by Iris Blaire
“Fucking idiot,” I whisper, and Delilah nudges me in the arm.
The Amora Acquisitions team write furiously on their iPads. None of them look very enthused. Adam wraps his arms around the models’ torso and pulls her up until they’re both kneeling and facing the camera, her back pressed to his chest. He drags his bared teeth across her earlobe, runs his hands up her ribcage, links his fingers beneath her bandeau, and tugs down until her breasts are exposed.
Leave it to Adam to be ballsy with a girl he’s never met before.
It’s like it doesn’t even cross his mind that there are twenty people watching him, half of them typing on their iPads like scientists at a research exhibit. Not hiding behind the lens makes me feel naked and exposed to the situation, an ache building between my legs. Everything that’s happening in this room is incredibly voyeuristic and weirdly fucking hot.
The female model releases a small gasp, and Adam whispers something else in her ear. I can tell by the way Delilah is so stiff that she’s not too happy. Considering how loose Adam always acts, it’s hard to remember that they’re constantly on-again off-again.
With stiff, crooked fingers, Adam runs his claw-like hands right over the girl’s breasts, and she closes her eyes and arches her back like she enjoys the sting of it. Another perfect shot, but the dumbass photographer is, again, shooting from the wrong angle. I ball my hands into fists. I wish I could use this, just like I used Dallas’s audition. The only difference is that I’m going to have to reshoot this entire session.
I grunt in frustration, but none of the Amora assistants seem to notice.
Even worse than shooting from the wrong angles is when the photographer decides to end early, even when the auditioning model is so willing to continue. He shouldn’t have, considering the next string of models either act like or express that they don’t want to take their clothes off. One of them, as Ella is hanging all over him and trying to portray the weightless theme that I gave her, blatantly says, “This is making me uncomfortable.”
“Hold up, hold up,” I yell as I stand. The photographer purses his lips and drops his camera, and I can’t tell if he’s annoyed with the model or with me. “Do you know what East Park Exposed is?”
The guy shrugs. “Well, yeah.”
“And this is making you uncomfortable? Neither of you are naked yet.”
“I don’t know, I just…”
“What do you think we do, Photoshop your nipples on?”
Delilah snickers.
I get another wave of nasty looks from the Amora crew and finally crack. “Stop looking at me like that! You know I’m right!”
After the slew of uncomfortable candidates, there’s a slew of generic candidates. My own professional models look like broken toy soldiers as they attempt to play sexy with them. Now I don’t know if it’s the photographer or simply a string of bad luck. Finally, a crew member calls number sixteen, and I smack Delilah on the knee.
“You’re up.”
Jaime walks into the room.
“Sweet baby Jesus,” Delilah breathes.
Adam grunts uncomfortably next to her.
I grab her shoulder to gain her attention. “I need you to screw this up,” I mutter.
“What?” she hisses. “Are you fucking insane? He’s gorgeous.”
“I know him, and he’s an ass to work with. Just do as I say.”
She groans and stands, trudging to Jaime and holding out her hand. “I’m Delilah.”
“Jaime.”
Delilah gapes at him, and then she slowly turns toward me.
Oh, fuck.
I’d forgotten that I spilled my secrets to Delilah and Evan one night when the three of us were drunk at the house. We were talking about dumb high school perceptions and decisions, and what we would tell our teenage selves if we could.
And I drunkenly said, I’d tell my teenage self to stop fantasizing about Jaime eating you out, because he’s an asshole and will never do anything other than tease you.
Delilah and Evan responded with a chorus of, Oooooh, Jaime! That’s when I told them about my brother’s douchebag best friend.
Delilah’s eyes hold a deviant glint as she connects the dots. She wouldn’t.
She would.
I’m so screwed.
As the photographer finds an angle, Delilah whispers into Jaime’s ear her plans. He nods.
Before the photographer has even begun shooting, Jaime has swung Delilah up into the air. She wraps her legs around his waist and presses her forehead to his.
“Move onto the bed,” Dwain orders, but Jaime doesn’t listen to him.
And then they’re kissing.
Several of the models hoot and holler. “Yeah, baby!” Miguel yells.
Crazy that a simple kiss can spark such a reaction from a room of soft-core porn stars.
But it’s not just a simple kiss. Delilah drags her teeth across Jaime’s lower lip. He unhooks her bra seamlessly without stumbling once. She arches her back, letting one hand drop and clutching his neck with the other. It’s like her creamy porcelain skin is spilling off and over him. It’s such a goddamn perfect shot despite my reservations with Jaime, and I swear if the photographer doesn’t catch it, I’m going to punch him in the nuts.
Suddenly, a feeling I’ve never experienced during a photo shoot swells in my gut—jealousy.
I shove my fists into my stomach, as if that will stop it. What the fuck is my problem?
The way she gyrates her body against his makes me sick, even though they’re perfect together. There’s no way Jaime won’t make the cut, so I better get used to the thought of him.
Existing in my business, my job.
Existing in my life again.
She presses herself to his body. His tongue glides up her neck and he nips at her jaw.
Then his eyes break away from her, and he finds me in the dark sea of observers and models.
Chapter Four
Evan
Summer passes by as I sit in my room, studying my ass off.
It’s the perfect way to tune the world out and prepare for Harvard all at once. I go through all of my old textbooks, read through the chapters, and complete the study guides. Not everyone gets such an amazing opportunity like me to attend one of the best schools in the world. I need to grab it by the balls and take charge.
I have little control in the rest of my life. Like my love life.
And being sucked into EPE again.
When I’m not studying, I’m working out. It took me only two months to let go completely, and I can’t believe how out-of-shape I got. I loathe the gym, so I do my cardio elsewhere, jogging through the neighborhood when it’s cool enough outside. And I go swimming.
I love swimming. I love how the water fills my ears and the entire world is silent. It’s like I can almost feel my brain taking a break.
When it’s finally time to say goodbye to California for the year, it’s less hard than I thought. I’m getting over the heartbreak of Dallas, and I know I’ll be seeing Britain and Delilah in a couple of weeks anyway.
The only hard goodbye is Mom.
My mother is a smart woman. When explaining my breakup with Dallas, she waves her hand in front of her face. “You’ll get over him the moment you enter that sea of East Coast boys. I promise you.”
And that is literally the end of the conversation.
She makes me vegan potpie the day before my flight leaves. We stay up all night to watch crappy soap operas and I fall asleep on the couch. When she shakes me awake, it is 3:30 in the morning. She tells me my flight leaves in three hours and I burst into tears, pulling her into a hug.
^^^^^
Nothing says boring like a United flight across the continental U.S. I order two vodka sodas on the rocks over the course of the trip and barely keep my buzz from it.
I don’t get nervous until I’m in the airport and have to find my way to the train that will take me to Cambridge. With a little help from airport security, I manag
e to buy a ticket from an automated machine and locate the train station outside the airport. I’ve already downloaded maps of Harvard onto my phone, and it shouldn’t take long at all to walk from the train stop to campus. I already did the college dorm thing when I was a freshman. I’m a pro at this.
So why is my heart pounding?
Because you’re away from home, Evan. You’re alone.
I take in deep breaths through my nose. The train slows, and I get off at my stop. This isn’t Cali. Only the middle of September here and it feels like January back home. I pull my sweater tighter around me as I lug my massive rolling suitcase behind me with my other hand. Setting my GPS, I follow the streets to the most prestigious university in the U.S.
I’m in Perkins Hall. I chose it because it was the exact opposite of any kind of dorm room I’ve ever seen in the western United States. It’s what you imagine when you think of New England and Ivy League. Dark brick, old pillars—even the smell inside of the building screams that it’s been here forever. It’s a drastic change from home. I chose to move here before I knew that I was breaking up with Dallas, but now that I have, it seems completely appropriate.
Starting fresh in all aspects of my life.
I receive my room key and sign off some paperwork with my RA. The hall is strangely quiet—so much different than my experience at East Park my freshman and sophomore year of college, especially on moving day. Those roaming the halls are dressed in nice clothes and tote rolling suitcases behind them instead of the duffels and cardboards boxes undergrads usually lug into the dorms. I think that graduate students realize most of the shit you bring to your dorm room ends up going unused anyway. Too much time is spent studying and partying to need anything more than clothes and a laptop.
My room is on the second floor. I make my way up the stairwell and down the narrow hall to room 212. Unlocking the door, I allow it to swing open only to be incredibly underwhelmed.
The room is about eight feet by twelve feet. There’s a small window at the end with dingy blinds and a bed. Typical dorm, but even smaller than I’m used to, because almost all graduate dorms are for single dwellers.
I roll my suitcase to the middle of the floor and sit on the mattress. I’m pretty good at being alone. Having a hard major during my undergrad meant a whole lot of time spent alone. But I always had my dorm mate to come back to. And then later, when I was a junior and a senior, I always had Britain and Delilah.
There’s that kind of alone, and then there’s this. My heart clenches in my chest. This is going to be a bitch getting used to.
“Damn, you’ve got a way better view than me.”
A tall blonde guy stands in my doorway, leaning up against the wall like he owns the place. His hair is thick and wavy and falls to his chin, and when he looks from the window to me, he smiles warmly. For a blonde, his skin is really tan—he isn’t from around here. He’s also pretty cute.
He holds out a hand. “Sorry. Miles.”
“Hi, Miles, I’m Evan.”
“Trying to meet everyone on the floor right now. Less awkwardness later.”
“Understandable.”
His grin gets bigger. “You’re my neighbor.” He points to the room directly across from me. “What are you studying?”
“Chemical biology.”
“Ah, smart, I see. I’m getting my master’s in English.”
Ugh. Who would get a master’s in English? How pointless. Of course, I don’t say that. I just nod and grin. “Nice.”
“Where are you from?”
“California.”
“What school’d you go to?”
“East Park.”
“Ah, East Park! I heard they have a great porn mag coming off that campus. You wouldn’t happen to be a porn star, would you?”
My breath catches in my throat. Caught, caught, fucking caught. I’ve been on campus for three minutes—how the hell did this—
He busts up laughing. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding! I mean, not about the porn mag. Did you know about that?”
I exhale out of my mouth and shrug. “Too busy in the lab to be paying attention to anything on campus.”
“Thank God I don’t know that feeling. You headed to the barbeque?”
“The what?”
“The welcome barbeque for Perkins hall.”
“How can there be a barbeque? It’s fifty degrees out.”
“I know, I know. I’m from San Diego. Not used to this weather either.” He pushes his hand through his hair and looks around. “Alright, now that I’ve probably scared you to death with talk of porn and fifty-degree barbeques…” he points behind him. “I’m gonna head out. Nice to meet you, Evan.”
I hold my hand up. “You too. See you around.”
Miles leaves, and I stare at the empty doorway like it’s on fire. If today weren’t strange and jarring enough, Miles just topped the cake.
As I close my door, my phone buzzes once in my pocket. I pull it out to see a message from Britain.
Really hope that you’ve started working out. AA (haha, like alcoholics anonymous) re-evaulated our time at Cambridge and decided we needed an extra week, so we’ll be there in eight days.
Eight days.
Eight days?
I have orientation for my program tomorrow. I start lab work next week. More likely than not, my professors will grind us to the bone from the very start to make sure we’re up for the challenge. On top of it, I’m starting my internship for research on the first of October.
And now the EPE crew is flying out in a week.
I have to keep reminding myself that it’s just one more issue. One more issue and I’m done forever.
I pull my sweater tighter around me. Somehow, that thought doesn’t make me feel better. But I text Britain back anyway:
Bring it.
Britain
This should be the start of a joke: How many erotic models can you fit into an airplane?
There is one good thing about this situation: no “assistants” from AA are on our flight. They will be flying into Boston tomorrow.
Of course, I end up in the window seat right next to Jaime.
“I swear Jaime, if you don’t stop asking me….”
“Brit, I need you to let me do this. For my personal growth.”
“I will not let you dry hump my best friend for your personal growth. I will never let you dry hump my best friend for your personal growth. You know why, Jaime?”
“Brit.”
“Because you’re annoying as fuck, that’s why.”
God, this is all too familiar.
The lady behind me clears her throat, probably in disdain of our conversation.
“Tsk, tsk. I don’t remember you having such a mouth.”
I roll my head from the window to him. He’s pivoted in his seat so that he’s facing me. He’s enjoying this.
“A lot of shit changes in college. Don’t you agree, or are you a drop out?”
My burn doesn’t look like it fazes him. “I graduated, thank you very much. Who gets to model with her?”
“What?”
“Who gets to model with Rylan?”
“I don’t know, okay? And I don’t care. Just not you. You don’t get to model with her because you don’t even want to. You just want to get under my skin.”
A devilish smirk graces his full lips for half a second. He hasn’t shaven in a few days, making him seem so much older than when I saw him before I left for college.
If only he would act older.
“Why do you think I want to get under your skin so badly?”
The fasten seatbelt light blinks on.
“When have you not?”
He chuckles. “Touché.” Finally, he leans back in his seat and shuts his eyes.
I wish I knew his agenda. Unless he doesn’t have one. Unless he’s really here just for the job, for the money, and I have nothing to do with anything.
Only a happy coincidence.
Loud chatter s
prings from the seats in front of me. Luckily, all of my models get along well enough with each other. That’s the thing I’ve discovered with this magazine. Erotic models don’t have a particular personality. Before I met Evan, before I started conceptualizing what it would be like to create a magazine like EPE, I thought that college-aged erotic models might act the same as high fashion models. Vain and lacking character, maybe with anorexia or a coke addiction. They’d all like to party too.
But that isn’t really the case. The personalities of my models vary because their only similarity is that they’re all (or once were) college students.
Really, that’s all they are. College students. College students confident enough to do just about anything for money desperately needed.
I can’t wait until the plane takes off and I can pop my earbuds in—hopefully painting a clear picture to Jaime that I’d rather not catch up. When Chloe passes me to get to her seat, she smiles. I smile back. Chloe is the petite model who posed with Adam during the audition. Shiny, black hair, almond-shaped eyes, and a spatter of freckles. Imagine Lucy Lu to the power of cute. That’s Chloe.
We only hired her and Jaime off of the audition. Eight models I’m taking to Boston, plus Evan. Hopefully I can conjure a powerful enough chemistry between all of them.
My phone starts buzzing. I look down to see the person I least expected.
Dallas.
Good grief. He’s probably one of those lame ex-boyfriends, calling his ex-girlfriend’s best friend in attempt to win sympathy points by bitching about how much he’s still in love with her.
Still—I really like Dallas, even if he and Evan couldn’t get their act together enough to long-distance date.
I ignore the call, but then I text him back:
Boarding for Boston. Call you when I land.
Hopefully that’s good enough.
“Has Cameron mentioned me at all?” Jaime asks.