Trashed (Stripped 2)

We finish the shoot and Ludo hovers as his assistants pack his gear. He glances at me, and even winks once when he thinks no one is looking. I change back into my own clothes quickly, and then grab Rochelle and pull her aside.

“Ludovic, he—”

“I know. He does that with all the models. He’s a nasty old horn dog, that’s all.” Rochelle’s phone trills and she pulls it from her purse, glances at it.

“Can he make trouble for me for refusing to go along with his offer?”

She shrugs. “Trouble? No, not unless you make a scene or do something stupid like outright insult him. Just avoid him and don’t worry about it.” She eyes me over the top of her phone. “He does have a lot of influence, though. He knows people. He can get you places…if he likes you. Just saying.”

“Rochelle! I’m not going to—”

“And I’m not suggesting you do,” she interrupts. “I’m merely informing you of the facts. Your job is to be a model. You’ve done that. What you do on your own time is your business.”

I shudder and wipe at my neck where his nasty mouth touched me. “He said something about a beach shoot.” I shake myself and grab my purse. “Do you know anything about that?”

“I don’t know, let me find out.” Rochelle types a text message, her fingers moving so lightning fast it seems impossible. I hear her phone buzz in her hands a few seconds later and she reads the message, then looks at me. “He did indeed book you for a beach shoot next week. A very exclusive group, from what Sid is telling me.”

“I don’t want to—”

Rochelle’s eyes flick to me, hard as stone. “Refuse his advances, avoid his groping hands, whatever. I don’t care. But you don’t deny work. Not when it’s Ludovic Perretti.” She lowers the phone, indicating how serious she is. “He’s a nasty old horny dirtbag and he’ll try to fuck you if you’ll let him, but he’s the best damn photographer in the business.”

“Okay, Rochelle. Okay. I get it.”

She softens. “Good. Now go home. Tomorrow we find you a bikini.”

My stomach twists into a knot and rises into my esophagus. A bikini? Hell to the fuck no.

But I don’t have a choice, it seems. Not if I want to stay in New York and continue to get modeling work. Which is what I want, right?

I head home, grabbing a sandwich from a bodega on the way to the subway. It’s not enough, but if I’m trying on bikinis tomorrow, I’d better go easy on the calorie intake. None of my roommates are home when I get there, so I take the opportunity to call Ruthie on the landline.

“Des, hey. How are you?”

I groan and flop into the beanbag on the floor beside the phone. “Tired. Hungry. And feeling violated.”

“Violated? What happened?”

“The photographer at today’s shoot, he propositioned me. Said he could further my career. For a price, obviously, and the price was very explicitly implied.” I shudder, feeling his hands and lips all over again. “God, he’s so nasty. And worse, he’s basically forced me into working a beach shoot with him next week.”

“A beach shoot? Won’t that be fun, though?”

I snort. “Yeah, when was the last time you saw me in a bikini?”

“Oh.”

“Exactly. Oh.”

“How can he force you?”

I sigh. “Because he’s ‘the best photographer in the business’.” I lower my voice to make the phrase into mockery. “You don’t turn down work. You just don’t.”

“Will he try something again?”

“Without a doubt.”

“So what are you going to do?” Ruth asks, a blender whirring in the background.

“Do the shoot and try not to let everyone see that I’m going to feel like a fucking whale wearing a stupid bikini.”

“God, Des. Are you sure you’re happy there?”

“No.”

“I thought modeling was supposed to be…I don’t know, good for your self-esteem?”

“I thought so, too. Only it’s not. It’s the opposite, if anything. Everyone else I work with is skinnier than me. More tan than me. Higher, tighter boobs than me. Better facial structure than me. Better at posing than me. More willing to suck off the photographers than me. And the unspoken but very real pressure to keep my weight down really does a fucking number on my psyche. No one’s outright said in so many words ‘Des, you have to lose five pounds.’ Not yet, at least. What they do is measure me and weigh me and second-guess my food choices and cluck and tut when I have to wiggle myself into jeans so tight I feel like a stuffed motherfucking sausage. I just want some goddamned cheesecake, Ruthie! I’m in New York City and I haven’t had one single piece of cheesecake. It’s ridiculous. You know what I’ve eaten today? Limp, warm caesar salad, a small one at that, and a pre-made turkey and swiss sandwich. You know what I had yesterday? A handful of veggie sticks and half a bagel, no cream cheese.”

“My god, Des. That’s criminal.”

“That’s modeling.”

“Well fuck modeling.”

“I can’t quit now, Ruth. I’ve barely gotten my feet wet.”

“You’re miserable.”

I don’t know what to say. I hate it here, most days. It’s loud, hectic, high-pressure, intense. And that’s just New York. I’m hungry. I’ve been hungry since the day I landed at LaGuardia. I miss Ruth. I miss Detroit, as crazy as it sounds. I miss Mackinac Island.

I miss Adam.

Ruth is silent, and I know her so well I can tell she’s got something to say but isn’t sure how to start. “Just say it, Ruth.”

I can hear her take a long sip of whatever she made in the blender, a piña colada or something delicious I’m sure. “There’s no way to ease into this, so I’ll just say it. Adam showed up at school.”

“He—what? Adam? At Wayne State?”

“He was looking for you.”

My head spins, and if I wasn’t already sitting down, I’d have fallen down. “Holy shit. What did he—what did you tell him?”

“The truth. That you’re modeling in New York, that I don’t have an address or phone number for you.” She’s quiet again, and I wait for her. “He gave me his contact info to give to you.”

“He did?”