The camera flashes halted, letting me know Dexter had exactly what he needed.
“Change of clothes,” I demanded, lifting my body from the California King bed.
I’d created a total of twenty scenes in a secure location. We had gone through twelve of them. The last eight of them were intimate, depicting our home life and capturing our downtime on film.
Upon my request, Dexter had traded his professional lens for a simpler one. The last thing we needed was hi-def images that all looked as staged as they were. Some images, he took straight from the cellphone to fully commit to the vision. It was beneath him but it wasn’t beneath our vision or the hefty payout in route to his account.
I shoved the cover toward my feet before swinging my legs over the side of the bed. I was dressed in a pair of briefs and a white shirt from the pack I’d purchased for this purpose alone. Ishmael was dressed the same.
I scurried to the dressing room and closed the door behind me. My back collided with the steel. Its coolness chilled my warm frame. I rubbed my hand across my forehead.
This isn’t real, Royce.
Snap!
I inhaled a slow, deep breath and released it even slower. My head lifted and fell continuously as I separated fact from fiction.
The publicity that came with political relations and affairs, my family didn’t need it. We strayed from cameras and visibility. We thrived in the darkness. In the underworld. In the underbelly of Huffington.
It’s all made up. I reminded myself as I stripped down to my thong.
The beige silky gown slid up my body with ease. I paired it with a robe that matched. Tulle gathered at the sleeves, giving the illusion of a performance by the robe with each sway of my body or movement of my arms. Vintage Gucci mules adorned my feet, showcasing my freshly pedicured toes.
I spritzed on what was becoming my favorite fragrance. It held a subtle power that commanded every space I entered, furthering my ability to do so alone. Together, we turned every head and widened every pair of nostrils within a seventy-five foot radius of us.
We left a lasting impression for all to gnaw on until they closed their eyes for bed. We were the first thing on some people’s minds when they opened their eyes. Others lost us in the awakening of their fears and desires that happened in the form of dreams and nightmares.
I checked the mirror for the fourth time. The person staring back at me was admirable. I clipped my hair in the back and allowed carefully trimmed pieces to frame my face as they were designed for. The thick yet bouncy curtain bang wasn’t my usual style, but Flo, the stylist I’d brought on for this task, had customized four wigs in twenty-four hours.
I rotated them throughout the shoot. This one, however, happened to be my favorite out of the few. I would circle back in the months to come. But, for now, I was happy with the under curls that flipped, giving me the old school nineties beauty that I adored.
Kenzington Cosmeticscoated my lips. Chanel balanced the skin of my face and neck. Mascara enhanced my lashes. Everything was where it needed to be. Nothing was out of order. Not even a strand of hair.
With my chest protruding and my chin high, I returned to the set. Cooking utensils awaited me near the stove. So did Ishmael, sitting at the table with a newspaper in front of him that was published five months ago. The cuffs on his shirt were undone. So were his top four buttons. A loose tie dangled from his collar.
God took his precious time.
His eyes pinned me to the counter. I rolled a piece of my flesh between my teeth.
“Uh mm.”
The clearing of my throat didn’t break his stare. Neither did the shuffling of utensils. It wasn’t until I turned around, folding my hands across my hardened nipples, and matched Ishmael’s gaze that his concentration was interrupted.
“You have to actually lift the paper if you care for the camera to catch it,” I advised.
A titter made his shoulders rise and fall.
“Hmph.”
Sarcasm dripped from his biceps. His beard. His hands. And, his words.
“Noted.”
As the word tumbled from his lips, he removed his cell from the pocket of his slacks. His features grew more rigid with each vibration.
“Ishmael–”
He held the phone up, turning the screen in my direction.
