This is what he looks like when he’s sleeping, I thought.
He murmured, “Are you staring at me?”
I didn’t say anything, just grinned.
“I can feel you looking at me,” he said, his thick, dark lashes still resting on the tops of his impressive cheekbones.
“Are you wearing mascara?” I asked.
His eyes flashed open.
“None of your business,” he said, pretending to be embarrassed.
The photographer interrupted us to say the lens was changed and it was time to shoot.
Mitchell brought by more water and concerned looks. I assured him I was fine.
For the next hour, I felt like I was outside of my body, watching myself as I bent and knelt and stood and bent some more. I was a marionette on invisible strings.
What was that expression? What awful name had that hoochie reporter woman who’d invaded my bookstore referred to actors by? Meat puppets. That was it. I felt like a meat puppet.
The meat puppet purses her lips as she gets spanked.
She looks demure. Yes, like this. Like this.
Spank, spank.
The meat puppet does as she is told.
Then she slinks off at the end of the shoot, to visit the washroom and discreetly remove the rivers of sweat from her private cracks.
As I put on my own underwear and clothes, I wondered how I was going to survive more shooting. Today was Sunday, which seemed like an odd day for a photo session, but what did I know?
I had tomorrow, Monday, free to unwind, but was due back at the studio Tuesday. I’d planned to hang out at Dalton’s house on my own, relaxing by his backyard pool and sending him flirty text messages urging him to return to LA sooner, but now I never wanted to see him again. I didn’t even want to walk into his house and smell his scent in the air.
Someone knocked on my door. “It’s me, Mitchell,” he called out.
“Come on in. There’s nothing out that you haven’t already seen today, from a variety of angles.”
Mitchell came in and parked his compact, gym-hard body on a bench. He ran one hand through his close-cropped angelic blond curls as he said, “You should be proud of how well you did today. I know I am.”
“I’m such an amateur. Just admit you were all laughing behind my back when I was getting changed.”
“Not at all. The truth is, everyone was terrified, but that was before.”
“Terrified? Of what?”
His cheeks reddened.
“Great,” I said, reading between the lines. “You all thought I was going to be terrible and ruin all your reputations with my fatness.”
His eyes bulged.
“My curvaceousness,” I said.
“This is brave new ground for us, but I saw some of the shots and they are phenomenal.” He held up one finger to keep me from arguing with him. “I have been known to stretch the truth to make models more comfortable, but I swear on a stack of In Style magazines, I’m not lying. The shots were great, and this whole thing is going to be huge.”
“Huge?”
“I can’t say anything right, can I?”
“Fine, I believe you. Thank you for saying that, and thank you for being so nice to me. If you’re ever in my part of Washington, you have a place to stay. I’m serious. It’s just a fold-out couch, but it’s all yours.”
He laughed and looked up for a moment like he was considering a visit.
“But won’t you be moving to LA?” he asked. “To be closer to Dalton?”
I could sense that he was digging for information, but I’d been practically na**d in front of the guy all day, and being secretive about my feelings seemed ridiculous.
“He hurt me,” I said. “I’m confused and I don’t know what to do.”
He nodded.
I added, “Easy come, easy go.”
“Let’s get some sushi and talk.”
What was my other option? I thought about returning to Dalton’s modern house, all alone. That didn’t seem fun. I should have been exhausted, given my lack of sleep, but I wasn’t. My nerves were still tingling from the photo shoot, and I didn’t feel like slowing down at all.
Mitchell said, “I could use some fun, actually. I’ve barely done anything but work and sleep for months now. We don’t even need to talk about your personal stuff. I’m sorry if I was being nosy.”
“At least you care,” I said. “I can’t talk to my roommate-slash-best friend, because she’ll rub it in that she warned me.”
He squealed. “My roommate-slash-best friend is the exact same way! And he gets cra-a-azy jealous, too.”
“Shayla’s really nice, though.”
“So’s my roommate.”
I shook my head. “Roommates.”
“Can’t live with ‘em, can’t manage the rent without ‘em.”
I finished getting my hoodie jacket zipped up. “Sure, let’s get some sushi.”
Keith walked into the room without knocking. “I love sushi. Come on, I’ll drive.”
Mitchell gave him a dirty look, but underneath the glare was some amusement. He didn’t love the guy, but he didn’t hate him, either.
Mitchell said, “I’ll drive, but my Miada’s only a two-seater. Peaches will come with me.”
Keith said, “We’ll flip for her.” He pulled a coin from his pocket, tossed it high in the air, and caught it on his palm. “Heads, she’s coming with me.”
Mitchell said, “I didn’t call it. You’re a cheat.”
I pulled out my phone and held it up, recording video. “Guys, could you start over? Try to make it really clear you’re both fighting over me, Peaches Monroe. Maybe say my full name.”
They both looked sheepish, then Keith tousled his black hair with one hand and said, “Peaches, drive with me. I’m a very safe driver.”
Mitchell crossed his arms over his compact body. “It’s not his driving I’m concerned about,” he said to me.
“I’m twenty-two,” I said to Mitchell, still recording with my phone. “How about I drive to the restaurant with Keith, then you can give me a lift home? Seems a lot safer than the other way ‘round.”
They both agreed to that, which cut my little video short, but at least I had something fun to show Shayla when I got home.
When Keith led me to his vehicle, I thought he was playing a joke on me. It was an old van, painted a vivid sea green.
“Is this thing a movie prop?” I asked. “Does it actually run?”