Shut Up and Model for Me (38 page)

I place my chin in my upturned palm, cross my ankles, and kick my legs back and forth. I'm trying to look as nonchalant as possible; I still haven't fully come down from my orgasm and my heart is pounding hard in my chest. "I'll call you."

He opens the door to leave, and I call his name. He stalls for a moment, long enough for me to say, "I'm glad you talked to my dad."

He shuts the door without a word.

CHAPTER TWO

I'm still in my sweats when Mom, Dad, and Cameron get home a little after noon, but that doesn't mean that I haven't been productive. I've eaten two bowls of cereal in bed while watching
The Daily Show
and
Al Jazeera America
news clips (I'm informed, okay?) I also went over some generic outlines for the next three storybooks I have planned with my new editor.

Our goal is to successfully merge literature and erotic photography. The stereotype is that chicks like romance novels and guys like porn, so we're combining the two worlds to create something that all sexual beings will find appealing. While my self-published storybook sold well and my editor believes in me, I still don't know if we're being overly ambitious. No one has tried anything like this before. There's been some excited chatter about this endeavor on the internet, but until I see sales numbers, I won't be convinced.

But worrying about sales isn't my job right now. I'm signed on for two more storybooks after the first, both of which are due by the end of the year. I skim through plots that Andrea, my writer, has come up with, but none of them really wow me. CEO and secretary... boring. Naughty cheer squad... gag. Priest and schoolgirl... too fetishy.

I hear Mom call my name and decide that
I guess
it's time for me to crawl from my cave and socialize with the rest of my family. That's why I'm staying here for two months in the first place. I leave the wing that Cameron and I share and head down into the kitchen, where our staff—yes, my parents have a staff—have whipped up fruit salad and a sandwich buffet.

"The princess has arrived," Dad says as he washes his hands in the kitchen basin. I grin for him. I used to think that this whole daddy's little girl thing was an advantage for me, but now, being almost twenty-three, I'm kind of over it.

Mom takes one look at my attire and rolls her eyes. "How many days this week have you worn that shirt?"

I motion to my "Bitches Get Shit Done" T-Shirt. "This old thing? Only like every day of my life." I sit down next to Cameron, who's already shoveling a sandwich into his face.

"I don't even understand it," Mom says, sitting down at the head of the table.

Cameron snorts into his food like he's five. "Animal," I mutter. "It means that women who aren't afraid to be bitches are the ones who are successful."

"So it's political," she says.

I roll my eyes. "I guess."

"Come on, Barbara," Dad says. "Brit probably thought it was sassy. Nothing wrong with that."

I grit my teeth and glare at the wall like it was the one that said something stupid. Cameron's laughing into his sandwich, and I have to remind myself that this is normal. This was my life before college, before I felt empowered through the lens of my camera and photographing erotica became a part of my life that I had to hide from my family. I want to think that it isn't their fault. It's me who has changed. Britain, who changed from adorable little Brit into a businesswoman, unafraid of sex or calling herself a Bitch.
Enjoying
sex and calling herself a bitch.

I make myself a sandwich. When Dad has seated himself at the table and we're all eating together, I finally have the guts to say, "So get this, I ran into Jaime Rivera the other day."

Dad stops fumbling with his sandwich, and Cameron nearly chokes.

"That so?" Dad says softly.

"He told me about the embezzlement, or should I say him being accused of embezzlement. I can't believe you guys never told me."

From across the table, Cameron is gaping at me. He knows that Jaime models for me—I told him at the end of fall when I was still in Boston. That was when he spilled the beans about how Jaime got fired, and how he hadn't talked to Jaime—his best friend—in years.

"Well darling," Dad begins, wiping his mouth. "It was company business, and I didn't want to worry you with it. Plus, I didn't think that you and Jaime were friends."

"Not friends," Cam says darkly. "Brit hated Jaime, didn't you, Brit? The asshole tormented you relentlessly in high school."

"Just like you," I counter. "Jaime was over here almost every day. He was a part of this family. A brother." I inwardly cringe at how incestuous I sound, and suddenly the memory of last night pops into my head without warning, followed by the memory of him fucking me from behind while we were in Boston. Lovely. Thanks, brain. "I should have at least known about it."

The only thing that interrupts the silence in the air is the sound of Mom cutting her sandwich in half. When Dad is overdue for a response, I tack on, "He told me he talked to you about looking back into the data you used to pin him."

Cam grunts into his sandwich and gapes at Dad. I guess Dad hadn't broken the news yet that he spoke with Jaime.

"He did," Dad says calmly.

"And?"

"And... and I said I would look into it. But you know, Britain, I don't have high hopes that I'm going to be able to find something that proves he didn't steal. You know that, right?"

"But are you going to be able to find something that proves he's guilty?"

Mom and Dad exchange looks before she glances down at her plate. I know Dad lets her in on all business matters, even though Mom technically doesn't work for the company. She's been a housewife since I was born.

"There are only two ways that money could have disappeared," says Dad. "If Cam made a mistake, or if Jaime took it."

When I glance to Cam, he raises his hands into the air. "Don't look at me. Four-point-oh in accounting from an Ivy League, and I fucking earned those grades.”

"Language!" cries mom.

"I didn't make a mistake,” Cam says. "Trust me. I double checked my numbers every day while I was interning."

"Let’s say Jaime made a mistake," I offer. "Say he was wrong in his calculations."

"That still doesn't account for the fifty thousand dollars that went missing," Dad says.

Suddenly, I'm not hungry anymore.

"I'm looking into it," he assures me. "But honey, I don't think I'm going to find anything that gets Jaime off the hook. I'm sorry, sweetheart."

As I study the sloppily-made sandwich in front of me, out of the corner of my eye, I can sense Cam staring at me. And I know exactly what he's thinking. Why the sudden investment in Jaime? Cam is right... I loathed Jaime in high school. He was the cocky, sexy boy who tormented the fuck out of me, hanging my underwear on the fence, pushing me in the pool, stringing my tampons up outside my window. Jaime Rivera was the sore on my side, the arrow in my ass. I try to lessen Cam's curiosity by saying, "He just seemed really dejected is all. Like, I don't think he wants his job back. I just think that he wants to make amends with our family. He loved you guys." I add the last bit on for effect. I mean, I'm sure Jaime
did
love my parents, but he never told me that exactly.

"I know, honey," says Dad. "And I will look into the data. I promise. Hopefully, the situation will turn out for the best of all of us."

I guess there are perks to being Daddy's little girl. Who knows if he really would have looked into the data unless I asked him to. I think of the camera Mom and Dad gave me for my nineteenth birthday, the memory card tucked inside and all of the filthy fucking images on it.
Hot
images. Images that are going to make me a shit ton of money.

I let the conversation drop, but as I'm eating, I think about how the dynamics with my parents would change if they knew what I did for a living—why I haven't spent a penny on my inheritance. They've been prudes since the day I was born. I was taught a life of abstinence and modesty. That's how little girls grew up successful. Smile sweetly and keep your legs shut. For being native Californians, my parents are stuck in the 1950s. But they claim that's why they are so successful. Modesty. Hard work. Modesty. But I don't even know what their definition of modesty means. Our house sure isn't modest. Our living expenses aren't.

I'm stuck in my thoughts all through the rest of lunch, and finally, Cam pulls me out of it when I'm walking across the marble floor and back to our wing of the house. He lays a hand on my shoulder and I turn to face him.

"What's up with you and Jaime?"

I should have been expecting this question, but I'm not prepared for it. To stall, I ask, "What do you mean?"

"You just seemed really defensive about him is all." He scowls and shakes his head. "How did he even end up modeling for you in the first place? You fired his ass, right?"

Evan has met Cam once. She said that, other than our signature McCulley blond hair, we only look like we could belong in the same family when we're both scowling. Our eyebrows point like Vs, and our green eyes are more fiery than they are when we're laughing.

I sigh, thinking of the best way to drag this conversation away from me and Jaime and our relationship. "He misses you, dude," I say. "He feels betrayed, I know he does. How long were you best friends?"

Cam crosses his arms over his chest. "Twenty fucking years, until he stole."

"Okay, so what if he didn't? Theoretically speaking, what if he had nothing to do with the missing money? Suddenly he's fired from his job, loses his best friend..." I trail off, remembering how Jaime kept the firing a secret from me, and how I found out from Cam. I quickly shake the thought from my head. "How would you feel?"

Cam thinks for a moment, pursing his lips before sighing. "I guess you're right. Dad fired him under circumstantial evidence, and Jaime couldn't legally fight it considering he was only an intern." He clasps my shoulder with his hand, and a relieved smile breaks across on his face. "Jesus, Brit. Honestly? I thought you suddenly cared about this situation so much because you started fucking him or something."

He laughs, and I feel the tips of my fingers grow numb. I manage to suavely cock an eyebrow. "Please," I say. "You know me. Have you ever taken me for easy?"

"No!" he cries. "That's why this whole thing has been kind of confusing."

Guilt twists in my stomach. Actually, the only reason why I care at all about the situation between Jaime and my father's company is because Jaime and I have fucked. A thought arises in my mind. Maybe that's the only reason why he cares too. I mean, he’s had years to confront my father, to ask Dad to look into the data that doomed him, but he never did. Did Jaime not care about his and Cam's relationship enough to fix the issue right when it happened?

I push the problem from my head when my big brother pulls me into a hug. "It's good to see you, by the way. I think Mom and Dad are going to want us to do this every single year until one of them dies, or they both do."

I think of my tight photography schedule with my new storybook gig and inwardly groan. Two months out of the year where my parents want me to stay with them? I mean, the accommodation is nice, but this isn't the easiest place to shoot porn.

I think of all the shit I have to do for them while I'm here, too. For example, this weekend, Dad and the CEO of the company he's hoping to merge with are holding some fancy-ass tea and crumpets brunch for their employees, and Cam and I are supposed to attend. I can't tell them I'm too busy for that shit and
I have work to do. They'll ask what kind of work, and I'd really like to not open that can of worms for the time being.

It's like Cam can hear my train of thought. He pulls away from me and asks "So how's the naked people business going?"

I look over his shoulder out of instinct, even though I know Mom and Dad are still in the kitchen. "It's... a rollercoaster," I decide on. "A learning experience. I was doing so fucking good with my indie zine, lost it to a big company, and got picked up by another big company." I shrug. "I love my editor, but I feel like I can't trust anyone."

"Welcome to the world of business, little sis."

I roll my eyes as Cam smiles. “Speaking of business," I remember what my schedule looks like and pull my phone from my yoga pants pocket. "Fuck. Got a conference call in seven minutes."

"Ohhh, conference call. Big man on campus."

I punch him in the shoulder. "Shut the fuck up." I grin stupidly before turning on my heel and leaving for my room. Truth be told, it does feel pretty elitist to hold a conference call with my team, especially while living at my parents' stupid-expensive, southern California, Latin-American inspired stucco estate. In fact, it practically
screams
douche.

But a bitch has gotta do what a bitch has gotta do to get shit done.

I close my bedroom door behind me and lock it, turning on the mounted television and launching the software to host my Skype conference call. When I log in, I see that Evan is online. I request a connection with her while waiting for Andrea and my editor to log on.

Her face appears on the screen, and she looks about as put together as I do. No makeup, glasses, and hair piled on top of her head. She's wearing sweatpants and a cut up Harvard t-shirt that's falling off her shoulder. "Bestie!" she yells way too gleefully, reminding me of Delilah.

I haven't hung out with Evan since the October shoot. I miss the bitch. I mean, I have Delilah, and I'm friendly with the other models who work for me, but Evan and I always understood each other in a way that no one else got. We're weird...
fucking
weird. And painfully sarcastic. Which is probably why I don't have many friends other than her.

"Dallas was wondering if he could listen in and see what we're getting ourselves into, or if this is just like, you know, a girl's Skype call."

"Yes, a girl's Skype call. We're going to talk about menstrual cycles and nail polish and which guys have the biggest dicks."

Dallas plops himself on the bed next to Evan. They must be streaming from her laptop.