Send Nudes: A MMF Bisexual Romance Read online

  I turn away and return to the treadmill. I need to be focused.

  I set the machine to a lower speed and begin to run again. As I do, I continue to rack my brain for a solution to my problem.

  When I’m having difficulty making decisions in the office, I come to the gym. Exercise helps me clear my brain. It helps me think more clearly.

  So, a lot of times during the day, I come here to exercise.

  That’s also why I never pick up girls from the gym. I don’t want to get distracted when I’m working. And my love for pussy is a fucking great distraction from work.

  So, if I’m in the gym trying to think through a problem, I don’t pick up girls.

  “How the fuck do I get this done?” I mutter under my breath.

  I pound the treadmill with a fist. The person next to me yelps with a start. I look and see that I have his attention.

  And it hits me.

  I know how to get Diana’s attention. I’ll do something outrageous.

  Immediately, I jump off the treadmill and grab my phone. I place a call to my assistant.

  “Hello, sir,” she replies crisply.

  “Get me the most expensive envelope you can find and some fucking gold stationery or whatever,” I say, keeping my excitement in check. “Get it to me right now.”

  “Yes, boss,” she replies.

  A half an hour later, my assistant strolls into the gym, the items I requested in her hand.

  With a knowing smile, I begin writing a note.

  7

  Diana

  “Maybe we shouldn’t have bought popcorn from some random guy on the street,” I complain, feeling my belly lurch.

  Sophia only laughs out loud.

  “He didn’t even look like he should be selling anything that goes through the mouth,” I say.

  Sophia’s laugh intensifies, which is just great since I’m the one suffering from our poor choice of vendor. And it had been our choice.

  Aside from the fact that I’m still poor as piss, not much has changed since Sophia became my representative. I don’t even really know what that entails, because all she has done is sit in my apartment and sift through the mountain of letters with me.

  I know I could’ve done that by myself. But I know I might not be able to make the right choice, and that’s why I believe I need Sophia’s help the most.

  Have you ever gotten a present that you really know is expensive because it came from a certain person? And you were itching to open it as soon as you get home, because you know, if you open it outside, you’d probably embarrass yourself…and that because you know you’re going to scream your head off?

  Well, that’s me. That’s how I’m feeling right now.

  Sitting in my apartment with Sophia, going through letter after letter, is exhilarating. For a number of reasons, of course.

  For one, I’m excited at the prospect of starting a new life. Of working at a new job and taking advantage of my popularity to become even more popular.

  I’m also excited because the moment I sign with one of these big companies, I won’t have to take shit from Maurice anymore. He won’t even have the guts to talk to me anyhow because I’ll be too above him— or rather, he’ll be too beneath me.

  And should he try anything stupid, the fucking bastard will get what’s coming to him.

  In case you missed that reference, let me spell it out for you: sexual harassment lawsuit. He’ll deserve every count of harassment charge that I’ll bring up against him.

  Fuck him.

  Phew! I didn’t know I had this anger in me.

  Anyway, moving forward, I’m also excited about this whole thing because I know my life will totally change. I mean that in a financial sense because, as you’ve probably already deduced, I’m broke as hell.

  If you can’t tell from my experience with the bullshit vendor who probably sold me week-old popcorn, you’ll probably be able to tell from the tiny apartment I live in.

  I live in a really shitty neighborhood. It’s where I can afford a tiny apartment with all the facilities needing work every now and then. Heck, I’m sure the handyman knows every inch of my apartment because he’s in here five days out of seven.

  My living room is crammed with a lot of things, and I’m not referring to furniture. I mean drawers, thongs, sweatshirts pants, and so on.

  It’s not because I’m not an organized person, but because there’s no other place to keep it.

  The small space I call a bedroom can only fit a bed. After the bed, what’s left is a tiny corner that can’t even take my luggage. So, I’ve to use a part of my living room for that.

  And when you’ve to rush out practically every morning and come back late at night, feeling emotionally sapped…well, eventually, you just get tired of folding your clothes neatly and just start dumping them at the next available spot.

  See? Perfectly explainable.

  Also, you can probably tell that I’m broke from the fact that if I had a fridge, it’d probably be empty. I say ‘if’ because, well, I don’t have a fridge. Can’t afford one, not when even one at a yard sale.

  So, you and I would agree that this whole thing with me going viral is a really good thing. Even if it doesn’t pan out as I want it to, I’ll make enough money to pull myself out of the gutter.

  At least, I won’t have to put a lot of financial strain on Sophia who’s doing better than me, though only by a slight margin. I know, I’ve been to her apartment.

  “How about this?” Sophia says, flashing me a complimentary card.

  I immediately see that it was sent by the manager of a brand consulting firm. I frown.

  I remember his name. Holts.

  How could I not remember? I remember how he humiliated me back when I was a young model looking for a job, told me nasty things—things like how I’d never be good enough for modeling and like how I was better as one of the minions that worked behind the stage than being a true model.

  “And look,” Sophia is saying, pointing at a phrase on the card, “he says you’ve met, he says he knows you.” Sophia is smiling.

  But I’m not. Why wouldn’t he know me? After all, he’s probably the reason my luck has been this shitty for the last couple of years.

  I remember being broken by his words that I ran right into the nearest manager that would accept me—the only one who agreed for me to work as a model because I was so broken by Holts’ comments that I was looking for approval. And it was in Maurice’s arms that I found that approval.

  Only, Maurice wasn’t the real deal. He was just some fucked up thwart who liked to use his position of authority to take advantage of young girls. Sometimes, I shudder at the memory of the day I marched into his office.

  But I know in my heart that all of that wouldn’t have happened if Holts had just been polite and told me off without adding some bone-crushing words on top. Instead, he practically shattered my dreams.

  Oh, people can be cruel.

  “What’s wrong?” Sophia says, seeing the bitter look on my face.

  “Nothing,” I mutter. I try to hide it, but she’s too perceptive.

  “Try again, girl,” Sophia says, waving the card in my face and prodding for an answer. “Don’t like this one?”

  I shake my head. “I wouldn’t work for Holts if he offered me a billion dollars.”

  That doesn’t sound right in my ear, so I say, “Okay, I could for a billion dollars. He’s not offering a billion dollars, is he?”

  “Nope,” Sophia says.

  “Then I don’t want to work for him,” I say with a finality.

  The bitterness in my voice startles Sophia for a while. She looks at me for a long moment, before she speaks again.

  “Wanna talk about it?”

  “We have,” I say. “Remember the guy that called me a fucked-up excuse…”

  “…of a model,” Sophia completes my statement as she remembers the incident.

  She then turns her attention on the card with a vengeance.<
br />
  “The nerve of this motherfucker!” she spits out, crumpling the card in her hand like it’s nothing, like Holt is nothing, like his promise of millions of millions of dollars if I sign with him is nothing—which, I promise you, isn’t, considering my financial status but…fuck him!

  Sophia stands and walks over to the open window, which opens to a fire escape and the dirty backside of another dilapidated apartment building, which, by the way, is better than mine.

  Sophia sticks out her fisted hand and then opens it. The wind scrapes the crumpled paper off her hand and out of view.

  “Good riddance,” she says with a smile. She returns to my side and hugs me. “Don’t worry. We’re going to make him suffer when we get you to Broadway-famous status. We’ll make him bleed. We’ll make ‘em all bleed.”

  I don’t really care if they bleed or do any other painful shit. All I want is to never come across them again.

  “Even Maurice,” Sophia swore. “All those fuckers are going to pay.”

  All I do is nod. I know I can’t stop Sophia when she gets like this.

  Spunky is a word that doesn’t even begin to define her. Feisty is better, although it falls short by a long mile.

  After another moment of silence, we return to rifling through the letters again, and the memory of Holts is but a distant haze.

  For a moment, my mind wanders off. Maybe I’m tired and hungry from the day’s work. Reading so much legal jargon, especially from the all the companies that just send a contract along with a letter of appeal, might have had an effect on me.

  Nevertheless, when Sophia makes a curious quip, I’m yanked out of my trance-like state.

  I turn to look at Sophia, and I see her holding two fanciful envelopes.

  I didn’t see those come in, did I? I find myself wondering.

  “Fancy, huh?” Sophia says, beaming. She turns it and reads, “It says Lush on one and Sinful on the other.”

  As I hear both names, my heart lurches up my throat. “Say what?”

  I breathe.

  “This might be it, babe,” Sophia says excitedly.

  Fucking right, it might be! I want to yell but have to contain myself.

  Lush and Sinful are like Victoria’s Secret big. They’re the biggest lingerie and female apparel manufacturers around. How the fuck did they hear about me?

  Shit!

  I’m about to burst a vein or something similarly drastic. I’m so excited I’m probably going to lose it.

  “What does it say?” I say, tightening my hands together so I don’t lunge for the envelopes and snatch them out of Sophia’s hand.

  “Hold on, girl,” Sophia says with a laugh.

  She takes her time opening the envelope so that she doesn’t damage it. Might sell it off and make back some of the dough they spent, she intones to me. I only laugh because I’m thinking the same thing.

  We think so alike!

  When she has the overleaf open, she pauses, turns, and says, “You should probably open it the rest of the way.”

  Before I can protest, she dumps the envelopes in my hand.

  “If you say so,” I reply, and I open both envelopes.

  There’s a card in each envelope. There are two words on each card.

  Different handwriting. Different designs on the cards. Different sweet scents.

  But the same two fucking words on each card.

  I’m totally confused.

  What kind of CEOs would send something like this? What the hell?

  Blinking, I hold the two cards in my hands and read them over and over again, as if somehow I expect more words to appear in there.

  But no, all I get are the same two words.

  Send Nudes.

  What the actual fuck?

  8

  Diana

  I’m way beyond pissed now. I’m out for blood. I still hold the fancy cards in my hand, still wondering if they’re real.

  Or is this the part where I wake up and realize that it was all a dream?

  I glance at Sophia, who’s still looking at me with anticipation on her face. She’s waiting for me to tell her what the card says.

  I give it a moment.

  Maybe I’ll wake up from this dream, which is slowly turning into a nightmare.

  When I still find Sophia staring at me, I return my gaze to the cards, which I now hold with both hands.

  Send Nudes.

  Who the fuck do they think they are?

  Rage boils in my belly. It’s like a storm, churning in me, and all I want to do is scream.

  They can’t do this to me and go free. I’m so going to give them a piece of my mind.

  Just because I’m looking to work as a model doesn’t mean they can treat me like a piece of ass. I am a person! A human being.

  Not some loose fucker they can demand nudes from.

  “What do they say?” Sophia asks, breaking the tirade storming in my head.

  I dump the cards in her lap, shoot to my feet, and begin to pace my apartment. And yes, I’m trampling on packages, mails, and clothes.

  I don’t give a fuck now. All I want to do is confront the bastards that sent me these letters.

  And to think that I adored those two companies: Lush and Sinful. To think that I considered working for them, seeing how they were the big names in the industry. If this is how they treat people they’re scouting, God only knows how they treat their employees.

  “What?” Sophia bursts.

  But she’s not angry yet. She’s still in the denial phase as she grips the cards and tries reading them.

  She turns the cards over to see if there are other texts, but there’s nothing. She glances at the envelopes, ripping them into pieces to see if there are hidden texts, but there’s nothing other than what she has already read.

  Send Nudes.

  Staring at the cards in confusion, she reads them again. And again. Her face is slowly turning from confusion to anger.

  She’s getting there. She’s getting to where I am.

  “Maybe it’s some sort of joke,” Sophia says. She’s visibly trying to contain her anger.

  “Fucking bastards,” I reply. “I wouldn’t waste thousands of dollars on gold stationeries and fancy envelopes just to send a joke. They meant it.”

  “Who the hell do they think they are?” Sophia asks.

  “Honey, that’s the exact same question I’m asking myself,” I reply, and then I continue to pace.

  I don’t know why I’m reacting like this. If you knew me, you’d know I’m more of the mellow type. After all, I’ve had Maurice harassing me for as long as I’ve worked for the man, and I’ve never complained, nor have I ever gone to the police.

  I guess I had always known that I didn’t have a prayer getting Maurice busted.

  It’s a difficult world out there, a world that doesn’t deal fairly between men and women. I knew that if I had gone to HR, I might have ended up fired. If I had gone to the police, I might have ended up fired and publicly screwed.

  It’s just how it is. The reasons are simple.

  Management would form a board of inquiry to substantiate my claim. Already, the board would be biased since Maurice is way more valuable to the production company than I am.

  And since no one would be bold enough to corroborate my story, the board would rule against me.

  I’d get fired two months later due to some trumped-up reason, since the company wouldn’t want the media heat they’d get if they fired me.

  On the other hand, if I went to the cops, they’d investigate. But without any hard evidence, they couldn’t arrest Maurice. Any case I file against Maurice would get thrown out of court.

  When I know this is how things are likely to end up, why bother?

  But now, it’s different. Now, I have the attention of the world, the sympathy of the people. The media is on my side.

  Fuck, even Lady Luck is on my side. Knowing this and knowing what kind power I wield has pumped me up.

  I won’t tak
e any shit! My days of taking shit are over. I’m going to show these guys to never fuck with me, I solemnly swear to myself.

  “We’ve got to do something, girl!” Sophia says, waving the cards in my face.

  Indeed, we’ve got to! I reply in my mind, pacing.

  Now, I have evidence. All I have to do is take it to the media and that’ll be it for the two brands.

  “I’m going to go to the Lush and Sinful offices and tear a new one into those arrogant bastards,” I say with vehemence. “Make them fucking apologize to me for this insult. I’ll start with Sinful, and then I’ll head over to Lush.”

  “These are corporate bosses we’re dealing with, Dee,” Sophia says, suddenly going all mellow on me. “They’re as egotistical as they’re arrogant. They’d rather lawyer up than condescend to the level of apologizing to a woman.”

  She says the woman part with contempt, probably mimicking the way these rich, corporate type brasses probably think of us women: property to be owned and not to be taken seriously.

  Fuck ‘em all!

  “Then I’ll go to the media,” I reply without missing a beat.

  One thing fame has done to me is to arm me with the ear of the people. Before, I didn’t have a voice. Now, I don’t only have a voice, I also have a way to have it heard all over the fucking Internet.

  And these guys are going to feel the wrath of my vengeance when I’m through with them.

  “I’ll take the cards. I’ll play the traumatized damsel,” I say, the story already forming in my mind. “I didn’t take those acting classes for nothing. I’ll cry the world a river. I’ll say how I felt humiliated, violated, when these CEOs sent me these cards. Then I’ll show the world the cards. The entire world will see their handiwork.”

  I let out a bitter, sarcastic laugh.

  “The media will crush them to bits,” I continue, “and who knows, maybe I’ll even become more popular.”

  With my plan formulated, I don’t wait for Sophia’s advice. I whirl around on my heels and storm into my room. I change into something befitting a popular model—a red blouse with matching red pants and a black jacket.