Playing Knotty (18 page)

Pauline hesitated visibly before leaning forward. “You know, honey, I think you're beautiful exactly as you are, but if you ever want to make any changes, we would support you. This diet I'm on is working wonders. I'm already down five pounds this week.”

Emma felt the sharp edges of the fork handle digging into her hand, and realized she was clutching it so tightly her knuckles had gone white. She forced her hands to relax and looked her mother right in the eyes across the table. “Actually, I've recently started modeling.”

She hadn't intended to say anything, not wanting to perpetuate this half-truth with her family, but it was worthwhile to see the look on her mother's face. Pauline paused with her dry English muffin halfway to her mouth, lips parted, as if time had stopped in one very small area of the breakfast nook. Recovering, she blinked and shook her head. “I don't know if that's a good idea, Emma. Did you sign any contracts? Those plus-size modeling deals make you agree that you won't get any smaller. Isn't that right, Charlie? Can't she get in legal trouble if she loses the weight?”

“I didn't sign any contracts, Mom,” Emma said, trying to ignore how her mother always said “the weight” as if it were a boulder she were carrying around rather than part of her. “It's not plus-size modeling.”

“Well, what kind of modeling is it?” Pauline's gaze slid down, then back up, surveying her daughter; she was clearly unable to imagine any other kind of modeling Emma could be doing.

“It's for a photographer. Just . . . regular modeling. He works with all body types.”

Pauline and Charlie exchanged a look. “Are you going to be naked?” Pauline looked like she didn't want to know. “Oh, honey, please tell me you aren't taking your clothes off for some pervert.”

She was more right than she imagined. “Of course not, Mom.” The laugh came easily, the lie guilt-free, unlike when she'd lied to her friends. She probably shouldn't think too deeply about how comfortable it felt to lie to her mother. “It's his art project. And he says I'm beautiful exactly the way I am.” She couldn't help lifting her chin, pride in her voice. In her peripheral vision, she could see Julie smiling, a moment of sisterly solidarity.

“Are you dating him?” Pauline was still waving the English muffin around. “Is he good-looking? Is he smart?”

“No, Mom, we're not dating. He's not really my type.” As Emma said it, she felt a twinge of discomfort. She'd felt nothing when lying about the details of the job, but lying about Ian felt different. He
was
her type, exactly the kind of man she found hot. The problem was that she wasn't
his
type. Maybe for a night or two, but not more than that. “Now, what about you? How's the bank?”

After brunch ended—thankfully, without any more conversational forays into Emma's weight, Julie's boyfriend, or the mysterious photography job—Charlie and Pauline went out on the deck while the girls cleaned up.

“So,
are
you gonna be naked?” Julie asked as soon as they were alone.

Emma looked at her younger sister, trying to judge how much to tell. She loved Julie, but the girl was only seventeen. As if sensing her hesitation, Julie gave a full eye roll. “Come on, Emma. I'm not a kid anymore. I turn eighteen in three months. If you're taking naked pictures, you can totally tell me.”

“Okay, fine. It's . . . not a photography job.”

Julie paused, stack of dirty dishes in hand. “Oh, God, are you a prostitute?”

“No!” Emma pulled the dishes out of Julie's hands and started loading them into the dishwasher. “For crying out loud, Jules.”

“What is it, then? Did you make the whole thing up? Because I totally wouldn't blame you. I love Mom and all, but when it comes to food and bodies and stuff, she's a wackadoo.” Julie put the orange juice back in the fridge.

Emma laughed. “Yeah, I know. But no, I didn't make the whole thing up. If I tell you, are you going to freak out on me? Or tell Mom?”

Julie shut the fridge and spun around so fast she nearly toppled over. “Not a word. Promise. Now spill.”

Emma shut the dishwasher. “I'm a bondage model.”

Julie paused, eyebrows drawing together. “So, like . . . people tie you up? And take pictures of you?”

“No, no pictures. There's this guy, Ian—I knew him back in high school—and he teaches bondage workshops. I'm his model so he can demonstrate the ties.”

“Oh.” Julie considered. “That's cool, I guess. Not as big a deal as I'd thought.”

“You're not going to tell Mom, right?”

“No, of course not. She'd freak.” Julie wiped down the table with a wet cloth while Emma started cleaning off the griddle. “But you aren't seeing him? This Ian guy?”

“No, I'm not seeing him. He's . . . Okay, he's totally my type. But I don't think I'm
his
type.”

“Oh.” Julie rinsed the cloth and hung it over the faucet to dry. “Did he tell you that?”

Emma opened her mouth to answer but then hesitated. Julie didn't call attention to the hesitation, just pressed on. “'Cause, you know, if he called you beautiful, maybe it's because he finds you beautiful. Which you are.” She turned to lean her back against the sink, hands braced on the edge of the counter. “Screw Mom's plus-sized dress shop, by the way. She tried to take me there for my junior prom dress, but I told her I'd get something at the mall. If you go to that gala, buy some slutty low-cut dress and rock the shit out of it.”

Emma laughed, the sound spilling out of her in surprise. “Yeah, I'll think about it.” Then she quieted, leaning against the counter next to Julie, their elbows brushing. “You know Mom means well, right, Jules?”

“I know. But it sucks having someone always telling you your body isn't good enough.” Julie shrugged with a casual acceptance that belied her years, and Emma was struck by her younger sister's wisdom.

“So, you and this band guy, huh?” Emma nudged Julie with her elbow, gratified to see her blush. “What's he play?”

“Trombone.” Julie looked at her slippered feet, smiling.

“Trombone? I've heard some rumors about trombone players being the best kissers. Hmm? What do you think?” Emma nudged her harder, making Julie stumble and giggle.

“No complaints here.” Julie pushed away from the counter and headed to the living room, tossing a cheeky grin over one shoulder. “But if I'm going to let him tie me up, I'll make sure to call you and get some pointers.”

Emma hit her sister on the back of the head with the wet cloth, and they both broke down in laughter.

Chapter 20

B
ethany was unloading
the last of the shipment from their Monday-morning delivery when Emma stepped into the back room, door open so she could hear the front bell.

“What's up?” Bethany tucked a few more new romance titles into the “Street Date” section of storage. Pulling a pad of sticky notes off the desk, she wrote 5/4 on the top note and stuck it to the first stack of books. Those were scheduled for release the next day.

“Are you free to go out sometime this week?” Emma blurted out. She was holding her phone in her hand, Ian's latest text on the screen. “Tuesday or Wednesday night?”

Bethany tossed the Post-its onto the shelf beside the books. “I'm free Wednesday evening. What do you want to do?”

Emma glanced down at the phone again, reading his words one more time.
I'll come by @ 6 Sat. to plan before we go. Dress up; it's formal.

“I need a dress.”

W
ith the extra money
in her pocket from the workshop, Emma had suggested dinner before shopping, so they started Wednesday evening tucked into a corner booth at a local sandwich shop. “Cheap is good,” Bethany had agreed when they were considering options, and that made the decision easy. Now, with their orders placed and the menus gone, Bethany folded her hands on the table. “Now, are you going to tell me why you suddenly need a fancy dress? Does this have anything to do with the guy you slept with last weekend?”

Emma started folding her straw wrapper into patterns. She could play coy, but Bethany
had
agreed to come out with no notice whatsoever and go dress shopping with her. She didn't need to tell Bethany everything, but it might be worthwhile to give her some context. “I slept with Ian again this weekend. And now he's invited me to this party on Saturday, and it's fancy, and I don't own anything really . . .” Her face felt like it was on fire. “I want a really sexy dress. And . . . and some lingerie.” Oh, God, this was so embarrassing. She continued in a rush. “I didn't know who else to ask to come, because my other friends would probably tease me about this or ask about Ian or tell me I don't have the right body type for lingerie or something. And I totally understand if this is weird or makes you uncomfortable, but I could really use the help.”

Bethany shrugged and sipped her water. “Em, I'm the middle child in a family of seven girls. Say no more. We will get you some sexy clothes.” She looked past Emma's shoulder. “And here's our food.”

“T
here is no way
I'm coming out of the dressing room in this.” Emma stared at herself in the three-way mirror, the kind no one could hide from, and tried again to tug the dress a little higher on her neckline.

She could almost hear Bethany rolling her eyes from the other side of the door. “Just let me
see
it. You've turned down the last hundred things I've given you.”

“Six dresses. I turned down six dresses, not a hundred. Stop exaggerating.” It hadn't taken long for her and Bethany to fall into a comfortable routine of bickering. In fact, Emma was surprised at how easy the evening had been . . . well, easy in every way except actually finding a dress. She turned her back to the mirror and peered over her shoulder, checking out the way the dress clung to her curves. She was used to dresses that flowed openly around her form, hiding her shape, not clinging everywhere and hiding nothing.

“Open the door, Em. There's no one else here. Let me see.”

Emma turned the handle and opened the door with a sigh, resigned. Maybe if she let Bethany see this one, she would see what the problem was and bring some different dresses.

“Holy hell.” Bethany looked Emma up and down.

“I know. It's a mess.” Emma went to push the door shut, but Bethany's hand stopped it.

“It's not a mess. You're freaking
hot.
”

Emma turned back to the mirror as if something might have changed since she last looked. “Are we looking at the same dress?”

“That dress is perfect for you. You don't want to wear a big flowy sack dress. You need something like this. Your figure is incredible, and your boobs are bangin.' I'm telling you, this is the dress.”

Emma tried to see it through Bethany's eyes. It was all black, with ruching up and down the sides, gathering the fabric asymmetrically down to one side. The neckline plunged low, revealing more than ample cleavage. The hem went a bit below midthigh. She tried to ignore the soft swell of her belly where the fabric clung, the dimples of her knees, and instead tried to imagine that maybe the dress really was pretty.

“I've never owned anything like this.” Emma turned her back to the mirror again and noticed how the curve of her ass was accentuated by the fabric. “I usually buy dresses that hide my figure.”

“And I think you should change all that. Go nuts, right? I assume you want to get this guy back into bed, judging by the lingerie you want help buying next. This dress will get him into bed. And probably anybody else you want, too.” Bethany folded her arms across her chest. “So are you going to be brave, or are you going to keep looking for another hour?”

Emma bit her lip as she turned back and forth, smoothing the fabric down her thighs. “Well, it
is
on sale.”

“Sold. Let's go get you some shoes.”

Emma's budget meant Payless, but there wasn't a Payless anywhere in the area because she was probably the only poor person living in Boston, so they ended up combing the discount racks at a much more expensive shoe store. The paper bag over her arm kept brushing against her hip, reminding her of the slinky black dress she now owned and had three days to get up enough courage to wear.

“Here, how about these?” Bethany lifted up a pair of three-inch heels with tiny ankle straps, and Emma raised an eyebrow. “What?” Bethany looked at the shoes, then back at Emma. “If you're doing this, go all the way.” So Emma ended up with ridiculous little black shoes to go with her ridiculous little black dress.

Paradoxically, lingerie was the shop Emma felt least nervous about. She'd always wanted sexy lingerie and had spent a long time thinking about what she wanted. Bethany had assured her that this particular boutique would have her size, and it took almost no time to find the chemise with garter straps that she had in mind. Miracle of miracles, it fit, and her breasts looked fantastic in it.

Bethany asked outside the door, “Is it weird if I want to see?”

“Maybe, but I'm okay with it. Everything's covered.” Emma opened the door to show Bethany, who gave a nod of approval.

“Perfect. Although I don't know why you had no trouble with this when I had to hold a gun to your head to make you buy the dress.”

“I don't know . . . I've always wanted sexy lingerie.” Emma looked at the lace-up back in the mirror, imagining herself at this play party, surrounded by strangers. She shouldn't find the idea as exciting as she did. “Yeah, I could let them see me in this.”

“Them?”

Wincing, Emma caught Bethany's eye in the mirror. Shit. She hadn't intended to get into this, but now Bethany probably thought she was having group sex, and she was less comfortable with that than with just telling Bethany the truth.

“Emma, what kind of party are you going to this weekend?”

With a sigh, Emma turned away from the mirror, eyes down. “Okay. But first, are you, like, a conservative evangelical Christian or something?”

“Is this because I'm black?” Bethany raised her eyebrows, but when Emma looked up in horror, she saw Bethany's lips twitch as she tried not to smile.

“I think you're kind of a jerk, actually.” Relaxing, Emma grinned and Bethany returned it. “No, seriously. I don't want to offend you or get told I need Jesus.”

“If you need Jesus, it's not my problem. And I'm probably the last person to get offended by whatever you might say or do. So is this an orgy?”

“It's not an orgy. It's a play party.”

“Oh.” Bethany considered. “That makes sense.”

“You know what a play party is?”

“Yeah. I have some friends in the scene. So is that what's up with you and Ian? He's into this stuff and you're not?”

Emma's head spun. Bethany knew about play parties and thought they were no big deal. This whole conversation was made more surreal by the fact that Emma was standing around in lingerie.

“It's not exactly like that. He does rope bondage, and he hired me to be his model for some workshops. And we keep sleeping together afterward, but I don't think it necessarily means anything. Okay, shut the door, we can keep talking.” Bethany did so after letting herself out of the room, and Emma peeled the chemise over her head. “So he invited me to do a scene at this play party coming up, and I said yes. And other people are going to be there, so . . . yeah.” Dressed, she opened the door again, the chemise back on its hanger. “Do you think I'm crazy?”

“Hell, no. Sounds fun.” Bethany grinned. “Come on, let's check out.” And that was it. Emma kept waiting for teasing, or scolding, or questions, but Bethany didn't bring it up again.

Maybe Emma should have felt guilty, she thought, about making this many frivolous purchases with her “bondage model” cash, but her mind was totally occupied with thoughts of Saturday, and she couldn't be bothered. If only Accountant Ian could see her now.
Fiscal irresponsibility, thy name is Emma,
she thought with a snort.

The night was surprisingly warm for early May, the evening balmy as she and Bethany walked back through Downtown Crossing toward the T station. When they passed a café with its front door open, Emma heard applause and stopped to look, peering into the brightly lit interior.

“I think it's an open mike.” An older woman was just leaving the back of the room where a microphone was set up, chairs gathered haphazardly in loose semicircles in front of her, and a host with a clipboard was introducing a young man getting up to take her place. Emma had an idea. She glanced at Bethany over her shoulder. “You want to go in?”

“Sure. Let's check it out.”

They found seats at the back and watched the young man deliver his poems. Emma had never been much into poetry despite her love of literature, but slam poetry was something different entirely. The young man made the words breathe, delivering them rather than reading them, passion on his face and in his voice. When he finished, they all applauded. Emma elbowed Bethany and whispered to her, “You should go up there.”

Bethany turned to her in surprise. “Is this why you brought me in here?”

“No.” Emma ducked her head, smiling. “Maybe. Come on, you should share. There aren't that many people here. Maybe they'll put you on the list.”

“I don't know.” Bethany crossed her arms, rubbing her elbows.

“Do you have any of your poems memorized?”

“A few. But I haven't done this sort of thing since college. And only once. And I was drunk.” She looked at the floor.