“More like theundressingroom,” Megs whispered.
Rod was a tall man, maybe in his late 40s. Dressed only in black, he wore his dark hair in a mullet, gold chains around his neck. He greeted them each with a hug and a kiss, as if they were old friends. “Mitch! Megs, darling! I’m so glad you’re here! Isn’t the weather awful? It’s so cold and gray.”
Mitch could see that Megs was fighting not to laugh.
She took off her down jacket. “We’ve seen worse weather.”
“Of course, you have.” He went over what would happen during the shoot. They would try a variety of poses, looking for something exciting and provocative. “No breasts, dicks, or pussies will go on the cover for obvious reasons. We have ways of hiding those lovely bits—text, airbrushing, artfully placed shadows. It’s a closed set today, so no one who shouldn’t be here will walk in on us.”
Myrna led them back to the dressing room, where they found robes. “Can I bring you herbal tea or coffee or something stronger?”
Mitch answered this time. “No, thanks. We’re fine.”
“Okay.” Myrna glanced at her watch. “When you’re ready, just head to the left and take a left again, and you’ll find our makeup artists and stylists. Let me know if you need anything.”
Makeup artists? Stylists?
“I’ve got a question.” Megs put a hand on her belly. “I’ve got recent scars from getting my tubes tied. They’re small but—”
“Lucky you! No worries. We can airbrush that out.”
François, who’d become their de facto agent and fixer, had connected them with a doctor in Canada willing to do the surgery when they hadn’t been able to find anyone willing to sterilize a 29-year-old, unmarried, childless woman in Colorado.
For Megs, it meant being able to enjoy sex without worrying about an unwanted pregnancy. For Mitch, it meant no more condoms.
“Thanks, Myrna.”
Inside the dressing room, they found a bouquet of flowers sitting on a glass table, cold bottles of water beside it, fluffy white bathrobes hanging on a hook.
Mitch found all of it surreal. “I think I prefer being photographed while I’m climbing. Stylist? What do they plan to do with my hair?”
Megs stood on tiptoe, rubbed the top of his head, his hair cut short. “Braid it?”
They stripped down to their skin, hanging their clothes on hooks.
Megs looked at Mitch’s dick. “The first thing everyone is going to do is check out your penis. Men, women, children, pets, the fly on the wall—they’re all going to stare. I might stare, too.”
Mitch’s dick wasn’tthatbig. “Ten bucks says they’ll try very hard not to look.”
“You’re on.”
They spent what felt like an inordinate amount of time with two makeup artists. It was a new experience for Mitch to wear mascara, eyeliner, and lip tint.
Megs seemed to find it all funny. “Don’t you look pretty? I’m jealous.”
“Are you kidding?” Terri, Megs’ makeup artist, put the finishing touches on Megs’ lips. “God, I wish I had your arms. They’re so sculpted. You look beautiful!”
“You do.” Mitch had to agree—but it wasn’t the makeup.
Megs had always been the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen—fit, strong, sharp-witted, with the face of an angel.
Myrna led them to the set, where Rod stood on a ladder, adjusting lights. On one end of the room stood the biggest fan Mitch had ever seen. Hanging from the ceiling was a long blue curtain that would serve as their backdrop.
Camera hanging from a strap around his neck, Rod told them how this would work. “You’re not professional models, I know. So what we’ll do is turn on the fan to catch your hair and then run through a series of poses while I shoot. I’ll ask you to move this way or that, to lift your chin or shift your arm. Let’s just see how it goes. What kind of music would you like—disco, R&B, jazz?”
Megs looked up at Mitch, and he could see she was close to laughter.
Mitch fought to keep a straight face. “We don’t need music.”
