Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
THE DAMES
Ican do this. I have to do this. I’m playing a dangerous game.
I press the flat of my palm to my belly to quell the butterflies that flit and flap around inside me as I stare into the dressing room mirror.
This is my part to play.
To show the world I can be both a sex symbol and a champion.
I can’t just show up in jeans and sunglasses and smile at the crowd like men do. I have to catch their eye first and then show them I deserve a seat at the table of the world’s elite racers.
A tiny pair of red boy shorts with a checkered flag waistband covers my behind—barely. I think they might be at least two sizes too small. I looked for a tag, but it had been cut out.
A black satin push-up bra has my breasts hoisted so high I feel like I’m about to suffocate.
And last, a cropped red jacket in the same red as the shorts, with a stripe of checkered flag material down the length of each arm.
I pull the zipper up to cover my breasts and step into a pair of sky-high, red patent leather platform pumps.
They’re stripper shoes—no need to sugarcoat things.
My dark hair is curled and fluffed in a just-been-fucked kind of way, although I’ve never looked this good after being with a man.
The makeup around my eyes is dark and sultry, and my lips are slathered in a glossy red.
My nails are filed, sharpened, and lacquered a bright red to match.
Mostly, I don’t think I look like me at all.
Some other part of me is hoping to… shake some things up.
I square my shoulders and step away from the mirror. I cross the room and push open the dressing room door. When I step out, I’m grabbed from behind, a strong hand wrapping around my upper arm.
“You are playing with fire,” Gabe growls in my ear.
“I am doing what needs to be done and nothing less.” I pull away, toss my hair over my shoulder, and walk into the photoshoot.
“There she is,” the photographer calls out. He’s kind of creepy in a way that sets my teeth on edge, but then again, his job is an interesting one. He spends his days photographing women in the nude, and I don’t often spend my days naked.
“Are you ready?” he asks.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Great,” he says before I’ve even finished answering. “Let’s get started.”
He poses me this way and that. The clicks of the camera’s shutter and pops of the flash sound throughout the room, even though it is full to the brim with people.
“Good. Good,” he says from behind the camera. “Now unzip the jacket.”
My hands shake as I slowly raise them up to tug the small metal pull on the front of the jacket. It’s already so small and cropped that it only barely covers my breasts and arms, so the change won’t be a stark one.
“That’s it,” the photographer drawls. “Look over here.”
I turn to give him my eyes as I lower the zipper, and the soft material parts, revealing my satin-covered breasts.
Music is pumping loud through hidden speakers in the room.
Maybe real models like it to get in the mood, but I’m not a model, and now it feels like my heart is pounding in time with the deep bass beat of some song that’s getting a lot of radio play as of late.
And even though it’s blaring in this small room packed full of people, I swear I can hear a growl.
Knowing Gabe is unhappy only ratchets up my anxiety. I have no idea why. He doesn’t want me. He doesn’t even like me, and yet his opinion somehow matters to me. I need to tune him out and get this horrendous day over with.
Nerves and nausea roll over me; I might throw up. The taste of the watermelon candy I stuffed in my mouth in the dressing room turns the pit of my belly sour.
“That’s it. Great. Great,” he calls out while the shutter snaps loudly in my ears.
No one else seems to be bothered by the noise. Is my eye twitching in time with it? I hope not. My mom always says you gotta fake it ’til you make it, and right now, I’m not sure I’m managing to do either.
“Now drop the jacket.”
“Is that wise?” Gabe snarls from somewhere beyond the huge umbrella-shaped lights, and I squint to see if I can make him out.
“I assure you,” the photographer says with a smarmy smile, “it’s all part of the process. We do this every day.”
“That’s all well and good,” Gabe replies, pointing to me. “But she doesn’t.”
Shit. He can see right through me. I hate that there are no secrets where he is concerned—at least not on my part. Gabe seems to be closed off and harboring his own, but with me, everything is laid bare for him. Even when I desperately don’t want it to be.
“I’m fine,” I say, rolling my shoulder back to appear more confident. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Aw,” the photographer says. “Don’t make it sound so bad. You’re with friends here.”
The way he’s overly familiar sets me on edge, but I’ll never say it out loud. I just need to be done with this day. “Thanks.”
He brings his camera to his face and begins snapping away. “Now, turn away from me and drop the jacket from your shoulders,” he prods. “That’s it. Slowly… Yes! So sexy.”
I continue to move my body as directed while he takes pictures of me in little more than a bra and panties. I am acutely aware of how exposed I am.
But this was the deal.
This is the price I’m paying for my name to be out there.
PR wants to bill me as the sexy answer to modern racing. Well, here I am.
“Now reach behind you and unhook your bra,” the photographer tells me.
“We’re done here,” Gabe barks.
“Excuse me?” the photographer bites out. “This is part of the contract.”
I’m not so sure about that, but I’m still going to do it. Besides, who is Gabe to decide what I can and cannot do? I am not his to own or command.
“Everything’s fine,” I say with a tight smile. “Let’s continue.”
“Sounds good,” the photographer says pointedly at Gabe before raising his camera again. I really should have bothered to learn his name but after today, I won’t ever see him again. “So after we’re done here, a bunch of us are going out for drinks. I’d love it if you come with me.”
It takes a minute for my brain to register that he’s talking to me.
I’m not self-centered, but I’m well aware that I’m pretty.
My mom is a retired model, but even before she retired, she had a long career.
My dad is nothing to sneeze at either, and they passed those genes on to me.
But still. I’ve never been asked out on a date while undressing in front of a roomful of people, where one of the occupants is a past hook-up.
It’s kind of a lot for a girl to take in.
One could even argue it’s too much.
“I have an early time slot at the track tomorrow morning,” I lie. I do have to be at the track, but not that early. “But thank you.”
“I’ll get your number before you leave,” he says. “And we can hookup sometime.”
“Uh…”
“Now, the bra,” he cuts in, suddenly all back to business.
I hear another low growl from the back of the room and narrow my eyes in Gabe’s direction.
He does not get to decide my life. I straighten my shoulders and arch my back, letting my breasts lift up, and I slowly twist my arms behind me to grab the small hook that is holding the two sides of the band together.
Gabe is watching me over everyone else. His eyes hold a warning not to do it. But then again, so do mine. He doesn’t run my show.
So, I pop the hook, and the material slingshots around me. My hands fall to hold the material to my breasts. Slowly, oh so slowly, I slide one strap down, and then the other.
The shutter on the camera snaps are rapid-fire.
I close my eyes and let the cups fall.
And then I’m no longer standing in front of the spotlight at all.
Gabe rushes through the bodies and grabs me, dipping low so his shoulder is at my belly. And then I’m lifted up, up, up—and he’s carrying me from the room. The ridiculous heels fall off my feet along the way.
“Gabe!” I snap when the door to the dressing room closes behind us.
“Do not fucking start with me, Adrienne,” he growls. “I warned you.”
“Yeah?” I snap back. “And who are you to do that?” I immediately regret the harsh tone of my words but not the intent behind them when he stalks toward me.
I step back.
And then I do it again like a scared little rabbit until I have nowhere to go. My back up against the wall, and I feel the sharp bursts of his breath on my face.
“Is it my body you want in your bed at night?” he snarls as he flattens his palm to my belly and slides his hand down the front of my very tiny shorts.
His fingers find my center instantly, and as I watch his eyes flare, I know exactly what secret he has found there.
“Is it my dick that fills your cunt in your dreams?”
“That’s not fair,” I whisper. My voice sounds shaky, even to me, and is coming out in breathy pants. He toys with me, teasing my flesh to a heightened state. How can one person be so angry and yet so turned on at the same time?
I hate him as much as I want him.
“Yes, it fucking well is,” he bites out as he abruptly pulls his hand away. “Now get your shit or leave it. I don’t fucking care, but we’re out of here in five.”
“Gabe—” I don’t know whether I want to beg him to finish what he started or tell him to fuck off.
When he turns to give me the full weight of his stare, I bite my lip, and the words freeze on my tongue. I’ve never seen fury like this. Not on a man like him. And I can’t help but come to the realization that I’ve made a mistake. I played with fire; now I can’t be surprised when it burns me.
I nod once. He tosses my discarded jacket toward me, and I watch it sail through the air, wondering absently if it’s going to hit me, but I never should have doubted the absolute accuracy in everything Gabe does, because it lands in a puddle at my feet.
And then he’s gone.
I try to pull in a deep breath, but my lungs aren’t working like they should, and it shudders back out of my body. I could cry. Hot tears sting my sinuses, but I will them back. I can’t do this. Not now, not in front of Gabe. Not ever.