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“Well, Allie certainly can’t say I don’t give her the best assignments.” She peruses us through her dark-framed glasses with eyes that seem emptily blue. “I’m Kirsty. Allie’s boss. I’ve come to check in on progress. This article is our cover feature, so it’s hugely important.” Allie’s still at the door, holding it open for a man who lugs in two black bags and a camera tripod under his arm. “And, of course, we need some pictures of you all in action.”
“I didn’t sign up for photos,” Russell says.
Kirsty waves her hand like she’s swatting away a blowfly. “It’s in the contract, darling.”
Russell closes his eyes slowly and inhales a breath through flared nostrils. I didn’t know there was a photo clause either, but then again, understanding contracts isn’t my thing and I was more interested in getting paid for a week's vacation and anything else didn’t really register.
“I think there’s a way that whoever doesn’t want to be in direct shots could be made comfortable,” Oliver says, as though he has a say in this. The guy has an inherent sense of his own importance that is annoying, but I’m envious of.
“Yes,” Kirsty says, deflating a little. “Of course. You can keep your baseball cap on and we can shoot you from behind. It’s just so readers get a sense of the men we’re featuring. A little mystery could add a lot to the allure.” The last part is her rescuing herself from backtracking. Allie’s mouth twitches.
Point one for Oliver. Russel’s relieved, but I wonder how many of us can request the same concession.
Allie hovers behind Kirsty with a level of deference that doesn’t suit her at all. This is her show, and she’s sitting back and letting someone else come in and direct it. There’s nothing worse than managers like this. They delegate, but only until the project is interesting enough for them to want to get involved again. Like, they leave the baking to someone else, and then want to come in to do the icing and flourishes.
Allie deserves to make the wholefrickin’ cake. She’s going over and above on this project, although I don’t think she’s going to be transparent about just how far she is going.
“Jonathan,” Kirsty calls, not bothering to look around to see where the cameraman actually is in the room. “Take a look around and let me know where you think the best shots can be achieved. I want to maximize the glamor and luxury so that people associate that with the magazine.
Jonathan doesn’t respond, but he begins exploring the place like a burglar on the hunt for jewels. Allie takes a few steps in his direction, but with one wave of Kirsty’s hand, is stopped in her tracks. “Don’t bother him. I want you to talk me through where you’re up to, and what your plans are for the next few days.”
Oliver stands, shoving his hands into his pockets, and Allie looks between him and Kirsty, waiting, although I’m not sure what for. There’s a strange thick atmosphere that must puzzle the others in the group because Theron raises his eyebrows at Gabe, who shrugs, and Carson tips his head in Clay’s direction, and he shrugs too. Then, as if it was all a weird blip in time, Allie heads to the stairs and Kirsty breezes after her.
Jonathan is quick to establish where he’s going to shoot first, deciding the pool and the seating area are suitably luxuriousto meet Kirsty’s brief. Some of the guys disappear upstairs to tidy their appearances. Russell makes himself coffee and fries up a load of eggs, bacon, sausage and toast which he places on a huge platter, inviting everyone to help themselves. I dig in and try to make small talk with him, but it’s tough. He’s a one-word response kind of man who seems wound so tightly it’s impossible to get him to relax. I’ve known guys like him before. Guys who carry invisible wounds from their time in service. Guys who don’t want to open up to anyone about their experiences. I’m thankful that I’ve been open to my family’s support and allowed them to steer me for help when I’ve needed it. I just hope that Russell will be able to do the same at some point. Before we leave, I’ll talk to him and try to make him see the benefit in being open.
Before Jonathan can begin taking photographs, he calls Kirsty to make sure she’s happy. The boss appears, with a flushed but showered Allie trailing behind, clutching ten purple penises in her arms, and moves the photographer's tripod a total of three inches to the left. She then gives everyone instructions about how to pose while looking natural. I don’t get the concept of fake natural posing. Why not just get us to have a good time and snap away?
It’s awkward to see Allie grimacing behind Kirsty, as though everything she was hoping to achieve through this piece of work is being trampled by her boss’s stiletto heels. It’s worse to see how the photography process makes everyone stiffen and become competitive in a way they weren’t before. Oliver somehow seems to avoid getting into almost every shot by taking a call, and then needing to use the bathroom. Kirsty doesn’t seem to notice and by the time he’s back, Jonathan is packing away his equipment and Kirsty is blathering on to Allie about ensuring she gets a first draft over to her before leaving the beach house.
I stay close because Allie seems wound up to the point of breaking. “And I’ve booked for you all to go to a club tonight,” Kirsty says. She waves her hand around her like she’s trying to fan away an unpleasant odor. This place is beautiful, but you’re the only woman here. You need to see these men out with women they’re attracted to, where they will really be in their element. A limousine will collect you all at 9 pm and will wait to bring you back. Dress to impress. Take some candid shots. We might be able to use them to make the article appear fresh and edgy.”
Allie doesn’t say anything in response, just drifts behind Kirsty as she strides in the direction of the exit.
By the time Kirsty has left in a cloud of overpriced perfume, and Jonathan has taken his strange, intense self out the door, I’m exhausted, and Allie looks wrung out.
She’s the one to close the door, sealing us back into our sanctuary and the relief amongst the group is palpable.
“I don’t like that woman,” Russell says. “I don’t like her one little bit.”
“I don’t think anyone does.” I rub my jaw, then shift my neck from side to side, loosening the muscles.
“She’s okay.” Allie’s hands are gripped tightly together in front of her and her shoulders are practically around her ears. Lying to protect someone so obviously shallow and unpleasant just shows how loyal Allie is.
Loyal and tense.
“What do you need from us right now?” I ask. “Your boss is really putting the pressure on. Do you need to ask us more questions? We can sit here while you work out what you need? We can relax by the pool and share in a more natural way…or…” I trail off, not knowing how to let her know that there’s another option. I could massage away all that stress, or the three of us could fill her mind and body with other more pleasurable things than what she’s buried under right now.
Whatever she needs is what I want to give her.
Whatever will bring back the sparkle to her eyes and the brightness to her smile.
I want to help her remember the goddess she is.
Allie tips her head to the ceiling and purses her lips around an exhalation that goes on too long. I glance at Gabe and Clay. We haven’t had a chance to talk, but they know their number in the lineup. They know what happened last night. We don’t have twin telepathy, but I’m hoping they’ll get the hint I’m trying to convey through my intense stare and my raised brows.
Allie glances around at all of us, waiting expectantly, and her eyes are suddenly glassy. Shit, she’s going to cry. There’s no way she’ll want to break in front of all of us because once she shows that vulnerability, she’ll be on a different footing. All control and professionalism will be out of the window. Thankfully, I’ve stayed close to her side and in two strides, I pull her into my arms and rush to the stairs, praying I’ve done the right thing. She gasps with surprise but then buries her face into my chest, bringing her hand up to cover her eyes. The hitch of her chest against mine breaks my heart. Fucking hell. If I could get her stupid boss in a room, I’d tear her a new one.
Hushed, hurried conversation follows us, and two sets of footsteps thud against the wooden floor. I glance back to find Clay and Gabe, with matching worried expressions, following us to the upstairs level. My door is the closest, so that’s where I take Allie, who’s still shaking but has managed to get the crying under control. When I sit on the bed with her still in my arms, she doesn't look at me.
