11. Luka
LUKA
I’m fucking exhausted.
If it sounds like a fun way to spend a summer day, you’ve obviously never been forced to spend eight hours standing around in the middle of the Mojave Desert when the temperature is hitting triple digits. “It’s a dry heat,” they say. My ass.
The second we got back to the hotel, it was time for a costume change and a completely different makeup look for Monica, this time showcasing a lip color the company named especially for her—“Shore Thing,” it’s called—before she hopped into a fountain at Caesar’s Palace to prance around in lingerie.
I was dying to call Brooklyn, or at least send a text, but with no service in the desert, my phone had already died searching in vain for a signal all morning.
From dawn till dusk the day after, it was more of the same.
This photographer is a maniac. Monica’s been photographed in and out of limousines, wrapped around the tall white columns at Caesar’s pool, in a helicopter, at the Stratosphere’s 107th floor rooftop bar with its glass floor, allowing you to see the Strip lit up below your feet.
I’ve made sure Monica’s been pampered every step of the way, treated like the A-list model she is, but I’ve battled jet lag, an extreme dislike of hot weather, and a total lack of actual meals.
Unlike (apparently) the rest of the crew, I don’t function well on a diet consisting solely of black coffee, champagne, and chewing gum.
Damn Guy for making me do this.
He’d called me personally to suggest I accompany Monica to the Vegas shoot to keep an eye on our “interests,” and since this campaign is so important to Danica Rose’s business, how could I argue with him?
I understand that he wants me to ensure things run smoothly and that Monica puts her best foot forward for Maxilene. But I’m miserable.
There was a time when I loved going to shoots.
When I’d actually argue with Stefan to let me represent the agency instead of him.
I didn’t do it for the business, though.
I did it because it gave me the opportunity to be surrounded by models who fell over themselves to flirt with me, fighting to be the one I took home for the night. Pussy was my main motivator then.
Now? I’d rather be sitting next to Brooklyn on our couch, watching TV with the dog.
I’m not sure what that says about the man I’ve turned into, but frankly I don’t care.
We’re at The Venetian now and the place is packed, as expected, but the area for our shoot has been roped off.
Monica’s being photographed in a gondola boat that’s floating in the artificial canal, with another male model decked out in full gondolier regalia.
The camera is ready, the lights and reflectors are all set up, everything’s been arranged perfectly.
As usual, Monica looks great in a tight-as-hell striped dress.
It’s a nice change from the skimpy lingerie she had to prance around in earlier today, not that she ever seems to mind being undressed for the camera.
I stifle a yawn, wondering yet again why I’m here.
It’s not like anything could possibly go wrong.
Makeup mishap? Touch it up. Hair flattens?
Don’t care. Bloated? Yeah, right. You have to actually ingest solid food in order for that to happen.
I’m irritable, underslept, and I just want this to be over with.
This is the biggest shoot I’ve been on in a while.
There’s an entire team for makeup, one for hair, another for wardrobe.
A designer to arrange and manage the locations, not to mention the expensive celebrity photog and his entourage.
I can’t stop thinking that it should be Brooklyn at the center of this impressive production, though.
She’d set this shoot on fire. My wife is good at that.
She’s not just hot, she’s got charisma and a vivacious, bubbly energy that’s contagious.
Everything she touches, especially me, bends to her will.
The phrase “her smile lights up the room” could have been written about Brooklyn.
Monica, on the other hand, is the classic type of sultry-eyed beauty that mostly scowls and pouts her way through her gigs. I’m over it.
I fiddle with the cell in my pocket. It’s on silent and I resist the urge to check and see if Brooklyn has called or texted.
We had a good time at the runway show last week, and things were starting to feel solid again.
I’ve realized that I miss what we used to have—whatever it was.
The night we watched TV together, it had felt like we might be getting back to that.
But she hasn’t reached out since I left Chicago.
Is she pissed at me, or am I being paranoid?
Sure, we have a lot to resolve between us still. Long conversations, hard compromises, tough teamwork. I know we do. But I thought we could make it work. Our relationship has seemed to be on better footing lately, and that’s something I’d like to keep moving forward with.
If only Guy hadn’t insisted I be a part of this fucking campaign.
Suddenly realizing the gondola is empty, I look around and spy Monica heading my way with a saucy grin. A sense of panic hits me.
Honestly, I like Monica. She’s been a friend—well, more of an acquaintance—for a long time, although we don’t run in the same circles anymore because I’m not the partier I used to be back in the day.
But something has been different about her since we got to Vegas.
She’s been all over me. Normally, I wouldn’t think twice.
Hell, I’m so used to being fawned over I probably wouldn’t have even noticed.
Yet her hands are on me constantly, she can’t stop giggling in my presence, and it’s no coincidence how often her breasts “accidentally” brush my arm.
Her behavior is just one more thing adding to my fatigue.
I know I could easily take her back to my lonely hotel suite at any time, but there’s nothing about the idea that appeals to me. I miss my wife.
Pulling out my phone, I shoot Monica an apologetic half-smile as I press my cell to my ear and pretend to take a call. Ducking my head, wandering through the corridors of shops and restaurants, I get as far away from the shoot as I can without actually leaving the hotel.
When I’m confident that no one has followed me, I check my texts.
Nothing. Fuck. With every passing day it seems increasingly likely that Brooklyn is giving me the silent treatment for springing this Vegas trip on her without warning.
Honestly, I know I should have told her sooner, but I didn’t want to deal with the drama that would have ensued.
At this point, though, I’m regretting my cowardice.
This trip feels even more unbearable without Brooklyn’s support.
A few laps around the casino floor and I realize that all this wandering isn’t helping my anxiety. Neither is thinking about my wife. I abandon both and head back to the shoot. It’s obvious when I get there that nobody has noticed my absence.
I take up my post again, watching from the sidelines as Monica is arranged, photographed, touched up, rearranged, photographed, and touched up again.
A steady stream of tourists and hotel guests stop by the velvet rope barricade to watch.
I’m sure they think it’s a movie production or something, and more than once I get asked who Monica is and what we’re doing.
Quite an impressive crowd gathers on the perimeter, and Monica basks in the attention.
Her entire demeanor changes now that she’s got an audience, like someone flipped a switch inside her.
Her haughty scowl retreats, replaced by a self-satisfied grin she didn’t have before.
Ladies and gentlemen, Monica Shore. A woman who loves to be watched. Who loves to cater to an audience.
She’s always been good at putting on a show.
As the shoot finally starts to wrap up, the photographer announces to the crew that there’s a dinner reservation set for tonight that Guy arranged for everyone.
“And it’s on Maxilene, so you all better make the most of your drink tabs!” he says, drawing a few cheers.
I’m not really in the mood to spend my limited quantity of free time with the same people I haven’t been able to get a break from in God knows how long. The only thing I want to do now is take a hot shower, change my clothes, and order in room service.
Turning away from the gondolas, I loosen my tie and point myself in the direction of the nearest elevator. Unfortunately, I don’t get far.
“Luka!” Monica’s squeal grates on my last nerve.
Glancing over my shoulder, I try to keep the irritation out of my voice. “Yes?”
As she rushes up to me, she bats her eyes like a pathetic, injured animal. “Are you going to the dinner later?”
“Eh, I was actually planning to skip it—”
Ignoring my response, she leans in close, running one hand over my chest while adjusting my tie with the other. “Because I would love to have you accompany me tonight.”
I’m torn. It’s been a relentless day. But the lure of a stiff drink is calling me. I could go, order a whiskey sour, do some schmoozing. Better than sitting in my room alone, and I could leave after an hour or so. I’m just about to respond when someone tugs at my other arm.
Turning, I find Brooklyn standing there, looking like a goddess.
She’s in a modest sun dress, dark hair loose around her shoulders, fresh off the plane judging by the rolling suitcase she’s got with her.
To me, she looks like she’s glowing, even standing next to Monica with all her heavy makeup, professionally poofed hair, and red-and-white striped bodycon dress.
“Actually,” Brooklyn cuts in, “he’s going with me tonight.”
Monica’s mouth pinches. “Maybe we can all go together, then,” she chirps, linking her arm through mine so I’ve got one woman clinging to me on each side.
“Mmm, I don’t think so,” Brooklyn says sweetly. “I expect Luka and I will be a bit late…he hasn’t given me the private tour of our suite yet.” My wife lets out a suggestive little giggle and my scalp prickles at the warm tone of her voice.
“I can think of nothing I’d rather do than give you that tour,” I tell her, a huge grin splitting my face. I can’t believe Brooklyn is really here. Her timing is impeccable. “The restaurant isn’t going anywhere.”
Monica lets go of my arm and has the decency to back up so I can wrap my wife in both arms. She pulls my face down to hers and I lose myself in a long kiss, completely forgetting about Monica and just about everything else going on around us.
Finally, I pull away. “Ready?”
“So ready,” Brooklyn says. She gives a little wave to Monica. “You know how us newlyweds are. Have to sneak in the alone time every chance we get. See you later!”
I wrap my arm around her, grab her suitcase, and spin her away from the daggers I’m sure Monica is throwing with her eyes.
When we’re out of earshot, Brooklyn turns to me, her expression more serious. “Looks like I just saved your image, as usual. You’re welcome.”
“My image?” I parrot back.
She lifts a brow. “I’m sorry, did you not just have Monica Shore sticking to you like white on rice? That sure as hell isn’t going to help the latest PR nightmare, or have you missed all the gossip on social media? Please tell me she hasn’t been like this since you got here.”
I don’t say anything, mind still a little blown that she’s even here to begin with.
She tilts her head and looks up at me with her eyes narrowed, as if she already knows the answer. “Really, Luka, what would Stefan say? It’s lucky I got here when I did.”
As if her arrival has everything to do with maintaining my reputation and nothing else.
“He’d probably say something unrepeatable about how sinfully good you look,” I tell her, letting my gaze linger as it glides over her body. “And I couldn’t agree more.”
As we make our way through the shops, the casino, and the hotel lobby, all the men and half the women we pass turns their heads to stare at my wife. I slide my hand down to grab her ass and keep it there, even when she jerks a little in surprise.
She’s mine. And I’m going to make sure everyone knows it.