A man I was completely unprepared to see.
Which means that Nia has some serious explaining to do. "Just some photographer looking for models. My agent says the pay is awesome, and considering how much cash you need by the end of the month, it's worth a shot. He goes by W. Royce, but I've never heard of the guy. Then again, who cares so long as he pays?"
Never heard of the guy? Oh, please. Nia's a model; Wyatt's a photographer. She must have known he'd taken a stage name. And then she went and set me up.
Honestly, I just might have to kill her.
First, though, I have to get this job. My brother Griffin's a fourth-degree burn survivor, and I have less than a month to come up with fifteen thousand dollars in order to enroll him in trials for an innovative new clinical protocol. Not an easy task on my kindergarten teacher salary, and even the additional dance classes I've added to my summer teaching schedule don't come close to taking up the monetary slack.
Which is why when my best friend Nia told me about the audition, it seemed worth the shot. Granted, I took some convincing. And I wasn't entirely comfortable with the idea of putting myself on display. But I psyched myself up. Desperate times, and all that.
"My agent booked me for a lingerie shoot," she'd told me over drinks on the balcony of her beachfront condo yesterday. "A last minute gig. I guess the photographer's pushing up against his deadline. Anyway, I think you should go in my place. His name's W. Royce, and I can text you the address and time."
My stomach lurched at the thought. "Are you crazy? I can't do that!"
Nia sighed dramatically. "Why? Because it would be wrong?" She put finger quotes around the last word.
"Actually, yes," I said adamantly. Nia constantly teases me about what she calls my elevated sense of scruples. She's convinced that I'm too staid and regimented. That I need to deviate from my safe little routine and cut loose sometimes. But she's one hundred percent wrong about that.
I know better than anyone the price you pay when you break the rules.
"He'll be expecting a drop-dead gorgeous woman who oozes sensuality," I said pragmatically. "And that's really not me."
"Oh, honey, please. We both know you're gorgeous. And where else are you going to get that kind of money so quickly? Especially since you're too stubborn to borrow from me."
"You're assuming I'll get the job." Unlike Nia, who's been modeling since she was seven, I have absolutely zero experience.
"Did I mention you're gorgeous? Just because you never flaunt it, doesn't mean it's not true."
I crossed my arms to hide an involuntary shudder. She's wrong, of course. Not about me being pretty--I am. And that's a cross I've had to bear my entire life.
No, she was wrong about the rest of it. Because I did flaunt it. Maybe not much--and only once--but that was enough, and I opened a Pandora's Box of badness that I'm still trying to close.
I licked my lips, my thoughts turning to my brother. That photographer might be pushing a deadline, but so was I. And if there was even the tiniest chance that this job could get me the cash I needed, then didn't I at least owe it to Griffin to try? Maybe under normal circumstances, lingerie modeling would be too racy for my sensibilities. But these weren't ordinary circumstances.
"I can't do sexy photos. I wouldn't have a clue how to pose," I said, but my protest lacked oomph, and I saw from the way Nia's eyes lit up that she knew I'd taken the bait, and all she had to do was reel me in.
"It's just commercial lingerie photos," she shrugged as if to say that was no big deal. "Just pretend you're at the beach in a bikini."
I considered that, then nodded. It's not like I've never displayed a little skin. And I do own a bikini. I even wear it on the beach. In public. Sometimes.
And after everything that happened back then, wasn't there some sort of karmic justice in me stripping down to my underwear for a good cause? I didn't know, but it sounded like a solid justification to me.
"Besides," Nia continued, "a professional photographer's going to have an excellent bedside manner."
"Nia!"
"Oh, for fuck's sake, Kels. It's a figure of speech."
"Language."
"Fuckety, fuck, fuck, fuck," she retorted. And I couldn't help myself--I burst out laughing. "Love me, love my potty mouth," she said.
"I do love you," I admitted. "Despite the potty mouth."
"That's because I'm so damn, fucking lovable." She flashed a wicked grin before taking another sip of wine while I tried hard not to laugh again. Best not to egg her on.
"Seriously, Kels, it'll be easy. It's a lot like dancing. Form and position and movement. In a lot of ways modeling is like choreography. And I've seen the outfits you rehearse in. Not a lot left to the imagination, right?"