“Is that my girl?” he asks. “Tell her I’m thinking about her.”
“Uh-huh.” I pull out my cell.
Mackenzie: Sorry I got so tipsy the other night. I hope I wasn’t over the line.
I should reply. Accept her apology. Tell her to fuck off.
But I don’t.
I check Skye’s text.
Skye: They just sent me a check for a thousand dollars.
My chest gets warm. Then my stomach, shoulders, arms.
It spreads all the way to my fingers and toes.
“She’s asking about my new ink isn’t she?” Holden teases.
Oliver whispers something to him.
He whispers back.
Forest: What are you doing with it?
Skye: I can’t even.
Forest: Congrats.
Skye: Are you sure you’re okay with this?
Forest: Are you kidding?
Skye: No.
Forest: Am I okay with you making five thousand dollars?
Skye: You’ll be half-naked on the Internet.
Forest: Are you having second thoughts?
Skye: No. I’m ready. As soon as we get the lingerie. They’re sending it express.
Forest: How fast is that?
Skye: Unclear. Is Holden serious about this engagement party thing?
“I will be there,” Oliver says. “But only because I want to see you make a fool of yourself.”
“Daisy coming with you?” Holden asks.
“Fuck off,” Oliver says.
Holden laughs. “Tell Skye I’m clearing my bed for her.”
I flip him off.
Forest: Unfortunately.
Skye: It is a good idea.
Forest: I guess.
Skye: I’ll be there. Holden will supply plenty of booze. How bad can it be?
Forest: Holden is capable of a lot.
Skye: When do you think the party will start?
Forest: Eight or so.
Skye: In two weeks, right?
Forest: Yeah.
Skye: I’ll have the lingerie by then.
Forest: You want to shoot the day of Holden’s party?
Skye: Why not?
Forest: Why?
Skye: If he’s busy with party setup, he won’t be able to bother us.
It’s not a terrible point.
Forest: I work until three.
Skye: That’s more than enough time. Three thirty at your place?
Forest: Sure. I’ll make you a key. Movies tonight?
Skye: Obviously.
Forest: What are we watching?
Skye: Is it my pick or yours?
It’s mine, but I’d rather watch something she loves.
Forest: Yours.
Skye: I know the perfect thing.
Forest: Lots of talking?
Skye: Of course.
Fuck, I can already see her eyes lighting up. Hear her laughing, gasping, sighing, crying.
I need to be on the couch with her.
Right now.
But first—
Forest: This is a great thing, Skye. I’m proud of you.
Skye: Thanks.
I’m also terrified of what it means.
It’s hard enough keeping my head straight when we’re dressed.
With her in lingerie?
Fuck, I’m not sure how I’m going to survive this.
Chapter Eighteen
Skye
For the third time, I adjust my bra strap. A little tighter. No, a little looser.
There.
That’s better.
I take a steady breath. Push out an even exhale.
Happy thoughts.
Relaxed thoughts.
Easy thoughts.
Yes, I’m wearing two scraps of black lace. Yes, I have to wear this sheer lingerie in front of Forest. Yes, I have to roll around Forest’s bed in—
No happy thoughts.
No relaxed thoughts.
No easy thoughts.
I. Can’t. Do. This.
It’s just… It’s impossible.
It’s not about my dress size. That’s only a part of it. Yes, I’m nervous about dropping my clothes in front of a guy who sleeps exclusively with tiny women.
Yes, I’m terrified to show this much skin, this much sexuality, to hundreds of thousands of people.
Yes, I…
I’m talking myself out of this.
But that isn’t an option. There’s a big, fat check sitting inside the black satin lingerie box.
It’s right there, wrapped in black tissue (they’re really into black), bearing my name, a lingerie promo memo, and four figures.
One. Thousand. Dollars.
With four more to come.
I can’t turn that down. It’s simply not in the realm of possibility.
My gaze shifts to the mirror.
So what if I have to shop in the plus-size section (mostly, elastic is an amazing thing)? If I’m soft? If my skin is bearing stretch marks and cellulite?
This is my body.
I refuse to let these “imperfections” bring me down.
My body is good to me. It’s strong—I can lift myself onto the pole. And flexible—I can nearly do the splits.
And capable of intense pleasure.
Even if, lately, that pleasure has been the results of solo activities.
It’s still important, that I can feel good. That I can experience the pleasure of a great song, a delicious cup of tea, a beautiful sunset, an, ahem, intense masturbation session.
I take a deep breath.
Repeat a calming mantra.
Five thousand dollars.
Five thousand dollars.
Five thousand dollars.
A few hours rolling around a bed with Forest and I make five thousand dollars.
They’re practically paying me to have sex.
They know what I look like. I edit my photos for composition and color-correction, but I never alter the shape of my body.
And I—
Well, Forest was right. I post lots of bikini pics.
This lingerie company wants me. There are a million fashion bloggers. Plenty of them are blonde size twos. Plenty of them fit perfectly into the “conventionally attractive” box.
They want me.
My soft stomach, my thick thighs, my large chest.
Okay. I can do this.
I can pose with Forest.
I can let my best friend see me in scraps of lace.
I can touch him without bursting into flames.
I can do this.