by Iris Blaire
Exposure
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Exposure
By
Iris Blaire
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2013 by Iris Blaire
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieving system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the author.
Cover Image Copyright © 2013 by chaoss/Shutterstock
Chapter One
Evan
Selling sex is like owning an ice cream truck. You make all your clients sticky and satiated, and they’ll remember to come back the next day when they’re hot and bothered and needing to be quenched.
Right now, I’m selling both. Sex and ice cream. Haagen-Dazs should give me a freaking commission.
Britain has me posing with my back pressed against a tree, a cone of vanilla ice cream tilted in my dainty fingers. Melted cream drips from my glossy lips and down my neck. I’m wearing only a pair of pink panties that say EPU written in university text, and some pink and white striped, knee-high socks.
The only thing I can use to cover my tits are my wrists, pressed tightly against my skin to give that perfect lift—in other words, to make my boobs look fake. Sticky, melted ice cream runs into my cleavage, dripping all of the way to my navel.
Britain tosses her blonde hair to the side and squats, getting a different angle. “Come on, Miss Rylan. Look more surprised. Like you don’t know what to do about the mess.”
She only calls me Rylan when I’m not giving her what she wants. I huff before popping out my ass a little more, getting the curve in my lower back just right, the curve I know makes all our subscribers go nuts. I shake out my sprayed hair a little and try to widen my naturally-innocent-looking eyes.
Britain sighs and lets the camera drop. “More, Rylan. Like someone just jizzed all over your face and you don’t know how you feel about it yet.”
I relax my posture, narrowing my eyes. “Thank you. For that.”
She shoots me an evil smirk before raising the camera again. Britain gets off on this shit.
Well, for one, she’s a total voyeur. And two, when she knows she’s nailed a hot shoot on the head, she has this excited energy about her. “Boys want sweet, innocent little Rylan. They want to peel those panties away and deflower you with their minds.”
It wasn’t always this way. My shoots used to be more “adulteress” and less “your friend’s bangable little sister” until last issue. Correction—the success of last issue. Britain thinks it has to do with my shoot—I had been the cover girl, after all. We’d gone a little fetishey with an oversized teddy bear and heart lollipop. My hair was in pigtails and the only thing I’d been wearing were these white Mary Janes.
Gag.
But our customers ate it up. And they are the only ones that matter.
So now I’m Rylan Willow—teeny bopper sweetheart of East Park Exposed. And I don’t think I’ll ever be able to shake that label.
“You’re lucky you’re my best friend,” I tell Britain, smearing more ice cream in between my breasts and twisting my face to faux shock. Oopsie.
“And you’re lucky I pay you,” she says, snapping away.
She’s right about that. Damn, do I get paid well. A couple hours of shoots a week is better than thirty hours at the coffee shop, which is what I was doing when first starting college. But pulling straight As in classes like molecular biology and immunobiotechnology isn’t exactly a cake walk. I need time. I need to eat.
East Park Exposed lets me do both of those things. All I have to do is look like a naked Bratz doll for a couple hours a week and boom. Groceries paid, tuition paid, rent paid. I’m a core model, meaning I have a spread in every issue. Part-time models aren’t contracted and come and go, but I’m promised a pay check for the magazine as long as I shoot every week. It’s one of the perks of being best friends with the founder.
“Alright,” Britain says, standing. “I think I got something halfway decent.”
I relax and head toward the house, but not before Britain yells, “Time to hit the showers!” and smacks my ass. She regrets that move as soon as I fling melted ice cream at her.
^^^^
Britain and I live in the house we do most of our shooting in. I split the rent with her and core-model-slash-other-bff Delilah Banks. Since it’s usually just us on a micro-shoot day, I don’t think twice about walking around the place topless.
Like now, for instance.
Which is why I’m not expecting to run face-first into a very hard, very broad chest.
“Oomph.”
Two large hands grip my shoulders and pry me away, and suddenly I’m staring into the eyes of a very amused, very gorgeous blonde. He glances down at his torso, melted vanilla ice cream running into the crevices of his six-pack. And then, of course, he looks at my chest, and the ample melted slush slathered all over my breasts.
Finally, his eyes meet mine, and with a glint of recognition, he says, “Rylan Willow, I presume.”
“Erm…” I tug away from him and cross my arms over my chest.
He points to his mouth, swiveling his finger in a circular motion. “You have something on your face.”
Keeping one arm pinned to my chest, I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth. “Who the fuck are you?” I say, because being brazen is always better than blushing.
Always.
“Wasn’t expecting you to have such a bite,” he muses with a coy smile.
“Oh, shit.” Britain halts at the edge of the kitchen, running her hand through her flawless blonde mane. “Ev—err—Rylan, this is Adam, our newest model addition.”
I try to keep my jaw off the floor. “Male model?”
Britain throws on a forced smile. “Adam, you mind waiting with Delilah in the shooting room?”
“Waiting with Delilah?” I ask, but Britain doesn’t respond until Adam winks at me and makes his way into the other room.
“What the hell’s going on, Brit?”
“I swear, I was totally going to tell you…”
“Male model?”
“Delilah and I… well…” She puts her camera down on the kitchen island and wrings her hands. “We were talking about expanding our audience. And bringing in couple male models would be a good opportunity to make EPE less of a wank show, you know?”
I don’t know why I feel so blindsided. I mean, it makes sense, but did she really have to keep a secret with Delilah from me? We’re like the three amigos of EPE. Britain always runs shit by us before she actually goes and executes it.
“So a solo shoot or….”
“Don’t be mad.”
“He’s shooting with Delilah?” Of course he’s shooting with Delilah, our residential sex goddess. Our viperess.
“They’re just—so gorgeous together, Evan.”
I glance about the room, making sure we’re alone. If this Adam guy is sticking around, he’s eventually going to hear my real name. Fabulous. No boy has ever heard my real name on set before. Not Rob, our layout genius, not the tec
h guy, not the stagecraft boys who help out to get their name in the mag credits.
No guys ever have the opportunity to connect Evan Cosette to Rylan Willow. And I’d like to keep it that way.
“Hey,” she throws her hands up. “If it doesn’t work, then it doesn’t work, and you don’t have to worry about it. Alright?”
“It’s just him?”
She takes a deep breath—the kind of breath where I know she’s about to spill something that I’m not going to want to hear. “We have a lot of good applicants. I’m thinking… I’m thinking we might hire another.”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever. Just keep me out of shoots with both of them, alright?”
A wicked smile creeps onto her face. “What, Evan? Afraid of some boy?”
“Yeah right.” I strut away from her. “I’d rather not have some boy stealing my spotlight. Or my fans.”
“Trust me,” she yells after me. “Your fans are all about that Rylan ass. They won’t be looking for men any day of the week.”
I don’t know if I should be offended or not, so I don’t respond. East Park Exposed is a trashy name with a pretty classy interior. Britain is pro at the boudoir shots, which is why the mag is looked at as being more edgy than softcore porn.
Edgy boudoir sells less than softcore, so I guess with these pink panties and sloppy vanilla ice cream, I’m going to be the one thrown under the bus to attract the freshmen with raging boners and cash from their parents.
Our house used to be for two tenants, until we decided to rent out both sides from the landlords, turning one side into a studio, the other into our home. Everything is separate—separate kitchens, bathrooms, bedrooms, even driveways. The only thing holding the whole house together is a single oak door by the studio’s living room that glues my two lives together.
Still in only my panties, I grab my purse from the couch, dig for my key, and open the door to home.
The smell of home is totally different. Less cheap hairspray and shellac makeup and more sugar cookie and lavender. The sound of my keys rattling against the kitchen counter echo through the empty space. I relax and glance toward the stove clock. I have an hour before bio lecture starts.
Damn night classes.
I dart up the stairs and into the bathroom I share with Britain—white and porcelain and always smelling faintly of lemon cleaner. We’re slightly neurotic. I turn on the shower, and as the water is heating up, glance at myself in the mirror.
Teased and sprayed chocolate curls. Makeup pancaked so thick you can’t even see my freckles any more. Nora, the hair and makeup girl, has perfected the way she does my eyes to make those babies pop. And then Britain does her job by photoshopping my slate irises a bright emerald green. Just another thing that separates Evan from Rylan.
After dealing with the total misery of peeling off my fake eyelashes, I step into the shower and allow the steam-carried-euphoria to take over me. Rylan melts away, with the help of the all natural berry soap and shampoo that Britain is totally into.
I dry myself off and wipe the steam from the mirror. I take out my contacts and shove my glasses on my face.
Little ugly Evan is back. Glorious freckles and all.
School garb is all the same. It’s ritualistic now—the way that no one recognizes me. Victoria’s Secret yoga pants, East Park sweatshirt, Reef flip-flops, messy bun, hiptser glasses. And most importantly, no makeup. I sling my schoolbag over my shoulder, grab a green juice I made earlier from the kitchen, and head out the door.
^^^^
I hate night classes with a passion. The only reason I always sign up for them is so I can lurk around a dark campus. I never stick around for any of that school spirit crap. No sororities or clubs or readings or galleries. I’m in and out of my lectures and labs, not giving anyone a chance to actually make the connection of where they’ve seen me before.
I slurp on my green juice at the back of the lecture hall. My netbook is out on the flip-desk and I’m scrolling through my notes from Monday’s lecture. This is the only way I can memorize—or even process all of the stuff thrown at me in the five classes and two labs I’m taking this semester. Reading and drilling and re-reading….
Someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn and it’s the guy next to me, the only thing separating us a vacant chair. “You mind? My pencil rolled under your chair,” he says.
I shift and bend forward, reaching beneath my seat. When I find his pencil, I raise my arm to give it to him and catch sight of his bag. His open bag. With the newest issue of East Park Exposed tucked right next to his laptop.
Oh, God.
And there is me in all my softcore glory, snuggled up next to that stuffed animal. The tips of my fingers go cold.
“Uhh… my pencil?”
I meet his eyes. The guy looks incredibly annoyed but that’s about it—nothing about his face tells me that he recognizes me at all.
I lean forward enough so that we can make the exchange. “Thanks,” he mutters. I sit up and breathe a sigh of relief.
Messy bun, baggy sweatshirt, a-la-naturale. I have to learn to trust myself and my own damn clever disguise. That’s the real trick.
I’m still waiting for it though—the moment where someone sees me from across the lecture hall and knows who I am. I’ve managed this shit for two years without being recognized. I can manage one more semester.
One more.
Professor Gates takes the stage, and no one out of the two hundred of us really goes quiet until he says, “I’ll be taking a seat today. We have a guest lecturer today. One of my brightest students, Dallas Whitley.”
One of his students? Must be a biology grad student. Everyone knows bio students are either med students or really boring nerds. And if this is one of Gates’ “brightest” students, I would bet my ass that the lecturer is a boring nerd.
And there is nothing worse than a two-hour-long boring nerd lecture from a grad student.
Even though I’ve already wasted gas getting here, now seems like the perfect opportunity to ditch. I have stats homework up the ass anyway.
As I stand to shuffle to the aisle, the grad student steps up to the podium.
I slowly lower my bag back down to the ground.
And sit.
I’ve never seen a human being like him. He’s tall and well-built (I can only imagine what he looks like under that pale blue button-up). Beneath a shag of wavy, chestnut hair, he has the most piercing, blinding blue eyes I’ve ever seen in my life.
A flutter of whispers spark up behind me. I crane my neck a bit to see a couple of girls hunched close together and gawking. Seems as though I’m not the only one noticing that a Greek god has just walked into the classroom.
He has just enough of a square jaw to keep him youthful without giving him a baby face. He shuffles his papers and pushes that careless mess of a hairdo to the side. He’s nervous. Freaking adorable.
“Hello…err…class. So today, I’m going to continue Professor Gates’ lecture on tumor suppressor genes.”
Fabulous—a topic I’ve already read ahead in. I close the top to my netbook. I can watch this gorgeous grad student stumble his way through a lecture without the hassle of needing to take notes. His voice is a smooth baritone—an easy one to get lost in.
I realize now my deep fascination with this eye and ear candy, and let out a silent sigh. This is as good as it gets, Evan. Soak it in while you can.
Snagging a boyfriend right now is a straight-up laughable thought. First there’s the fact that I don’t know if I could ever hide my double life from the boy that I’m with. And that conversation wouldn’t be the most pleasant thing in the world. Hey Babe, I just wanted to let you know that the reason why I don’t have any student debt isn’t because I have rich parents. It’s because most of the male population at East Park has seen my tits.
And secondly, there’s grad school. Getting into UC Berkeley is happening. Why bother starting a relationship here when I’m destined to go south?
&
nbsp; So I’ll just have to make do with Mr. Dallas Whitley here, finally getting the ball rolling and fluently making his way through Power Point slides. But I’m not taking notes on the slimy, monstrous looking photos of tumor developments flashing across the projector screen.
I’m undressing Dallas with my eyes, thank you very much.
Dallas
Tricia has tried to call me eight times in the past two hours. She probably wants to remind me to pick up milk on my way home.
Which is why I’m not expecting the first thing out of her mouth to be, “Oh. My. God. Dallas… Dallas!”
I slide into the seat of my beat-up Toyota. “What, Trish? What?”
“East Park Exposed. The photographer… she already got back on your headshot submission. She wants you to come in tomorrow.”
I pause in starting the ignition. Okay, good news. So why is my stomach twisting? Oh yeah, because I wasn’t the one who sent in my headshot.
Tricia was.
Yes, my girlfriend wants me to pose for East Park Exposed. The mag is so popular, she said. You’ll get your face out there. Your modeling career will take off.
She’s been pushing the modeling thing ever since I decided to go into field research instead of med school. It’s her way of making sure I’m still going to be paying some bills, since now I’ll be getting my PhD for a five-figure salary.
Like modeling will really cut me a nice paycheck. I guess she has faith in my body.
“That so?” I say. “So what is it? An audition?”
“I’m not too sure,” Tricia responds. “I think she just wants to see you. Maybe do a test shoot.”
“Which means I’ll be grinding up against mostly-naked girls… tomorrow. You know that, right?”
Her sigh is loud. “We already talked about this. I told you… work is work.” She scoffs. “You really think I’d be jealous of those sluts?”
