ExtraOrdinary

Ch. 1 (Chance)

a/n: heads-up! the chapters you are about to read are the ORIGINAL version. 

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*Chance*

A camera clicked. A light flashed. Girls screamed at the top of their lungs. The director yelled. Everything was readjusted and the process began again.

It was a rather busy day at Giavanne's Studio in the middle of a rather busy street in a rather quiet town. But these were days I lived for: the hustle and bustle of my life of fame in this small town.

Giavanne's Studio was a large building, built out of burgundy red bricks, stuck between two little shops, one a comic store and the other an antiques shop. You knew you were in Giavanne's Studio, and not in any other store around the central area, when you could smell peppermint and coffee—which also happened to be what the owner smelled like, too. Inside, the upstairs was composed of three rooms: the main room filled with lights and camera equipment, the development room, and a bathroom. Downstairs consisted of Giavanne's office, a break room, a small café, and a 'readying room'.

Before Giavanne's Studio dominated this side of the street, a clothing store sat in its place. It was quaint and quiet, owned and run by a loving couple. But it was failing, and when the place went bankrupt, Giavanne was all too happy to take it out of their hands (I couldn't tell you where they went off to).

I was the main reason Giavanne's Studio even opened. When he saw me walking along the street one day, he immediately recruited me, and I was an instant hit—with businesses, and with the citizens of Brimwell, specifically the ladies. I'd been working with Giavanne ever since, onto our second year of partnership.

Sadly, my fame was not world-wide. My notoriety only extended to the four corners of this small city called Brimwell. But being known everywhere in Brimwell was a pretty good place to start before I ascended those stairs to the status of "idol".

I was a model, a male model. No, I was not an underwear model, but Lord knows I could have been. And unlike society's preconception about men in the modeling field, I was not gay. I was straight as a pole or the lines on a piece of paper. The fact that I couldn't walk straight even when I was sober had nothing to do with my sexuality.

To save myself from the inevitable alienation if I said, "I'm a male model", I said I was in the photography business. After all, Giavanne took my picture all day.

Of course, that and being a male model for girly teen magazines that only ran in Brimwell meant one thing: I was good looking. I looked damn good. How else would you get on the cover of magazines, aside from being a TV celeb or singer? You don't see ugly people painting the scene.

I was known around Brimwell for my looks: my dazzling smile, my silky hair, my sideways glances notorious for melting the hearts of women and warming the souls of children—all quotes taken from various magazines around Brimwell (I only read them to make sure I had only good press). I had my pick of any woman in this city. Every girl I came across wanted to date me, get my autograph, take my picture, or all three. My fan club consisted of half the residents of Brimwell—all the women here.

Some would say I led a life of luxury. I mean, I did ride to school in the only limousine in town just for kicks and giggles but only if I was in the mood, which, to be honest, wasn't often—I loved my car too much. It was pretty luxurious—the limo and my car.

My name was Chance Olson. My hair was golden blond, my eyes emerald green. I had pale skin because my childhood was spent inside rather than outside playing sports. However, I was muscular because I worked out often—people aren't aware how much physical activity and personal hygiene goes into modeling. The looks may be natural but maintaining them is harder than you think. I stood at six feet tall, with a slender frame lined with sculpted muscles. At seventeen years old, I attended Bankington High as a senior.