Kinda hard to do when your parents never asked for, nor did they ever want, forgiveness.
And how could I forget?
College starts in less than a week. If I don’t get the money, Columbia University won’t allow me in class with my besties. I can’t imagine not going to school with them. I’ll die.
Lex, Blake, and Vive know this, and offered to help. They all have buckets of money. Always have, always will.
I’ve got nothing but my pride. I can’t take a hand out. Instead, I took this job, and they came along. We do everything together.
If someone, anyone, maybe even you would’ve also told me that I’d turn to the mind numbing job of fashion modeling to make my tuition payments, jetting on a twin-turboprop aircraft from Miami to Martinique for Europe’s snootiest magazine, Claire La Femme with three of the hottest Frenchmen I’d ever met in my entire life, I would’ve puffed on a cigarette, still sipped that can of Redbull and said, “Get the hellaboo outta here!” I certainly would’ve thrown one of these hideous flip-flops at ‘ya too.
Modeling, sounds like fun, eh? That’s what they all say.
I loathe models, let alone me modeling. I’m no dummy.
Sweet brainy Jesus, this past June I graduated top of my class from Avon Porter. My name is Taddy Brill. Teachers hadn’t called me Taddy Brilliant for nothing. Wink!
I’m sure if I hadn’t spent six long months in juvie my junior year, taking the blame for my VBF’s mistake, I would’ve gotten a scholarship for college. Ha! That would so never happen now. Not with my name attached to my group of friends. In the eyes of the press, we’d been labeled tabloid girls, spoiled brats, and troubled teens. We’d heard it all.
None of it was true. Well…not entirely.
Notably, there’s only one thing I dislike more than these itty bitty planes, flip-flops, the Caribbean, and the world of fashion modeling.
Take a guess.
It’s the high-flatulent Frenchmen with their noses stuck up in the air, talking with thick accents sounding like some Grey Poupon commercial. I’m speaking about Gustave Le Cartier, Fabian Henri, and Leon Lartique who are seated inches away from us in 11A, 11B, and 11C.
Yes, the men whose ears I wanted to suck on, shoulders I imagined my legs wrapped around, while they drilled deep inside of me. Oh and that hair. Wavy. Dark. I so wanted to run my fingers through it.
My eyes rolled into the back of my head at the mere thought of it all.
If I leaned forward and to the right, I could get a whiff of Leon. Mmm. Green and citrus!
And when I turned my nose more to the left, the spicy smell of Gustave hit my senses. He made every follicle on my body, even the freshly waxed parts, stand on end.
Then there’s the heady flowery aroma of Fabian that I hadn’t been able to put my perfume-loving finger on yet, but I would. Maybe tuberose. Give me time, I’ll get to Fabian in a minute. He fascinates me.
Blake had teased the guys all week. Over dinner he’d said, “Excuse me fellas, do any of you have any Grey Poupon?”
In response, Vive had cackled. So loud it jarred sensitive Fabian into a flinch. Typically that’s what happened every time she started one of her long-ass laughs, which usually ended with a snort.
“Pardon moi?” Gustave just didn’t get our jokes.
Either that or he couldn’t fathom anyone poking fun at them. After all, they were each, in their own way, heat-inducing and utterly panty-melting. Perfection! Any sight of them made my nipples hard, almost as bad as Lex’s. She had some nipple distend problem but had refused to wear pasties over ‘em. I try really hard not to stare. But sometimes I do, and then I get the giggles. Then Vive will start in on her cackling, and Lex cries.
Note to self: don’t stare at Lex’s nipples when we get to Martinique.
Gustave is the boss and head photographer. From Yves Saint Laurent to Dior, he’s shot every important campaign out there. With a great eye for pictures, he’s the talent. He’s also major machismo and a conceited b-hole.
Oh…I imagine him sexually in that mind-fuckery way, where the couple hate-fucks one another like on TV. Not that I’ve ever hated, fucked, or hate-fucked anyone. But that’s the first thing that comes to mind when thinking about Gustave Le Cartier, hate-fucking.
Why does Gustave flood my mind with such perversion?
He ignores me, causing me to hate him. Since he knows I’m not his fan, he hates me back. Gustave treats me like I’m one of the props on his set. Regardless, I lust after him anyway. When I’d shown up to the Miami studio with my besties, I was in awe over how he took control of the crew, the room, everything. In charge, he thrived on power and was good at calling the shots.
“Separate your lips, Red. Don’t smile,” he’d instructed while snapping his camera. “That’s it, Red. Narrow your eyes. Make them sparkle.”
Gustave had given me the nickname “Red” after my hair, I guess. He’d called me that all week. At first, I was utterly insulted. Why not address me by my name? As the hours progressed into days and the days into a week, he kept ordering me around, posing my body into various positions saying, “Red, this,” and “Red, that.” It became powerfully erotic.
Red!
During a break, I’d said to Vive, “Sweet baby Gus, I would just love for him to take me from behind and let my body go where my mind is.”
“And where’s that, honey?” Vive had asked, eyeing him more fiercely than I did.
“On his darn dick,” I muttered in a low voice so he wouldn’t hear us. Not that he was paying me any attention. “It has to be monstrous.”
“No kidding, girlie. With an ego like his, how could it not?” Vive had spoken from her previous sex experience.
Until a few weeks ago, Vive was the only one out of the four of us who’d lost “it.” Then our BFF Lex joined the-ladies-who-love-to-love club. Now it was Blake’s butt and my vagina which were alone in the corner waiting for TLC-n-probing.
Second in command for Claire La Femme is Fabian. He’s all things creative. His voice makes my eardrums come buckets. No joke. He’ll say, “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Taddy.”
Every fiber of my body trembles when I hear him speak. Often my name rolls off Fabian’s long, wicked tongue as if it’s spelled with two b’s and not two d’s. He almost purrs when he talks to me. I swear, he does, like I’m some long-haired kitten. Well Fabian, you can pet me anytime ‘ya like. Meow!