by Marci Fawn
A men’s magazine.
A bikini.
Sexier.
Oh, God. That’s the last thing I need to be dealing with today!
I angrily push the door to my room open, desperately needing someone to rant to, but the first person I bump into is definitely not who I had in mind. However, since she defended me the other day, I’m intrigued by her, so when she steps over toward me, I stop, giving her the chance to speak. Normally I’d be doing my best to avoid Tonya, but not anymore. Now I feel like I need to get to know her better.
“Jem,” she says with concern in her voice. “Can I talk to you?” She’s shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, which is a side of her I’ve never seen before. If she was here to cause me trouble, I’m certain she would have come at me with a much feistier attitude.
“Of course.” She takes me to one side, and I expect her to mention Cole at the first opportunity, but she completely shocks me by bringing up someone else.
“I just think you should know that I saw Lola and Nate kissing yesterday,” she confides quietly to me. My heart stops dead at her words. Something about them rings with a truth that I never wanted to admit to myself. Of course that happened—I’ve known for a while about Lola’s blatant feelings for Nate, and he’s never been trustworthy. He’s a bad boy, a player, a ladies’ man. He slept with Mindy Hall, for crying out loud. I should never have trusted him, and I’ve been an idiot for doing so! “I’m sorry. I know this must hurt to hear, but I just thought you should know.”
I spent time considering our future. I panicked over it never happening. I feel sick to my stomach. Nate has probably been playing the field the whole time we’ve been spending time together. The whole “I love you” thing is probably just a part of his game—and I’ve been enough of an idiot to fall for it all over again.
Tonya doesn’t seem to be acting like her usual, manipulative self at all. I really think she’s telling me the truth because she cares—even if that doesn’t make much sense. Something about her attitude toward me seems to have shifted since she stopped Cole from being a dick to me, and for that reason alone I trust her words implicitly. I just can’t see what she’d be trying to gain from this.
“Okay,” I hear myself gasp, finding it difficult to breathe. “Thank you for telling me.”
“I don’t think they know that I saw them, but I needed to tell you. I know if it was me, I would want to know.” I nod slowly, feeling my whole world drop away from me. I’ve been a fool, a complete and utter idiot, and I have no idea what to do about that. I’ve been used all over again—only this time I gave myself willingly.
“I’m just going to go back to my room,” I announce, no longer wanting to see anyone. “Thank you again. I’ll…” I trail off, unsure of how I intended to finish that sentence.
“Okay, well, you know where I am if you want to talk,” Tonya calls after me, but I simply wave my hand in the air in acknowledgment. I can’t even begin to think past the angry tears that are pricking my eyes at the moment, never mind any future chat with Tonya Becker.
As I slide back down onto the bed that I was so desperate to escape only moments before, an acute loneliness overcomes me. This isn’t just a boyfriend that I’ve lost, it’s my only friend too. As much as I can’t believe that either of them would be careless enough to do that to me, I’m sadder that I’ve lost them than anything else.
As the tears finally start to wet my cheeks, I realize that the rest of my time on this cruise is going to be very long, and very lonely.
When Kim told me about a bikini photo shoot, I didn’t expect it to be a G-string job. I’m certain I heard her mention the word “classy” —what a damn liar! I thought it would be a nice, sensible two-piece that I could position in a way that covered my modesty. Instead, my butt’s totally on show, and I’m struggling to keep my breasts inside the tiny triangles. I might as well be completely naked if I’m totally honest. My nipple has popped out more than once.
“Look happier,” the photographer shouts at me again. “If you can’t pout and be sexy, then you’re at least going to have to be happy.” He’s a massive dickhead—the typical creep with long, stringy black hair, a dark-eyed nightmare that I’m sure models have to put up with on a daily basis. I’m used to young girls trying to make their way up the photography career ladder, so this really is a huge adjustment for me.
I want to yell at him that if he had any idea what I was going through in my personal life, he wouldn’t ask that of me, but of course I don’t. It’s pointless anyway—this man is a douchebag and nothing I can say will change that. For the first time ever, I realize just how difficult a modeling career must be. There’s certainly more to it than showing up and posing, at any rate.
“I need to see some more of your boobs,” he snaps, starting to sound really angry with me. “You’re about as sexy as a fucking wet fish at the moment. Ain’t nobody gonna be buying this magazine to get off on you.”
Tears prick my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. This is not the kind of man I ever want to see me cry. He’s trying desperately to get a reaction out of me, and I’m determined not to give it.
“Hey!” An unwelcome but surprising voice calls out, cutting him off. “Don’t be such a prick.” Nate looms above me. Feeling even more uncomfortable than before, I try to cover myself up, but it’s pointless. It’s impossible—there’s nothing to this damn bikini! Who in their right mind would wear something this skimpy in public?
“Who the fuck are you? And how did you get onto my set?” the photographer yells, sounding irate. His face goes red with rage as he looks at Nate.
Tearing my eyes away from him and back to Nate, I can’t help but notice what a terrible state he’s in. He looks like he’s suffering from the worst hangover of his life. He’s all green, a bit sweaty, and his eyes are ridiculously bloodshot. I wonder how much alcohol had to do with his decision to kiss my best friend…
“I think you have the shot you need now. Come on, Jem. Come with me.” I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place—do I go with the guy who has broken my heart into a million pieces, or do I stay here with this dickhead and continue to pose in next to nothing?
I actually consider it for a second, staying behind to spite Nate—especially when I think about Kim’s reaction to me blowing off this job, but in the end, anger wins out. I can’t subject myself to any more of this nightmare just to irritate someone else. That would be cutting off my nose to spite my face—completely and utterly pointless. So I stand up and try to stalk from the set with as much dignity as I can muster in this stupid nothing bikini. I try to cover my butt with one hand and my boobs with the other. It just makes me look stupid. What I need to do is walk with confidence, even if I don’t feel it.
I can hear Nate walking behind me, but I don’t look at him. Not yet. As soon as I lay eyes on him hell will be unleashed, and I can feel everything I want to say to him boiling inside, ready to spill out.
16
Nate
I’m literally suffering from the worst hangover known to man. I have no idea how much I drank last night, or what even happened. I can’t remember returning to my room. All I know for sure is that I’ve slept for most of the day, only getting up to puke occasionally. Much as I know that this is a self-inflicted pain, I can’t help but feel sorry for myself.
I’d come outside for some much-needed fresh air when I noticed that half the deck was cordoned off. When I asked someone what was going on, and they said Jem was having a photo shoot, I just had to go and see her again. I can’t believe she’s up and about again, and she hasn’t called me!
I certainly didn’t expect to find her sprawled over the deck in next to nothing with some douchebag yelling at her. I couldn’t stand for that. I had to put a stop to it right away. I’m glad I could help her out, but now she’s racing away from me at a speed that my poor, hungover body can’t even begin to keep up with.
“Wait!” I yell after her. “Wait for me.” She spins
around, giving me a look that suggests I’m about to be on the receiving end of whatever bad mood that dickhead has put her in. “Do you want to come to my room and chill out for a bit?” I ask, hoping I can stop the rant before it begins.
“Oh,” she replies sarcastically. “Is it me you want to come to your room, or is it Lola?”
Lola? Shit. The night comes screaming back to me—some of it, anyway. At least the bit where Lola tried to kiss me.
“No, no…” I try. “It’s not like that. It wasn’t like that.” My hangover is making it very difficult to be coherent. Why did I have to get so wasted after that kiss? “Please, just let me explain. You have to believe me.”
“You can’t explain cheating on me.” She steps away from me, creating what feels like a massive distance. “And I don’t have to believe anything you tell me.” She’s so clearly uncomfortable in that teeny bikini that I use it to my advantage.
“Please, just come to my room. It’s much closer than yours, and I can get you a t-shirt.” I can see that she isn’t happy about my suggestion, but it doesn’t matter. She follows anyway. It may just be for the clothing, but once she’s inside I’ll be able to give her my side of the story.
Once we’re inside my room, and she’s wearing an oversized t-shirt that looks like a dress on her tiny frame, I continue trying my best to make her understand. She’s not looking at me like she wants to listen, but I intend to make her. “Look, I took Lola out for a friendly—non-alcoholic—drink last night. I just wanted to spend some time with her because I missed you like crazy, and I thought she’d be a nice friend to talk to.” Jem doesn’t look convinced, and I can hardly blame her. “She got upset, started saying all this weird stuff about me being the only one to understand her, and then she leapt at me.” I sneak a glance at Jem, but she’s glaring back at me. “I pushed her off right away. Of course I did. Not only do I have you, but she’s underage. I don’t see her in that way. She’s like a little sister, and if I’m honest I don’t think she really likes me either. I think it was a cry for help.”
I just don’t know for what…
“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” Jem pleads for an answer, and I’m desperate to give her one.
Thinking on my feet, I hand her my phone. “Call her now. Ask her. She’ll tell you the same as me.” I know she’ll tell the truth, even if it makes her look bad. At least I hope she does.
Jem dials the number and waits for Lola to pick up. I can only hear one side of the conversation, but from what I can make out, she’s telling the truth and defending me in the process. But it doesn’t go unnoticed that she doesn’t say a lot—she isn’t the normal chatty Lola she’s always appeared to be. Jem doesn’t seem to catch on to that. She just seems relieved that I didn’t cheat.
How could she think that I would? Does she really think that little of me?
“Okay,” she sighs, clicking the phone off. “She said the same as you.” She seems to be accepting of this. I’m incredibly relieved.
“Right…” I start, about to say more, but before I can finish my sentence, Jem’s mouth is on mine, and she’s claiming me all over again. It’s almost as if she’s so glad that we’re going to be okay that she can’t keep her hands off me for another second. All thoughts of the hangover vanish from my mind as I kiss her back just as enthusiastically.
Not wanting to let the moment pass us by, I start to lean her down until she’s lying on the bed, the t-shirt rising up, exposing the G-string to me. Unable to bear that tiny piece of material on her skin, I yank it down, leaving her fully nude from the waist down. I’d rather see all of her than think of her posing awkwardly for that horrible, pathetic little man.
I tug her along until she’s at the end of the bed, then I kneel down on the floor beside her, wanting to do for her what she did for me not that long ago. I push her knees up and begin to kiss lightly down her thigh until I reach her entrance. By the time I do, she’s gripping tightly onto the sheets below her for dear life, her whole body tense with what is to come. I’m not sure if she’s expecting it, or if she’s just waiting for anything to happen, but I cannot wait to see how she’ll react.
I tease my fingers in, one by one, feeling her wet excitement. I massage her, alternating between plunging into her and playing with her clit. It makes her wild with desire. Then, just as she’s settling in to enjoy the movement of my hands, I nudge her legs farther apart with my nose and remove my fingers, replacing them with my mouth. As I flick my tongue all over her, using her clit to my advantage, she almost screams out in joy. I can tell she’s never had this done to her before, and that makes my cock stand at attention with excitement. I could stay here all day, tasting her sweet desire, but she soon sits up, wanting more from me.
“I want you…bad,” she announces, almost too honestly. I kiss her quickly, moving myself until I’m hovering over her, then I thrust my cock in, needing her as badly as she needs me. I want to taste her until she orgasms at the tip of my tongue, but I also want to give her exactly what she’s begging for.
“Oh, God,” I cry out in pleasure. She feels so good, always, and I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of this sensation. Of everyone I’ve ever slept with before, no one has ever felt as right for me as Jem does. No one has fit me quite so well, and made me feel so fucking special.
I start moving powerfully above her, wanting to make her feel amazing, but it seems like I’ve awoken something inside of her, a hunger that needs to be sated, because she quickly flips me over until she’s on top. When she’s like that, I need to see every inch of her body, so I beg her to remove the t-shirt. When it’s off I angle myself into a sitting position, and I get that terrible bikini top off of her too. She’s too good for that. I never want to see her in anything so scanty again. I might even have to have a word with her management team about this new “sexier” image—it’s totally unnecessary for the rest of the world to get to see what’s mine.
I really hope that photographer didn’t get a good shot of her, despite what I said to him—I don’t like the idea of the whole world getting to see my beautiful girlfriend like that! Especially not in a sleazy men’s magazine…
“Oh, shit,” Jem calls out, tossing her head back in ecstasy. As she shuts her eyes and begins to lose herself, I realize that I need her looking at me. I need to feel connected to her for this to be real. I like seeing her face fully contorted in pleasure, and I don’t want to miss another chance of experiencing that.
“Look at me,” I plead. “I want to see you.” At my request, she snaps her eyes open and sends me the sweetest smile I’ve ever seen. As she rides me, angling me for her pleasure, I an intensity grows in her face. She’s growing closer by the second.
Just as I’m about to explode, she screams out my name as she orgasms and crumbles above me, fueling my own pleasure in the process.
As we lay there, panting next to one another, I feel grateful all over again that she’s giving me another shot, that she hasn’t let those silly rumors bother her. But something else is plaguing me. There was something about the way Lola spoke to Jem on the phone that has me worried—and I’m not sure what for. Am I concerned that she’s going to twist things? Or is it because of what she said about heading down a self-destructive path herself? When I first met Lola, she seemed like a happy, well-rounded girl. Definitely not someone who would kiss her friend’s boyfriend. Something must have changed inside of her. But what?
Or who?
It’s a mystery I need to solve.
17
Jem
A couple of days later we prepare for yet another stop. This time it’s more of a historical island, rather than the picturesque heaven we were in last time, but I’m excited all the same. It feels like a nice getaway, stepping off the ship into another place and another culture, and I can’t wait to do that again. And after all that we’ve been through recently, I really feel like Nate and I could use the time to reconnect. The last stop-off worked wonders for us, and I coul
d really use that sort of luck again.
I’ve been focusing on Nate, trying to push everything else to one side for the time being, but it keeps cropping up in my mind over and over again. The awful photo shoot, Kim’s annoyance at my “diva attitude,” the weirdness with Lola, even my confusion about Tonya. They’re things I’m going to have to deal with, but I’m not quite ready for them just yet.
Nate knocks on my door and comes in to see me. “Are you ready?” I smile at his cute t-shirt-and-board-shorts combo. With me in my pale, floaty summer dress, we really will look like the sweetest couple ever.
“I’m ready.” I slip my hand into his, and we head toward the exit. Before we can get there, Nate’s manager Paul comes rushing in, holding a newspaper above his head. He’s red and sweaty and looks more stressed out than I’ve ever seen anyone look before.
“What the fuck is this, Nate?” he cries out in frustration. “Haven’t I had enough bullshit from you? And then you go and do this to me? What about your new image? Everything I’ve been working for? You’ll never work again at this fucking rate!”
“Whoa,” Nate replies, his eyes wide with shock. “Whoa, Paul. What the hell are you talking about? What’s going on here?”
“The fucking headlines.” He slams the paper down in front of him. “Nate Romero kissing a fucking minor! Nate fucking drunk out of his mind again. Nate drinking with a fucking underage starlet.”
I stare down at the page, my heart in my throat. There’s an image of Nate and Lola kissing. To me it seems clear that what Nate said is actually the truth—that this was only a split second of awkward shock before he shoved her away (I can see it in his face)—but to the rest of the world this looks bad. Really bad. Combine that with the images of the whiskey, and the drunken photographs, and the quotes from a “reliable source” and it doesn’t spell for a happy ending, to say the least.