Page 27 of Dirty Dealer
Jessica. Nope. Too chatty.
Vanessa. No. I think she got married.
Jenese. Promising. I tap on her number and wait.
“Look at that! He is alive.” Her melodic laughter skirts through the line. “How the hell are you, Jude?”
“Better now that I’m talking to you.”
“Always the charmer. What do I owe the pleasure of this phone call?”
I’m bored and my dick is aching for some real pussy. That’s the heart of the matter, but I’m not such a ruthless asshole to say it. “I was hoping for the pleasure of your company. What do you have going tonight?”
“My friends and I are hitting up a few clubs. But I wouldn’t turn down a little man candy. Join us?”
“Only if I get to take you home afterward.”
“Oh, honey, I’m counting on it. We’ll swing by and get you about ten?”
“I’ll be ready.” But when I end the call I find that my dick has gone flaccid at the prospect. “Fucker,” I mutter under my breath. Of course the first time all day I’m not rocking a semi, and it comes with the promise of getting laid.
Because my dick doesn’t want Jenese. He wants Rachel.Join the club.
Doesn’t matter, because Rachel doesn’t want me or my dick. No matter. I’m sure by tonight we’ll both have moved on. At the very least I’ll find a shiny new distraction. A willing partner to extinguish some of this sexual frustration. Though I’m probably fooling myself. I doubt I’ll be able to get Rachel out of my mind at all this weekend.
15
Rachel
“Rae Rae, honey. I need more drama. Andrea isn’t glowing. I need her to glow.”
I pinch my lips together lest I snap at this idiot photographer and turn today into a complete waste. When I took this job—a favor to my roommate since I earn more booking private makeup clients and working half the hours—I knew I’d be working with a newer artist. I didn’t do my usual check—a phone conversation to see how we’d gel. Newsflash, we don’t. This kid is barely legal and a total diva. We’re set up under a pop-up tent in a parking lot with one tiny generator. No fan. No food. I’m hungry and hot, and not in a good way. My patience for his non-directive demands is melting away with my foundation.
Glow? He wants her to glow? “I can retouch her bronzer. Darken her blush?”
He pinches his lips together and lets out a long hiss. It’s the sound he makes when he doesn’t agree.
“What would you like?”
“Rae Rae, honey. I just need you to feel me.” He sighs again. “Get in this scene with us. She’s high fashion. She’s stepped off a fucking runway, ya know?”
God, I’d love to throw a dish of glitter on his stupid face. If he calls me Rae Rae once more, I might.
He throws up his hands and spins away. “This isn’t working. I need a break. Everyone take thirty.” With more flair than a strutting peacock he stomps out of the tent, a half dozen of his minions racing after.
Andrea glares and makes her way to my side while a few people remain, packing up clothing into the back of a car.
“You can’t talk to him like that.” Her voice is low, her gaze sharp. She glances over her shoulder, as if to check whether anyone is watching, then turns back to me. “I got you this opportunity because we’re roommates and you’re good at makeup, but if you fuck this up, Randall won’t ever work with me again.”
I almost scoff when I realize she’s being serious. I think back over the last hour. How horrible he’s been to everyone on this shoot. The cutting things he’s said to the models are worse than anything I’ve ever witnessed. “He’s not a nice person.”
She rears back, her eyes wide and blinking. “Nice?” She laughs, but it’s a mean sound. “You think anyone gets anywhere by being nice? This is the fashion jungle, Rae. Eat or be eaten. At your age, you should already know that.” She pulls out her phone and starts scrolling; a dismissal.
I’ve never really liked Andrea. She’s catty, and I’ve seen it time and time again. But after working under these conditions for the past eight hours, my tolerance is at an all-time low, and I actually hate her. This shoot was supposed to wrap up hours ago. I should be home right now, maybe enjoying a nap before going out with Jenni. But instead, the photographer threw a tantrum for the third time today and I’m left waiting—without lunch or snacks. But I refuse to cause a scene or get into it with her. “Do you know what time we’ll be done?”
She looks around, and shrugs before going back to her phone. “I don’t know.”
“Okay.” It’s really difficult to bite my tongue. I press a smile onto my lips. “I’m going to walk over to that Starbucks. Do you mind watching my stuff?”
