips or something.

"Yeah..." Sofia sighed airily. "I fucked him."

"Perry?" Erin asked with a little snort. "I thought he was queer too."

I really wanted to say something, just to tease Sofia about attracting fags, but Erin was holding my jaw like a vise and it kind of hurt. She was punishing me, I thought, for making her look bad. It wasn't my fault I only got an hour of sleep. Those Brazilian girls just loved sex!

My shoot lasted four hours with two wardrobe changes right there on the setup. A couple guys would hold curtains around me and that was always good for a giggle. I was so tired I could barely keep my balance.

"This came for you today," Sofia said over a late lunch, reaching into her bag and pulling out a letter. I'd wanted to skip eating and just lie down, but that would have made the afternoon worse and I knew it. One of the girls had offered me some speed, which had been tempting, believe me, but Sofia would have gone ballistic, so I was suffering.

"We got mail?" I gave her a confused look. "Here?"

"Eva and Wolfgang brought it with them," Sofia shrugged. "I wasn't sure you should see it, but..."

"Eva and Wolfgang are here?" I smiled at that, lifting my head and looking around the restaurant. It was part of the resort, all open and overlooking the lagoon.

"They're getting unpacked," Sofia said. "Probably sleeping."

"Sleeping? I doubt that," I giggled. "They're probably ... What's this?"

I'd opened the envelope, which had already been opened anyway, like all of my mail. I didn't even get to open my Christmas cards anymore. Mr. Goethe and Sofia protected me from the lunatics who wrote me everything from obscene marriage proposals to promises of a quick and painful death for just being me. I'd expected a letter, or something, but all that was in it was a newspaper clipping, neatly folded and without any marks or explanation.

"Sept 11 Hero Found Dead," I read the headline aloud, blinking at it, and then started reading the article.

Former NYPD lieutenant and hero of the 2001 World Trade Center attacks, Michael Cicero, was found dead in his Brooklyn apartment Wednesday afternoon. A spokesman for the New York Police Department was unable to disclose specific details, but did confirm that the 47 year old Cicero died of an apparent self-inflicted gunshot wound. Cicero received the Medal of Bravery for his actions on September 11, when he entered the stricken South Tower to assist with the evacuation prior to the building's collapse. His wife, Connie Cicero, who worked in the WTC, and four year old son, Michael Jr. were among the more than 2,700 victims who perished...

"Where did this come from?" I asked, looking at the envelope. It was postmarked a week before in New York, but there was no return address, only a printed mailing label with my name on it, addressed in care of Mr. Goethe's New York offices.