This guy must have had a serious effect on her.

A small wrought-iron staircase leads up to the fourth floor. “How big is this place?” I ask, changing the subject.

Britain only shrugs as our feet clink against the wobbly metal. “Have no idea. Haven’t been up this far.”

“Great.”

“You’re such a pussy.”

“Shut up.”

Above us is a trap door. Have we reached the attic already? Britain pushes up and the door gives in with a loud groan.

“Wow, it’s dark up here.”

“Maybe we should go back,” I suggest.

“Not in your life. There’s a switch on the floor right next to my hand… here we go.”

Two seconds later, she says, “What the fuck?”

I’m pretty sure what the fuck is going to be the phrase of the week.

Britain steps up into the room, and I follow her.

It looks like we’ve stepped into a lounge from the twenties.

A lounge from the twenties with some serious kink attributes.

There’s a sleek bar, some cocktail tables, a stage, and a piano. There are also cages that line the walls, big enough for people.

“What the—″

“Fuck,” I finish.

Hanging from two steel beams at the center of the dance floor are long strands of crimson silk. They remind me of the support used in aerial yoga.

“This is… wow…” Britain removes the lens cap to the camera hanging around her neck and snaps a few photos. She looks through them. “We’ll need better light, but this is definitely where I’ll be shooting tomorrow.”

“What about me?” I ask, feeling nervous for a reason I can’t place my thumb on.

The glint in Britain’s eye is unsettling. “Ever climb silk before?”

* * *

After a good hour of attempting to climb the silk scarves in my underwear (and lots of rope burn), Britain finally lets me go for the night. I take the train back to Cambridge, shivering the entire way. I exhale deeply into my coat.

This cold is going to take some getting used to. And it’s still September.

In the hallway, I catch Miles wiggling his door handle and cursing.

“That’s what happens when you’re out late and you’re supposed to be studying Shakespeare or some shit,” I tell him. “Your room turns on you and makes you sleep out in the hallway for the night.”

“Hardy har,” he says when he sees that it’s me. “Maybe you should speak for yourself.”

“I was at my job,” I say as he struggles a bit more.

“And I was at a reading.”

“Oooh, a reading. Sounds important.”

He finally gives up on the door, his shoulders sagging. “Do you always give your new neighbors shit?”

I smirk, gripping his doorknob, twisting, and shoving the door forward. “Only when they can’t figure out how to work a lock.”

He sighs in relief. “Okay, okay. Tease me all you want. As long as you stick around your dorm often enough to help me when I’m too stupid to figure out how to get into my own room.”

I grin. “Don’t count on it.”

“Can you stick around enough for me to grow the balls to ask you out on a date?”

I laugh in surprise.

“Well?” He leans against the open door frame, his brown eyes caught on my own. “What do you say?”

I bite my lip. It’s not like Miles isn’t my type. Any guy that’s cute, can make me laugh, and is smart enough to get into Harvard definitely has my attention. “I just… I’m really busy.”

“I know this amazing Italian place in Boston. Has the best gnocchi you will ever taste in your life.”

“I’m also vegan. I’m busy and I’m vegan.”

He looks offended. “What is wrong with you?”

I laugh. “I’m sorry! I’m really not trying to blow you off. It’s just that I have a pretty demanding job and school is already overloading me. I have two exams in the next week.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Or you think I’m annoying.”

I keep a straight face. “That too.”

He dramatically grasps onto his door frame and swings into his room. “Goodnight, Evan.”

“Wait!” I shuffle with my keys and open my door, racing to the tin can on the windowsill that holds my pens. I grab a Sharpie and hurry back to Miles, taking his wrist and sloppily writing my number on it. “Call me Friday, and I’ll let you know if my schedule has cleared up.”

* * *

I have to get back into my modeling groove. I haven’t modeled for an issue in months. Normally, I try not to think about school when I’m working, even if I’m super behind on homework or have a test coming up.

Grad school—at Harvard—that’s a bit different.

The team from Amora arrived early this morning, and apparently haven’t taken a break (or a nap) since they got off the plane. They hustle around in their black clothes with their iPads, mapping out the entire house for possible shoot locations and bossing their tech and work team around.

I got to Veda Manor at seven this morning and was the third girl into hair and makeup. Everyone—even the models, act uptight and on crack. Maybe because if anyone steps out of line at all, Britain takes to barking at them. She’s already screamed at Adam and Jaime at least four times this morning.

When I’m done with my hair, Britain approaches me, a tall, dark, and incredibly handsome man following right behind her.

“Rylan, I’d like you to meet…” her eyes grow wide and she points to my lap. “What is that?”

I shift my legs awkwardly beneath the weight of my textbook. “Dude, I’m not an undergrad anymore. If I don’t keep up on my work—″

“I’m teasing you, chill.” She gestures to the man behind her. “This is Miguel, one of our models I hired after the last issue. I’ll have him shoot with you today, and if the images turn out, I’ll continue to pair you up.”

Miguel smiles at me, and I nod. “Hi.”

“He took some amazing photos with Delilah during his audition back in June.” She lowers her voice to a whisper and says, “But I think he has even more potential with you,” and winks at me.

“Cool,” I say. “Well, just so you know, Miguel, I like to improvise.”

“I can work with that,” he replies before Britain ushers him into hair and makeup.


The safest, most controlled space that I can find to work is one of the cages. I spread out my textbooks and binder around me as I take notes on the Danielli-Davson model and how I will be incorporating it into my research project. I’m dressed only in a robe and lingerie and can feel the eyes of others as they pass. I try my damnedest to tune them out and work furiously until the chandelier extinguishes and the set lights are turned on. It’s almost go-time.

Britain ushers me over and introduces me to a woman named Melissa and a man named Dwain. Apparently these two are A.J.’s primary assistants and will be closely keeping tabs on the shoots.

I can tell from Britain’s face that this isn’t what she wants—to be directed. I can also predict that she’ll be giving them lip the second either of them open their mouths to give her instruction.

Luckily, I’m allowed to wear a pair of black leather driving gloves for the shoot. I nearly shredded my hands last night when I practiced climbing. As I put on the gloves, Melissa studies me and says, “She should be naked.”

Britain sneers. “Topless.”

“It won’t be edgy enough.”

Britain’s eyes roll to the ceiling as she tries to keep her patience. I know it isn’t working. I want to laugh so badly. She looks at me and says, “Take your top off and climb the damn scarves.”

I do as she says, feeling everyone’s eyes on my tits. It’s the same every shoot. You’d think that the shock of boobs would get old after a while for erotic magazine workers, but it doesn’t. Not even for Britain, because Britain is totally a voyeur, even if she won’t admit it.

I took an aerial yoga class a few years ago when initially trying to get in shape to start modeling. It was a lot of fun until I no longer had time for the bi-weekly, hour-long session.

“Quiet on set,” Britain yells as I place my hands on the scarfs.

“This is going to look less spooky and more circusy,” I say.

“Wait!” one of the makeup artists yells. He runs forward and hands me a sequined masquerade mask.

“Yes!” Britain says. “Perfect. Put that on.”

I do so. The mask might be a good idea. I know every model is in the room right now, sitting on the edges of the cages. The mask will help me focus.

I begin to climb.

I’m so thankful that Britain fought to make this a topless shoot. My legs are slipping all over the place climbing these scarves, and this moment would be extremely X-rated if I didn’t have panties on. Finally, I find my place, wrap my arms in the scarves, and hold myself up long enough for Britain to take a few shots.

“I need a boy—hurry!”

The first one to come running is Jaime, and Britain rolls her eyes. “Hold her up, please, while we get the scarves wrapped around her legs.”

By the look on Britain’s face, I half-expect Jaime to hold me up by my ass, but he doesn’t. With very gentle hands, he pushes against my lower back and my right thigh, keeping me airborne as Delilah pushes over a ladder and climbs it.

“You know, we have a team to help you with the technical stuff,” Dwain says dryly.

“Yeah, but my models know what I want,” Britain snaps back, and this time, I can’t hold in my laughter. We exchange glances and she grins.

Delilah, who took the aerial yoga class with me, wraps the scarfs at the perfect angle around my thighs. With each leg in a separate scarf, I hold myself up like I’m on a swing, wrapping my wrists in the crimson, silky fabric.

“Perfect. Hold it. Open your mouth a bit. There we go.”

I unravel my wrists and lean backward until I’m upside-down. If it weren’t for the terror in the back of my mind that I could fall any moment, I’d feel like I was underwater. Weightless, without a care in the world.

“Careful,” Britain says. “Miguel, get beneath her. Hold her hands and kiss her.

Miguel walks into the light and stops right below me. I’m about seven feet off the ground, the perfect height for him to reach up and take both of my hands. He doesn’t look nervous at all.


“I might fall,” I whisper.

He shakes his head. Good God, this boy has amazing bedroom eyes. “I won’t let you fall,” he says.

I relax my legs enough to release the tension of the scarves, and Miguel holds me up. He cranes his neck as I drop down, and our lips meet.

A purely physical surge of lust rushes through me as his tongue teases my lips. He’s a good kisser, that’s for sure. After a few seconds of bliss, I lose my balance and become untangled from the scarfs. I cry out, but Miguel is paying attention. He catches me awkwardly, lowering me to the ground.

“Awesome shots,” Britain says. “I think we have enough good ones to wrap this up and move to the next set.”

“Really?” Dwain says. I watch as Britain’s back stiffens. “That was all great and everything—real cute—but this is a Halloween issue.”

“And your point?” Britain asks through gritted teeth.

“My point is this shoot needs to be darker. Maybe he should strangle her with the scarf.”

Her eyes nearly pop out of her head. Hell, my eyes nearly pop out of my head. As if on instinct, Miguel gently touches my neck.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Britain cries. “Even if we did go the BDSM route, I would be more subtle about it than having my models strangle each other. I don’t care if they’re naked, I don’t care if it is a Halloween-themed issue. I am still making art.” Britain doesn’t even give Dwain a second to argue. “Okay, people. Onto the next shoot before I lose my cool. Let’s see how many naked models we can fit into a cage. I hope you all love each other very much.”

When Britain has her back turned, Dwain and Melissa shoot each other dark looks. While Dwain types furiously on his iPad, Melissa walks out of the room with her phone to her ear.

I don’t think they like Britain’s attitude—not at all. And I have a feeling they’ll be butting heads for the next two weeks.

Miguel pulls me from my string of thought. “You think we got a good shot?” he says, brushing my arm with his knuckle.

I nod. “I think we got several.”

He smiles at me. Holy shit, the boy has dimples. “We’ll work good together,” he says.

“I think we will too.” If Britain keeps me with Miguel and our shoots get hotter, maybe he’ll help me keep my mind off my ex, but not so much to make me lose focus on school.