Sparrow's Story - A Girl Defiant

Chapter 20

Later that morning, Damon escorts Sparrow to the photographer’s studio in Soho. They step out of the graffitied freight elevator into a loft filled with carpenters and painters rushing to finish the set. Long black drapes cover all but one of the tall windows, and Sparrow swallows, her eye drawn to the cave that’s been crafted from foam core.

A painter is adding brushstrokes to the backdrop of storm clouds barreling over the cave while an electrician adjusts the lighting inside. Fiery shadows lick the fake rock walls. 

The lighting crew snakes black cables across the floor, and positions light stands and reflective panels. Sparrow’s thoughts flicker between Imran and last night and now, as her body hums with the memory of his touch. 

The art director taps her shoulder with his clipboard. “Excited?”

Sparrow’s cheeks flush. He has no idea what’s running through her mind. “Yes,” she says. “I’ve never done anything like this before.” 

“Well, I always tell the girls, ‘It’s our job to make you look good, so just relax and have fun.’”

An assistant approaches them with a plastic bucket of tiny yellow and white flowers. “Where do you want these?”

The art director points to the cave. “Strew them on the floor starting about six feet from the opening. I want it to look like the earth is blooming at her feet when she emerges from Hell.” He checks his watch and smiles at Sparrow. “You can get dressed now.”

The costumer leads Sparrow to the tiny bathroom where he’s hung up her goddess dress.  Light floods the small white bathroom, and as her eyes adjust, she sees how the counter is streaked with makeup and long blond hairs curl in the sink. 

She’s taken off her coat when the costumer he pops his head back in the room. “The photographer’s instructions say no undergarments, but I left you a thong just in case.”

 Sparrow shudders. “Pig,” she says under her breath.

The costumer blinks like Sparrow slapped him, and she holds up her hand. He is not the enemy; he’s the guard who brings the prisoner a forbidden book. “I’m sorry. Thank you.”

 “No problem,” he tells her and shuts the door.

Sparrow strips and hangs up all her clothes, because she don’t want them to touch whatever’s clinging to the floor or the sink top. The thong is more of a gesture than a help and when she slips into the pink gold silk gown, it grazes her skin, making her feel exposed even though the mirror shows her that it’s opaque. 

Just get through this, she tells herself and opens the bathroom door. 

The hair and makeup team won’t let her sit in the gown. Damon hovers over their shoulders and Sparrow closes her eyes while an airbrush mists her skin and sable brushes stroke her eyelids. 

The first quiet notes of a symphony play in the background, and her mind drifts back to Imran’s bed where they lie face to face, quietly talking. His dark eyes hold hers, their gravitational force as strong as a black hole in the cosmos. She’s ready to free fall and let him pull her into a new universe.  

The costumer touches Sparrow’s hand, and she opens her eyes. “We’re almost ready.” He clips her hair back loosely from her face with two tiny gold olive branches before he fusses with draping over her breasts. “She’s absolutely luminous,” he says to the makeup artist. “What foundation did you use?” 

“Just a liquid sheer, but maybe she’s in love. That always brightens the cheeks.”

Sparrow’s breath catches. “I’m not in love,” she snaps.