Page 5 of Threaded Lies

If I ever wanted to be an actress, now is the time to show that I could do it—because I’m about to perform the role of a lifetime. Let’s hope I can pull it off.

The room is empty with a green screen behind us for the media department to add a beach scene to in postproduction. Sand is beneath our bare feet and a few red-and-white-striped beach balls lie strategically on it to fill the space around us. A raised red cooler is to the side of us with cans of TinSpirits in it, strategically placed so all the labels are facing out for the consumer to see.

“What’s this?” Holden’s voice booms through the sparsely furnished room.

“Mr. Knight. Sir,” Lyle, our photographer, says and clears his throat. It’s as if the whole vibe of the room shifts instantly when the staff knows he’s there. That he’s watching.

I hear the shuffled feet of the room’s occupants. I feel the men on either side of me tense. The entire mood of the room turns from playful to guarded.

“We weren’t expecting you, but are so glad you ventured down to give input,” Lyle says, his eyes darting from his camera then to Holden and back.

“I wasn’t aware that we were doing this today,” Holden says, his voice like a heavy dose of honey over sandpaper. Each word is like a weight tugging on my heart.

“Same pose, Lyle?” I interrupt as I adjust the sides of my fire-engine-red bikini and make sure the room’s focus is back on me.

Right where I want it.

On me and my itty-bitty bikini and my signature red lips I’m known in our ads for. On my new blond hair, recently dyed back, and those sapphire earrings that drip from my earlobes. And on the three male models and their tanned, bared chests who are on either side of me.

Holden doesn’t even deserve a nanosecond of my attention, so I don’t give it, but I sure as hell prepare myself for the show I’m about to give.

“Same?” Lyle repeats, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he fiddles with his camera. Holden’s presence clearly makes him nervous. I turn my lips up in a siren’s smile as he narrows his eyes and takes a look at the scene as a whole—my makeup and hair, our staging, and the way our bodies interact. “Yes. Again. I like the feel of this and the way it looks through the lens too. I think we can get more out of this setting and sequence though.”

“Sounds good. More hands? Less hands? Lean in? Almost kiss?” I ask.

“I want whatever you’re comfortable with, but ideally, yes. More touching. More flirting. More product placement in the midst of all that skin.”

“Hear that, guys?” I ask.

They give a few cheers in response and laughter rings out around the room.

Lyle pumps a fist. “I love the enthusiasm. Per your direction, Rowan, the goal is to sell the fantasy, so let’s sell it. A single woman. A good drink. Hot men all around her vying for her attention. Her choices are hers to make.”

“Great. Perfect.” I turn to my male counterparts and smile as I place one hand on the brown-haired man’s chest and lean in. “It’s such a hard job and all. Right, guys?” I chuckle. In a practiced move, I make sure the label on the TinSpirits can I’m holding is facing the camera all while placing its red-and-white straw between my lips and hollowing out my cheeks like I’m sucking on it.

My three fellow models follow my lead, and we begin the photographic dance. One model’s hands are on my waist, and another is standing like a backdrop behind us. The third model looks down at me, his lips inches from mine so we can cut the image with me as the center of attention and them just the background noise.

And I’m more than aware, with every single snap of the camera, that Holden is standing there. Watching. Stewing. Growing more irritated.

He’s the one who cast me off, who used me, and he stands there with his jaw clenched and annoyance etched in every single line of his face like he has some kind of claim to me.

Dream on, Knight. Dream the fuck on.

How long will he stay silent? How long will he even stay in here?

It’s time to change the dress.

He hasn’t picked up the phone to call or text since he heard those words.

That, in and of itself, says all that needs to be said. I cut things off and he didn’t fight for us. For me.

Then again, how could he? He was busy being exactly who he was that first night we met. Conniving. Manipulative. Self-serving.

“Rowan, I want you to lean your back against Santiago’s chest. And Santi? I want your finger between her skin and the string on her bottoms. I’m not sure if we’ll use it but, Rowan, I want your marketing department to have options to play with.”

“Sounds good.”

I lean my back against the firmness of Santiago, never more aware of my audience of one than now. Santiago slides his hand down my bare hip and his fingers tickle as he toys with the ties there.