Page 67 of Better Left Unsaid

That answered that. . . .

Dominic:No. If you have the time, you should go as planned. Maybe call Jade. Could be nice.

Maria:I was thinking the same thing. Thanks!

I laid my phone down on the table in front of me and closed my eyes as I was hit with a powder storm on my face. Before I knew it, I was being tapped on the shoulder. “All done.”

With her gone, I locked the door and changed into my first outfit (if you could call underwear an outfit). They were black low-rise trunks with the brand name printed in big, bold white lettering on the elastic.

A quick rap on the door, and I knew it was time.

An assistant led me to the studio floor where I met with the photographer for the first time. Ramos Fike. He was legendary and known for his raw, natural style of photography.

“Dominic Deluca. The name rolls right off the tongue,” Ramos spoke with a heavy accent. “I need you here,” he said, walking and pointing to where he wanted me. Then he gave me a few instructions on how he wanted me to pose.

I was nothing if not an excellent listener, so I did as asked.

“Wonderful. Wonderful.” Ramos took several shots. “Now give me energy. That charisma you’ve got.”

Following his lead, I posed a few other ways before his assistant brought out a giant pillow.

“Let’s get you on the floor now.” He pointed and directed me, snapping photos as I sunk against the pillow that sat uprightsand hugged my back. “Spread your legs out in front of you.”

Done.

“Just like that. Excellent, Dominic Deluca.”

This same routine continued as I got my makeup touched up and rapidly changed into the various underwear they had for me. Everything from hip briefs to boxer briefs. There was even a thong in there—not my first pick for underwear, but it was all part of the job.

Somewhere around my break time, Jeff showed up, which meant no break at all.

“We’ve got to talk, Dom,” Jeff said seriously, passing me a water bottle as I shrugged into a robe and walked to my dressing room.

Make no mistake, when Jeff said we had to talk, what he really meant was he had to talk, and I had to listen. Maybe make a decision or two. So, I answered just how I knew he wanted me to—“I’m listening.”

“Remember the gig you went on the callback for with the Italian fashion designer?” Not Paolo, by the way. In case that was where your head was going. I’d had enough of that guy, and I didn’t even really know him. I could never work with him.

I nodded.

“The job is yours.”

Internally, I let out a huge sigh of relief because this was a job I really wanted and had been waiting to hear back on. Externally, I played it cool because I knew it wasn’t that easy. “What’s the catch?”

“They’ve added a commercial component to the deal.”

“I’ve never done commercials.”

“It’s no different than runway shows.”

I’d beg to differ, but I wasn’t going to argue with him. Either way, I was doing it. “Fine.” I would hire a coach if I had to, but this job meant a lot to me personally. It was for a designer that my grandfather used to wear and my dad brought me and my brothers up wearing.

“And they moved the job to Italy.”

Another easy one. “No big deal.” Maybe I could get Maria to come out with me, bring Isabella. Whoa. Where did that come from? Oh, right, I loved the damn woman. Reality was a lot different from what was going on in my head, though.

“They want you there post-production and to come back to walk in next season’s runway show.”

Holy shit. This was the trifecta. Not just a photoshoot, but a commercial campaign and to walk the runway.

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