I almost turn at that. He’s marrying her on Christmas? Live during a show? My gut tells me this was the label’s idea.
I see the restaurant catty-corner from us and almost cry with relief.
“Almost there,” I whisper to Damon, jerking my head toward The Edge’s maroon awning.
“Kendra!” the paparazzo shouts. “Is there any truth to Hector Viega’s claims you were unprofessional during the Bodies shoot two years ago?! His new book mentions you specifically!”
If Damon hadn’t been holding my arm, I would’ve fallen flat on my face. With legs trembling and a sob fighting to break free, he practically carries me the last ten feet into the restaurant, blowing past the host’s station. The reporter continues his barrage of questions from the sidewalk.
“Are you OK?” Damon asks once we’re out of range of the reporter’s camera. “Who’s Hector Viega?”
I can’t answer. My lips are quivering, my eyes are watering, and I’m on the cusp of breaking down. Hector Viega. Hector Viega talked aboutme. Hector Viega said thatIwas unprofessional. He wrote it in abook.
I’m shaking violently now, tears streaming down my face. Damon takes quick action and hustles me into the women’s bathroom, locking it behind us.
“Kendra,” he says soothingly, rubbing my arms like he did on the train, “tell me what’s wrong. You’re scaring me.”
I’m scaringmyself. It’s been over two years since that horrible day. The day that still haunts me when I close my eyes. Thatturned my body against me to the point of needing therapy. I never said anything, not even to people I considered my friends. And now, two years later, Hector tells everyoneI’mthe problem?
Rage burns through the terror, and my body slowly stops trembling. Damon’s still here, still rubbing my arms, grounding me when it would be so easy to spin out. I lean into him, trying to match my breaths with his.In, then out. In, then out. My heart stops racing, and I unclench my fists to grab hold of Damon, squeezing him tightly.
I can tell him what happened. He won’t judge me. He won’t think I’m a freak. Part of him must already know. I could just…let go.
“Hector Viega is a photographer,” I begin, my mouth still muffled in the fabric of his shirt. I look up into his warm eyes and feel my strength return.
“He works for all the biggest magazines, and two years ago, I was picked for one of his shoots in Crete.”
Damon listens silently.In, then out. In, then out.
“It was a swimsuit edition, and it was a really big deal because it was their first year attempting body diversity. When my agent told me about it, I jumped at the chance.”
I swallow my suddenly dry throat.
“By the second day of shooting, though, I knew something was off. As a model, you often aren’t wearing much, even more so for a swimsuit edition. Experienced photographers do whatthey can to minimize the awkwardness, limiting touching and ensuring there are always other women on set.
“With the other models,” I croak.Ugh! Why is this still so hard?
“He was the picture of professionalism with them,” I mutter angrily, “but with me, he was always touching me more than necessary. Letting his hand linger on my thigh or my shoulder. Standing way too close as he arranged my body into sexually suggestive positions.”
“I’m no rookie,” I quickly add, feeling defensive even now. “I’ve been around long enough to know what poses flatter my body, and most photographers let me do my thing with minimal direction. Viega, though, treated me like it was my first day, taking twice as many pictures as photographers usually need and even suggesting I work with him after hours to practice poses.” I snort thinking about his smarmy pickup line. “I, of course, refused.”
Damon’s hands still on my shoulders, but he doesn’t remove them. His body is stone, rigid with fury. I force myself to continue.
“The second to last day of shooting wraps, and I’m exhausted. He’s been riding me relentlessly throughout ten-hour days. All I wanted was to pack my shit and then crash.”
My throat feels tight, and I blink back fresh tears.
“Only when I got back to my trailer…he was waiting for me. He grabbed my wrist hard enough to bruise. Rubbed himself against me. Forced his tongue down my throat.”
My stomach churns at the memory.
“His hand was halfway down my pants when the PA walked in with the next day’s call sheet. If she hadn’t…” I gulp.
Damon pulls me roughly into his arms, surrounding me in solid muscle. His embrace yanks me out of the nightmare, and I wipe my face, trying to compose myself.
“Like the scumbag he was, he promised to ruin me if I ever told anyone. Said no one would believe such a respected photographer would force themselves on a model. Not when so many offer themselves up hoping to snag a prime cover spot.”
I scoff bitterly.
