Playboy

by Logan Chance

  Jonah’s very neat, I notice as I leave his room and walk down the short hallway into the living room. His place isn’t cluttered or littered with junk, and it has personality. High vaulted ceilings, hardwoods, and an open floor plan.

  I tiptoe into the kitchen and try not to disturb a sleeping Jonah on the couch. Poor guy. I don’t even remember kicking him out of his bed last night. Hopefully he doesn’t take last night as an indication of what type of roommate I’ll be.

  I’ll make up for it by cooking him a great breakfast. I cross the tile and open the stainless fridge to see what he’s got. Judging by the contents, he’s not a health nut, another pro in the roomie department. It feels a little weird to be rifling through his fridge, but I grab eggs and bacon and slide them on the granite countertop, then quietly go through cabinets locating a skillet. By the time breakfast is almost ready, I have everything set up on the island. Juice is poured, coffee is brewing, plates are waiting to be filled, I just need Jonah.

  “What’s all this?” his gruff morning voice asks.

  I turn from the stove. Ok, I can do this. Morning Jonah, barefoot with rumpled hair, glasses, tee and basketball shorts that hang on his lean hips just right, is a little overwhelming.

  “Hi, sleepyhead,” I greet him.

  “Great, a morning person,” he mumbles, grabbing a coffee mug with cute, little cameras all over it.

  I take it from him and fill it. “You look like you want to shoot someone.” I hold the mug out. “Get it?”

  “Oh Lord.” He takes the mug from me. “Yeah, I get it.”

  “Are you working today?”

  “Yeah. In a little bit.” He takes a seat at the island. “You?”

  “I have today off, so I was thinking I could pack up my stuff from my place.” I hesitate, because what if he changed his mind. “It’s still ok I move in, right?” Please say yes. I hold my breath waiting for his answer.

  “Yeah, of course. I like waking up to breakfast every morning.” He raises his hand and gives me a thumb up. “You stay. Get it?”

  What is he doing? “Um,” I tilt my head, “was that a joke?”

  His hand drops. “Gladiator. The movie. He lives, he dies. Never mind.” I dish out some scrambled eggs and bacon onto his plate. “I just figured your wanting to be a movie star and all.”

  “Well, I’ve seen it, but it was boring.”

  “Oh my God,” He gives me a thumb down. “She leaves.”

  I laugh. “Come on. The movie is boring. Everyone knows that.”

  “You’re twisting my heart and driving a wooden spatula through it.” He clutches his chest.

  “Now quote a good movie, and I can play along.”

  “That was a good movie,” he deadpans.

  I smile, glancing over his head into the living room and point the spatula at the far-hanging framed picture of rusted, weathered tracks, with no end point in sight. “I really like that.”

  He turns on the stool and points to the photo over the couch. “That one? I took it.”

  Wow. It’s not an ordinary photo. Haze lingers on the well-worn tracks, like laughter drifting from the passengers on their way to their destination. “Really? It’s great. Makes me think of all the places I want to go,” I muse.

  “It’s the old railroad tracks.”

  “Jonah, it really is amazing. Do you sell them?”

  He shrugs. “Nah. Maybe someday.”

  He digs into the eggs and gives a little ‘Mmm.’ They’re really good, if I do say so myself.

  “If you cook like this all the time, I might like having you around,” he says with a wink.

  We finish off breakfast, and he drops me off at my car. After giving me explicit instructions not to touch his office, he passes me the key so I can move my things in. It’s official, we’re roommates.

  “I’m moving in with Jonah,” I text Gidget, unable to believe it myself.

  I wait for the call I know is coming. She doesn’t disappoint, and I answer on the first ring.

  “Jo-who?” she asks. “Why don’t I know about this person?”

  “You do. The photographer at Bunny Hunnies,” I remind her. “Declan’s best friend. Let me mention, gorgeous best friend,” I add, pulling into the driveway of my cottage.

  “Ohhhh. Fill me in. How did that happen?”

  “Well, last night when you ditched me,” I tease, “it just sort of came up.”

  Stepping into my place is like stepping in to controlled chaos. I survey all the things strewn about the living room.

  “First, I didn’t ditch you. I was sick,” she says. “Second, I’m pissed because I missed meeting him.”

  “Well, there’s more. Want to come over and help me move? I’ll buy you lunch. Are you feeling better?”

  “Much better. I have to run in to work later. There’s a crisis with one of the Skittle Skattle Doo’s choreography,” she says. “Apparently, I have to make it easier. As if.”

  I laugh. “Well, let them try your moves in a dog costume.”

  “Truth,” she says, laughing. “I’ll be there in an hour.”

  While I wait for her, I gather a few things and stuff it into trash bags. Fancy mover, I know. I can’t believe I’m really doing this. Did I say that already? Because I really can’t believe I’m doing this. Part of me wanted to turn down the offer, because, although he may have been my crush, I don’t know the man. But, the other part knows things will be easier because he lives so much closer to work and auditions. Pros and Cons.

  I shower and get ready in record time just before Gidget knocks on the door. Her petite, dark haired frame breezes past me in black leggings and a ‘Dance Or We Can’t Be Friends’ t-shirt.

  “Did you sleep with him?” she asks.

  I lead her into the living room. “Well…technically, we did sleep in the same bed.”

  Her hazel eyes grow to epic proportions. “Chelsea,” she exclaims.

  I shake my head. “It wasn’t like that. I had too much to drink, and he brought me to his place. But, his couch was awful. Ever sleep on leather?” I snicker a little, but it really wasn’t funny. “So, I guess I moved to his bed.”

  She perches on the arm of the recliner. “What did he do?”

  “He didn’t do anything. Not that I wanted him to anyway.”

  “Hm.” She stands, grabs a shirt off the couch and stuffs it into the large, black bag.

  “What?”

  She shakes her head, and a few long curls escape from the messy bun on top of her head. “No, it’s a good thing nothing happened. First, you’re living with him now.” She picks up a sandal and tosses it into the sack.

  “And second?” I ask, grabbing the other sandal.

  “Well, there is no second. He’s your roommate should be big enough.”

  “You’re right.” Hopefully my body heeds this wisdom. “And his place is so nice,” I continue with the pros of ignoring any attraction to him. “Plus, we work together.”

  “Exactly. Look but don’t touch.”

  She’s right. I have one mission. Working on a major production is my dream. Bunny Hunnies is a stepping stone onto the road of that dream. I can’t screw things up by banging the photographer at work. No, that will never help my reputation. Besides, he would never see me that way.

  So, I put all thoughts of Jonah away. All the sexual thoughts of how sensual he is. All late-night fantasies I still hold onto from my teenage years when he would stay the night, and I’d imagine him and I together.

  Hey, I was young. No judging.

  We finish grabbing my things, load everything into my car, and drive across town to Jonah’s. Well, I guess now it’s my place, too.

  Gidget helps me unload the car, and together we bring everything inside.

  “Wow, this place is great.” She looks around. “How cool is this?” she says, pointing to the coffee table inset with movie covers from magazines. She picks up the red throw pillow that says “Ticket” in bright yellow letters from the recliner
. “Um,” she raises a brow, “he might be your soulmate.”

  “What? No. He liked Gladiator.”

  She drops the pillow and steps closer to the couch, studying the photos on the wall.

  “He took those,” I tell her, feeling an unwarranted sense of pride.

  “They’re great. He’s got a great eye.” She turns back to me. “Let’s go find your room.”

  We drag my stuff down the hallway, and it isn’t hard to figure out which room is mine—he put my picture from the beach on the door.

  “Damn, look at your boobies,” Gidget says. “Something tells me you better lock your door at night or one of you is gonna be sneaking across the hall.”

  “Would you stop?” I say, dropping my bag on the queen size bed.

  A bed. A big bed, not a twin, like I’ve been sleeping on. With a fluffy white comforter and millions of throw pillows in blues and yellows. I’m so happy, I could cry. I’m going to get to stretch out as far as I want. I may sleep sideways, just because I can. This room is perfect. I love everything about it: the dark furniture, the padded armchair, and my favorite—the window seat filled with more bright pillows. Maybe my karma is changing because all this feels a lot like good luck.

  “We’ll see,” she says, pulling out clothes from the bag.

  Although Jonah should probably lock his door. Because if anyone is sneaking, it would probably be me.

  5

  Jonah

  Ever feel like your life has been turned upside down? That’s how I’ve felt ever since Chelsea walked onto my set. It’s all because of her tits. I should not have noticed the size of her breasts, or that they were real, and I might as well come completely clean here—they were the best set I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen a lot. But not even that, they were the best set I’ve ever touched—squeezed—touched.

  For a week now, I’ve tried to block out the way they felt when I grabbed them. But, it’s hard when you have to stare at the pictures with a million-different people, and they point and place their finger right on the rosy nipple I know is behind the bikini top. It’s even harder cause she’s living with me. She’s everywhere. I step out of my bedroom door, and she’s traipsing down the hall in nothing but a towel with her wet hair dripping down her tanned body. Or, when I wake up, the smell of breakfast brings me to the kitchen where she’s wearing cute boy shorts and a tiny tank.

  Her tight little body is always on display for me, taunting me. Even her last name…

  “Is Sincock here yet?” Stan, the set coordinator for today’s lingerie shoot, asks.

  There’s a glint in his eye when he says it. I don’t like it. He’s always staring at her. They act as if they’ve never seen a beautiful woman before. I’ll admit, she has a certain girl next door quality to her that’s much more appealing than the glossiness of the other models. So, I’ll give them that. But I don’t like the way they say her name. Goddammit. I turn from checking the lighting setup for today’s shoot and stalk over to the hair and makeup room and stick my head in the door. “Chelsea, let’s go.”

  Her eyes meet mine in the mirror stretched across the wall. Scrawled in red lipstick across the glass is: ‘In moments of doubt, eat a donut.’

  “Nice affirmation today,” I tell Garcia, the resident makeup artist. “If you’d hurry, maybe we could actually eat.”

  “You need to not demand things,” he chastises me. “Art takes time.” He dips his fingers into Chelsea’s loose curls and gives it a tousle. “Go make love to that camera, Siiiincock,” he drawls out. “Make those men want to lick the pages.”

  And that right there is about all I can take of this. Men licking pages and my best friend’s sister should not be happening. What else shouldn’t be happening? Me looking at her long legs when she stands. She wraps the too short white robe tighter around her. I grit my teeth. She looks like a fucking sex goddess. Why the hell would Garcia do this? The other models on today’s shoot don’t look like they just rolled out of bed after a hard fuck. But, then again, the other models don’t have curves like Chelsea, so a hard fuck would probably break them.

  She glides over to me on six inch stilettos, and I grab her elbow and pull her aside in the hallway. “Listen, you’re going to have to change your last name.”

  “What?” She pushes my glasses up a bit on my nose and rolls her eyes. “You’re being ridiculous. Do you know that?”

  “This is just wrong,” I tell her, stepping away to put some space between us.

  She shakes her sex hair head. Her lashes are so thick and full, I’m not sure how she’s lifting them. “I realize this is uncomfortable for you. But it’s not wrong. You need to stop being so negative.” She smiles. “Get it?”

  “Yeah, I get it,” I tell her. “Maybe you should be a comedian.”

  “Jonah, we need you on set,” Stan calls out. He spots Chelsea and grins. “Ready, Sincock?”

  I’m going to have no molars left if this continues.

  “Yep,” she says, turning to walk down the hallway to the set area.

  I follow behind her swaying ass, dreading this assignment for Deluxxx Lingerie. Maria, Lyla, and Zanna wave when we enter the large room transformed into a kitchen. Well, a partial kitchen. The magic of Photoshop will fill in the appliances.

  “Okay, girls,” Stan announces while I get my camera ready, “the concept here is that men fantasize about their woman in the kitchen wearing lingerie. They want to come home to a hot meal and a hot woman.” He hands Chelsea a frying pan. “You want to make your man happy, so you’ll be cooking. Just reach out like you’re putting this on an imaginary stove.”

  I take a few test shots and force back the urge to ban Chelsea from the set while he finishes. Unfortunately, I can’t. These clients pay big bucks to advertise their products in Bunny Hunnies, so I have to be professional. Maybe I’m overreacting. She’s twenty four, an adult, and if she wants to flaunt her sweet ass body in a men’s magazine…

  She drops her robe.

  I drop my camera.

  6

  Chelsea

  I’m a lingerie whore. Pretty bras and panties get me excited, and I want this lingerie set I’m wearing. And if you really must know, I’m considering stealing it once today’s job is over. Just kidding, I would never.

  If my ‘man’ were looking at this magazine, he better buy this for me. It’s black and lacy—feminine—and the bra makes my breasts look astonishing, if I do say so myself. The panties have these thin, delicate strings on the back, fanning out from the lace band which isn’t quite a thong, but almost, and I’ll be honest, I feel very sexy right now. Even if half my ass is showing. And I think it’s important to feel good about myself since the other three models are wearing what amounts to nothing.

  I peek over my shoulder when I hear a thud. Jonah, wearing a dazed expression, closes the space between us.

  “Is there an apron?” He runs a hand through his dark hair, looking around the faux kitchen. “I think Chelsea needs an apron.”

  Lyla sidles over and props a sheer, red pantied hip against the island. “Why would you cover the goods?”

  Great question. Why would he cover the goods? Am I that repulsive to him? “Can we just get this over with, please?” I ask.

  He looks between Lyla and I, raking his teeth across his bottom lip. “Ok,” he calls out, turning around, “let’s do this.”

  The next thirty minutes are a blur of what I hope looks like me making love to the camera while cooking a gourmet pretend meal for my pretend ‘man.’ I’ve got imaginary steaks sizzling in this pan. Thick and juicy. See? My acting skills are being put to good use. All those years of expensive drama prep have led me to this defining moment in a cardboard kitchen.

  Jonah steps in a little closer, and I bend to open my imaginary oven. His shutter snaps furiously, and I focus on the crotch of his well worn jeans, pretending it’s my ‘man’ in front of me, and I’m hungry for his cock. Honestly, I would totally do this for the right person. Unfortunately, I ha
ven’t met him yet. The most I’ve done is order pizza in a cute sundress. Having my parents go through a bitter divorce doesn’t exactly make me eager to find a permanent ‘man.’ But it’s ok. I’m not out of love with the idea of love, I’m just not in love with it.

  I arch my back a little, pushing out my bottom, so the tiny black bow accentuates what Garcia spanked and called my money maker, and lick my lips while my ‘man’ takes my picture. I mean, Jonah. Actually, what’s wrong with pretending he’s the one who is going to eat this meal I clearly put a lot of thought into? I need inspiration. I’m only projecting, doing what any good actress would.

  His handsome face is partially blocked by the camera, but it only makes him sexier. He’s so intense. I don’t even know what the other girls are doing, I’m in the zone—playing a part. I’m going to feed my man, and then he’s going to lift me onto the countertop, spread my legs and eat…

  “Ok, that’s a fucking wrap,” Jonah shouts. He slides a finger in the collar of his They Call Me A Player t-shirt with a game controller picture underneath the words, pulling it out and then letting it go.

  “Too hot in the kitchen for you?” Lyla teases him.

  “All this made me hungry,” Zanna says, running a hand over her white corseted stomach. “Wanna grab some lunch, Jonah?”

  “Sorry,” his husky voice answers, “I have a date later.”

  She shrugs off his dismissal. “You always have a date.”

  He doesn’t even acknowledge her comment, just turns and leaves.

  “Hey,” Lyla says quietly, giving me a little hip bump, “don’t fall under the Jonah spell.”

  “What do you mean?” I pick up my robe and slip it on as the set clears.

  “Don’t be one of a million.” Her brown eyes search mine as if she knows exactly what I was conjuring up in my mind. “Be the only one. I don’t think he’s that guy.”