Chapter 6
Benefit of the Doubt
Fenella
The break is over, and the cameras are about to roll again.
Alan and I sit on the floor while Martha fires off instructions through her megaphone.
Once she’s done, Jessy steps in to collect our robes, leaving me with deliberately messy hair courtesy of the stylist. These are the last two scenes standing between me and my freedom, and I can’t wait to be done with this torment.
I lower myself onto the scratchy carpet while Alan kneels between my spread legs. I place the small pillow over my crotch, apparently just one of those car seat neck pillows. My knees hook over his elbows and brace against his waist.
Though I remind myself this is staged, the way I’m exposed to him makes my skin prickle. When my eyes dart down, I catch the unmistakable bulge in his briefs and curse myself for even looking. Jesus. Is he really hard right now?
“Fenella, closer to Alan. I need the legs more visible!” Martha shouts, and I inch forward.
“Closer!” she snaps again, so I shift until my hips nearly press into his, praying this ends soon.
Then she calls, “Okay, hold. Alan, lift her legs higher.”
I growl under my breath. “Martha, come on.”
“Perfect, don’t move,” she crows while the crew scrambles into place.
Alan smirks down at me, all handsome arrogance. “What’s with the attitude?”
I hiss back, jaw tight. “You told me you were gay.”
Lucky for me, the shot isn’t on my face. They’re filming my legs and his expression, everything else blocked by shelves.
“That bothering you?” he murmurs, pressing just enough to make the pillow grind against me. My eyes widen.
“I’m just shocked you can get hard with me,” I mutter.
“Biology, sweetheart.” He shrugs like it’s nothing.
“You’re supposed to be gay.”
“I can do it with whoever I want, and I can put it wherever I damn please.” His hands clamp tighter around my knees, and my pulse spikes.
“Alan—”
“Quiet on set!” the AD barks, cutting me off.
This is dangerous, every nerve in me screaming.
Alan’s grin turns crooked, his gaze molten with desire, and the burn of his grip sears into my skin.
My thighs tremble as I fight against the heat pooling lower.
In this position, under that stare, I can’t pretend he doesn’t want me, and worse, I can’t deny I’m tempted too.
“Action!”
His hips start moving, steady and practiced but too real.
His head tips back, body arching, lips tight in a grimace of staged pleasure.
My heart hammers so hard I slap a hand over my mouth, terrified the crew will hear the moan threatening to slip out as the pillow presses against me.
Each fake thrust stretches into eternity while the pharmacist circles us, nodding like it’s just another day on set.
“This is good,” Alan rasps between ragged breaths.
“Cut, okay!” Martha calls, and I exhale with relief. But Alan doesn’t release me. Instead, he leans close enough that his whisper brushes hot against my lips.
“Come on, Fenella. One taste. Nobody has to know. Not even Laird.”
“Knock it off,” I snap, shoving at his chest, still stuck on the floor. He just chuckles wickedly, pulling me up by the hand like he owns the moment.
“Next setup!” Martha bellows, marching over with new instructions.
Now I’m back on the small chair, straddling him loosely. The shelves hide our bodies from the waist down while his hands settle on my waist. My hand braces on his shoulder with the phone as a prop, and the camera swings into place above us.
“Positions!”
Alan’s breath ghosts my lips, his smile too smug. “You want me, don’t you?”
My chest rattles with nerves, and I tell myself this is temporary and meaningless. No matter how strong his temptation, loyalty to Laird keeps me grounded. My voice comes out low. “No. You’re not trapping me again.”
“Honesty is your best friend,” he murmurs.
“Which you’ve never had,” I bite back, narrowing my eyes.
“Quiet! Action!”
We move like the script demands, me lifting the phone to my ear, delivering the line flat. “Hey, Dad. No, I’m just trying out this new condom with Jason.”
“Yeah, it feels amazing,” I add, casual, as if commenting on laundry.
Alan slides in with a smirk, grabbing a random soap. “Hey, this one’s half off.”
“Cut! Again!” Martha demands, and we repeat the whole ridiculous bit until she’s satisfied.
“Cut, okay!” Everyone claps as a sign the shoot has ended well.
When it’s over, Alan’s hand stays firm on my back. His grip stays steady, his whisper low enough for only me to hear. “The offer stands, Fenella. Try me once before you decide. You might like what you find.”
His breath is warm, his eyes locked in, and I hate that my body reacts to him.
Mallory’s stories of his prowess ring louder in my head than they should.
Okay, I’m tempted, dangerously curious. I mean, look at those brown eyes, the sturdy jaw, the neatly trimmed stubble.
When he leans in, his lips nearly graze mine.
“No.”
I push him off, grab my satin robe from Jessy, and keep myself busy thanking everyone. I shut the door and lean against it, chest heaving, cheeks burning, the question slicing me open. What the hell is wrong with me?
I have to admit, Alan knows how to work a woman. He knows how to make sin look like art, and he knows exactly how to make it beautiful.
No, wait a minute. I still don’t know a thing about him or Amy, and I don’t know if he can be trusted, not after all the times he’s lied.
“You ready to change?” the makeup artist asks, giving me that puzzled look.
“Oh, yeah, sorry. I’m freezing,” I say, rubbing my arms.
My head keeps flipping between Alan’s nonstop sweet talk and Laird, sitting somewhere waiting for an update. I force myself to slow my breathing. I take off the robe and rub my arms that are still shivering from the chill.
Behind the dressing-room curtain I remove the bra cups and slip out of the G-string.
Wait a minute… Is that a drip? Damn! I quickly fold it, and stuff it deep in my bag.
I pull on a normal lingerie set, a black turtleneck knit and a knee-length pencil skirt, drop back into the makeup chair, and watch the stylist smooth my hair back into a polished shape.
Half an hour later the hairstylist finally finishes. It’s past three when I glance at my phone. Laird left a couple of messages.
Laird:
Baby, sorry. Looks like I’ll be stuck late with prep for tomorrow morning’s hearing.
Rain check for tonight?
That’s not good. Whether it’s my hormones boiling over or Alan screwing with my head, one thing’s for sure, I need Laird’s hands roaming over me now, releasing these sinful urges. Even that skin-colored G-string from earlier is proof of how wet I’ve been.
Me:
That sucks. Can I swing by the office and bring you dinner?
While I wait for his reply I step out of the dressing room and nearly run into Alan, who’s talking with Martha and Jessy.
He’s in a sharp black suit now, every inch covered, no skin left on display to drool over.
My eyes, without permission, dart to the bulge in his pants.
No hard outline anymore, he must’ve tamped it down.
God, I don’t even want to picture if he jerked off in the bathroom to get rid of it.
My phone dings. A new text from Laird. Alan notices the sound, turns, and locks eyes with me. Heat crawls up my neck as I look down.
Laird:
You’re an angel.
Come whenever.
Relief floods me. I head toward Martha and clear my throat.
“Hey, Fenella. Thank you for today, you killed it,” she beams, hugging me quickly.
“Thanks, Martha.”
We chat for a while, keeping the conversation lively.
I steal glances at Alan, and from the corner of my eye I can tell he’s watching me back, that wide smile like he’s in on a private joke.
After we wrap, I say goodbye to Martha and walk off with Jessy, picking up the pace to put distance between me and Alan.
“Fenella! Hold up,” Alan calls just as we’re about to slide into the car.
I frown. “What now?”
“I got something for you. Wait here.”
He jogs to his black SUV, pops the trunk, and hauls out a stack of shopping bags. He crosses back and practically dumps them into our hands.
“This is for you,” he says, breathless and still smiling like he knows how dramatic this looks.
I peek inside with Jessy leaning over, a shoebox stamped Oscar de Ragetti, a Jemima-labeled clothes box, Baumer dresses, Muses perfume, more boxes, more brands.
“Ooh la la, that pile’s easily worth five grand,” Jessy whistles.
“Gifts,” Alan says, flashing that grin.
“From who?” I ask.
“From your clients. Oh, and Mallory sent this.” He pulls a tiny velvet box from his pocket and hands it to me.
“What’s this?” I ask, brows knitting.
“A signature bracelet.”
He flips the lid. Inside is a white-gold bracelet with little charms stamped with Mallory West’s logo, exclusive and custom, the kind Mallory gives her inner circle. It’s not just expensive, it’s status.
“Oh my God, I can’t accept this.” My jaw drops.
“You have to. Look, your name’s on it.” He shows me the engraving, Fenella Baxter.
“What the hell is this about, Alan? Bribing me so I won’t quit?” I snap.
“No, of course not. These are straight-up appreciation gifts from your clients,” he insists, too smoothly.
I snort. “Seven years modeling and not one client ever handed me anything they designed. Either you forced them, or you bought this yourself.”
“That’s because you weren’t the face. Now you’re Gene’s top model. Naturally they want to send you things.” His explanation tumbles out fast, rehearsed.
I shake my head. “Doesn’t matter, Alan. No pile of gifts is gonna stop me from walking away from Gene.”
“No problem. I’m just the delivery guy.” He slides the bracelet into Jessy’s bag as if that settles everything.
“Alan! Knock it off.”
He ignores me. Once he sees every bag in our arms, he waves and walks across the street. A delivery truck honks, I jump back, and by the time I look up, his car is already pulling away with John at the wheel.
I spin on Jessy. “Can you believe that?”
“I think it’s fine, hon. Plus Mallory asked you to wear the bracelet and tee for the campaign next week.”
“Do I have to?”
“Yep. You’re in, and the ad runs then.” Jessy stuffs the bags into the car.
“Hey, what are you doing? I don’t want these.” I hold the back door.
“What am I supposed to do, leave five grand of stuff in the street? Even if you don’t want them you can pass ’em on later. Let’s just lock them in for now.” He shoves the bags to the back and circles to the driver’s seat.
“Ugh, I hate that man,” I mutter, slamming the passenger door.
“But you were tempted earlier, weren’t you?” Jessy smirks.
“Me? Hell no,” I snap, annoyed.
“Sorry, must’ve been my eyes playing tricks,” he giggles, starting the engine.
“Whatever fantasy you’re spinning about me and Alan, it’s wrong. You know damn well I’ve got issues with him, and he’s probably related to my high-school bully,” I say, folding my arms.
“We don’t know that for sure though, do we?” Jessy shrugs.
“Oh, so now that this cursed project’s wrapping and your job’s safe you’re on his side?”
“That’s not what I’m saying, Fenella. Maybe cut the guy some slack,” he replies.
“Fuck that. He lies about us, lies about being gay, like it’s no big deal. He’s a disaster, Jessy. Period.”
“Well, everybody’s got flaws,” he murmurs.
“Oh, shut it. I don’t want to hear another word about him. Take me to the nearest Chinese place before I spray that Muses perfume on your head.”
“Are you insane? You never eat that food.” He frowns.
“I’m bringing it to Laird,” I say.