Chapter twenty - three Kendra #2
It’s so sweet, it’s almost heartbreaking. And I’m growing more desperate by the second.
I don’t want fucking sweet. Not tender or gentle either.
Not after all this waiting and hoping and yearning.
Yearning I tried to pretend was normal to feel for a friend.
Normal to feel so strong it woke me up in the middle of the night with my hand shoved in my panties.
God, Denise is going to be insufferable when I tell her about us.
I sigh into his lips. Us. I like the sound of that.
Damon’s large fingers slide deeper into my hair, and I groan, but he still keeps his kisses feather-light, almost chaste.
He’s teasing me! I’m two seconds from climbing into his lap and demanding he kiss me like he means it when I hear the unmistakable sound of a camera shutter.
I hide my face in his neck, and he pulls back instantly.
“Is something wrong?” he whispers fiercely. I feel his eyes scanning my body, looking for how he might have hurt me, then glance up to find him searching the surrounding area for whatever set me on edge. He tenses as soon as he spots the camera lens in the bushes.
“Don’t turn around!” I hiss when it seems like he’s about to confront the reporter. “You’ll only make it worse.”
“Then what do we do?” he growls, ready to defend me if needed.
If only he knew there’s no defense against paparazzi, not for someone like me, who requires regular publicity to stay relevant with brands, fans, and designers alike.
It doesn’t leave much time for private moments like these, though. I let out a resigned breath.
“He’s probably already got his shot. Let’s just ignore him and head to the restaurant.”
I can tell Damon wants to argue, but he holds his tongue, helping me up and gesturing for me to lead the way.
“Kendra! Kendra Gray!” the man shouts, following us.
After over a decade of dealing with brazen reporters, I can easily ignore their attempts to get me to turn around for a picture. Damon, however, sends menacing glares behind us.
“Why isn’t he pissing off?” he asks, tugging me closer to him. The camera shutter snaps again, and I pick up the pace.
“Money,” I shrug, peeking behind me to see the reporter still following. “If the pic is particularly interesting, or, more often, embarrassing, they stand to make serious bank.”
Damon grumbles beside me.
“Is he going to leave us alone?” he asks. We both turn to find the paparazzo closer than he was before. Click. I pick up the pace again.
“Probably not,” I admit. “The pics from the launch event are still circulating, and we’re fresh on people’s minds.”
“We?” he questions, almost tripping over a tree branch on the sidewalk.
“Yeah,” I answer, almost out of breath from practically jogging now. “My ex just got engaged, and now we’re seen together. Everyone’s waiting for the drama to unfold.”
Didn’t he know this could happen if he came to the event as my date?
How can he say he wants something official, then balk at pictures of us together?
I push those thoughts down, partially because they’re unpleasant, but mostly because I have to focus on running without busting my ass on a tree root or a crack in the sidewalk.
That paparazzo is still behind us, and he’s gaining.
“Kendra!” he shouts. Click. Click. Click. “Who’s your new boy toy?! Is this your rebound to get over Andre?!”
I don’t answer. Damon, picking up on my near panic, takes my elbow to pull me even faster away.
“Kendra! Did you hear that Andre and Julie are getting married live during his Christmas show at MSG?”
I almost turn at that. He’s marrying her on Christmas? Live during a show? My gut tells me this was the label’s idea.
I see the restaurant catty-corner from us and almost cry with relief.
“Almost there,” I whisper to Damon, jerking my head toward The Edge’s maroon awning.
“Kendra!” the paparazzo shouts. “Is there any truth to Hector Viega’s claims you were unprofessional during the Bodies shoot two years ago?! His new book mentions you specifically!”
If Damon hadn’t been holding my arm, I would’ve fallen flat on my face. With legs trembling and a sob fighting to break free, he practically carries me the last ten feet into the restaurant, blowing past the host’s station. The reporter continues his barrage of questions from the sidewalk.
“Are you OK?” Damon asks once we’re out of range of the reporter’s camera. “Who’s Hector Viega?”
I can’t answer. My lips are quivering, my eyes are watering, and I’m on the cusp of breaking down. Hector Viega. Hector Viega talked about me. Hector Viega said that I was unprofessional. He wrote it in a book.
I’m shaking violently now, tears streaming down my face. Damon takes quick action and hustles me into the women’s bathroom, locking it behind us.
“Kendra,” he says soothingly, rubbing my arms like he did on the train, “tell me what’s wrong. You’re scaring me.”
I’m scaring myself. It’s been over two years since that horrible day.
The day that still haunts me when I close my eyes.
That turned my body against me to the point of needing therapy.
I never said anything, not even to people I considered my friends.
And now, two years later, Hector tells everyone I’m the problem?
Rage burns through the terror, and my body slowly stops trembling.
Damon’s still here, still rubbing my arms, grounding me when it would be so easy to spin out.
I lean into him, trying to match my breaths with his.
In, then out. In, then out. My heart stops racing, and I unclench my fists to grab hold of Damon, squeezing him tightly.
I can tell him what happened. He won’t judge me. He won’t think I’m a freak. Part of him must already know. I could just…let go.
“Hector Viega is a photographer,” I begin, my mouth still muffled in the fabric of his shirt. I look up into his warm eyes and feel my strength return.
“He works for all the biggest magazines, and two years ago, I was picked for one of his shoots in Crete.”
Damon listens silently. In, then out. In, then out.
“It was a swimsuit edition, and it was a really big deal because it was their first year attempting body diversity. When my agent told me about it, I jumped at the chance.”
I swallow my suddenly dry throat.
“By the second day of shooting, though, I knew something was off. As a model, you often aren’t wearing much, even more so for a swimsuit edition. Experienced photographers do what they can to minimize the awkwardness, limiting touching and ensuring there are always other women on set.
“With the other models,” I croak. Ugh! Why is this still so hard?
“He was the picture of professionalism with them,” I mutter angrily, “but with me, he was always touching me more than necessary. Letting his hand linger on my thigh or my shoulder. Standing way too close as he arranged my body into sexually suggestive positions.”
“I’m no rookie,” I quickly add, feeling defensive even now.
“I’ve been around long enough to know what poses flatter my body, and most photographers let me do my thing with minimal direction.
Viega, though, treated me like it was my first day, taking twice as many pictures as photographers usually need and even suggesting I work with him after hours to practice poses.
” I snort thinking about his smarmy pickup line. “I, of course, refused.”
Damon’s hands still on my shoulders, but he doesn’t remove them. His body is stone, rigid with fury. I force myself to continue.
“The second to last day of shooting wraps, and I’m exhausted. He’s been riding me relentlessly throughout ten-hour days. All I wanted was to pack my shit and then crash.”
My throat feels tight, and I blink back fresh tears.
“Only when I got back to my trailer…he was waiting for me. He grabbed my wrist hard enough to bruise. Rubbed himself against me. Forced his tongue down my throat.”
My stomach churns at the memory.
“His hand was halfway down my pants when the PA walked in with the next day’s call sheet. If she hadn’t…” I gulp.
Damon pulls me roughly into his arms, surrounding me in solid muscle. His embrace yanks me out of the nightmare, and I wipe my face, trying to compose myself.
“Like the scumbag he was, he promised to ruin me if I ever told anyone. Said no one would believe such a respected photographer would force themselves on a model. Not when so many offer themselves up hoping to snag a prime cover spot.”
I scoff bitterly.
“When he finally left, I shoved everything into my suitcase and went straight to the airport. I told my agent I got food poisoning and had to miss the last day of the shoot. I think that lie was the only reason Viega kept me in the final photos.” I shake my head.
“And now this story is his way of making sure I never talk.”
Damon starts rocking me, whispering soothing words into my hair.
He doesn’t ask if I said no or tried to scream.
What I was wearing. Whether I led him on.
Why I’ve kept quiet all these years. He skips all the misogynistic victim-blaming and comforts me instead.
Apologizes for the evil in the world that allows this to happen every day.
I relax into his hold, into his care. Let it wash over me and relinquish my need to be OK for once. I’m not OK. Not all the time, anyway. But I’m ready to try again with someone who knows I’m strong, but still cherishes me like I’m precious. I’m ready for the real thing with Damon.