Dark Frame

by Iris Blaire

  I spot him by the coffee shop right before security. The only text I’ve sent him since he left was one telling him I’d be here today, to which he responded with a simple ‘ok’. Maybe he’s come to realize the same thing that I have.

  Which is okay, I guess, because I already know how the next few minutes are going to pan out.

  He’s dressed much too nice for jungle hiking. He might be wearing the same exact thing as when I first laid eyes on him—black slacks and a stiff, white button-down shirt. His hair is just as disheveled too. My heart twists in my chest.

  I really thought I loved him. I was just never able to differentiate.

  He spots me and smiles softly, but it’s definitely a sad sort of smile. When I reach him, we hug, but nothing more. He smells like he always does, spicy and citrusy.

  Laina waits for him by security. God, this blows.

  “You still doing the launch?” he asks.

  I nod, and he frowns.

  “I don’t know what happened, Dallas,” I say. My voice is shaking and I wish it wouldn’t. “I really thought we had each other figured out, but I guess we don’t.”

  He doesn’t argue. Instead, he nods, and I feel the knife of regret slowly rip through my insides.

  He reaches out and cups my chin with his hands. His eye brim with concern and sadness, like he’s taking his time. I wish he wouldn’t. For the sake of my sanity, this moment needs to end as soon as possible. “We moved too fast, didn’t we?”

  My nod is barely a shiver. “Yeah. Yeah, I think we did.” Granted, it was hard not to.

  “You think we should take a break,” he says. It isn’t a question—I feel like he’s been reading my mind since I walked into this airport.

  I take a deep breath when my eyes begin to water. I can’t let him see me cry right now. If I cry, then he’ll feel horrible and we’ll kiss and not break up. The cycle will repeat itself. But it will be worse this time, because we won’t be together.

  “I think—″ I wait, taking the time to conjure the perfect words. “I think that you’re amazingly brilliant, and sexy as hell.”

  The corners of his mouth perk up.

  “And what we had was fun. But that’s all—fun. I don’t know if it’s strong enough to hold us together while we’re apart.”

  His eyes begin to water, and all I know is that he better not fucking cry right now. I won’t be able to keep control of myself.

  “I wish we had more time,” he says.

  As if on cue, Laina calls Dallas’s name and points to her watch.

  “I’m sorry,” I mutter quickly.

  He leans down and softly kisses the top of my head, and my eyes flutter shut, savoring him. I know I shouldn’t be. I should be tossing him over my shoulder like every other hook-up and move on with Harvard and modeling and my life.

  But there’s something about Dallas Whitley that I’ll never be able to shake.

  He squeezes my hand and turns away. I force myself to not buy into the sentimental bullshit of watching him go through security until the second that I can’t see him anymore. Instead, I quickly turn on my heel and hurry out of the airport like the place is on fire, diving into my car parked in short-term. I collapse into a puddle of tears.

  I keep trying to tell myself that this is typical break-up crying. That I’d sob over any boyfriend, because that’s what emotions do, right?

  But deep inside, something nags at me, screaming that this is a horrible mistake. Dallas understood me on a deeper level than anyone—even Britain. He got what it was like to be both an erotic model and a bio major. A difficult degree and a job taboo as all hell. He was willing to joke about it, to tear guys apart who threw offhanded comments at me, and to understand my crazy before an exam and help me study through it.

  Maybe we shouldn’t have immediately jumped into becoming lovers. But we weren’t just lovers.

  He could have been on the way to becoming my best friend too.

  I curl up into a ball in my seat and allow myself to cry for a few more minutes, and then I start my car and drive home.

  The second I walk inside, Britain knows. She doesn’t say anything. Instead, she moves from the computer to the couch, pats the seat next to her, and asks, “Wanna talk about it?”

  I wipe my eyes. “Not really.”

  “Wanna scoop out some coconut milk ice cream and watch a couple of horribly corny chick flicks?”

  I nod, and she prepares the ice cream as I change into my pjs. I toss a couple of blankets on the living room floor and get situated as Britain flicks through options on Netflix. When we finally decide on a rom-com that looks achingly bad, Delilah comes home, throws her keys and purse on the couch, darts up the stairs, and shrieks, “Wait for me!”

  She returns in a satin pink camisole and matching pants—something I’d catch a second-grader wearing—and plops in the middle of us with a heaping bowl of popcorn. I feel a million times better already.

  If a bad movie and a couple of girlfriends can make me forget about Dallas, even for an evening, then maybe I made the right decision.

  Maybe I really wasn’t in love.

  Britain

  Audition day is weird as balls.

  First of all, it’s uncomfortable. My team walks around, performing their tasks stiffly and manically. I’m almost positive it’s because of the Amora Acquisitions rep. This time, a man named Dwain watches over us. Dwain isn’t the kind of guy you think of when fun and sexy media comes to mind. Dwain reminds me of a geometry substitute teacher. He’s gangly, balding, and wears a heinously patterned short-sleeved button-up shirt tucked into a pair of over-sized Dockers. He’s also always writing on his iPad. The fact that he so obviously doesn’t fit into a room filled with half-naked women and men is, humorously enough, setting everyone on edge.

  Apparently, Dwain isn’t the only Amora Acquisitions rep attending the audition. There are five more coming at noon. This is what’s setting me on edge, considering I can hardly handle Dwain. But the one good thing about Dwain is that, even with the timid substitute teacher look, he’s not afraid of barking out orders to my workers.

  I’ve never felt more organized before an audition in my life. There’s an entire waiting room set up right where the front door is. Potential models sign up with one of my writers, grab a number, and then wait until they’re called. All of my models who are helping with the shots today have been through hair and makeup, and we still have two hours to spare.

  Evan is a train wreck. She doesn’t simply look like a train wreck—her head isn’t screwed on straight either. After all models are done in the dressing room, Evan practically stumbles into the studio in her bathrobe, her hair a rat’s nest. Her eyes are bloodshot, her nose permanently Rudolph-red. She looks… well… almost monstrous. The other models, including Delilah, begin whispering rapidly to each other. I snap my fingers and glare at Delilah when she looks at me, and she sulks in the corner like a punished puppy.

  Ugh. Girls.

  “We don’t need you today,” I tell Evan. It escapes my mouth more harshly than I mean it to, and I know I’ve given those gossiping girls fuel for their fire.

  She stares at me blankly and scratches her head. “What do you mean?”

  I groan, grabbing her arm and pulling her back into the house. When I shut the door, I look her straight in the eye and say, “Be honest—how intimate was your audition shoot with Dallas?”

  When I say his name, she flinches. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know, the shoot on the pool chair that was his audition for EPE.” When she flinches again, I continue. “See? You really think I want to damage you more by making you do that again with a guy that isn’t… him? No. So you’re sitting this one out.”

  Her eyes grow fiery. “I don’t need you to be my emotional babysitter. I can handle myself.”

  “Obviously, you can’t.” Her face twists until she looks like she’s about to cry, so I add, “I’m doing this because A. I’m your best friend, B. I
have enough sample models, and C. you’ve already done enough for EPE. Hell, you’re coming back for the launch shoot even though you specifically stated that you want nothing to do with this shit when you’re at Harvard. So take a break, will you? Christ.” I point toward the kitchen island. “Eat your damn nasty vegan protein drink, take a shower, read a book, and I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  I turn on my heel and hurry back into the studio, shutting the door and locking it behind me for effect. Two more of A.J. Harrison’s cronies have arrived, and they’re both dressed in black and holding cameras. Immediately, my defenses go up. As they stand by the door and fiddle with their equipment, I march up to Dwain.

  “What are they doing?” I point to the cameramen. “I take the photos. That’s how it goes.”

  Dwain holds out his hands. “Calm down, calm down. A.J. thought it would be better if you were able to relax for once and soak in the whole experience of the audition. If you’re not so focused on taking photos, you’ll be able to see more clearly how the models themselves respond to the audition.” When I arch my eyebrow high, he adds, “You know, like on America’s Next Top Model, all of the judges are usually hanging around a monitor and not actually taking the photos.”

  “This isn’t a television show,” I snap. Technically, this asshat is my boss, but I don’t give a shit. Obviously, he knows nothing about this industry.

  “A.J.’s orders,” Dwain says, which ends the conversation. I growl in frustration. “Don’t worry, we’ll give you the reigns back before you know it.”

  Just the fact that he has to say that makes my insides knot. “Sure, whatever.”

  All auditions will take place in the typical bedroom scenario. I try my hardest to push for the pool, but that’s another thing Dwain puts his foot down on. A.J. says the bedroom is generic enough to get a good read on everyone. Whatever. That’s why we won’t be able to get a good read—because no one is going to be willing to take risks.

  Actually, every time I make a suggestion, Dwain tells me to stuff it. I’m also not allowed to be involved in the sign-up process or help out the set. So I end up sitting and fuming on a barstool in the studio kitchen, watching A.J.’s cronies take charge as the models slowly begin to trickle in.

  And now I get why they won’t let me be a part of the sign-in process—they’re actually turning people away at the door. At first it’s for the obvious reasons—too pudgy, too gangly—but then the assistants from Amora start turning away more and more—people who are hot, people who could potentially be great models. And it finally gets me out of my seat. Infuriated, I push through the sample models and tap Dwain on the shoulder. “What the hell is going on?”

  His lip pulls up into a sneer. “You, Miss McCulley, are out of line.”

  I’ve been pushed around enough today. “Listen, Dwain. This is my fucking magazine, and I can break the contract whenever the hell I want.” Technically, this is the truth, although Amora will keep the rights for another two years. “Why are all of these people being turned away?”

  “They don’t fit the East Park brand.”

  I am seriously going to deck this guy.

  I look at the models who have gotten through the gatekeepers. All tall and white, with that signature Abercrombie look. Actually, they look almost identical. I swear, even the guys and the girls look they could be from one creepy Mormon family.

  “Hi, I’m here to audition.”

  The voice strikes me as familiar, and when I turn to look, I watch Jaime hand his headshot to the assistant by the door. The assistant lets him walk through, and he spots me. I stare him down, and he immediately goes on the defense.

  “Give me a chance, Brit.”

  I grind my teeth. Dwain asks me if I know the guy, but I don’t respond. I study Jaime up and down before saying, “Well, at least you aren’t white.”

  His eyebrows furrow. “Uhh… thanks?”

  “Fine, I’ll let you have your twenty minutes.” I step toward him, keeping my chin in the air. “But, too be honest, I don’t think you’re even serious about the gig.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Please, Britain. You think I’m just here to torture you?”

  “No, I think you’re here to torture me and have a chance to pose with some gorgeous naked women.”

  “I take my job pretty seriously, thank you.”

  “Then prove it,” I state boldly, and march away.

  One of the Amora assistants calls all EPE staff into the back room, but before I can head that way, a pretty brunette girl catches my eye. “Excuse me, Ma’am.”

  I shudder involuntarily. “I’m not a Ma’am, but what do you want?”

  She snaps her gum. “Are we gonna have to, like, fuck on camera right now, or what?”

  “Oh my god,” I mutter, spinning on my heel without answering. Jaime’s laughter trickles across the room like liquid fire.

  Brunette gum-snapper asked if she’d have to fuck on camera, and now this room is set up like a porno.

  The sheets are red and satiny, and there’s a huge fuzzy heart pillow in the middle of the bed. Gag me. On top of it, the room is way darker than it needs to be, giving the whole space this gross seventies feel. I’m surprised they haven’t ripped out the flooring and put in shag carpet.

  “What is going on with this lighting?” I say out loud to no one in particular. Not a soul responds to me, although there are a couple of women in dress suits glaring at me as they clench iPads in their hands. I walk over to a guy adjusting a light and say, “Hey, you, the lighting is way too dark in here. You’re going to make even the skinniest girl look lumpy, and all of the shadows really awkward.”

  He waves his hand at me in dismissal. “Don’t talk to me, I just take orders.”

  I groan, looking around for anyone that will listen. It takes a whole fifteen minutes for the word to finally get around to Dwain that Britain is unhappy, and I really think he hates me now.

  I win on the lighting and get the Amora workers to amp it a bit, but unfortunately, Dwain won’t budge on the fuzzy red pillow that I find pedophilic and not sexy at all.

  The chairs that we will watch the auditions from are lined up on the side of the wall like a jury. I sit in the very back corner, Delilah right next to me, and Adam next to her. The rest of the models fill up the back row. They all have their arms crossed and look either pissed, uncomfortable, or scared.

  “This isn’t fun,” Delilah whispers to me. “I don’t know why, but I feel like I’m in trouble.”

  “I know what you mean,” I answer.

  “When you said we were going national, I didn’t think they’d be taking over like this.”

  I didn’t either, did I? Maybe I didn’t care to even think about it. The money was so good that I subconsciously knew if they took over, it wouldn’t matter. Now, looking at my models and how petrified they all seem, not thinking about it was a mistake.

  How can I fix this?

  I lower my head and close my eyes, thinking quickly. Pulling a small notebook from my pocket and the pen from behind my ear, I write each sample model’s name on a separate sheet of paper. Then, starting with Delilah, I give them each a theme, and write, no matter what the photographer tells you, stick to this. I hand Delilah the stack and mutter, “Pass them down.”

  She finds hers and passes the stack. She reads the paper, arches her eyebrow, and looks at me. “For real?” she says. “What’s the point?”

  “I know what’s good for EPE,” I whisper, nodding to the associate ushering the first female model into the room. “They don’t.”

  “I got you,” says Adam. He must have overheard me. I should probably whisper softer considering A.J’s cronies are sitting right in front of me.

  “Miss McCulley, would you be so kind as to select a sample model for this young lady?”

  Wow, first time I’ve been asked to do anything. It’s actually a bit shocking.

  The girl is very slight in frame with no ass or boobs. She almost looks like she’s
twelve. Knowing Amora Acquisitions, they’ll probably want to hire her. My mind is twisting perversely. Adam is our tallest, broadest guy. I’m thinking the juxtaposition will make for a great photo. Plus, I gave him hunter with his prey for the theme.

  “All right, big guy. Go get ‘em.”

  “Sweet.” Adam jumps to his feet and Delilah rolls her eyes, brushing red curls off her shoulders.

  The girl is beautiful and doe-eyed and looks absolutely petrified. She fits Adam’s theme perfectly, which is kind of disgusting. She might even be shivering. When she sees Adam, she looks like she’s about to cry, which is funny considering how gorgeous Adam is.

  The photographer, a tall, skinny, white, and incredibly city-chic-cliché looking guy, cocks his head to the side and says in a tenor voice, “Okay, I want you two to pose like both of you are made of the most delectable dessert and you want to eat each other up.”

  I—without even attempting to hide my actions—slap my hand to my forehead.

  Miguel, my model on the end, busts up laughing, and the Amora assistant in front of him shoots him a dirty look. Ella in the middle mutters, “Why don’t they just pose normally—like they want to fuck each other,” and that leaves all of my models in hysterics. I can’t help but crack a smile.

  Dwain turns in his seat and barks, “Get them under control.” I shrug in response. This is way too much fun.

  Adam catches my eye and winks at me. The girl crawls onto the bed and he follows her. As the photographer is finding his position, Adam slinks his arms around her waist and whispers something into her ear.

  Whatever he says, it works. When the photographer begins, she crawls away and he grasps her foot, pulling her back to him. Her body glides against the satin sheets and he pins her hips to the mattress.

  “Less aggressive, boy,” Dwain says.

  Boy? He didn’t even take the time to learn my models’ names?

  Adam doesn’t act like Dwain’s command fazes him at all. The way he arches his back makes him look like a cat, his hands stiff and clawed around the model’s hips. She twists her body around and it’s a beautiful shot that the photographer isn’t taking advantage of.