Page 111 of The Faking Game

The room is huge. It’s teeming with activity, people bustling about. There’s a makeup station and a giant rack of clothes. I spot the other two guards first. One is by the windows, and the other is standing closer to the photographer.

And there she is.

I stop dead in my tracks.

She’s in lingerie… andonlylingerie.

There are other models around her, but she’s all I see. Her hair is tousled, falling dark around her face. Pale, golden skin on display with only a few scraps of dark lace that cover almost nothing.

She’s stretched out on a velvet couch, legs curled slightly. One arm is draped over the back, the other resting on her bare hip. She looks at the camera and slowly changes her pose. Where she looks, the tilt of her chin, her outstretched leg.

She makes it all look fluid.Easy.

Her bra is lacy and ornate, and a small pearl hangs between her tits. My eyes zero in on it, dangling there. As if her beauty needs accessorizing.

A man in a suit stands behind her, holding out a tray with a glass of champagne on it to her, like he’s a waiter. He’s young. Face clean-shaven, all hard angles.

Another male model is lying on the ground in front of her, holding up another tray with a bowl of grapes.

The photographer calls out directions, and Nora shifts, reaching for the champagne glass. Her fingers brush against the man’s as she takes it. She looks up at him with hooded eyes, and there’s nothing virginal about that gaze.

She looks powerful. A woman who knows what she wants and knows she’s wanted in return. It’s convincing.

But I know just how convincing she can be.

She arches her back. My gaze drifts to the perky tops of her tits, the perfect handhold, and I have to ball my hands into fists. I want to cover her up.

I want to end this entire shoot.

She doesn’t want to be here. Didn’t even want to model, has been trying to phase out of it, and yethere she is, doing a beautiful job of it anyway. Because she was asked to. Because she’s kind, and supportive, and doesn’t want to inconvenienceanyone.

Madison is standing on the left side of the shoot, past attendants and the photographer click-click-clicking. I force my locked muscles to move and reach her.

“Sir,” she says.

“How long has this been going?”

“Most of the day. No deliveries from the suspect.”

I nod. After the letter that was delivered with the photographs, we’re all expecting the stalker to make further contact. And whenever that happens, I want it intercepted before it reaches Nora.

Nora’s reclining all the way now, her head propped up on an arm.

It hurts to look at her. That’s the way her beauty is: a dagger, sharp and piercing. And yet the pain doesn’t stop me from looking.

There are so many people here. All watching her and the two male models who are still so fucking close to her. I want to order everyone else to look away. But I can’t, and the jealousy is a painful thing inside me. It’s not right, to feel like that. I have no fucking right to it. And yet here it is.

Nora tilts her head up, looks off into the distance…

And spots me.

Her movements falter. The graceful, slow change of positions stutters, but then she remembers where she is and looks back toward the camera.

It takes about ten more minutes before the photographer yells “cut.” Every single minute feels like an eternity.

“That’s a wrap!” the photographer calls out. “We’ve got it!”

The music is immediately turned down. Voices rise in volume, and two people high-five in the back. Up on the set, Nora relaxes. She smiles and starts chatting with the male models. Their expressions were blank before. Now they’re smiling, two statues suddenly come to life.

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