Page 10 of When Stars Collide
“Mena.” He emitted a painful groan, clearly annoyed. “Fine.” He upped the volume of his voice an octave. “Maybe you could send me a half-naked photo or two?”
“I’m sorry, you’re still not coming through very well.”
“Damn it, Mena, send photos. Sexy, scantily-clad pictures,” he fumed, quickly composing himself a second later. “Hey, Chuck. How about those Titans?”
“Send Chuck my regards.” The laugh I’d been holding in managed to break through the flimsy barrier that had been keeping it at bay.
“You could hear me the entire time, couldn’t you?”
“Loud and clear.”
“That’s what I figured,” he moaned. “What do you think?”
“You mean, like nude photos?” My voice came out just as hushed as his had been, despite knowing that Jo’s bedroom was at the other end of the apartment and she wouldn’t be able to hear me.
“No, I meant what I said, but you won’t hear any complaints from me either way.”
“Then I guess I’ll see what I can do, and just how much I really like you.”
“At this point, I’d take you in sweatpants and a flannel shirt.”
“You see, nowthatI can do.”
“Listen, I seriously have to go this time. I’ll give you a call tomorrow?”
“Oh, I suppose, unless it’s going to impede upon my plans with all my other suitors.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Goodnight. Try to get some sleep.”
“Goodnight, Peter.”
I lay back in my bed, contemplating Peter’s request while I clutched my phone. Before Peter Monroe, all my relationships had been of the blink-and-you-missed-them variety. Here today, gone tomorrow. There was no trust, no loyalty. With Peter, it was different, and to be honest, it unnerved me to care for someone as much as I cared for him. Trust wasn’t something I handed out freely, but trusted him I did, implicitly. And it scared the hell out of me.
“Ugh, Peter, what are you doing to me?” I sighed as I rolled out of bed and stood in front of the full-length mirror situated in the corner of my bedroom near my closet. Somehow, I didn’t think my cotton pajama pants with the flattering make-my-stubby-legs-look-longer vertical blue and white stripes and matching navy-blue tank top were going to cut it.
If you’re going to do this, you may as well go all in.
I turned sideways, examining my body from different angles, trying to find the right one, if it even existed. Soon finding myself defeated in my quest for the perfect pose, I tried flipping my hair and squeezing my lips together in a pout that looked less like a smoldering sex symbol and more like someone who’d been punched in the face. Still, I persisted as though doing any of these things would make the key to becoming Instagram-model-famous magically appear before my eyes.
Filters, perhaps.
I flipped through the available options on an app on my phone, quickly concluding that I was approaching yet another dead end.
Nope, that’s a negative. I’m fairly sure a half-naked woman with the ears and nose of a Golden Retriever is the opposite of a turn-on for him; and if it’s not, then we need to have a serious conversation.
Frustrated, I tossed my phone on my pillow and flopped down on the upholstered storage bench at the foot of my bed. “Well, at least now I know I have no future in porn. I’ll cross that off my list of back-up plans,” I muttered, rubbing my temples.
Come on, Mena. He’s seen you naked. Just grab some panties and a matching bra and snap a couple of pictures. Let’s do this!
More resigned than inspired, I shed my pajamas, pulling out one of my least frumpy bras with coordinating pair of green bikini briefs from my dresser drawer and slipped them on, retrieving my phone from my pillow.
Okay, camera. You hate me and I hate you, but for the next couple of minutes we need to set aside our differences, get our shit together, and produce a couple photos of me where I don’t look like an emaciated troll. We can then resume our otherwise tumultuous relationship. Deal?
Extending my arm out just slightly above my head, I enabled the front-facing option on my phone’s camera and began snapping away, turning my body ever so slightly after each shot. When I’d taken somewhere in the ballpark of two dozen pictures, I switched my camera off and sat down on my bed to look through the results of my amateur boudoir photoshoot.
No … No … Definitely not … Could be worse … That one isn’t too terrible.
After some contemplation, I managed to narrow down the candidates to the two I found to be more acceptable than the others, and then proceeded to my contacts, scrolling through for Peter’s name.
