Read an Excerpt
1
Callie stared at her semi-nude reflection in the makeup room and exhaled. Lord, these lights are harsh. Calm yourself; Coquette magazine is known for its stellar lighting. She shifted her weight to her left hip and scrutinized her backside. Was that a dimple of cellulite? Impossible! Cellulite at just twenty-three wasn’t logical. She adjusted the band of her lace thong and squinted. Well, even if there were trace amounts of cottage cheese, the editors would make her skin cherub-smooth. Digital retouching was as common as bark on a tree trunk. It was just last week that she met December’s cover model and was stunned to see the girl’s face was as dewy as a slice of freeze-dried pineapple. In her photos, though, she appeared supple and luminous. Yessiree, it was all just a matter of retouching and lighting, a goof-proof formula.
“You look fabulous,” she told her reflection. Her concentration was interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Callie? You ready, babe?” Hannah, one of Coquette’s long-term makeup artists, poked her head in the dressing room.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” she said, and tied a silken robe around her waist. Her heart rate soared but she managed a smile. “Let’s do it.”
Hannah clapped her hands. “Now, that’s what I like to hear, my kind of girl. Everyone’s ready for you. I’ll do touch-ups on set.”
“Sounds good,” Callie muttered. Maybe they keep a supply of Patrón nearby.…
Hannah strode through the winding hallway with Callie trailing. Framed life-size photos of girls who had been in the magazine over the past four decades adorned the walls—maddeningly lush creatures who beckoned with parted, lacquered lips and eyes steeped in lust. Callie’s skin tingled. I can do that. That’s going to be me. I’m going to be up there with all of you bitches.
“We’re doing the classic fairy-tale bedroom setup. It’s the easiest way to get in the mood. Trust me, after twenty-two years, I know. Can’t go wrong with it,” said Hannah. She tapped the shoulder of a man peering through a tripod-propped camera. “Phil, our girl has arrived.”
Phil, an affable sixty-something man with a cropped white beard, looked up from his lens. “Wonderful. How are you today?”
Callie dug at her cuticles. “Good, thank you.”
“Go ahead and step into frame.”
She tiptoed to the middle of the room next to the four-poster bed. The satin sheets were perfectly rumpled. Perfume bottles and pearly trinkets covered the vintage-looking vanity. Airy curtains masked a mock bay window.
“Watch out, coming through!” A scruffy assistant narrowly missed bumping into her with an armful of cable cord.
“Yep, let’s start by the bed,” said Phil in response to Callie’s questioning look. “We’ll take it easy, let you get comfortable. I work slower than most photographers. I like to make sure I’ve got the shot; that could mean twenty frames or five hundred frames. We’ll shoot till I’m certain we’ve got the right look.”
“Gotcha,” she chirped while Hannah teased her roots.
“And don’t be nervous—I know you’ll be great.” Easy for him to say; he wasn’t about to balance in five-inch stilettos stark naked. “Don’t be afraid to move and mix it up, I’ll follow you. We’ll start off with some lingerie shots and gradually move into nudes. I want you to feel comfortable. Hannah, can you smooth that little piece behind her ear? That’s it … perfect.”
“I’ll take your robe,” Hannah said. Callie slid out of the garment and draped it over the older woman’s arm.
“And just remember, most importantly, Callie—don’t forget to have fun.” Phil’s smile crinkled the skin around his bright eyes. He couldn’t be any more different from what she had envisioned. Surely a man who photographed naked women for a living must be a lecherous pig, yes? But no. The complete opposite, in fact. She breathed a sigh of relief and her shoulders loosened. Perhaps she wasn’t going to need a shot of tequila after all!
She positioned her rear toward Phil, feet apart, breasts lightly pressed against the bedpost.
“Nice, dear, very nice. Tush out more, twist your upper half towards me … show me more of your breasts. Perfect. Hold that.” Click, click. “Flip your hair back for me.”
The tendrils cascaded down her back like curled ribbons and she gazed at him over her shoulder. This wasn’t so difficult.…
“Let’s lose the thong,” he said.
Already? She swallowed and timidly removed the garment. Screw it. What have I got to lose? All or nothing, baby. She faced Phil head-on and her eyes bored into the lens with laser-beam intensity. Hands cocked on hips, stark naked. The unanticipated adrenaline rush made her nipples erect. Coquette had found its next great sex symbol, she was certain.
Hours flew by at jet speed and by the end of the shoot she felt like a seasoned pro. Not that she was a novice to modeling; before moving to Los Angeles, she had posed for clothing catalogs and bridal ads in her hometown of Troy, Michigan, and filmed a commercial for a hair care company. But those jobs were for local and regional companies. And the biggest difference—she had been fully clothed.
Coquette was a global phenomenon. Founded in 1964 by French-born entrepreneur Yves Rousseau, the magazine was a clever mix of celebrity interviews, self-help, and fashion tips for the modern man. Each month a young woman was featured in a multipage layout in various states of undress. Though not considered smut by the majority of the public, the periodical grew racier with each passing year—legs became farther spread and pubic hair reached extinction—and the more Rousseau pushed the taste level, the farther Coquette slipped on the relevancy meter. Its heyday of the 1970s was long gone, but still, public interest remained and there was never a shortage of women hoping to be the next discovery.
The day she discovered Coquette was seared in Callie’s brain. “Come look at this,” Susannah, her next-door neighbor, had whispered, and pulled a stack of magazines out of a cardboard box. Two twelve-year-old girls on a Saturday afternoon in February. Snooping in Susannah’s basement. Virginia, Callie’s mother, allowed her to play at someone else’s house, for once. (Usually her chums had to come over to Callie’s. “It’s safer that way,” Virginia reasoned.) The models’ hips, breasts, and windblown tresses mesmerized the sixth-graders. “I hope I’m this beautiful when I grow up,” Callie sighed, and Susannah nodded her pigtailed head in agreement. Neither of their prepubescent bodies were developing fast enough for their liking. Callie especially desired a figure like her mother’s, a Jayne Mansfield build to replace her coltish shape. But the hips and breasts never fully sprouted. Her body remained several inches shy of the va-va-voom frame she craved.
Five cups of coffee and a can of hairspray later, Callie exited the set and gathered her belongings in the dressing room. Caffeine combined with adrenaline made her euphoric—high. She had given Phil her best and her poise hadn’t faltered during the entire shoot. Spot on. The come-hither smile (despite the agony of the back-snapping poses), the pout, the attitude … it all felt so right, so on. She eased her sore feet into a pair of Havaianas and rummaged through her purse. Where had she placed her car keys? Girlish chatter echoed from the hallway and a young woman entered the room. Her wheat-blond hair was pulled high in a ponytail and her nose was sprinkled with freckles. Without a speck of makeup, the girl was radiant. Callie’s confidence plunged several rungs.
“Hi, I’m Callie.” Better to break the ice.
“Rachel.” The girl snapped her chewing gum and threw her oversized tote on the makeup chair.
“Are you doing a test shoot, too?”
“Yeah, but I feel like hell. I do not want to be here. My head is killing me and I’m sore.” Rachel stretched her neck from side to side.
Wait until you’re under a slew of hot lights in skyscraper heels for hours, your body contorted in positions you never knew were possible, thought Callie. You want to talk about sore! “I hate photo shoots when I’m sick, too. The makeup artist has some Advil—I saw her taking some earlier.”
“What, are you, like, in kindergarten?” Rachel said. “Why don’t I just munch on Flintstones chewables and call it a day? Only a bottle of Vicodin could cure the way I feel. I’m so fucking hungover, I can’t even see straight, but what else is new. Welcome to the raw and randy world of Rachel O’Connor.” She looked Callie over with a curled lip and plopped on the floor. She drew her thighs up tight against her chest to shield any light from her face.
Must find keys ASAP.… She spotted them next to Rachel’s small but shapely derriere.
“Good luck,” Callie said, and darted out the door.
Rachel’s raspy reply came when Callie was halfway down the hall: “Yeah, whatever…”
Copyright © 2013 by Shamron Moore
