Page 13 of You and Me, For Real
I follow Heather’s instructions as she puts last-minute touches in every nook and cranny of my body. And I meaneverynook and cranny.
Luke snickers, I narrow my eyes at him.
He looks away. “I didn’t say anything.”
He doesn’t have to. He thinks all the pomp and pageantry of my career is ridiculous. I’m sure if I came from serving in the military, this job would seem superfluous to me, too. But it’s the only career I’ve known, and I’m determined to excel at it. Even if it means being spray-tanned as orange as a Ken doll. At least I can claim the abs as my own. Evidence that hard work does pay off—even if sometimes my toned build is the only thing getting me ahead in this career. But that’ll soon change. The world will see my breadth and skills as an actor once I break into film.
Unless all I really am is a pack of abs and a spray tan?
Dad steps in front of me, ignoring whatever the stylist is spraying on my calf muscles. “This shoot may help promote the show, but remember, there are also three brands we’re showcasing. You need to impress them enough to secure future endorsements with them. Got it?”
Just your average father-son pep talk. He rests his hands on my shoulders and gives me a little shake.
“Understood. Dazzle everyone with my photogenic skills. Got it.”
He removes his hands with a pop, sticky from the still-drying spray tan.
He grabs a napkin from the makeup table and wipes his hands. “Son, this is no time to joke. We are at the precipice of your career. We could elevate from here, or we could sink into the abyss. It’s all on you. It’s time to focus, not”—he gestures to the dog—“dilly dally in silly philanthropic ideals you don’t have time for.”
Heather stands beside us, watching us like we’re an entertaining ping-pong match. “Sorry to interrupt. Ready for your oil?”
“Sure.”
Several minutes later, I emerge from the tent shinier than a tube of lip gloss. I’m talking near-Twilightlevel sparkle. My body oil is so thick, I glow. Look out world, here I come to shine. Literally.
I greet and shake hands with the photographer, Jean Claude, and hope my palms leave him stain-free. “Thank you for having me.”
“Of course, of course. Lovely to meet you.” He ushers me toward a makeshift deck with a wooden railing set on top of the sandy shore.
The beach is behind us, the sun just barely beginning to set. Large strobe lights and shadow boxes surround the set, as well as massive reflectors. There’s a good chance someone can see the glimmer of my skin from outer space. Two assistants adjust the equipment, and makeup artists stand nearby at the ready for touch-ups.
Scarlet emerges from her tent wearing a bright pink bikini. Her naturally tanned skin has been elevated to a new level by the glow from the oily lotion. We look more like walking ads for baby oil as opposed to designer jewelry and swimwear.
“Hey there, handsome."
“Hey, Scar. Seems like I just saw you.” I hold out an arm to keep her stable from the death heels she’s wearing.Because those are always practical at the beach.We step onto the platform together.
With our final season ofMalibu Shoresreleasing in just over a month, our schedules have recently collided more than I care for them to. I want the show to be a success as much as she does, but the pretend boyfriend/girlfriend thing is becoming uncomfortable, our professional lives blurring too much.
The photographer immediately takes charge, posing us together. Our skin slips and slides against each other. The combined power of our coconut-scented lotion overwhelms my nostrils.
“Did you enjoy being onThe Gwen Show?”
“You mean when you practically mauled me in front of an audience of three hundred people?” I say behind my forced smile.
She smacks my chest—at least, I think she means to—but it just slides right down.
“Oh, don’t be such a prude.”
Interesting that if the tables had been turned, and I had done the same shenanigans to her, it would border on sexual harassment. I wonder how comfortable she’d be in that situation? Then again, she’s never minded my attention.
“This is good, good. Get closer. You’re gazing into one another’s eyes.” This comes from the photographer.
I look into Scarlet’s blue eyes, alight from the softboxes reflecting in them. She dips her chin, her voluminous lips pouting even farther as she looks at me through her lashes.
She curls her long nails into the base of my hair. “How about we go out tonight?”
“Can’t. I’m dog-sitting.”
