Cover Model (3 page)

We were both at our school’s on-campus grad night. Unlike some high schools, North Valley is huge and has plenty of money. So our grad night was off the hook. They closed off all the fields behind the school and turned it into a fuckin carnival. Literally. All kinds of cool roller coaster and gyro rides, a ferris wheel, a big ass bounce house, carnival games, cotton candy, caramel apples, popcorn, photo booths, fortune tellers, all that shit. People loved it. It was the perfect setup for me to make one last pass at Electra Warmoth.

How did it go?

Let’s just say that after the shit that went down at four in the morning, I knew my chances with Electra were burnt fuckin toast. Down in flames. When she ran off that night, I thought she was outta my life forever.

Or so I thought.

Cause here she is.

Will wonders never fuckin cease?

<<<<<<<>>>>>>>

ELECTRA

“There’s no way I’m doing this interview,” I snarl, glaring into Connor’s arrogant blue eyes. They glimmer at me from beneath his thick lashes. A smarmy smirk spreads across his face.

I’m instantly furious. Think nuclear.

It doesn’t help my mood that the boy I hated more than any man in the history of men is all grown up and excruciatingly handsome. With nothing but a white bed sheet wrapped around his narrow waist, he may as well be naked. Nothing is left to my imagination. He is picture perfect, taller and better looking than I remember. Tan hard muscles, tattoos criss-crossing his broad shoulders and biceps, perfect abs that I hate more than I hate his azure eyes, the bulge beneath the bed sheet—no. What am I thinking? I’m not sure, but I’m not thinking about
that
. Because:

I.

HATE.

CONNOR.

HUGE.

I mean, HUGHES.

I always have, and I always will.

“Power Pole?” he chuckles in his oh so maddeningly familiar baritone drawl. “Is that you?”

Like a whipped dog, I cringe at the old high school nickname.

A younger version of Connor’s voice echoes up from memory:
Check it out! It’s Power Pole! She’s a toothpick no matter which way you look at her! And what’s with those throw-back clothes? Did you get them from a dumpster?
Followed by laughter from Connor and his fratty friends. Despite Connor’s “Rebel May Care” persona, his chain-smoking, and his tattered leather jacket, he was friends with the jocks. They all loved to loathe me. For them, mocking me was a team sport, and Connor was their quarterback.

Power Pole.

One of Connor’s many electrically themed insults. When my hippie parents named me Electra, I think they thought it would make me cool. Somehow, these things never work out the way they’re supposed to. I was completely flat-chested in high school and naturally gangly. Believe me, being skinny is not necessarily a blessing. On me, it looked all wrong. Picture sticks and strings. Add to that the goofy glasses I used to wear, the braces, the second-hand clothes, my dorkish nervous energy, and you can see how Power Pole became the obvious insult of choice.

Other favorites included: High Tension (an accurate description of my usual mood caused by daily insults from Team Connor), Lightning
Dolt
(which I grew out of when people realized I made Honor Roll every semester), High
Vulvage
(because of my long legs), Benjamin
Skank
lin (I think one of the cheerleaders suggested it—it was eventually shortened to just
Skanklin
), and Brown Out (which somehow implied I pooped my pants when I got angry, and you better believe being called Brown Out all the time made me plenty angry, but I never pooped myself, not once).

I push away all the old memories and smash them down into my subconscious and slam the lid on it like the over-stuffed suitcase of past pain that it is.

Ignoring Connor’s half-nakedness, I glare at my old nemesis. “Well, well, well,” I snark, “if it isn’t Connor Douche. In the flesh.” Why did I have to say flesh? Maybe because that’s all he’s wearing.

Completely unaffected by my harsh words, Connor rubs his large palm across his rippled abs.

Why do guys with great bodies always have to touch their abs? Do they fear their abs don’t draw enough attention to themselves already? Or are they touching them to make sure they’re still there? Either way, it’s a sign of shallow insecurity. I learned that tidbit at UCLA in one of my electives: Psych 127A
Abnormal Psychology
.

Connor snickers, pleased with himself. “It is you, isn’t it, War
Mouth
?” He says it with his usual self-assured superiority. “Don’t tell me you’re here for my interview.”

“Uh,
yeah
,” I snort.
“Why did you think I was here?” My skin crawls as his eyes slide across every inch of my body until they come to rest on my chest. “Don’t answer that.” I glare at him. “Can we get started already?” I want this over and done.

His eyes claw at my blouse.

It figures.

I turn up the disdain on my face. My expression says,
If you say one more nasty thing, if you call me Power Pole or High Tension or Benjamin Skanklin, I will peel every inch of skin off your body with a rusty paring knife then roll your skinless body in salt. Picture what happens when you pour salt on a slug, because a slug is all that you are, Connor Pukes.
The only sound I actually make is a short sharp snort.

Ignoring my ire, he rolls out a haphazard chuckle. “You grew breasts. I didn’t think you had it in you.” He leers with that same damn leer I learned to loathe in high school.

“I’m full of surprises,” I smirk. Before I realize I’m doing it, I fold my arms protectively over my blouse. It’s an old habit of mine. I’m an expert at defensive posturing, thanks to Connor. I thought I’d broken the habit. Despite Connor’s leering stare, I drop my arms to my side. Not that there’s much for him to see. Yes, there’s more than there was in high school, but I’m sure my boobs are nothing compared to the over-inflated Barbie balloons he goes for.

He leans casually against the door frame, grinning at me. “Damn, War Mouth. I can’t believe you went and got hot.”

Is he being serious?

Of course he isn’t.

I scowl a silent reply. I will not play into his usual games. I know he would love for me to take the bait and thank him and accept the compliment at face value. Knowing Connor, he has some witty retort lined up to make me look stupid. Something like “
No, I meant hot, as in sweaty, as in, you have huge pit stains. Did you forget your anti-perspirant this morning?
” or something worse. Connor was always a master at twisting my words so I looked like an idiot in front of everybody. That’s why I resist the urge to glance at my armpits. I
did
put on anti-perspirant this morning, didn’t I? Wondering about it makes my body temperature spike thirty degrees.

Damn it, it took less than a minute for him to get me flustered.

Romeo nudges against my arm and whispers, “Why does he keep calling you War Mouth?”

“Because my last name is Warmoth,” I hiss.

“Luv it,” Romeo giggles.

I slap him with a hateful glare. My dirty looks are dangerous. I got really good at them in high school, again thanks to Connor. Sometimes a hateful look is easier than coming up with a witty retort on the fly.

Romeo winces nervously. “I mean,
hate
it. Worst nickname ev
-er
. So, ummm… may I presume you two know each other?”

“I went to high school with this limp dick stick,” I grumble.

Romeo’s eyes explode in awe. He gasps, “You know
THE
Connor?”

“Unfortunately,” I mumble.

Romeo titters, “Someone get me a fainting couch! I’m about to expire!”

Sudden chaos erupts from behind Connor.

A beautiful young caramel-skinned woman in a disheveled emerald cocktail dress and heels barges out of the room. When she sees me, she stops abruptly and her eyes headlight. “Who are
you
?” She hisses at me, “Are you the
fitness
interview?”

I’m too stunned to answer.

“I should’ve known,” she seethes. Then she turns to glare at Connor. “I faked all my orgasms, asshole!!!”

“Sure you did,” Connor chuckles.

Her face wrinkles with disgust. “Fuck you!” She grabs the bed sheet and yanks it from his waist before wadding it and throwing it in his face. “You piece of shit!”

The sheet tumbles to the ground as the woman saunters down the hotel hallway. It’s the most hateful Walk Of Shame I’ve ever seen.

Despite the drama, Connor still leans casually against the doorframe like nothing happened.

Except he’s completely naked.

I’m staring right at his huge—

“Can I have this?” Romeo asks, squatting to the ground at Connor’s feet while reaching tentatively for the crumpled bed sheet. “No, seriously, can I have this?” He stares up at Connor and his—

I didn’t think it would be THAT
big…

“Be my guest.” Connor says casually to Romeo. But his eyes never leave mine.

Romeo grabs the sheet and twirls it into a ball which he hugs to his chest like it’s a wad of thousand dollar bills.

Meanwhile, my rage has gone super nova.

Screw my professionalism.

I don’t care. I’m not interviewing Connor Hughes. No matter
how
big of a—

Never mind.

I swore if I ever saw him again I’d shoot him in the face. Since I don’t have a gun handy, I decide the polite thing to do is walk away before I claw his eyes out.

“I’m outta here.” I turn and march down the long hallway toward the elevators.

I can’t wait to hear what Vince Pitts has to say when I tell him he needs to find someone else to do this useless interview.

<<<<<<<>>>>>>>

CONNOR

“I’ll go get her,” the short goth dude with Electra says before jogging off.

I was sorta hoping for a cat fight. Oh well.

Sitting on the bed, I wait around for a while with the door open. They never come back. My jeans are crumpled on the floor in the corner. I grab my phone from the pocket and check my voicemail. I’ve had the ringer off since I brought Babe back to the room last night.

“Connor, this is your dad.”

I smile to myself. Like I can’t recognize his voice.

“We just want you to know we’re having a great time on our trip. The air in Denver really is thinner. Your mom and I went up the steps of the capitol building to that mile high medallion. We were both huffing and puffing like a couple of old farts.”

“
You
were huffing and puffing,” Mom laughs. “I jog, remember? And you smoke!”

“She was huffing and puffing,” Dad chuckles into the phone. “Anyway, I should focus on driving—”

“Gimme that!” Noises as Mom takes the phone and giggles, “Yes, your father should focus on driving. Connor, we just wanted to call to say we’re having a great time and we wish you were here.”

“No we don’t! He’s old enough to take care of himself. When are you going to cut the apron strings, Kelly? Connor’s his own man. Right, son?” There’s a pause and Dad chuckles. “What am I thinking? This is a voicemail! You can’t answer. Oh! Did I mention we’re going to stop at Mt. Rushmore? Your mom doesn’t wanna go but I told her it’s educational and maybe she’ll learn something.”

“I know plenty, Finn. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be eating hot dogs for dinner every night.”

“I like hot dogs!” Dad laughs. “Anyway, I’ve always wanted to find out if Rushmore really does look smaller in person.”

“
C
ompared to
your
giant head,” Mom snickers, “
everything
is smaller.”

“Which one?”

“Finn!” She’s laughing. “You’re such a bad influence. Connor, promise me you’ll never be an egotistical ass like your father.”

“It’s too late for that,” Dad chuckles. “Anyway, kid, we just stopped for lunch. We’ll call you again soon.”

“Bye, Connor!” Mom cheers. “We miss you!”

The message ends and I look out the window of the room and stare at the Pacific Ocean, smiling to myself.

<<<<<<<>>>>>>>

ELECTRA

“Have you lost your god damned mind, Warmoth?!” Vince yells.

Wincing, I hold my phone away from my ear. With my free hand I grab clean wet clothes from the laundry cart and throw them into one of the big dryers at the Lucy’s Laundromat around the corner from my tiny apartment. Since I bailed on the whole Connor interview thing, I decided today was a good day to do laundry. I hate having to drive here, but I don’t have a choice. I can’t afford to live in a nicer apartment complex that actually has an on-site laundry facility. “I can’t believe you set me up on this story, Vince! A male model tell-all? It’s ridiculous!”

“What’s the problem, Warmoth? Guy get your panties in a wad?”

A thousand megapixel image flashes through my mind of the bed sheet crumpled on the floor beneath Connor’s enormous junk. I growl into the phone, “That’s sexist, Vince.” While his comment
might
be true, it’s still sexist.

“So what the hell is the problem? You got a thing for this guy?”

I snort, “You couldn’t be any more off the mark if you were on the moon, Vince!” I hurl a pair of wet jeans into the dryer and they thud against the back wall with a metallic echo. “There’s no way I’m doing this interview!”

“I’m sorry,” Vince says with feigned politeness, “did I hear you right? I think there’s a bad connection.”

“You heard me,” I seethe, grabbing a fistful of wet leggings from the laundry basket.

“That’s odd, because I could’ve sworn you said you were all over this story because you want to keep getting work from me, and the last thing you want to do is piss me off to the point that I lose your phone number.”

I squeeze my smart phone so hard I think I’m going to crack the screen. When that doesn’t happen, I consider throwing it into the dryer with my clothes.

“You picking up what I’m putting down, Warmoth?”

“Yes!”

The truth is, if it wasn’t for Vince, I wouldn’t have enough work to make rent every month. Paid work as a journalist is very hard to find. The last thing I want to do is move back in with my parents. I swore to myself I’d never get that desperate. If I wasn’t already short on rent for next month, I’d seriously consider telling Vince to stick this story so far up his ass that he could read it with his eyes closed.