ALEXIS KING

I wake, rubbing my eyes from the bright sunlight. On a comfy, white bed, I stretch my legs out and my arms wideout. A heavy breath leaves my mouth as my body raises from the bed. The loft I stay in is very small but cutely compact. A blue wall tapestry hangs behind my messy bed, and my clothes hang on racks on both sides.

The right holds long blouses, pants, and a few skirts. The left side holds my blazers and jackets. A single nightstand is on my right, a glass and circular make with a white vase atop it. A long black pipe runs the ceiling, reaching from the corner and up like a sore thumb. I step down a light wood ladder to the bottom portion of my loft. White plants scatter the area below, along with a bookcase of albums. I walk to a tiny bathroom and remove a white robe.

My hands twist the shower knob to the far left. I need a cold shower; Cali heat is no joke! I bathe using oatmeal soap and a Dead Sea Salt scrub. I usually set a timer, but I forgot my phone on the bed. I wash for about twenty minutes, then hop out. My face routine is next, my cleanser, aloe vers, sunscreen primer, then a light coat of makeup. I only add enough to hide my premature wrinkles and my dark under eyes. Back at my bed, I check my phone to see five missed calls.

"Ugh, Jas.." I sigh and redial. I sit my naked body on the edge of my bed and lotion my feet on up as I wait. My wet, short blonde hair shakes with every bend I make as if it's a leaf blowing in the wind.

"Hey, Alexis, the barista fucked up your drink; I'll be running late."

"This is text worthy, you know?" I snap while fingering lotion between my toes.

"Oh, and the investors rescheduled for next Friday at 5." Jason's light voice adds.

I stop my massaging and hit the mattress. "Fuck!"

"Yeah...sorry, that's the third time."

"Just bring my damn coffee, okay!" My slipper finger stabs at the end call button. This is fucking embarrassing! The investors, meaning my dad and his friends, keep denying to reconstruct our contraction to $60,000 a year. The modeling studio needs upgrading, and our marketing needs a boost as well. It's like the old farts want the business to remain the same...slow and damn near nonexistent. Who rejects a business expansion? Ground Zero could be the next big modeling agency.

The IT spot for professionals in Beverly Hills, for actors, models, and social media influencers. But no...I guess I'll continue living out of a closet and lowering the prices because our clientele is pathetic. The company is lucky to even get ten calls a month at the price of $150. If the investors gave a shit, they'd accept my deal and fund advertisements; then, we could charge $300 to $400 per photoshoot. I leave my bedrooms in my sheet and go to a little hall to descend a set of stairs.

The studio has whitewall coverings and giant stands, enough to trick customers that we're in the leagues.

The use of Lightroom and Photoshop places Ground Zero on the radar for Instagrammers, yet downtown is the hot spot for any photography. There's competition. I power on the lighting equipment and check the appointment calendar on my phone. It's 8 am, and today our one client is at noon, Claire Underwood. I huff and open the contacts app.

This has to change; if not, I will lose my place and will be homeless soon. I select a number and wait for a dial tone to drop. I know my father will stick to his guns and leave my silly business alone, as he describes it. But I have to try one last time.