Hailey dropped the equipment she was holding and whipped out her phone. “Oh, damn. That woman isnaked.”
Greta started fussing with the butt area of my outfit. “Yeah, her dress was very sheer, but this costume is all an illusion. Everything that looks like skin is stretchy flesh-toned fabric. Quinn is more covered up in this than in a bikini, but you’d never think so because the color match is so perfect.”
“Hailey, the boom please?” Neil said in a pissy voice.
“Sorry,” she said as she shoved her phone in her back pocket and held the mic on a stick over our heads again.
“We didn’t want to put a mic on your outfit,” he explained. “Ben said that we can’t risk any beading damage.”
I finally allowed myself to glance over at him, to give him a grateful nod, but froze when I saw the way he was watching me.
The hunger in his expression was so unmistakable that I was almost embarrassed, like I needed to cross my arms to cover up my newly embellished boobs. He didn’t even try to hide it when our eyes snagged. My body sparked to life, like he’d just lit a fuse in my chest.
I wanted to look away but I couldn’t, because we were having a conversation without words from across the room. I didn’t have to ask if my revised costume was okay. Ben’s face told me everything I needed to know.
“Quinn?”
I jumped and refocused on Greta. “Sorry, what was that?”
“Can you bend over? I want to check coverage from the back.”
Neil snickered.
“Hey Neil, swing the camera around front, please,” Ben said, anticipating the shot before Neil could get a close-up of my seemingly nude and sparkly ass.
He did as instructed.
“Three steps back,” Ben instructed. “You’re in the way.”
Neil sighed and moved.
Mel started plucking at the beaded strands hanging down. “Swear to me that these aren’t going to fly off, Greta.”
I’d already competed in the costume without a problem but Mel was a worrier so I didn’t have to be. Not only would we get hit with a deduction if any part of my outfit dropped onto the ice, there was the very real possibility of tripping over anything that fell off.
I could tell that Greta was in her own world, running her hand down seams to check for any strings that might be poking me. “My première d’atelier Manon would sooner hang up her scissors after forty years of sewing than let one of her pieces fail. They’re triple reinforced.”
Greta and Mel walked me through a series of poses to check for comfort and possible wardrobe malfunctions, all while the cameracaptured every second. I’d expected Ben to be more involved but he hovered in the corner like he was uninvited. I opted to ignore him.
“Can we put the music on for a second?” Mel asked.
Two seconds later Hozier’s “Movement” flooded the room, and I reflexively started going through my choreo, watching myself in the mirror.
“Fuck,” Ben said softly as went into a languorous backward arch.
“How does it feel?” Greta asked me, pulling my focus away from whatever Ben was going through. “Anything pinching?”
I stepped off the platform, readied myself, and did a quick double-double. “Nope, all good.”
“Damn! On dry land,” Ben exclaimed. “Did you get that?”
“I’m not missing a thing,” Neil answered. “Don’t worry.”
Ben was warming up to producer mode. He wasn’t bossy, but he seemed to have a vision for the piece despite his lack of preparation.
“And you’re still good with the gloves?” Mel asked me. “They’re not annoying?”
I swizzled my arms over my head. “There’s no way I’m giving these up. Thedrama.”
