"'Handle this shoot'? Are you serious right now?" I respond.
"Does it look like I'm kidding?" Mick stares me down then waves me off like I'm an annoyance, while he’s awing the photographer and Wesley as if they are a-list celebrities. "Sorry about her, she's new and doesn't know much about anything."
"Look, maybe she's uncomfortable," Wesley says in my defense. "Isn't she supposed to be directing the shoot?"
"Directing?" Mick repeats with laughter. "No, she's my assistant, and nothing more." My face must be red because it's burning to the touch. I'm furious and debating my course of action, but on the other hand, I didn't exactly have any other opportunities banging my door down, and while money isn't everything, I do need money for rent. I'm stuck here with these clowns until I find something better, which I hope is soon. On a side note, it was nice of Wesley to back me up, considering we don't know each other. In fact, Wesley is staring at Mick with furrowed brows. He appears irritated, not that he didn't seem that way when he walked in, but his irritability might have escalated in the last minute or two.
Wesley shakes his head and rakes his fingers through his dark luscious waves of hair, dismissing everything that was just said as he takes his shirt off, revealing a sea of a flawless, waxed and tanned muscles. If I looked like that, I might walk around half naked every day too. It would work out better for my future as a stripper, at least.
Dan walks through the door, holding a baby, dressed down into just a diaper. "Perfect," Mick says. "He's not even crying. It's our lucky day, boys."
I'm still not a boy, schmuck.
What could they need a baby and a half-naked man for with this ad? My imagination fills in the gaps, and I feel sick with my assumption on what will happen. I don't understand. This model, Wesley, seems like a nice guy—a little angry—but nice. He doesn't strike me as someone who would go along with this idea.
Dan hands Mick the chubby baby, who then carries the poor thing with outstretched arms across the room toward Wesley. I mean, the mother of this baby must have agreed to all this too. Either this company throws cash around like it's paper, or I'm misunderstanding something.
The photographer has been working in the background, setting up his traveling display of backdrops and lighting, and by the time I have lost my ability to speak, Wesley is standing in place bare-chested, holding a baby to advertise a breast milk ad.
"Oh, we need milk on Wesley's upper lip," Mick says. "Do we have anything for that?"
"No, no! This idea is out of control. That is disgusting and vulgar." My heart is racing so hard, and I feel like the Hulk might break out of my skin and bones at any moment. How could they—this has to be a sick joke? No human would agree with this—no decent human or shitty human. "You're all about to ruin your careers," I tell them.
"Well, while we're doing that, can you try to find something white and pasty to put on Wesley's lip?"
"Heavy coffee creamer and white glue work the best," Wesley says.
"Madelyn, we have glue in the supply closet and creamer in the staff room. Please come back with a concoction we can use." I'm a puppet, working against my free will. I should say no and go back to my desk, but I know what will happen after that, and it's infuriating. I've met bone-headed men before, but never anyone this shallow or brainless, and two in one room reminds me why I've busted my ass for the last four years after graduating to make sure I never have to depend on a man to support me.
With rage, I find the glue and head to the kitchen to retrieve the creamer from the fridge. I pour both parts into a paper coffee cup and stir the formula around with a stirrer. I hope this shit gets stuck to his upper lip and leaves him with a red streak he can show off along with his hot bod later.
On the way back to the conference room, I return to the supply closet and find a small paintbrush. I'm sure someone will need to paint this crap on his lip.Why? Just why?
"Take long enough?" Mick asks as I re-enter the room. They're working on poses against the lighting. This feels so wrong, and my stomach gnarls with pain. If anyone found out I had anything to do with this, I'd lose my right to be a woman.
"No, I didn't take long enough. I couldn't figure a way to get out of this in the short time I was gone, so here I am."
"If you don't want to be here, Madelyn, by all means, you know where the door is."
"Hey guys," Wesley interrupts. "No one needs to lose a job over this today, so can we get this done? I have to be at an appointment by noon."
"You're no better," I tell Wesley. "I'm sure you don't need this job, but here you are, volunteering for this crap."
Wesley gives me a look filled with confusion and bit of hostility. Like the rest, he must think something is wrong withme.
"Can you put the milk, or whatever it is on his lip?" Mick asks me.
Of course, I have to be the one.
I walk over to Wesley, avoiding eye-contact. Except, he takes a seat, making it easier to reach his mouth, so now I'm forced to look into his eyes. It's a shame they are beautiful because this job makes him look like an asshole.
Stirring up the mess, I remove the paintbrush from the cup and draw a straight line across his top lip, or try to, but my hand is shaking from the anger raging through me. I place the cup down on the table beside me and dip the paintbrush in once more while taking ahold of his chin with my other hand. His face is warm. Actually, it's hot like mine feels. I wonder if he's angry, or not in favor of this, and he's being forced into it like I am.
I paint another strip, dripping it onto the top of his lip, but it dribbles down. I catch the drop with the tip of my finger and trace it back up. His lips are smooth and plump, and my mind is slipping elsewhere because I have been a lonely woman for way too long, but I need to remember that this guy is about to pose with a milk mustache while holding a baby for a breast milk ad. He's a giant Milk-Dud. That's what he is. His smooth, kissable lips and a nice body cannot compare to such a disgraceful display of desperation for a paycheck. Money is not everything.Yet, here I am, still taking part, debating if this job is worse than stripping.
"Thank you for not punching me in the face," he utters.
"What? Why would I punch you in the face?" I respond in the same hushed tone.
"It's obvious you're mad about this photo shoot. It's none of my business, but I'm sorry you're against it."
"Whatever," I tell him.
"Okay, we're ready to shoot," Mick announces.
I leave the room because I don't want to watch this play out.
This is beyond the worst second day of work I could ever imagine surviving. Screw positivity crap. How did I attract this shit with all my good happy thoughts?
