Page 2 of Praise Me: Lumberjack
“Like, maybe…a donation?” I add, unable to meet the giant’s eyes.
But I feel them on my body, nonetheless.
Reluctantly raking up and down, followed by the sound of him swallowing.
“Okay,” says the photographer, lowering his camera. “We have some great shots of Jenna solo, then squaring off with the lumberjack. What else do we need to get?”
If I blinked, I would have missed the sly look between my agent and manager.
But I didn’t. I saw it. And it causes my muscles to tie themselves in knots.
“Jenna,” says Dustin, floating forward and gesturing with his phone. “We’re here to celebrate Earth Day and that’s all well and good, but we both know there’s a bigger picture. Our goalis to have the public view you as an adult, instead of Hey Betty, right?”
“Jesus,” laughs the lumberjack without humor, dragging a hand down his face. “I thought that was you.”
“You watchHey Betty?” I ask.
“My daughter watches it,” he corrects me. “The reruns play on a loop in our house.”
Daughter. This man is old enough to have a child? How old does that make him? Thirty? Thirty-five? I just turned nineteen last week and I barely know how to pour a bowl of cereal, let alone consider having babies. His world is vastly different than mine.
“So…you’re married?”
I don’t know why I ask that. But it seems important, seeing as how I’m naked two feet away from him.
“Divorced,” he grumbles.
“Oh.” I’m definitely notrelieved. That would be silly. Right? With an effort, I drag my attention off the lumberjack and refocus on my manager. “You were saying…?”
“Right.” He punches out a quick text. “We’re trying to break free of thisHey Bettyimage, are we not?” He doesn’t wait for me to respond. “Would it benefit us to…let the chains slip a little? Maybe leak a few shots of you struggling in the chains and…oops, there’s a nipple slip. Or maybe a flash of something…lower? Just a peek, babe. To show everyone you’re not a child actor anymore. You’re a serious artist.”
My heart is pounding a thousand miles an hour. I was chained before, but now I’mtrapped.“How does a wardrobe malfunction make me a serious artist?”
“You know what I mean,” says Dustin. “We’re launching you as a sex symbol!”
I’m suddenly very aware of my position. Chained to a tree with a dozen men staring at me, waiting for me to make adecision. They all came here knowing I would be asked to do this, didn’t they? I’ve been played. I’m a commodity. A body. A paycheck. Not a living, breathing human being with a soul.
In this business, people will climb on your shoulders to reach the next rung. Not only in business, though. The same thing has happened in my personal life. My parents were humble, supportive people once upon a time. Until they were blinded by dollar signs and started draining my bank accounts to make “investments.” Cosmetic surgery, trips to the south of France, shopping sprees at Saint Laurent. Almost like they were in a race to spend my hard-earned money before I got old enough to claim it for myself.
Instead of protecting me from the dangers of this job, they became the danger.
Now my only option is to protect myself.
“I don’t want to catch a wardrobe malfunction on camera,” I whisper. “C-can someone unlock the chains and cover me up?”
“Don’t be precious about this, Jenna.” My manager is rolling his eyes, and I have the strongest urge to cry. “It’s not like we’re doing a full frontal.”
“She asked you to unlock the chains,” rasps the lumberjack. “Do it. Now.”
“You’re not in charge here,” blusters Dustin.
The lumberjack looks him dead in the eye and revs his chainsaw. “The fuck I’m not.”
“Okay. Okay.” My manager backs away, hands aloft in surrender. “Someone get Jenna out of those chains.” Under his breath, he says to the photographer. “You know what to do. Get the shot.”
Helplessness rattles in my limbs, a glopping tear rolling down my cheek, as one of the personal assistants rushes behind the tree to unlock the chains.
I have no control. They’ve taken my control.
