Prologue

"Very nice!"

Click…

Then came another pose.

"Love the hand on the hip thingy going on!"

Click…

And yet another pose ensued; the fan was gracefully blowing back the wavy, dark brown hair of the model, while its breeze caressed her smooth pale skin.

"Can you give a bit more of a suggestive look?" asked the photographer with a prominent, effeminate lisp, his index finger on the shutter of his Canon EOS Rebel.

"How do you…" Just as the model began to ask what he meant, the photographer gave his impression of the facial expression he was going for.

"Like this, hun," he said with a sly smile, preparing his camera as he watched his subject try to imitate him with bedroom eyes and lips slightly parted. However, she blushed with embarrassment and burst out in laughter. This is gold, the photographer thought as he snapped candid shots of the endlessly smiling model.

"Oh my god, fabulous!" he said, snapping pictures repeatedly as the flash sought to capture the happiness of her moments in front of the stark white backdrop dressed in a cool white blouse and a silver-toned bib necklace with faux stones set in the metal. The model's azure gaze seemed to glitter even in the screen on the Canon EOS Rebel, but her smile was what seemed to make the shoot worth it.

Within moments, it was over—Angela Saxon was officially out of breath and in need of a break.

"Can I leave now?" she asked.

"I thought you loved modelling," the photographer smirked, his lisp as strong as his sarcasm.

"I do," Angela said wearily with a sigh. "I need a break."

"Want to go for a smoke?" the photographer asked as he held out a small blue carton of Newports. The model held her palm outward and shook her head.

"No," she said. "I'm trying to quit."

"You had one yesterday."

"Still," Angela said in a monotone. "No."

The young woman made her way over to one of the director-style folding chairs, made of sturdy ebony plastic and sky-colored canvas, and sat down. She crossed one of her long, well-formed legs over the other and sat back, taking the open neck of her plastic water bottle to her full, natural lips. As the refreshing fluid flowed down into her body, she sighed and licked her lips slowly before turning her soft cerulean gaze upward to see a well-dressed older Hispanic woman walk up to the photographer she had been working with. She eyed the strange combination for an ensemble, consisting of a beige suit jacket and bright yellow pencil skirt with a zebra-print scarf and laced combat boots, especially because odd aesthetics caught her attention in a usually negative fashion. Angela opened her ears to the dialogue between her and the effeminate photographer, biting her lower lip nervously as her face drew inward.

"What do you mean?"

"We are filing for bankruptcy," the woman said in her thick Spanish accent. "I am sorry, but we cannot pay to keep you."

"But…"

Angela's face froze—was the agency closing?

"Ms. Gonzalez?" she interrupted, catching the woman's attention as she finally noticed the vintage purple handbag hanging from the arm that held a few full, pale yellow folders.

"Angela, I was just about to tell you," the photographer interrupted.

"I was given orders by the owner to lay off the models here," the woman in the badly-matched ensemble said; she doesn't sound too discouraged, thought Angela.

"Does that include me?" asked the attractive brunette.

"I hate to do this," Ms. Gonzalez said, "but yes. I am sorry. You cannot work here anymore."

"Does that include me?" the photographer asked.

"No."

"Then?"

"I don't understand," Angela cut in, crossing her arms over her chest. "I've modelled here three years. I've been doing well for you guys. Why are you all of a sudden bankrupt?"

"That is the problem," the woman said, her dark eyes peering at Angela. "We have too much projects. We can no longer afford to fund them."

Angela took a breath—modelling was her passion, and she had even spent five years waitressing just to pay for a one-way trip to Los Angeles from Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Every tip was a blessing—every cent earned was a customer's way of saying "thank you for the food and good luck with your career". A good majority of those combined with the low wages was put away, every week and for half a decade. She even had the looks; her hair was a dark chocolate brown in natural waves reaching to her upper back. Her eyes were another story, and quite unique in shape; feline-like but almond, but light blue in color. Angela's bearing was more confident than in previous years; a sense of style dressing a pear-shaped frame with long, shapely legs. Hearing this news not only crushed her spirit but gave her ideas to look elsewhere. What was a girl to do?

"Well…" the young woman sighed, standing up and getting her purse, jacket and water bottle. "I guess that's it, then."

"Don't be discouraged, hun," the photographer said. "Anyone would be stupid to turn away a pretty face like yours from a modelling agency."

"It's been a pleasure working with you."

"Likewise," Angela said, alternating her eyes from the Hispanic woman in the strange outfit and the effeminate photographer, who handed her a card with two phone numbers and an email address. It also said his name—Jeff.

"Here," he offered, "I can give you a good reference."

"Thank you."

The attractive model with dark brown waves and feline-shaped blue eyes had nothing else to say as she placed the business card in her coat pocket and nodded affirmatively at the oddly-dressed woman. As she walked out of the room through the wide doorway, she couldn't help but overhear the accent of the woman conversing with Jeff, the photographer.

"So, what do you want me to do with these shots?" he asked, putting the camera in front of her so that she could see the digital shots of Angela's smiling face against a stark white background. "I think they're fabulous."

A few seconds after seeing only three of the shots by pressing the arrow button, Angela heard the woman scoff from outside the room.

"Get rid of them. Too plain," Ms. Gonzalez said dismissively.

"But what about these? You didn't even get to see the rest and the best of them!"

There was a silence—Angela was no longer smiling anymore, but biding her time as she heard exactly what she needed to hear from the woman.

"Her smile is not model-material," she said. "Trash them."

"I want to keep them," Jeff protested.

"Fine. I hope you do not keep them for your promotion," Angela heard the Hispanic woman say.

"Promotion?"

"No more camera for you. You are bossing the people with cameras now," she said.

"Wait," Jeff droned, "didn't you say we were going bankrupt?"

"Yes, but you are going somewhere else. Transfer."

"Why didn't you just transfer Angela, too? What about the rest of the models?"

What was said next made Angela's stomach turn; a familiar feeling of insecurity and doubt overcame her.

"She looks too plain. Not glamorous at all."

Shaking her head, Angela left and walked down the hall of the agency, walking past the receptionist, vending machines, offices, potted plants; she bit her lip so hard the pain caused tunnel vision as she made her way toward the 2012 Ford Fusion in the nearby parking garage. She took out her key and opened the driver's seat door, plopping down on the cushioned exterior as she tossed her bag on the passenger's seat. She flashed her head forward onto the steering wheel, sounding the horn in the process. A single tear rolled down her pale cheek, and her nose felt like it was about to drip. The horn was still going, and it took someone outside the car to remind her to deactivate it.

"STOP FUCKING BEEPING!"

Angela finally took her head off the steering wheel and saw an older man in a gray trench coat and black beanie walk by her car. Feeling a pain in her head, she ignored it and started the ignition, driving off at a speed so fast it seemed deadly. Yet it was amazing how she stayed so in tune with her surroundings.

I need to find another place to work.

If not modelling, then anything, I guess.

Angela sat on her couch with a glass of citrus water on her lamp stand and a half-smoked cigarette in between her fingers. It had been a terrible day thus far, and she knew she had to do something, or at least anything, to help her forget about Ms. Gonzalez's disheartening words and the crushing of her modelling dreams. The canary yellow lamp was dim, but the laptop provided more than enough light for her to see as she looked for jobs.

As she dragged on her cigarette, she went through a variety of sites listing both odd jobs, part-time and even full time.

Craigslist offered everything, but nothing that quite matched her interests. She couldn't sing in a band or be paid to perform sexual acts. No thanks.

Monster offered mostly corporal jobs. I don't have a degree.

Snag-A-Job, however, changed all of that—putting out her finished cigarette in the clear glass ashtray by her cup of citrus water, she looked closely at the third most recent job description posted just two days earlier:

"Hotel Maid Wanted

Located at Hotel Cortez; Los Angeles, CA

Must be able to follow written and verbal instructions without question.

Pay starts at $10 per hour.

Better chances of being hired if you have cleaning skills and/or prior hospitality experience.

Call 666-666-6606."

Angela sighed at the thought of another meager job to get by. Yes, she had saved enough from her days at the agency, but was it really worth it to settle for less than what she truly wanted?

"She's too plain. Not glamorous at all."

Shaking her head, the memory of the badly-dressed woman played in her head like a broken record as she reached for her cell phone and pressed the home button, swiping the bar on the bottom of it and tapping the phone icon on the touch screen. She typed in the phone number and as it started to dial, she felt a chill run down her spine. It was not of fear—it was the eerie, seductive calmness of the woman on the phone.

"You have reached the Hotel Cortez. May I help you?"

"Uh…y-yes," Angela stammered. "I…I am replying to your ad for a hotel maid."

"Oh, yes. Iris must have posted that. I did tell her to."

"Uh-huh, yes…uh…I…I am in a tough position right now, and I need the job," she said. "I-Is it possible to h-have an interview?"

"You will need to come here for the interview, dear," the soft voice said.

"How soon?"

"Very soon. As soon as possible," the woman said.

"Alright."

There was a pause, until the woman on the other end began to speak again.

"What is your name? You sound lovely."

"I am Angela," the brunette said. "Angela Saxon."

"What an interesting name. Come tomorrow, if you please. Iris will be expecting you at the front desk."

"Thank you."

Click.

Angela found something peculiar about the fact that the woman suddenly hung up on her. What was even weirder was her voice—why did it sound like she belonged in a secretary's office in a corporation rather than a hotel? She took a sip of her citrus water and let the bitter, sour taste run down her throat as she lit another cigarette without another thought of the woman's eerily calm voice.