Page 40 of Battle Scars

I turn to give him my eyes as I lower the zipper, and the soft material parts, revealing my satin-covered breasts. Music is pumping loud through hidden speakers in the room. Maybe real models like it to get in the mood, but I’m not a model, and now it feels like my heart is pounding in time with the deep bass beat of some song that’s getting a lot of radio play as of late. And even though it’s blaring in this small room packed full of people, I swear I can hear a growl.

Knowing Gabe is unhappy only ratchets up my anxiety. I have no idea why. He doesn’t want me. He doesn’t even like me, and yet his opinion somehow matters to me. I need to tune him out and get this horrendous day over with.

Nerves and nausea roll over me; I might throw up. The taste of the watermelon candy I stuffed in my mouth in the dressing room turns the pit of my belly sour.

“That’s it. Great. Great,” he calls out while the shutter snaps loudly in my ears.

No one else seems to be bothered by the noise. Is my eye twitching in time with it? I hope not. My mom always says you gotta fake it ’til you make it, and right now, I’m not sure I’m managing to do either.

“Now drop the jacket.”

“Is that wise?” Gabe snarls from somewhere beyond the huge umbrella-shaped lights, and I squint to see if I can make him out.

“I assure you,” the photographer says with a smarmy smile, “it’s all part of the process. We do this every day.”

“That’s all well and good,” Gabe replies, pointing to me. “But she doesn’t.”

Shit. He can see right through me. I hate that there are no secrets where he is concerned—at least not on my part. Gabe seems to be closed off and harboring his own, but with me, everything is laid bare for him. Even when I desperately don’t want it to be.

“I’m fine,” I say, rolling my shoulder back to appear more confident. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Aw,” the photographer says. “Don’t make it sound so bad. You’re with friends here.”

The way he’s overly familiar sets me on edge, but I’ll never say it out loud. I just need to be done with this day. “Thanks.”

He brings his camera to his face and begins snapping away. “Now, turn away from me and drop the jacket from your shoulders,” he prods. “That’s it. Slowly… Yes! So sexy.”

I continue to move my body as directed while he takes pictures of me in little more than a bra and panties. I am acutely aware of how exposed I am.

But this was the deal.

This is the price I’m paying for my name to be out there.

PR wants to bill me as the sexy answer to modern racing. Well, here I am.

“Now reach behind you and unhook your bra,” the photographer tells me.

“We’re done here,” Gabe barks.

“Excuse me?” the photographer bites out. “This is part of the contract.”

I’m not so sure about that, but I’m still going to do it. Besides, who is Gabe to decide what I can and cannot do? I am not his to own or command.

“Everything’s fine,” I say with a tight smile. “Let’s continue.”

“Sounds good,” the photographer says pointedly at Gabe before raising his camera again. I really should have bothered to learn his name but after today, I won’t ever see him again. “So after we’re done here, a bunch of us are going out for drinks. I’d love it if you come with me.”

It takes a minute for my brain to register that he’s talking to me. I’m not self-centered, but I’m well aware that I’m pretty. My mom is a retired model, but even before she retired, she had a long career. My dad is nothing to sneeze at either, and they passed those genes on to me. But still. I’ve never been asked out on a date while undressing in front of a roomful of people, where one of the occupants is a past hook-up.

It’s kind of a lot for a girl to take in.

One could even argue it’s too much.

“I have an early time slot at the track tomorrow morning,” I lie. I do have to be at the track, but not that early. “But thank you.”

“I’ll get your number before you leave,” he says. “And we can hookup sometime.”

“Uh…”