10. Aurora
TEN
AURORA
Emily sinks into the patio chair next to me. “Bad night?”
A knowing grin tugs at the corners of her mouth. She has watched this scene play out far too many times, not only with Jackson, but also with escorting.
Still in my feelings, I give her a sidelong glance.
“I saw Jackson with you.” She rolls her eyes with exaggeration. “Be glad you left early. His face was spewing more shit than a sewer—talking about how you never broke up with him.” She sticks her finger in her open mouth. “Gag. No one wants to be around that asshole when he’s drunk.”
Pain lances through my chest, and I make a noncommittal sound. I remind myself I’m no longer Jackson’s keeper. He wasn’t any better when I was with him anyhow.
“But your date was hot. Holy shit.” She waggles her brows suggestively.
I’ve known Emily since middle school. We lived in the same shitty neighborhood in San Fernando Valley. I stayed home after graduation when she moved to LA to pursue something big. I watched with envy as she posted pictures from ritzy nightclubs with celebrities and professional athletes while I worked two waitressing jobs to get by.
She’s the one who convinced me to try escorting when my grandparents were struggling. After I left Jackson and had nowhere else to go, she let me live with her. My grandfather had died, and my grandmother was transferred to a state-run facility. I lost everything, all within a month.
Not much has changed. When I returned home tonight, she was still with the hockey team, and I was alone. For obvious reasons, hanging with the guys is no longer my thing—it never was.
I quickly recognized that my envy of Emily was unwarranted. I don’t enjoy partying. It’s pointless, loud, overstimulating, and I’m…awkward.
I’m a nervous wreck wrapped up in a pretty package.
After I slammed the door on Ethan, I walked eight freaking blocks from our meeting spot to my condo in Redondo Beach. In the dark. In stilettos.
The second I stepped inside, I kicked off my heels, grabbed a bottle of wine, and headed straight to the balcony—my usual sanctuary. I love the ocean. The symphony of crashing waves lulls me into serenity.
The wine is an added bonus.
I’d drunk half the bottle by the time Emily got home, life and the night’s frustrations clinging to me like stale, secondhand cigarette smoke.
“Let’s see.” I wave a hand dramatically and almost knock over the wine bottle on the table. “Between Jackson’s public meltdown and my date’s ceaseless worry over his wife , it’s safe to say it wasn’t a pleasant evening.”
I dread the inevitable negative review Ethan will leave with the agency, and I don’t blame him. I regret arguing with him, but something inside me panicked when he asked for a proper date. Reality hit me. This is my life. I have to work.
If there’s one thing Jackson taught me, it’s that there is no knight in shining armor in my story.
And Ethan had the audacity to circle back to the whole “I’m married” bullshit after the way we fucked? Seriously? What a fucking asshole.
Emily purses her lips. “You allow too much headspace for these guys. They’re clients, nothing more. Smile, flirt, stroke their egos. Listen to them bitch about their ‘oh so terrible wives,’ and then collect your paycheck and move on to the next so we can afford this view.” She gestures to the midnight sky over dark ocean waves. “Or hook up with one of the other players. Then we can go to dinners and after-parties together.”
She puts on that Cheshire cat smile, excited about the prospect of us double-dating athletes we care nothing about.
Unfortunately for me, pretending and socializing is exhausting . And let’s not forget the absolute nightmare Jackson would become if I dated another player. Could you imagine? It’s laughable, not even worth contemplating.
“Em, my date had the nerve to ask me on a ‘proper date’ when all the while he’s quaking in his boots at the thought of his wife catching us.” I shake my head in disbelief. “You want me to give up my job before you give up your wife? Get the fuck out of here.” Disgusted, I pick up the bottle and take a swig. “Maybe extinguish one fire before igniting another.”
She breaks into a fit of laughter. “I swear, men don’t think things through. Seriously, though, pass the wine. You have a photoshoot tomorrow. I hope you haven’t overeaten.”
I gasp. “Damn it! I forgot about the photoshoot!” Probably because they’re a waste of time and lead nowhere.
“This is a major talent agency,” she chides. “Invite only. It was pure luck I secured us a spot. This could be a new chapter. You wouldn’t need to deal with these men anymore—unless you want to fuck around with sad, married dick?”
“Hell no.” I wave my hands in front of me to fend off the mere idea. “Ethan was enough, thank you very much.”
She stands and stretches her arms over her head. “Good. Chug some water and go to bed.”
My heart swells with wine-laced gratitude. “Thanks, Em. I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Thank me by landing this next contract and getting Grams out of that shitty nursing home.”
With renewed purpose, I set down the almost empty wine bottle and forget all about Mr. Big Dick Married Guy.
Tomorrow arrives, and my courage is nowhere to be found. I’m nauseated with anxiety and have thrown up twice.
My eyes are adorned with dark, heavy bags, and my stomach is bloated from yesterday’s indulgences. Not ideal, considering this is a bikini shoot on the beach with one of the most well-connected photogs in LA.
I shouldn’t have devoured that steak…and dessert…and that bottle of wine. Jesus, what was I thinking?
To add to my anxiety, I’m surrounded by slender, flawless blondes. It’s intimidating. They strut around with their carefree confidence, and I’m over here spiraling with self-doubt and insecurities. Can we go home now?
“I’ll be lucky to land this, Em.” My voice trembles with nerves, right along with my fingers.
She drops her magical makeup brush. “Luck favors the persistent. We’ve worked hard for this. It’s not about luck. Talent and dedication always win.”
What talent? What dedication? The only dedication I have is repeatedly showing up at gigs and auditions without a single callback.
She adjusts the coverup under my eyes, tossing me a reassuring smile. “We’re going for a natural appeal, because who wears heavy makeup on the beach, right? Your beauty will captivate the camera, I promise.”
“Em, I’m not a skinny blonde. You’re more likely to be chosen than me. Maybe you should go out there instead.”
“Aurora, stop whining. Your unique qualities make you stand out. The industry is evolving, and a diverse representation of beauty is celebrated more than ever. Clients seek models who represent different perspectives and styles. Don’t underestimate yourself.”
I give her a blank expression. “Did you practice that script?”
She sighs and hands me a mirror.
One thing about Emily: she possesses a silver tongue. She’s cunning and charismatic, chewing up wealthy men and spitting them out as if they’re nothing but flavorless bubble gum. With her smile, she could beguile the Pope and have him on his knees, worshiping at her feet.
Every introvert needs an extrovert friend, and she’s mine. As much as I hate it sometimes, I’d never leave the house if it wasn’t for her.
I study my reflection in the mirror. Sharp cheekbones, full, strawberry-pink lips, and dark-lined eyes create a seductive allure.
“Damn, Em. Thank you.”
She gives me a proud smile that matches my own. “See? Now get out there and kick ass.”
I take a deep breath and exhale my insecurities and self-doubt. My name is called, and my body takes control from the anxious girl hiding inside.
With feigned confidence, I step in front of the camera and turn on the charm. I sink to my knees in the wet sand, spread my thighs, arch my back, and gather my hair above my head. The icy water washes over my bare legs, and my nipples pebble.
It’s a rush, a shock to the system, and exhilarating.
Shot after shot, I smile and roll around in the sand and salty ocean. I imagine myself as a sexed-up temptress, seducing a morally gray bad boy I want to fuck me on the beach, spank my ass, and pull my hair.
I lay on my back, rest my arms above my head, and gaze at the camera with lust-filled eyes. Ethan’s face flashes in my mind, an image of the first time he saw me naked. Those intense, stormy eyes, his dirty words, dominant thrusts, and satisfied moans fill my naughty thoughts.
The cameraman moves in, directing me through various poses: arch your neck, tilt your chin, bite your lip, hook your thumbs in your bikini bottoms—each pose becoming more and more erotic. We draw a crowd, and for the first time, I feel empowered.
When we finish, the air is chilly. Goosebumps prickle along my body, and my nipples are hard as diamonds. I’m covered in wet sand, my bikini soaked and transparent, and my hair is a messy tangle of dark waves clinging to my damp skin. My shaky legs struggle to support me to the dressing tent.
“That was absolutely amazing!” Emily bounces up and down with excitement. “You were so sexy. Did you see the cameraman? I swear, he had a boner.”