Page 31 of The Last Kind of Kiss
Two high-definition cameras are set up on tripods, pointed toward the metallic railing overlooking our private inlet, and they’re accompanied by blindingly white lights. The main photographer, Stephanie, fiddles with the camera settings, a makeup artist stays nearby for touchups, an ambassador from Menoulé picks at a plate of shrimp appetizers, and a hair stylist ruffles their hands through Bristol’s luscious locks. He looks like a cocker spaniel with a shiny-ass coat. I mean, I guess that makes sense.
Bristol Brenner’s a dog through and through.
But despite the hatred still bubbling in my gut, he’s managed to capture my attention and fog up my sensibility. I can’t look away. It’s like he’s got me entranced, prying my eyelids apart and shouting,Hey! Over here! I’m a delicious piece of man candy and you can taste my rainbow any day of the week.
A small, travel-sized bottle of baby oil is shoved into my hand, and I know it’s gonna be hell to get off later.
“Lila! Good, you’re here. Let’s get you oiled up and we can start the shoot,” one of the stylists says.
Assuming they aren’t interested in getting well-acquainted with every inch of my half-naked body, I squirt a sizable dollop into my hand and start slathering it on. A lance of cold nips at my skin, inspiring a shiver to roll down my spine, and the sticky solution begins to web my fingers together. The longer I lather myself up, the longer I allow my nerves to multiply in my stomach, and the weight of this entire photoshoot descends on me like a slow curtain of imminent fog, waiting to pull me into everlasting obscurity.
I haven’t felt nervous until now. I mean, I knew this was a big deal, but the realization had yet to set in. And now I’m getting all clammed up when I’m minutes away from doing this thing for real, with my ex-fling and current fake boyfriend, in front of a small audience who’ll be watching my every move. I can’t panic in front of everyone—I can’t show any weakness for fear Menoulé will take one look at me and immediately ask for a more seasoned model to replace me.
I usually have some kind of pharmaceutical assistance, or I blast out “Beautiful,” but I forgot both of those today. How could I forget such important things? I never do a photoshoot without taking the necessary precautions beforehand. Throwing yourself in front of a camera is scary; it’s even scarier when you know those pictures are gonna circulate the internet for all eternity, publicly (or privately) commented on by critics, trolls, almond moms, and creepy, middle-aged guys alike.
Nobody ever talks about how vulnerable modeling is. It feels like you’re the only art piece in the middle of a museum surrounded by blank canvases. It feels like you’re peeling layers of your skin off for wide-eyed spectators to get a look at the bloody meat underneath. It feels like you’re shedding your former self, contorting your body until it perfectly fits everyone’s expectations. You lose a part of yourself when you model. Your self-worth gradually begins to chip away, but even when it’s allgone, that preliminary crack still splinters through you, creating different versions of you that are all fake, beautifully barefaced imitations of who you once were.
You’re nothing but a prop.
I finish dousing a thin layer of oil over my stomach before flailing to cover my back, and maybe it’s the testosterone frying his brain like an egg on an Arizona sidewalk, but Bristol saunters over to me with an outstretched hand.
“Let me help,” he says, shaking me from my daze, assaulting me with his somehow still-tan pecs that rest like two equally hard pillows. Another fucking reason for me to be gawking at him.
I don’t say anything. I don’t make a comment about how close he is or how he looks like a greased-up rotisserie chicken. The bottle remains firmly lodged in my grip, and I’m about as steady as the waves sloshing against the yacht’s keel.
Bristol’s rumbling chuckle buzzes straight through me, filling me with a warmth that the sun itself could only imagine replicating. “You’re drooling.”
He snatches the bottle from my fingers, walks behind me, and starts gently rubbing his oiled hands over my shoulder blades before I can protest.
I gasp and wipe the back of my hand over my mouth. “I was not.”
“Don’t worry, Lils. I only look this good for you.”
Ugh, why does that nickname have such an effect on me?
Bristol makes quick work of the oil, spreading it down the length of my spine, his touch nearly making my eyes roll back in ecstasy. His expert fingers glide over my skin, undercut by the chill now racing through my bloodstream. The last time he touched me this intimately was on the red carpet. It feels so familiar, even with the rockiness of our past.It feels so good.
“You’re shaking,” he observes, and before I can toss out aweak-ass excuse, he presses his thumb to the racing pulse of my wrist. I’m expecting him to make some arrogant comment about me being nervous around him, but he doesn’t. In fact, he couldn’t slough off the worry on his face if he tried.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m…fine,” I stammer, my heart puttering weakly in my chest, a nauseating mix of nerves and false confidence tangling the thoughts in my clearly delirious head. The anxiety’s taking center stage now. It’s all I can think about. I feel like I can’t breathe even when I’m standing out in the fresh air.
Stephanie’s stentorian voice intercedes whatever weird, pseudosexual hand-on-back action we had going on. “Okay, you two. Let’s not waste any more daylight. Bristol, you’re going to lie down on the lounge chair. Lila, you’re going to lie on top of him while you hold up Menoulé’s fragrance.”
I don’t move. I don’t respond to her. I know that she just gave me a direction, but the thought hasn’t informed my muscles yet. Bristol looks at me, then looks to Stephanie with the same worry in his eyes.
“Can you give us a minute please?” he asks.
I don’t hear what Stephanie says, but I pick up on the unimpressed tone in her voice.
Great. Now I have to lie ontopof him? I knew we were posing together, but I thought it would be more of a…separate…affair. Oh, God. A Xanax and a sad, self-empowerment song couldn’t have possibly prepared me for this.
When Bristol ushers me toward the far end of the boat, I’m still a quivering mess, feeling my chest start to strain from aborted breaths. This is humiliating. I’m planets away from the self-assured, badass woman I’ve been portraying myself to be.
A paroxysm of concern falls over his face, matched in intensity by the unrelenting grip of his hands on my arms. “Hey, hey. What’s going on?”
Anxiety weaves through the catacombs of my thoughts, and my heart pinches so tightly that my lungs beg for air. “I…I don’t have my song.”
