Shut Up and Model for Me (23 page)

I’m in Perkins Hall. I chose it because it was the exact opposite of any kind of dorm room I’ve ever seen in the western United States. It’s what you imagine when you think of New England and Ivy League. Dark brick, old pillars—even the smell inside of the building screams that it’s been here forever. It’s a drastic change from home. I chose to move here before I knew that I was breaking up with Dallas, but now that I have, it seems completely appropriate.

Starting fresh in all aspects of my life.

I receive my room key and sign off some paperwork with my RA. The hall is strangely quiet—so much different than my experience at East Park my freshman and sophomore year of college, especially on moving day. Those roaming the halls are dressed in nice clothes and tote rolling suitcases behind them instead of the duffels and cardboards boxes undergrads usually lug into the dorms. I think that graduate students realize most of the shit you bring to your dorm room ends up going unused anyway. Too much time is spent studying and partying to need anything more than clothes and a laptop.

My room is on the second floor. I make my way up the stairwell and down the narrow hall to room 212. Unlocking the door, I allow it to swing open only to be incredibly underwhelmed.

The room is about eight feet by twelve feet. There’s a small window at the end with dingy blinds and a bed. Typical dorm, but even smaller than I’m used to, because almost all graduate dorms are for single dwellers.

I roll my suitcase to the middle of the floor and sit on the mattress. I’m pretty good at being alone. Having a hard major during my undergrad meant a whole lot of time spent alone. But I always had my dorm mate to come back to. And then later, when I was a junior and a senior, I always had Britain and Delilah.

There’s that kind of alone, and then there’s this. My heart clenches in my chest. This is going to be a bitch getting used to.

“Damn, you’ve got a way better view than me.”

A tall blonde guy stands in my doorway, leaning up against the wall like he owns the place. His hair is thick and wavy and falls to his chin, and when he looks from the window to me, he smiles warmly. For a blonde, his skin is really tan—he isn’t from around here. He’s also pretty cute.

He holds out a hand. “Sorry. Miles.”

“Hi, Miles, I’m Evan.”

“Trying to meet everyone on the floor right now. Less awkwardness later.”

“Understandable.”

His grin gets bigger. “You’re my neighbor.” He points to the room directly across from me. “What are you studying?”

“Chemical biology.”

“Ah, smart, I see. I’m getting my master’s in English.”

Ugh. Who would get a master’s in English? How pointless. Of course, I don’t say that. I just nod and grin. “Nice.”

“Where are you from?”

“California.”

“What school’d you go to?”

“East Park.”

“Ah, East Park! I heard they have a great porn mag coming off that campus. You wouldn’t happen to be a porn star, would you?”

My breath catches in my throat. Caught, caught, fucking caught. I’ve been on campus for three minutes—how the hell did this—

He busts up laughing. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding! I mean, not about the porn mag. Did you know about that?”

I exhale out of my mouth and shrug. “Too busy in the lab to be paying attention to anything on campus.”

“Thank God I don’t know that feeling. You headed to the barbeque?”

“The what?”

“The welcome barbeque for Perkins hall.”

“How can there be a barbeque? It’s fifty degrees out.”

“I know, I know. I’m from San Diego. Not used to this weather either.” He pushes his hand through his hair and looks around. “Alright, now that I’ve probably scared you to death with talk of porn and fifty-degree barbeques…” he points behind him. “I’m gonna head out. Nice to meet you, Evan.”

I hold my hand up. “You too. See you around.”

Miles leaves, and I stare at the empty doorway like it’s on fire. If today weren’t strange and jarring enough, Miles just topped the cake.

As I close my door, my phone buzzes once in my pocket. I pull it out to see a message from Britain.

Really hope that you’ve started working out. AA (haha, like alcoholics anonymous) re-evaulated our time at Cambridge and decided we needed an extra week, so we’ll be there in eight days.

Eight days.

Eight days?

I have orientation for my program tomorrow. I start lab work next week. More likely than not, my professors will grind us to the bone from the very start to make sure we’re up for the challenge. On top of it, I’m starting my internship for research on the first of October.

And now the EPE crew is flying out in a week.

I have to keep reminding myself that it’s just one more issue. One more issue and I’m done forever.

I pull my sweater tighter around me. Somehow, that thought doesn’t make me feel better. But I text Britain back anyway:

Bring it.

Britain

This should be the start of a joke: How many erotic models can you fit into an airplane?

There is one good thing about this situation: no “assistants” from AA are on our flight. They will be flying into Boston tomorrow.

Of course, I end up in the window seat right next to Jaime.

“I swear Jaime, if you don’t stop asking me….”

“Brit, I need you to let me do this. For my personal growth.”

“I
will not
let you dry hump my best friend for your personal growth. I
will never
let you dry hump my best friend for your personal growth. You know why, Jaime?”

“Brit.”

“Because you’re annoying as fuck, that’s why.”

God, this is all too familiar.

The lady behind me clears her throat, probably in disdain of our conversation.

“Tsk, tsk. I don’t remember you having such a mouth.”

I roll my head from the window to him. He’s pivoted in his seat so that he’s facing me. He’s enjoying this.

“A lot of shit changes in college. Don’t you agree, or are you a drop out?”

My burn doesn’t look like it fazes him. “I graduated, thank you very much. Who gets to model with her?”

“What?”

“Who gets to model with Rylan?”

“I don’t know, okay? And I don’t care. Just not you. You don’t get to model with her because you don’t even want to. You just want to get under my skin.”

A devilish smirk graces his full lips for half a second. He hasn’t shaven in a few days, making him seem so much older than when I saw him before I left for college.

If only he would act older.

“Why do you think I want to get under your skin so badly?”

The fasten seatbelt light blinks on.

“When have you
not
?”

He chuckles. “Touché.” Finally, he leans back in his seat and shuts his eyes.

I wish I knew his agenda. Unless he doesn’t have one. Unless he’s really here just for the job, for the money, and I have nothing to do with anything.

Only a happy coincidence.

Loud chatter springs from the seats in front of me. Luckily, all of my models get along well enough with each other. That’s the thing I’ve discovered with this magazine. Erotic models don’t have a particular personality. Before I met Evan, before I started conceptualizing what it would be like to create a magazine like EPE, I thought that college-aged erotic models might act the same as high fashion models. Vain and lacking character, maybe with anorexia or a coke addiction. They’d all like to party too.

But that isn’t really the case. The personalities of my models vary because their only similarity is that they’re all (or once were) college students.

Really, that’s all they are. College students. College students confident enough to do just about anything for money desperately needed.

I can’t wait until the plane takes off and I can pop my earbuds in—hopefully painting a clear picture to Jaime that I’d rather not catch up. When Chloe passes me to get to her seat, she smiles. I smile back. Chloe is the petite model who posed with Adam during the audition. Shiny, black hair, almond-shaped eyes, and a spatter of freckles. Imagine Lucy Lu to the power of cute. That’s Chloe.

We only hired her and Jaime off of the audition. Eight models I’m taking to Boston, plus Evan. Hopefully I can conjure a powerful enough chemistry between all of them.

My phone starts buzzing. I look down to see the person I least expected.

Dallas.

Good grief. He’s probably one of those lame ex-boyfriends, calling his ex-girlfriend’s best friend in attempt to win sympathy points by bitching about how much he’s still in love with her.

Still—I really like Dallas, even if he and Evan couldn’t get their act together enough to long-distance date.

I ignore the call, but then I text him back:

Boarding for Boston. Call you when I land.

Hopefully that’s good enough.

“Has Cameron mentioned me at all?” Jaime asks.

I do my best not to look irritated with him. “Nope, not since you got into that trouble right after I graduated high school.”

He thinks for a moment. “What trouble?”

“The bar fight.”

“Ah. I was hanging with the wrong crowd.”

“You’re lucky my father liked you enough to never fire you.” When he doesn’t respond, I continue. “You always hung with the wrong crowd, including my brother. Babes, booze, fist fights… nothing was ever enough for you. At least my brother got out of it.”

“And I didn’t?” I can tell he’s losing his cool edge.

“I don’t know, did you?”

He doesn’t answer. “So that’s all Cameron said about me?”

I think for a moment, and glance over at him. With the straightest face I can manage, I say, “He also told me I wasn’t allowed to fuck you.”

He bites back his lower lip in attempt to hide his smile, and then shakes his head. “Hearing dirty words from your mouth is going to take some time getting used to.”

“Just wait until you’re on set with me. It gets real bad. Cunts and cocksuckers everywhere.”

In the midst of taking a sip of water, Jaime chokes.

“Kidding. Sort of. Just cocksucker, mainly.”

“God, kid, who did you inherit this mouth from?”

“Probably you. You know, in the midst of all the torment.”

“Okay, okay, I got it. I was an asshole to you.”

“Understatement.”

Our plane moves into the runway queue.

“Well, I’m done, if it makes you feel any better.”

“Not really.”

“How can I prove it?”

I stare at him hard. He looks sincere, but it’s impossible to tell with Jaime. “You can apologize for everything you’ve ever done to me that made me feel insecure about myself.”

“Jesus, Brit. How the hell am I supposed to remember?”

“Figure it out,” I say gruffly.

He says nothing else to me as we take off, thank God. When we can finally use electronics, I pop in my earbuds and crank up the volume on M83, shutting my eyes for almost the entire flight.

^^^^^

I don’t even know where I’m going.

I’m essentially alone in chaperoning my crew. I’m doing the rounding up, the screaming at everyone to stop fucking around, and the dealing with maps and directions.

Lucky for us, AA isn’t being stingy. I’m expecting to have an army of booked cabs waiting for us, but instead, we have a shuttle.

Our own shuttle.

A man in a nice suit waits by baggage claim with a sign that says
East Park Exposed
.

“Fabulous,” he exclaims when he sees the wave of us approaching him. “Hurry up and grab your things; the carousel is already running. We have a time frame.”

“Time frame? But we aren’t even shooting until Wednesday.”

The man hands me an iPad. A bloody
iPad
. “I was instructed to give this to you.”

“I—what?
This
?”

“Yes. Instructions and schedules have been uploaded and will continue to be updated if situations change.”

“Brit!” Delilah hollers. She points to a bag on the carousel.

“Yeah that’s mine. Grab it for me, will you?” I turn back to our chauffeur. “Where are we headed tonight?”

He nods to the iPad. “All on the device, I assure you.”

I poorly hide my sigh of frustration.

My team consists of eight models: Delilah, Adam, Jaime, Miguel, Patrick, Chloe, Jessica, and Ella. I have to remember to make sure they’re following me like kindergarteners on a field trip so I know that no one is being left behind. And it’s not like I’m over-exaggerating. I’ve almost lost Adam and Miguel twice. Go figure.

Our shuttle is the shiniest vehicle in the passenger loading area. Black and waxed to perfection, I feel like I’m half-way famous. The windows are even tinted.

While the boys act like gentlemen for once in their lives to load the luggage into the back, I take a seat right behind the driver and power up the iPad.

The only thing installed is Amora Acquisition’s own application. It opens by itself.
Hello, Britain. You have two new videos
.

Creepy.

I plug my headphones into the iPad before opening the videos. Delilah plops down next to me, which is a surprise, considering she’s been hanging onto Adam the whole trip.

“Hey, bestie,” she says, snuggling up to me.

“What’s up?”

“The boys are being obnoxious and you look a bit lonely.”

Lonely? Do I
feel
lonely? I feel like a mother trying to round up a bunch of ADHD chickens, but that’s a bit different.

“So Jaime…” Delilah whispers to me right as he walks past us. “Is that like,
the
Jaime?”

I groan in response.

“Holy shit, Brit! Why didn’t you want to hire him? If that hottie took the time and effort to torment
me
all throughout my childhood, I’d be his personal slave.”

“Dear God, Delilah,” I mutter. “Have some dignity.”

“I do have dignity,” she argues. “Tons of it. I’m just saying—a boy doesn’t spend his entire life tormenting a pretty, adorably dorkalicious girl like you unless he’s secretly in love.”

I glance behind us. I catch Jaime staring, and he looks away.

“You don’t understand.” I turn back to Delilah. “Jaime was a hellion of a teenager. I was one of his many playthings.”