Pit Lane Persephone

Chapter 3: Lauren (Part 2 of 2)

"I'm going to need you to keep your bodies exactly as they are now. Just follow me with your heads as I move, all right? No smiles, but try not to look constipated, either," Tommy says.

The weird instructions bring me back to reality. Unsure of what type of expression the photographer is aiming for, I go with a 'hating life, shoot me now' pout. Tommy seems to love it, and he snaps away, covering multiple angles.

I'm technically only five-seven, but in heels, I'm now as tall as Seb. Our heads are level, so this pose with his arm around my neck is feeling less like the setup for a sexy ship than a sketchy stalker. Was 'chokehold chic' really the artistic vision this pap had for selling jeans?

"Perfect." Tommy lowers the camera and checks the display screen. Well, there's my answer. When he looks up, he waves a finger in the air in a circular motion. "Now I'd like for you, Lauren, to turn around and then, Seb, hold her in a close embrace."

We readjust, and I glance over my shoulder. "Where should I put my hands?" I ask, faced with the options of keeping them at my sides, wrapping them around Seb's waist, or doing something else entirely.

Tommy looks up from fiddling with his equipment. "Good question. How about placing them palm open against his chest?" he says, but before I can move, he speaks again. "On second thought, why don't you grab a bit of his shirtfront like you just want to rip the thing off him?"

I seriously can't with this guy, but I swallow any one of a dozen clap backs and dig my fingers into the freshly laundered-smelling fabric. My fingertips graze Seb's rock-hard chest through the thin material, and I guess it's a good thing I don't have a boyfriend right now because I'd feel guilty as hell with such a provocative pose even if it's just pretend.

"Yeah, that's great," Tommy says. "Now hold on just one sec because now my light's all messed up."

He steps away to get his assistants to adjust the fancy equipment, and Nicola runs over to give us a thumbs-up. "You two look amazing," she gushes, turning away as her cell phone rings.

Left completely alone in the arms of the strong-and-silent Italian—who must think I'm the worst thing to happen to his career since standard fuel specs were imposed—isn't totally weird at all. "This is so typical," I blurt out.

Seb wrinkles his thick brows. "What?"

"The guy holding the girl with her back to the camera setup," I explain as he continues to look at me blankly. "It's like the go-to pose for clothing ads in magazines. You know. Vogue? Cosmo?"

One side of his mouth draws upward. It's reminiscent of the smirk on his poster, but with a dash of warmth. Like if the conceit was replaced with compassion. "If you do not like it, why do you not say something?"

The question sounds like a challenge, but I'm not biting. Celia would have my ass if I made trouble on my first day. "Why bother? This guy's the best, right? They must want his ideas for some reason."

"If you're done with the chit-chat, can I have your attention here, please?" Tommy returns, along with a woman who brushes my hair and smoothes out Seb's collar. "Hold that pose, but both of you look at me," instructs the photographer after she runs out of the frame.

He takes a few pictures before lowering the camera again. "You've got a gorgeous face, sweetheart, but for these, I'd like for you to look away. And we're going to have to do something else with your hands." He nods to Seb.

I grit my teeth at his gross vibes, but turn toward the water. It's definitely more pleasant to look at than that condescending asshole. When he moves one of Seb's hands higher up my back and my teammate's fingers graze my spine, a chill runs through me. But as Tommy pushes the other hand far enough down to cup my butt cheek, my eyes pop wide open.