I square my shoulders and step away from the mirror. I cross the room, push open the dressing room door, and step out. I’m grabbed from behind, a strong hand wrapping around my upper arm.
“You are playing with fire,” King growls in my ear.
“I am doing what must be done and nothing less.”
I pull away, toss my hair over my shoulder, and walk into the photoshoot.
“There she is!” the photographer calls out.
He’s kind of creepy in a way that sets my teeth on edge, but then again, his job is an interesting one. He spends his days photographing women in the nude, and I don’t often spend my days naked.
“Are you ready?” he asks me.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Great,” he says before I’ve even finished answering. “Let’s get started.”
He poses me this way and that. The clicks and snaps of the camera sound throughout the room, even though it is full to the brim with people.
“Good. Good,” he says from behind the camera. “Now unzip the jacket.”
My hands shake as I slowly raise them up in front of me to tug the small metal pull on the front of the jacket that is already so small and cropped that it only barely covers my breasts and arms as it is.
“That’s it,” the photographer adds. “Look over here.”
I turn to give him my eyes as I lower the zipper, and the soft material parts, revealing my satin-covered breasts. Music is pumping loud through hidden speakers in the room. I’m sure most models like it to get in the mood, but I’m not a model, and now it feels like my heart is pounding in time with the deep bass beat of some song that’s getting a lot of radio play as of late. And even though it’s blaring in this small room packed full of people, I swear I could hear a growl.
Knowing King is unhappy only ratchets up my anxiety. I have no idea why. He doesn’t want me. He doesn’t even like me, and yet his opinion somehow matters. I need to tune him out and get this horrendous day over with.
Meanwhile, I might throw up. The taste of the watermelon candy I stuffed in my mouth in the dressing room turns the pit of my belly.
“That’s it. Great. Great,” he calls out while the shutter button snaps loud in my ears.
No one else seems to be bothered by it. Is my eye twitching in time with it? I hope not. My mom always says you gotta fake it ‘til you make it, and right now, I’m not sure I’m either making it or faking it.
“Now drop the jacket.”
“Is that wise?” King snarls from somewhere beyond the huge lights under umbrellas, and I squint to see if I can make him out.
“I assure you,” the photographer says with a smarmy smile, “this is all part of the process. We do this every day.”
“That’s all well and good,” King replies, pointing to me. “But she doesn’t.”
Shit. He can see right through me. I hate that there are no secrets where he is concerned—at least not on my part. King seems to be closed off and full of his own, but with me, everything is laid bare for him, even when I desperately don’t want it to be.
“I’m fine,” I say, rolling my shoulder back to appear more confident. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Aw,” the photographer says. “Don’t make it sound so bad. You’re with friends here.”
The way he’s overly familiar with me sets me on edge, but I’ll never say it out loud. I just need to be done with this day. “Thanks.”
He picks up his camera again and begins snapping away. “Now, turn away from me and drop the jacket from your shoulders,” he says. “That’s it. Slowly…. Yes! So sexy.”
I continue to move my body this way and that while he takes pictures of me in little more than a bra and panties. I am acutely aware of how naked I am. But this was the deal. This is the price I’m paying for my name to be out there. PR wants to bill me as the sexy answer to modern racing. Well, here I am.
“Now reach behind you and unhook your bra,” the photographer tells me.
“We’re done here,” King barks.
