He was handsome, of course, in a brooding way, his pale skin in contrast to his dark hair, his eyes a piercing pale gray. He smiled and I smiled back and reached out a hand.
“Lior,” I said.
“Jean-Michel,” he said, sliding his hand slowly into mine. I resisted the urge to wrinkle my nose. “And I know who you are,” he said in a thick French accent. “You are a legend. An industry great. Though your time of course is nearing its next phase.”
I’d have bristled at basically being called old, but this wasn’t the first time it had happened. As soon as I hit twenty-nine the whispers had started. Younger women were coming up. I didn’t mind it. This is how the business worked. And there was only so long I could take the sort of scrutiny I’d received for the past decade. I’d nearly reached the end of my rope. The feelings I had tamped down time and time again were starting to rise uncontrollably. Staying “up here” like my mother had taught me, wasn’t working so well anymore. The tight-fitting lid that sat snug on my box of emotions was starting to tear at the corners. Kind of like my nether-regions in this new pair of pants.
We were called to action and set our poses. Stare into each other’s eyes, hold. Look over your shoulder at him, hold. Lips nearly touching. My back to his front. My lips touching the skin of his neck. His hand low on my stomach, fingers spread. Hold. Hold. Hold. I felt him growing hard against my ass and anger rose inside me.
Click.
I threw his hand off me and marched to the changing area.
“One more for—” the photographer started.
“No,” I said, and disappeared behind the curtain.
When the stylist slipped in behind me, I was already calling my agent, not paying the slightest attention to what time it was in New York.
“If I get one more boner pressed against my ass, I’m suing,” I said to her voice mail. I disconnected and turned to the stylist. “What’s next?”
She stared at me for a long moment as if wanting to say something, and then turned to the rack of clothes. A long, diaphanous green dress was held out to me.
“Do you want… I can leave,” she said, her voice quiet.
Tears welled in my eyes and I threw my head back. I would not ruin my makeup over that twat of a man. I sniffed, dabbed at my eyes, and gave her my most famous smile.
“I would love your help, Marceline. Thank you.”
She nodded, giving me a sad smile, and then helped me out of one outfit and into the other. As she laced up the back of the dress I heard her whisper, “I’m sorry” and then she disappeared out the curtained door.
Two days later I was on a flight home, exhausted mentally and emotionally, moments from my three-day shoot wreaking havoc with the walls I’d firmly put in place years ago. I was angry. Violated. And sad. I was so sick of people thinking I was a thing to be used, dealt with, and thought to be problematic when I stood up for myself. I was tired of men like Jean-Michel, who treated me like a prop they could handle any way they wanted – including pressing the erection they couldn’t control up against my ass as if I had been standing there waiting for it and should feel honored.
“Fucking men,” I muttered under my breath, ignoring the curious look of the woman beside me.
I was done. I wanted nothing more than to get to the safety of my home, crawl into my bed, and sleep for the next several days.
I wondered if lobotomies were still in fashion.
When the cab pulled up to my house and I saw Graham sitting on the front steps, I wasn’t sure which emotion to pick from the many threatening to burst from my skin.
Was I happy to see him? Yes. Was I annoyed by his “You are very sweet” text? Also yes. I understood he was hurting, but seeing as there had been something between us, a little more than “You are very sweet” felt warranted.
Shoving down the tears I desperately wanted to cry, I pasted on a smile instead as I got out of the cab.
“How did you know when I’d be home?” I asked, hauling the lone backpack I’d taken on my trip over my shoulder and noticing the coffee and bag from Mornin’ Joe’s in his hands, despite the fact that it was four in the afternoon.
“That’s my secret and I will not tell.”
I peered at him. His voice was light but there was something in his eyes. Something not right.
“Well,” I said, my voice bordering on business-like. “I’m happy to see you.” Could he sense that wasn’t exactly true?
And then, horror of horrors, I burst into tears without warning.
“Holy shit.” He got to his feet and started towards me. “Lior?”
I shook my head and hurried past him to unlock my door and get inside before someone saw me. He followed, locking the door behind us and tailed me to the kitchen where I was wiping at my face with a hand towel covered in a spider motif.
