Protecting Her Pride

by Jade Webb

  “Right, okay,” Daphni responds, tugging her teeth over her bottom lip. “I’ll uh, get ready for that I guess, then.”

  “Daphni, if you don’t want to do this, let’s just cancel. Elijah is nobody and this photo shoot isn’t even sold yet to any kind of publication. It’s a waste and you don’t owe Drizzle—”

  “I’m doing it, Mel. It’s fine.” She directs her green eyes at me. It’s hard to believe those are the same eyes that would watch me, enraptured, as I would recount the minute details of my day, the same eyes that would glisten with excitement when she would tell me about her dreams. The eyes staring at me now are hard and cold, a shell of what they used to be. “Have the car ready in an hour,” she orders before scurrying out of the kitchen.

  Melissa lets out a heavy sigh as she sinks into the barstool. She reaches for her phone and shoots out a few emails while I continue to drink my coffee, replaying the scene over in my head. It’s obvious that Melissa is not Drizzle’s number-one fan, and I can’t blame her. Melissa is one of the few people who actually give a shit about Daphni. How can she stand to watch this train wreck of a relationship? From the look of her tense shoulders, I think it’s harder for her than she lets on.

  And what about me? Am I seriously going to be able to watch her with him? Watch her kiss him, touch him? The thought sends a simmering rush of anger through me. “Stop it,” I command myself. I need to have more self-control. She’s not mine anymore.

  “Are you sure this is the right place?”

  I look over at Daphni in the passenger seat. Though she’s wearing dark-tinted sunglasses, I can see her scanning around her. We’re in the gravel parking lot of what looks like an abandoned warehouse, something you might expect to find in a cheap slasher flick. The door to the warehouse is ajar, and I can hear the low rumble of bass speakers coming from inside. Outside there’s a scattering of cars, ranging from a beat-up Ford truck to a bright red Maserati. By an overflowing trashcan, a woman with flaming red hair screams on her cellphone, a cigarette dangling from her fingers.

  “Mel?” Daphni asks, turning in her seat to face Melissa sitting in the back.

  Melissa looks down at her phone and shrugs. “This is the address. And there are a few cars here already, so I guess this is it.”

  Daphni pulls a water bottle from her bag and takes a long sip. I catch the faint smell of vodka and shoot her a quizzical look, but she avoids my stare and quickly stuffs the bottle back in her bag.

  “All right, then let’s head in,” she says as she opens the door and jumps out. I follow suit, trailing a few steps behind her while Melissa falls in step behind me, typing on her phone as she walks.

  As we walk inside the decaying warehouse, the stench of marijuana smoke and mildew hits me. There are a few people milling about, but my radar is up. No one here looks over the age of twenty-five, and it looks more like a trashed fraternity house than a professional photo shoot for the world’s most popular singer at the moment.

  A small group of people are sitting on empty milk crates and boxes, passing a large bong around while an incoherent rap song plays on full volume. I don’t have a good feeling about this at all. It’s not the kind of set that someone like Daphni works on. If anything, it looks like a low-rent porn shoot.

  I can read the tense energy radiating off of Daphni as her eyes dart around the room, taking it all in. She must know this is ridiculous. For God’s sake, she was on the cover of Vogue a few months ago. No way is this shit acceptable to her.

  When she finds the small group passing the bong, she marches over, stopping before a guy wearing a floor-length, cheetah fur coat, black camouflage pants, and unlaced black boots. His hair is cut low, with a “D” buzzed on the side of his head.

  “Drizzle!” Daphni shouts over the music, snapping her fingers in front of his face to get his attention.

  He looks up at her and smiles lazily when he sees her. His eyes are glazed over and he moves with the sluggishness of someone who is either high, or was dropped too much as a child. In his case, it’s probably a little bit of both.

  He gestures for someone to turn the music down and stands to kiss Daphni. She keeps her hands clenched at her sides and her body goes stiff as Drizzle drops his mouth on hers. As he pulls away, he throws his arm over her shoulder and calls out for someone named Elijah.

  A short, twenty-something guy runs over, his long fingers curled around a large clipboard. His face is riddled with scars, an unfortunate souvenir from his high school days of greasy skin and too many picked pimples. He’s tall and lanky and he walks with a permanent hunch, which gives him an almost pathetic appearance. When he sees Daphni, a creepy smile crosses his lips. He avoids looking directly at her and mumbles a quick hello.

  “Hi Elijah,” she greets him. “What’s the plan for today? I have to be out of here in two hours.”

  “Of course, of course,” he says, his voice unexpectedly high-pitched and tinny. “Let me have Angelina show you to your dressing room and we can get you changed and ready to go!”

  He calls over a young woman with short, platinum-blonde hair and a cigarette tucked behind her ear. She looks completely checked out and when she approaches the threesome, she holds out her limp hand, dangling from her wrist.

  “I’m Angelina. I’m doing your hair and makeup today,” she says, her voice monotone and disinterested.

  Daphni turns to look at Drizzle, a confused look on her face. Though I haven’t been to many photo shoots, everything about this interaction looks off, and seeing Daphni’s reaction confirms it for me. Ignoring Daphni, Drizzle pulls out his phone to answer a text.

  I catch a flare of annoyance flash through Daphni’s eyes, and yet she still doesn’t say a word. Instead, she gestures for Angelina to lead her back to the dressing room. I follow closely behind before shooting one more look over my shoulder, still uneasy about the whole situation. Something is incredibly off here, but I can’t put my finger on it. All I can do is make sure that I stick close to Daphni and not let her out of my sight.

  8

  Daphni

  I hold up the G-string and the cheetah-fur bikini top and instantly shake my head.

  “No way,” I say, my voicing rising. I look at Angelina, who is staring down at her fingernails, obviously bored by this entire situation. “Go tell Elijah that if he thinks I am going to wear this, he needs his brain checked.”

  Angelina shoots me an annoyed look before lazily sauntering out the door, leaving me alone in the makeshift dressing room. Roman had tried to come in with me, but I had insisted on him waiting outside. I could see that he was confused as to why the hell I was here, doing this photo shoot. And truthfully, I had no idea either. Maybe because I had stopped caring? But I sure as hell cared enough to draw the line at a G-string and fucking cheetah-fur bikini.

  As I wait for Elijah, I look around the small room. There’s a small mirror hung, and boxes of God-knows-what are pushed against the faded walls, carving out a small space to fit a chair for me to sit on and a long, metal bench to hold my purse and the sad excuse for an outfit that Elijah picked for this shoot. This room—this whole place—gives me an uncomfortable feeling, and I’m beginning to wonder if I should just listen to Melissa and bail.

  I pull out my phone, ready to text Melissa to prep a convincing excuse and an exit strategy, but before I can finish, the door opens and Elijah and Drizzle burst through. I quickly toss my phone back on top of my bag laying on the floor.

  Roman stops the door with his foot, preventing it from closing. “Do you want me in here, Daphni?” he asks.

  I catch the look of annoyance on Drizzle’s face and I quickly shake my head. “It’s fine, Roman. Close the door.”

  He hesitates a long moment before closing the door. Once it’s closed, Drizzle wraps his arm around me. Rather than feeling affectionate or comforting, it feels suffocating.

  “Babe, what’s the problem?” he asks.

  I hold up the G-string and the bikini top, both small enoug
h to sit in one hand. “This is the problem. I can’t wear this.”

  “Well, the theme of the shoot is a jungle, and you and Drizzle are posing as cheetahs, like the kings of the jungle,” Elijah explains.

  His nasal voice grinds against my ear. As much as I try and tolerate Drizzle’s friends, Elijah has always given off such a creepy vibe. I have no idea how the two of them even ended up friends, anyway. Drizzle treats Elijah like a personal servant, always ordering him to run errands and drive him around. I wasn’t exactly sure what Elijah got out of that relationship; I’m assuming Drizzle probably hooked him up with his leftovers. I couldn’t imagine it was easy getting girls for him, he was just so awkward.

  I roll my eyes and cross my arms at my chest. “Lions, Elijah,” I explain. “Lions are the kings of the jungle.”

  Drizzle’s grip on my shoulder tightens and I feel my body stiffen. “Elijah, why don’t you go set up for the shoot? Let me talk to my girl here and we’ll be out shortly.”

  Elijah steps out of the room and the second the door closes, Drizzle drops his arm and spins the chair so I’m facing him.

  “What’s your problem, Daphni? Why can’t you just do the shoot like you promised me you would?”

  “I know I promised. But I didn’t promise to be dressed up like a cheetah whore.”

  Drizzle grips the arms of my chair, his knuckles turning white. His face contorts, and he lets out a low whistle. “Woman, why do you always have to test me? Just once in your life can you do what you’re told? Just wear the outfit. You know you’re gonna look sexy as hell in it.”

  “That’s not the point,” I interrupt.

  Drizzle’s face darkens and he shakes his head. “Daphni, you promised this to me. Don’t embarrass me now.”

  “But—”

  Before I can get another word out, Drizzle’s large hand wraps around my neck. He pulls me toward him, forcing me to meet his eyes. His black pupils are dilated, making his normally blue irises a sinister, dark shade of navy. “But, nothing. Right?” He pins me with his stare, and I wince as his nails dig into my neck.

  I nod my head and a large smile replaces his malicious scowl. He releases his hold on my neck and places a hasty kiss on my forehead. “That’s my good girl. Hurry up, now.”

  He doesn’t say another word as he saunters out of the room. As the door slams shut, I feel my body melt against the chair. I give myself a minute to pull myself together before stripping out of my dress and changing into the outfit. It looks worse than I imagined. The fur-covered bikini top barely holds my breasts in, and the G-string is nothing more than a few pieces of fabric hastily tied together.

  Once dressed, I open the door to find Angelina, Melissa, and Roman waiting outside. Poking my head out the door, I gesture to Angelina. “I’m ready for makeup.” She lets out an annoyed sigh before kicking off the wall and joining me in the small room. She leaves the door open, and Melissa and Roman trail in after her.

  As Angelina readies her supplies on the small table, Melissa takes in my outfit, her eyes widening as she skims over me.

  “Daphni, are you sure—”

  “Yes, it’s fine,” I snap out, not allowing her a chance to finish. My nerves are frayed and I just want to get this stupid photo shoot over with. “Can you just get me some water, please?”

  She opens her mouth to reply before quickly snapping it shut and scurrying out the door.

  Roman takes a step toward me. He reaches out and skims his fingers alongside my neck. “Daphni, why is your neck red? It looks like a hand—” He doesn’t finish, but instead his steely blue-grey eyes flare with anger. “That bastard,” he mutters as he turns around, headed for the door.

  I grab his arm, pulling him back to face me. “Don’t you dare. It wasn’t anything. It was a misunderstanding.”

  “It’s not a misunderstanding when someone puts their hands around your neck,” he barks back.

  “Roman, if you leave this room right now, you’re fired.” I square my shoulders and pin him down with my eyes.

  He stops mid-step and turns to look at me. His eyes never leave my face, never trail down to look at me, practically naked and exposed. Instead he thrusts his hand through his thick hair in frustration. “I don’t get you, Daphni. What happened to you?”

  I turn away from him, ignoring his question. And as I catch my reflection in the small, discolored mirror hanging on the wall, I can’t help but ask the same question myself.

  9

  Daphni

  “Crouch down.”

  “Raise your hips a little.”

  “Tilt your head up more. Close your eyes. Arch your back.”

  I mindlessly follow each direction from Elijah, moving like a robot obeying its creator’s commands. Even though I’m aware of everything going on around me, I’m completely checked out. I’m watching myself from above, from another space and another time. I read about it once after realizing I do it a lot. They call it dissociative disorder. It’s when you step out of your own body and just passively watch the world continue on without you. It’s a skill I’ve come to brilliantly master.

  Finally, Elijah calls the shoot to an end. I walk back to my dressing room, still encased in this numb shell. I want a drink. I tell myself I don’t need it, but my hands are starting to shake and I’m feeling a mind-numbing headache start to take hold. Once we reach my dressing room, I hold off the small crowd I have following me and hold up my hand. “I don’t need seven people to help me undress. Give me ten minutes and I’ll be out.”

  I slip into the room, drop down on the small metal bench, and reach for my bag. I shake it until I find the water bottle, and with unsteady hands I open the bottle. I take a long, measured sip and wince as the vodka makes its way down my throat. I feel it the minute it sinks inside me and a weird, calming energy washes over me. I take a long breath before I take another long sip. Finally, after a few moments, I feel my body start to settle, and the tremor in my hands disappears. I continue to sit there, twirling the empty bottle in my hands as I stare at a water spot on the faded blue walls. After another few moments, I can feel my mind returning back to the shell of my body, regaining all the sensations I had previously numbed myself to.

  Someone knocks at the door, and I mindlessly shout for them to come in. I continue to stare intently at the same water spot, allowing it to take different shapes in my mind. First a horse, now a mermaid.

  “Daphni?”

  I whip my head around at the sound of Roman’s voice. “How did you get in?” I ask as I pull a towel off the chair to cover me.

  Roman gestures to the closed door behind him. “I just knocked and you told me to come in.”

  I look at him confused as I push out of the chair and throw the empty bottle into the trash.

  “Well, what do you want?”

  “I just wanted to check in on you,” he responds as he continues to watch me. “We need to leave soon for your lunch.”

  “Oh. Right,” I say as I clear my head. “I just need to change.”

  “Right.” He pauses and stares at me, concerned. “Do you need any help?”

  “No, it’s a bikini, Roman. I think I can manage,” I respond with an edge in my voice.

  “Great,” he snaps back. He pulls my phone out of my pocket and tosses it at me. “You left your phone back on the set.”

  I reach out to catch it, and the towel draped around me falls to the ground. And even though I was just wearing this a few moments ago, in front of a crowd of at least a dozen other people, here with Roman, I feel so exposed, so naked.

  Holding my phone in my hands, I finally look up at him. His eyes never leave my face, never rove down my half-naked body. I hate him for it. I hate that he chooses to look me in the eyes rather than stare at my tits, barely contained in the cheetah-print bikini. Because when Roman looks at me, I know he sees everything I try so desperately to hide away: all my vulnerabilities and fears. And I would rather stand naked in front of a room of a thousand people than be as
exposed as I feel now, with Roman’s eyes searching mine.

  We stand there, wrapped in silence, staring at each other for a long moment. When I see his mouth open, I force my eyes away and turn around.

  “I’ll be out in a minute,” I say as I reach for my dress. “You can wait for me outside.” My tone is dismissive and Roman gets the message loud and clear.

  I hear the door open and when I turn back around, I’m alone again. I throw the bikini into the trash and tug my dress and shoes back on. Thankfully Angelina was much more skilled at makeup than social interaction, and I decided to keep the gold smoky eye for my lunch date with Arabella. Knowing her, she would likely come with a full face of makeup anyway. My “lunch” is really more of a pre-arranged paparazzi rendezvous where they would get a few pictures, the restaurant would get free publicity, and I would get a free lunch. Win-win for all.

  I take one final look at the mirror before I head out. The reflection staring back at me is a stranger, someone I wish I could trap inside that ugly, dirty mirror. But I learned a long time ago that wishes don’t come true, so I grab my bag and head out the door.

  10

  Roman

  One week. Seven days. One hundred sixty-eight hours of following Daphni to the frozen yogurt shop, to the Pilates studio, to her agent’s house, to the club, to the Shell station where a trio of paparazzi lay waiting to capture the incredibly thrilling shot of Daphni pumping her gas. One week of Daphni plastering on smiles for her fans, for the media, for the mailman, while saving her most vicious scowls for me.

  During that week, I discovered that Daphni doesn’t like to lock her car door, that the security code on her alarm system was “1234,” and that, per her request, absolutely no guns would be allowed on the premises. The house was a sitting duck, and even though I swiftly corrected each flaw as it came, I was anxious to discover all the ones I’d missed.