Chapter 4
Zane
Call me crazy, but I don’t think I realized how overdue I was for a good lay.
I’m sure it’s hard to believe, being in the modeling industry, that sex isn’t usually at the top of my list of priorities.
Modeling isn’t all photos and publicity.
It’s meetings. It’s working out until I want to crawl not just into my bed but under my bed so no one can find me.
It’s phone calls and Zoom meetings and dieting. So. Much. Dieting.
All that said, my night with the little Polaroid Minx was a nice way to relieve myself of all that stress. A good way to start the week, even if it did cost me a couple grand for a new pergola.
I’m barely through the door at work the next morning when I’m called out.
“Well, look at you,” my friend Caleb, aka Cal, says, falling into step with me as I head for the elevator.
“Why are we looking at me?” I ask, taking a sip of my almond milk latte.
“Because you got laid last night,” he grins.
“And how do you know that?” I ask.
“Because you have that ‘walk of shame’ look written all over your face,” he says and I narrow my eyes at him with a look.
“How can I do the walk of shame from my own home?” I ask as we step into the elevator.
“So you did get laid…” he says as the door closes.
“I did,” I say with a smirk as I take a sip of my coffee. “No shame, though.”
“So who was she?” he asks. Cal is kind of a chick.
I don’t mean that in a physical or even preferential way.
He’s the same age as me, a similar build, but instead of modeling underwear, he models firehoses.
He’s a calendar boy, as I like to call it.
I give him shit for it all the time, but Cal can dish it back.
“Hell if I know,” I say. “But don’t worry, I destroyed the evidence.”
“There’s evidence?” he asks.
“Was. Past tense. I smashed it into smithereens,” I say, vaguely telling the story to keep my friend on his toes.
“Smashed what?” he presses.
“Her camera,” I state, giving him another breadcrumb.
“Oh god, a psycho mega-fan? You really gotta step up security on that shit, Z. Those chicks are grade-A psycho. I’m talking about padded-room level. Anything for a chance with the Zane Calloway.”
He’s patronizing me. This is how our friendship works. Luckily, I’m thick-skinned.
“She’s paparazzi. Not sure if she was a fan though; she might be now.”
I hold back the smirk as I literally watch my friend’s brain short circuit.
“You fucked a camera creep?!” he blurts out as the door opens.
“She wasn’t a creep,” I correct him. The term he’s using is a typical label for paparazzi. I’ve tossed the nickname around a few times myself, but something about it in reference to the girl last night stings in a way that I don’t like. “She was actually pretty hot.”
“Listen, no judgement. An empty tank looks good on you, but I want more info. Because from the sound of it…things were wild,” he says. I’m not quite sure what he’s getting at; it’s like he knows something I don’t.
Before I can ask what he means, my name echoes from my boss’s office across the hall.
“Calloway!”
From the tone, I can tell he’s not happy. Not that Nigel Rowman is known for ever being happy with anything we do.
“Good luck in there,” Cal says, and I nod once and head in. I’m not intimidated by Nigel. He’s five years younger than me and hasn’t been in the industry as long as I have.
Still, as I walk in, he’s got that look. He’s sitting at his desk, staring down at it like he’s already having the worst day of the week, and it’s Monday.
“You wanted to see me?” I ask when he doesn’t look up. Nigel is notorious for arguing like a woman, expecting you to read his mind and endure the silent treatment and all that shit. I’m not in the mood. I have work to do.
“I do,” he says and I wait. “Do you want a chance to explain yourself, or should I just get right into yelling at you?”
“It would be helpful if you told me what the hell you’re talking about,” I say, and he looks up at me with tight lips.
“I’m talking about the photos doing laps all over the internet right now,” he snaps back. I just narrow my eyes.
“What photos?”
I can’t understand how there could be photos. Not unless she had a second camera I didn’t know about, though I kind of doubt it. She was only upset about the one, and I never saw a phone on her.
Nigel steps towards me, his expression more pointed. Meanwhile, mine is getting more annoyed. “There were paparazzi on your property last night, Zane,” he says. “In case you weren’t aware.”
“I’m aware,” I correct him. “I took care of it.”
He chortles without smiling. “Not well.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Look for yourself,” he says. “There’s a whole fucking mess of photos flying all over the place of you and your little mistress.”
I glare at him, but pull my phone out. It doesn’t take long for me to find what he’s talking about. To see what he’s talking about.
Sure enough, every platform known to man is littered with photos from last night.
None of them show anything too graphic. They mostly comprise a lot of angles of skin, some kissing, and one with my towel about to slip off.
None of them show anything X-rated, and her face is pretty much hidden in all of them.
But they are from last night, and they are of me and Ashlyn. Not only that, they’re close-ups. Meaning she wasn’t the only photographer on my property.
Fuck.
“Alright well, that’s unfortunate, but I’ve seen worse,” I say as I shove my phone back in my pocket.
“It is unfortunate,” he staples. “A disaster for your brand. Unless…”
I roll my gaze over to his. “Unless?”
“Unless it isn’t.”
I sigh inwardly. I don’t know where this is going. But I know Nigel well enough to know I don’t like it.
“So, what’s the plan?” I ask.
“It only looks bad if we don’t use it to flip the situation around,” he half-explains.
“Flip it around?”
“Use it to our advantage.”
“And how are you suggesting we do that?” I ask.
He smirks, but I know not to trust the snake across Nigel’s thin lips. “It’s like I’ve been saying. You’re getting older, Zane,”
“That has nothing to do with my popularity,” I grit out.
“Maybe not. But your edge has gotten a little dull compared to…some of the other guys…”
“If you’re talking about Jett Navarro, I sign as many contracts as he does,” I snap.
“You do, but it never hurts to shine things up a bit.”
“How about we stop talking in circles and you just tell me what it is you want me to do,” I tell him.
“You need to be more relevant,” he says, and I know what he’s hinting at.
“I prefer mature women, if that’s where you’re going with this,” I say.
Actually, I prefer any and all women as long as they have a head on their shoulders and a little spice underneath.
“Either way…you need to find her,” Nigel says with a smirk. And despite my thoughts on most of his suggestions, I think he’s right.