Run Rose Run(57)

“A Bombardier’s a little nicer than Delta,” Ethan agreed. “And it’s a lot nicer than hitchhiking.”

“No kidding.” AnnieLee set down her duffel bag and sank into her seat. “I still can’t believe any of this is happening.” She shot a warning look at Ethan. “But you don’t need to pinch me again, in case you were thinking about it.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “Never.”

It had been an exhausting, exhilarating few weeks. First she’d moved out of the Pepto-Bismol motel room and into a rented cottage in the neighborhood of Hope Gardens; it felt like the first real home she’d had in years. And then, after talks with her manager, her lawyer, and her label, AnnieLee had released two more singles on the same August day. Though ACD had initially been against the idea, AnnieLee had insisted that the songs go out into the world together, like the A and B sides of an old-fashioned 45.

Even more unusual than a double release, the tracks weren’t fully produced, perfected, and mastered. Instead, they were the ones that she’d recorded in Ruthanna’s home studio: the Cellar Sessions, AnnieLee called them. People loved them, even more than she’d dared to hope, and an influential music critic tweeted that AnnieLee would be the next Taylor Swift—“but fierier and fiercer, with a voice so raw and gorgeous it’ll make your jaw drop or your eyeballs leak. Or both.” ACD was thrilled, and now—rather than release an EP—they wanted AnnieLee to write more songs so she could put out a full-length album instead.

Ethan waved a hand in front of her face. “Hello? Buckle up,” he said, and soon the jet had risen above the clouds, where it then seemed to float as smoothly as if gravity had suspended its rules just for them.

AnnieLee gazed out the window at the endless blue sky. “I’m scared,” she whispered.

“Try riding in an Apache over a Taliban stronghold,” Ethan said.

“That sounds terrifying,” AnnieLee said. “But I didn’t mean I was afraid of flying.”

She’d been profiled in Rolling Stone’s “Ten Women to Watch Out For” feature, and so she was heading to LA for a photo shoot and an interview, which was far more frightening than streaking along at thirty-five thousand feet above the earth. Far too soon, the plane made its graceful descent, landing at Van Nuys Airport, twenty miles from downtown Los Angeles, where a car was waiting to take them to the photographer’s studio.

On the top floor of a refurbished warehouse in the Arts District, Eileen Jackson greeted them like old friends—even Ethan, whom she’d never met but took an instant liking to.

I’m sure it has nothing to do with his smoldering good looks, AnnieLee thought wryly.

Eileen directed Ethan to go wait in the studio, and then she took AnnieLee by the elbow and steered her into a stark room lined with three large clothing racks, all of them full.

“As you can see, we’ve sourced pieces from a number of designers,” Eileen said. “This is Rachel, who’ll be styling you today.”

Rachel was tall, pretty, and probably deliberately underfed. “Who do you like to wear, AnnieLee?” she asked.

AnnieLee looked down at her outfit: jeans, Fryes, and a T-shirt she’d stolen from Ethan that said CASH NELSON JENNINGS on it. “Don’t you mean what?”

Rachel laughed as if AnnieLee had made a joke. “I meant which designers. Rag & Bone? Burberry? Oscar de la Renta?”

The stylist clearly had no idea what a ridiculous question this was. “Honestly, I don’t give much thought to clothing,” AnnieLee said, “as long as it covers the bits it’s supposed to.”

Rachel gave another bright laugh, although it seemed a bit forced this time. “No worries,” she said. “We’ll just play around, then.” She slid several dresses off the rack to her left and laid them out on a table. “A classic little black number, something with a little flounce—and how about this Monique Lhuillier? Oh, and try this one, too. The garnet works great with your coloring. It’ll make your eyes pop.” She spoke over her shoulder as she kept thumbing through the clothes. “You can just change right here. Try this one, too. And this.” Then she turned around and blinked at AnnieLee and the pile of dresses on the table. “All right, that’s good for now, don’t you think? I’ll go grab shoes.”

Then she was gone, and AnnieLee was alone among a couple hundred thousand dollars’ worth of clothing. After a moment’s hesitation, she undressed. She grabbed the black sheath that Rachel had picked and stepped into it. The fabric felt cool and elegant against her skin. She zipped it up, gathered her hair into a topknot, and stepped barefoot in front of the mirror. She turned this way and that, squinting at this new version of herself.

“You look like Audrey Hepburn!” Rachel exclaimed, coming back in with an armful of heels.

“Really?” AnnieLee said. “I think I look like I should be going to a funeral.”

“Try the garnet Burberry, then,” Rachel suggested. “You want to love what you’re wearing.”

The Burberry was beautiful, but it showed too much cleavage. AnnieLee didn’t like the flouncy Carolina Herrera at all, or the minidress with the eyelet trim. Finally she slithered into the floor-length yellow gown that Rachel had picked out for her, and when she looked in the mirror, she almost gasped. It fit perfectly, from the graceful neckline to the way it skimmed her slim hips. The dress was exquisite, delicate—“totally hand-sewn,” Rachel said proudly.