Dirty Little Secrets: A Stepbrother Romance

M
y feet were aching
, and what I wanted more than anything else in the world was to sit down with a light drink and relax. But I was working, so I had a happy and engaged look on my face as I made my way across the concrete poolside. I hate these types of events. You’re supposed to look glamorous, sexy, and seductive while at the same time somehow come off as wholesomely approachable.

I mean, think about it for a second. Do you really think those
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit models are happy to be wearing a bikini while frolicking around in the snow? Even worse, realize that those shoots normally take place in mid to late winter, and you’d wonder why anyone would find that sexy at all. But, the bottom line rule in modeling is if the customers buy it, you do it. Luckily, while I’d done some uncomfortable shoots, I’d never had to wear swimwear in a snowstorm.

At least my discomfort was related more to my footwear than anything else. I was wearing a bikini, but the event was taking place in summer, so I wasn’t inwardly shivering the whole time. We were even in Malibu, which is one of my favorite places to hang out most of the time. Best of all, I didn’t have to feel out of place, as almost everyone else was wearing swimwear or something of the sort.

The problem was my shoes. I’m five ten, and as you’d expect with a woman my height, I have quite large feet. In casual shoes I wear a women’s size ten, which is close to the size of an average man’s foot. That’s not too bad when you consider that I’m taller than the average man as well, but for some reason fashion designers and runway reps think that they can get away with being lazy and bringing nothing but size eight shoes. Eights are good for some, mostly the pinup girls who don’t do the runway, but for us tall girls . . . painful. Pure pain.

Still, I was a professional, and I made sure to keep my face as happy as possible as I jammed my feet into the undersized shoes. I couldn’t knock the pay—I was getting fifty thousand dollars for two days’ work. It was a unique opportunity. The UFC was having an ‘all big men’ event, with every fight being either light heavyweights or heavyweights. But that presented a lot of problems, the main being that most of the fighters were giants. Seriously, most of the light heavyweight and heavyweight fighters were six-three to six-eight, so to not make them look like NBA-style freaks, the UFC wanted the models for this press event to be tall as well. The only normal UFC girl in attendance was Arianny, who I got to meet for the first time. She was pretty nice, a lot nicer than I thought she would be. She gave us a few pointers on how to interact with the fighters and gave me and the other girls working the party the rundown on the schedule of the evening.

Still, regardless of how nice Arianny was, the UFC’s marketing deal with Reebok meant I was wearing brand-new, out-of-the-box, black leather, size eight tennis shoes. I‘d quickly ditched my socks to gain me a little bit of wiggle room, but still, an hour into the two-hour event, my feet were screaming at me. I‘d lost feeling in my little toes, however, so I was at least holding out hope that by the end of the event I‘d have numbed up the rest of the way.

While there were certain various photo ops, video blurbs, and other things that I had to do, my primary job for the night was to mingle at the pool party, held two nights before the main event, which was taking place in Los Angeles. I didn‘t even need to work the actual Pay Per View, as the UFC wanted more of their
name-brand
girls to do the actual card holding for the event. I would do the pool party and the weigh-ins the next day and walk out with a nice paycheck in my bank account, supposedly more than a lot of the fighters earned, surprisingly enough.

“Hey, how‘re you holding up?” one of the fighters, a heavyweight who was fighting on the undercard, asked. We‘d chatted at the press conference earlier in the day, where he‘d been accompanied by his wife and two kids. He was a total family man and looked a bit embarrassed to be at this press event slash pool party. It obviously catered to the single male demographic the UFC was aiming for. I could understand his feelings. I’m not one for this sort of action on my own either. I’d rather spend my time by myself or with the few people that were allowed into my life. It’s not that I’m arrogant, I just don’t feel comfortable hanging out with a bunch of strangers.

“I’m doing okay,” I said, still giving my best smile. “I’m looking forward to tomorrow’s weigh-in, though. It’s going to be my first.”

“Well, enjoy it, it’s a lot less stressful than the fight cards full of the little guys,” he replied. He looked around the party, pointing out the one fight that was at a lighter weight, two guys who were fighting at one hundred and eighty-five pounds for the number one contendership. “They look and act like rabid zombies during these events, they’re so drained from cutting weight. Half of us are big boys, we don’t have to cut weight at all. All I need to do is eat clean and I drop below the two seventy weight limit.”

I nodded in understanding on both of his points. The man was a giant, easily six foot six, not an ounce of fat on his body. On the other hand, like any model who had to do photo shoots in swimwear and lingerie, I knew the temporary advantages of wringing out some water from under my skin right before going in front of the camera. I guessed the same idea applied to the fighters who were mostly worried about making a weight limit. “So how’s your weight looking?”

“I did well this camp,” he replied casually, taking a drink from his flute of what looked like champagne. “This morning I was an easy two sixty, so I’ll be able to relax tonight and make weight just fine. It’s actually easier on my body than when I was in college and playing football. Then we had to try and pack on weight as well as stay high-impact athletes.”

“Never had that problem,” I replied, chuckling. “My father was always worried about me keeping weight on. Just the way my metabolism was back in my childhood years, I guess.”

“And now?” the fighter asked, curious. “What does he think of your modeling?”

I shook my head sadly. “My father died years ago. I hadn’t seen him in years, so I doubt he ever got a chance to see me do any modeling at all.”

The man looked apologetic, so I smiled despite the emotional pain. I was there to make the party more enjoyable, not rain on someone’s day. “You didn’t know when you asked, so don’t feel bad. Good luck with your fight.”

“Thanks,” he said, and I drifted off, keeping to the rule the UFC executives told us, which was to not monopolize our time with any one fighter. We were eye candy, and if we spent all of our time with one person, that could lead to not only a poor event, but rumors on Twitter that the UFC didn’t want to have. For the rest of the party, I tried my best to enjoy myself, chatting with the fighters who said something or waving, posing for photos, and even getting in on the planned “spontaneous” water fight, which ended with the girls throwing the president of the UFC into the pool.

The party was just starting to break up when I saw my boyfriend, Sydney, on the fringes of the pool area near the drink table. He had finagled a deal with the UFC to get a press pass for the event, ostensibly as a photographer. He had a reputation among the glamour industry, especially for his sexy shoots. While I didn’t approve, he’d even done some shoots for
Playboy
and
Penthouse
, earning a reputation for being able to walk that fine line between sexy and slutty that aroused readers and increased sales. How that translated over to being able to photograph two men beat the hell out of each other inside a fenced octagon I didn’t know, but Sydney loved the UFC and he had the ability to talk people into almost anything. I knew from personal experience.

I resisted the urge to wave to Syd, knowing I couldn’t be seen with my boyfriend as I worked. As I looked closer, I felt my heart break. He was standing with some woman, a pretty half-Chinese, half-Brazilian girl who I thought was there as one of the fighter’s girlfriends or sisters or something. They were sipping drinks and chatting when she started laughing and giving him the look. I’m pretty innocent, but I could read the signs in her face. What was even worse was how Sydney nodded and leaned in, whispering in her ear in such a way that I knew his lips were doing more than just forming words. The woman pushed her body up against him and nodded. They walked off, his arm resting far too low on her waist for my comfort, heading inside the mansion that the UFC had rented for the party.

Ignoring the looks and waves of some of the people at the party who wondered why one of the paid models was walking away without an explanation, I followed Syd and the girl. I had to work my way through the crowd, my smile going from professional to forced as I went. There was something that spoke in my head, something that I just couldn’t dismiss.

It took me nearly seven minutes to find them in a bedroom. The mansion, unique to California in that it seemed to follow no particular architecture style, was one of those big places with a seemingly endless collection of hallways, rooms, and corridors, and I seemed to keep getting stopped by people who were either in my way or just wanted to chat me up. Sydney and the girl were upstairs, his pants around his ankles with her head between his legs, him leaning against a nightstand with most of his back to me. I had seen all I could take.

“You son of a bitch,” I said, my voice surprisingly dead and lifeless as I watched. “How could you?”

Syd’s head whipped around and he stared at me in open shock. The girl, who’d paused her cock-sucking long enough to at least see who was speaking, smiled and said something in Portuguese that I didn’t have the mental focus to translate from the little bit I had picked up. Instead, my eyes were locked on Syd, who stammered an excuse I didn’t care to listen to. Ignoring his lies, I turned on my heel and stalked my way back downstairs, ducking into a bathroom to let the tears flow before dabbing at my eyes. I had a job to finish, regardless of what this asshole had just done to me.