Page 85 of Bombshells
Slowly, I shake my head.
“Oh, honey.” She makes a tsk sound. “When you dry your hair, just bend the ends around the brush. It’s easy-peasy.”
“That’s what you think.”
She laughs in a big, throaty voice. She has gorgeous dark skin and curly hair piled into a glamorous heap on top of her head. I already have a girl-crush on Keyanna, and on this whole photo-shoot experience.
“I can’t believe I’m getting paid for this.” In fact, the paycheck will equal a third of my Bombshells salary for the whole season. I’m making that money in three hours.
Best. Scam. Ever.
“Girl, you are so pretty, those cheekbones are a work of art. There’s nothing surprising at all about picking you for this boondoggle.”
There are three of us, including Charli and our teammate Samantha. “It’s us three because I’m half Chinese,” Samantha had said with a snicker. “Sylvie’s Canadian and Charli is a redhead. That’s what counts as diversity in hockey.”
Either way, I feel a twinge of guilt about earning thousands of dollars to stand around in this brightly lit studio in tight black jeans with a sporty satin stripe down the side of the leg.
But not guilty enough to turn down this job.
“Okay, girls,” Bess says as soon as the hair and makeup people are done with us. “This is the moment when I give you my stump speech about photo shoots—you can always say no to a photographer’s request. You can say you’re not comfortable with a pose, or that something feels wrong to you. Except there’s very little chance of you feeling squicky with Asher behind the camera.” She points at a very cute photographer, who’s bent over the monitor where his assistant is reviewing the shots they already took of the men.
“Asher never hits on women,” Keyanna says with a grin. “You all are not his type.”
“That may be true,” Bess says. “But I meant that Asher is a real professional behind the camera and a retired athlete himself.”
“And he’s dreamy,” Samantha whispers.
She isn’t wrong. Asher has shaggy, dark-blond hair that’s carefully styled to look careless, and beautiful hazel eyes. He has the kind of face that belongs at the other end of the camera, not the back of it.
“Does anyone have any questions ?” Bess asks.
“I do!” Charli raises her hand. “Do I get to keep these clothes?”
“Yes,” Bess says firmly. “They said you could keep everything except that leather jacket they’re putting on Sylvie. Now go mug for the camera. Asher is ready for you.”
Keyanna fits the jacket over my shoulders as Asher beckons us toward a green-screen backdrop ablaze with fancy lighting. “All right, ladies. Join me on the set,” he says. “We’ll start in front of the taxi.” He waves a muscular arm toward the edge of the vast room. “Let’s have the taxi, gents!”
I don’t know why I’m surprised when a garage door opens in the far wall and a vintage cab rolls slowly to the center of the set.
Asher struts up to the rear door and opens it with a flourish. “All right. What’s your name, gorgeous?” he asks my teammate.
“Samantha.”
“Samantha, please come this way and put a foot up on the running board of the cab. That’s it,” he praises her as she takes the position. “And you, miss? Is it Charli? That charcoal color is hot on you. It makes your skin glow.”
“Thank you,” she says smiling in spite of herself. Asher is so charming that even Charli can’t resist him.
He positions her in the shot. “Now you, Sylvie…” He pronounces my name in a French accent, like my mother used to. “With those cheekbones that could etch glass. You’re the tallest, and I need you leaning against the bumper.” He beckons me toward the rear of the car.
I feel self-conscious as I place my hand on the shining paint, my hip braced against the car.
“Yes! Now turn your shoulders a few degrees toward me. There! Drop your left hand to your hip. And lift the crown of your head… Yes.”
He chuckles to himself and positions the camera, which is suspended on a sophisticated mechanical arm. “You three are making this easy for me. I want a smile from Samantha. Now Charli—give me a coy smile. Like you know a secret. Yeah, baby! You do coy really well. And Sylvie—I want attitude from you. Like there’s somewhere else you need to be.”
Oh boy. I feel a little out of my element as I gaze to the side and try to look put out.
“Good, good,” the photographer encourages. His camera shutter fires rapidly. “Now please take a step forward and move closer together. Charli—arms around the others. Samantha, another half step forward please. Look this way.”
