Send Nudes: A MMF Bisexual Romance Page 2

  I glance at the knot of reporters behind the camera crew. They don’t seem interested in the shoot. They seem more interested in talking with each other and pressing their smart phones.

  I suppose I’d be disinterested too, if it were me. I shouldn’t judge them.

  Maurice clears his throat aloud. “In three…”

  I straighten up and smile sweetly at the camera directly facing me. I’m still racking my brain, wishing that the tiny production company I work for had readers that showed my lines instead of me having to read the damn thing from memory.

  Oh well, just my bullshit luck, I guess.

  “Two…” Maurice announces.

  He has that look now—the straight, serious look that he wears when the cameras are about to roll. It’s what I mentally call Maurice’s don’t-fuck-with-my-work look.

  Knowing that I’m probably going to probably fuck up the entire shoot, I begin to squirm in my skin.

  I should have said something earlier, I upbraid myself, should’ve explained to Maurice. Shit!

  Should’ve gone back home for the fucking script.

  “One…” Maurice arches an eyebrow at me.

  He’s asking if I’m ready to go.

  Shit! Shit! Fucking shitty shit!

  Anxiety fills me up. I suddenly feel exposed.

  Boy, am I going to get it.

  With a light smile plastered on my face, I give an almost imperceptible nod. I can already feel my nipples hardening. It happens when I’m anxious.

  Fuck me!

  “Action.”

  Maurice nods to me, signaling that the shoot has begun.

  Perfect silence fills the whole place. A red light comes on in the camera directly before me.

  For a millisecond, I blank out. Panic is about to set in, when I suddenly remember the first line of what I’m supposed to say. I make a split-second decision to wing it from then on and begin with a beaming smile.

  “Have you ever needed to grind something and didn’t have the means to do it?” I say to the cameras. “Did you say to yourself, ‘Boy, I wish I had the right appliance?’”

  For a tentative second, I watch Maurice in my periphery. He doesn’t seem to react to my improvisation, so I continue.

  “Then, this RX Blendizer is for you!”

  I shift my weight from one leg to another, taking care to jut out my waist.

  Just as I’m about to say another word, the power source behind me sparks. It’s so sudden that it frightens me, and I do what all ladies do when they’re frightened.

  I scream and jerk away.

  The wire is forcefully yanked out, causing a greater spark that immediately morphs into a fire.

  “Shit!” I scream as I drop the appliance.

  My shriek causes a commotion behind the cameras. Before anyone can react to the fire, the sprinklers are activated. Water gushes down on me.

  Within seconds, I am completely drenched.

  I can feel every part of my body like an exposed nerve. My perfect dress clings to me, outlining every curve, every bulge—even my nipples.

  Maurice looks outraged. In fact, so outraged that his mouth hangs agape.

  And guess what? The few reporters in the room see this as the perfect time to take pictures.

  Great, I think to myself, just the perfect way to end the day.

  3

  Derek

  I look at my wristwatch for the tenth time in the last thirty minutes. It says twenty past four.

  Where the fuck is she? I wonder as rage bristles all over my body.

  This is the part where someone would decide to throw a tantrum or yell at the fucking wall, but not me.

  If you saw me standing at the center of a chaotic media room, you wouldn’t have guessed that I’m missing one of my models. That’s because you don’t know me.

  I’m Derek Hemsworth, and I’m worth more than my weight in gold.

  Running Sinful isn’t the easiest task in the world. It’s a crazy industry. It’s a cutthroat business that requires skill, tact, and control.

  I have all of these.

  That’s why instead of storming up to the staff member in charge of the models, I remain standing where I am and stare into the air.

  To be sure, I’m angry as fuck. Who the fuck does Sky think she is? I have tons of fucking models who could fucking do her job.

  If she thinks she can sign up for the photoshoot today and decide to balk and not fucking pay for it later on, she’s fucking stupid.

  But you see, making a fucking noise about the issue isn’t going to get the job done. I know because I’ve been getting the job done for five years—around the time I started Sinful.

  And look where we are, one of the best in the industry.

  Focus is the key, laser-like focus.

  It’s why I’ve been patient for the past thirty minutes, why I don’t respond to the flirtatious looks the many models around give me. And it’s why when I realized Sky was running late, I sent my assistant to find her instead of giving in to rage.

  I watch as the camera crew mills around. There’s a green material draping the entire wall. There are lights focused on the set, and a ton of cameras focused on it as well.

  Around, there are computer gadgets manned by highly skilled operators.

  Thousands and thousands of dollars just fucking sitting there idly because Sky decided to not show.

  As I stare at the media room and its high tech equipment, I marvel at how far I’ve come as a business tycoon.

  I didn’t come this far by losing control when a worker decides to misbehave, I think to myself.

  “Hi, boss,” a voice says behind me.

  I’m immediately gripped by the sensual nature of the voice. A finger lightly touches my broad shoulder as a tall, luscious model comes around to stand in front of me.

  My breath almost stop as I see the look in her eyes. It’s the kind of look that says: Fuck me, baby. Fuck me hard.

  I gotta admit, I begin to harden down low. Hell, who wouldn’t?

  She’s a five-foot-tall blonde with a nice piece of ass. She’s flimsily dressed in a red lace thong and bra.

  For a moment, I’m overwhelmed with one simple desire: to take her to the next room and give her what she’s begging for.

  But that’s not me. I don’t give two shits about pussy when I’m on the job. That’s how I get shit done at work.

  “How’s it going, Brenda?” I ask.

  I’ll probably want to fuck that ass some other time, so I answer with a little bit of warmth. I might be laser focused at work, but when I want to play, I play hard. Fuck hard, too.

  “Fine, boss,” she says, batting her eyes at me.

  I only nod at the model and avert my gaze.

  “So Sky’s a no show, huh?” Brenda was saying. “If only there was some place we could go to pass the time.”

  “If only,” I say in return.

  I force my mind into a stillness because I know if I let it, it’ll begin to conjure the many ways I’ll make her scream my name while we’re “passing the time.”

  She expects me to say something along the lines of, you’re right or great idea. But I remain silent, keeping my eyes on the camera crew.

  I can still see her in my periphery. I see as she frowns at my response—or lack thereof—and then walks away.

  I look at my premium Rolex watch again. It’s already thirty minutes past four. Again, I feel rage bristle over me. But instead of giving in to it, I begin to think of a way to get this photoshoot going without Sky.

  Just then, a door opens behind me, and my assistant runs to meet me.

  “What’s happening?” I demand.

  “She’s not answering my calls and messages, sir,” my assistant tells me. “But she was spotted heading into Kane’s building.”

  Fuck—is Kane resorting to stealing my models now? I wonder.

  I remain cool and collected, however. I can see the surprise play across my assistant’s face. She’s surprised
I hadn’t stormed out of the building immediately in search of Kane.

  Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re probably thinking, why the hell doesn’t he do that and show Kane who’s boss?

  My answer is a simple one. I don’t roll that way. I didn’t get to where I am now by losing control.

  No, I am a master of control.

  What good will losing control do after some crazy ass model decides to port over to the enemy? No one’s irreplaceable, not even Sky—as hot as she is.

  There are a hundred of other models dying to work for a successful company like Sinful.

  Why go crazy over one model?

  You see, when you think like this, it’s hard to lose it. It’s hard not to remain focused when you can see the bigger picture.

  “Well, her loss, not mine,” I say to my assistant. “Have the crew run the photoshoot with the models we have. I’ll be in my office.”

  “Yes, sir,” my assistant says.

  I turn and walk out of the media room, heading to my office on the top floor. As soon as I’m seated, I begin to ponder what my options are. The TV is on, and a newscaster is going on about some FBI investigation into some past president.

  I watch the news distractedly, thinking more about the issue at hand.

  It’s not unusual for models to switch companies. I’ve had my fair share of those. And when you have had hundreds of models coming and going, it doesn’t bother you when some don’t show up for a photoshoot.

  Sky’s actions, however, are troubling.

  She is—or, fuck, was—one of my star models. And I’ve treated her rightly, even better than other models. And now, it seems she left me for Kane’s Lush. This is probably the real reason why I’m bothered.

  Now, if you know about me and Kane, you know that we were once best of buddies.

  We went to college together. We were even bunk mates at one particular time. We both shared dreams of going into this industry together and taking over the world.

  We did take over the world—both of us. But it cost us our friendship.

  Now, Kane is my fiercest rival.

  His company, Lush, is my company’s strongest opponent. Fuck, he’s probably my only real opponent. Granted, there are lots of other manufacturers of female products out there, but none comes close to Lush or Sinful.

  For Kane to have stolen Sky, he must be gunning for me. He must have a plan. And now that Sky’s gone, I need someone to fill in for her.

  Someone as just as good. Fuck that—someone better than her.

  As I keep pondering on how to proceed, I see a sudden change in the newscaster’s face, from being serious to conveying mirthful surprise—and that causes me to focus on the news.

  “…and it has been causing quite a stir on the Internet ever since it came out,” the newscaster’s saying.

  Immediately, the image of the newsroom is replaced by the picture of a girl. She’s soaked wet, her black dress highlighting her biting curves. But the lights make her body look achingly beautiful.

  Her silhouette, curves, and delicate limbs…every fucking thing in her screams perfection. It’s beauty and sexiness, raw lust and pure class, rolled into one perfect package.

  “Who is this mystery woman?” the newscaster says off-camera. “That seems to be the question on everyone’s mind.”

  Who, indeed? I wonder as I take in the startling beauty before me.

  Immediately, it hits me. With Sky’s treachery and Kane’s brash impudence, Lush and Sinful are set on a collision course.

  But now, I know how to flip the tables.

  Whoever that woman is, I need her to be the face of my brand.

  4

  Diana

  The laptop sits cradled in my thighs as I adopt a meditative pose on my couch. My eyes are glued to the screen, and I scroll through an article by a famous blogger. It’s about me.

  Everything—it’s all about me.

  My friend sits giggling by my side, her eyes glued to the screen as well. She’s absently munching on a pack of cheap popcorn we bought from a guy on the street. She’s dressed in a black sweatshirt that takes on her form.

  She’s pretty by most standards, and she’s my best friend, Sophia.

  We’ve been in the Internet since daybreak. It’s been more than a week, and I’m still breaking the Internet.

  Talk about changing luck. It’s still all too surreal to me, and sometimes, I think I’m going to wake up and find out it was all a dream.

  I giggle. Wouldn’t be the first time.

  I scroll down the page, which causes Sophia to stir.

  “Take that back a moment, Dee,” Sophia says.

  I scroll back up to where she’s pointing at. It’s one of the many comments on the web article.

  “Look at that,” Sophia says, pointing to a phrase.

  I take a moment to read it, and it surprises me. The author of the comment claims that the video shoot was all a hoax, and that the real plan was for the sprinklers to go off accidentally and cause a scene.

  I can’t help but laugh. I glance at my friend.

  “Girl, is he throwing shade at me?” I say that with an impudent tone, like who the hell does he think he is?

  With Sophia, I can be myself. She totally gets me. Most of the time, she bears the pent-up anger that wells up and spills most of the time I spend a day with Maurice at work.

  She’s always there when I need a shoulder to cry on.

  I’ve learned to be free with Sophia, and that’s why she’s the best person to share this magical moment with.

  She’s been here almost every day since my picture went viral on the Internet. In fact, she was the one who called me to tell me what was happening. I remember the call because I was back in my shitty apartment, just returned from the failed video shoot.

  I remember feeling so terrible about my bullshit life that I drank booze all evening and slept all night. Her call woke me up the next day and she was like, “Girl, you’re everywhere!”

  At first, I didn’t get it. I thought something terrible happened.

  Maybe Maurice had terminated me, and the tabloids had picked it up and were shaming me. Wouldn’t be out of character if that happened. I’m all bad luck and shit, you see.

  Then, I understood after a few disjointed sentences. Turns out she was too freaking excited at what was happening that she was barely forming full sentences. I spent the next several hours watching the TV.

  I didn’t believe it was real, of course. Trust me to refuse accepting that my bullshit luck could change.

  Maybe it was all a farce, I thought, trying to explain away what was happening.

  I never have any breaks. Good things never happen to me.

  Maybe it was some Punk’d farce or a reality show where they make you feel famous for a moment—just enough so that you’ll believe it, then they pull out the rug from under your feet, leaving you flat on the ground.

  And having a damn good laugh while at it.

  But when the media buzz kept intensifying, when the letters, calls, emails, stalkers kept coming, day in and day out, I realized it was real.

  Fuck. I was famous.

  I couldn’t even go to work. Thank god my piece-of-shit manager decided to give me a break, so I could adjust to stardom.

  But that didn’t stop Maurice from being all over me—the controlling son of a bitch. Dude even came to my house to ogle me.

  I couldn’t believe it.

  Well, Sophia sure gave him what he was begging for.

  She’s the best. She’s been with me ever since I began my modeling career. She’s been helping me process what was happening, helping me stay steady.

  I wouldn’t wish for someone other than her. Even now, we’ve been sitting in this worn-out couch for hours, looking for more articles about me on the Internet. They seem to be in endless supply.

  It’s amazing how much people can find out about you. Even more amazing is how much people can write about you, and how much they can lie
about you.

  I’ve read articles that claim I’m a popular model—which I promise you, I’m not. I’ve read articles that claim I’m a divorcee. I was like, when the fuck did I get married?

  I even read an article that said I was the long-lost daughter of a British monarch. Pfft. I wish!

  So far, it has been fun reading these articles, having all that attention.

  Of course, the world already knows it’s me in the picture, and they’ve been disturbing me. I’m not ready to make a mistake by signing with the wrong people, so I’ve held out.

  I know it’s been difficult working with Maurice. I should just go for the first deal I see, but I don’t want to rush.

  I’ve to be smart. Otherwise, I’ll be exchanging one demon for another.

  You’re probably like, “Way to go, way to think!”

  Well, that really wasn’t my idea. It was Sophia’s. As you might’ve already figured out, she’s the bright one.

  Left to my own devices, I would’ve jumped at the first opportunity I got—anything to get away from Maurice. But Sophia wouldn’t let me.

  Once again, I turn to look at her.

  Sometimes, I wish she was the one in my shoes. If anyone deserves all this, it’s her, not me. I haven’t done anything to deserve this.

  Sophia, on the other hand, seemed like someone who’s life has been going in the right direction.

  I guess it’s just life. It’s fucked up as hell.

  Sophia turns and catches my gaze.

  “What?” she says with a smile.

  I look away, shaking my head lightly.

  “It’s still all too surreal to me,” I confess, closing the laptop. I look at her again, my fears manifesting. “What if this isn’t real?”

  I won’t lie to you. Now and again, I’ve difficulty believing the number of articles and calls, and whatnot. I’ve taken bullshit for so long that I can’t even think outside the realms of being a loser of a model.

  Sophia hugs me and squeezes tightly. Her warmth envelopes me, and instantly, I feel protected.

  “Girl, it’s real, I tell you,” she replies. Her hand sweeps across the tiny excuse of a living room.