46. Weston

The shoot is set up for later in the afternoon. When I walk onto the set, though, I do a double-take.

Because Renee is here.

An instant, dopey grin spreads across my face. She’s wearing a blue sundress and her hair is long and free down her back. The sun slanting through the sky makes her skin glow. There are people swirling about on all sides, but fuck, all I can think of doing is throwing her on the ground and ravishing her in front of all of them.

One little speed bump in that plan: she is wearing a glare so deep I don’t know that she’s ever going to be able to wipe it away.

What’s the story there?

“People!” A petite little redhead with a camera sung around her neck claps her hands to draw everyone’s attention. “Thank you all for coming to support my vision. The idea for this shoot came to me in a dream and it’s my privilege to midwife it into reality.”

Oh, God. This must be the niece.

I want to roll my eyes. Or vomit. Maybe both. She’s talking about shooting a car commercial like she’s Martin fucking Scorsese.

I might be in for a miserable afternoon.

I watch Renee scowling as Forrestor’s niece waxes poetic about capturing truth on film and the value of aesthetics in a garish, hyper-commercialized modern world. When she finally finishes, she holds for applause. The cast and crew clap tepidly. Renee keeps her arms firmly crossed over her chest.

I’m about to go over and ask her why she’s here and what happened before my arrival to make her so sour. But before I can take even a step in that direction, the redhead materializes in front of me like a ghoul.

I have to bite back a curse as she gives me the most aggressive fuck me eyes I’ve ever seen in my life. “The beefcake is here,” she purrs. “How wonderful!” She looks me up and down and licks her lips. I feel instantly dirty.

“Weston.” I hold out a hand.

She takes it, but laces her fingers through mine instead of shaking like a normal person. Tucking my arm against her elbow, she guides me over to where the main area of the shoot is set up.

“I know who you are,” she informs me as we approach the backdrop with the glistening silver coupe parked in front of an array of cameras. “I’m a huge fan.”

“Oh. Uh, thanks.”

She drops my hand and turns to survey me again. “Now, if you could please go ahead and take your shirt off.”

I frown. “Pardon?”

“Your shirt. Off.” She gestures at me with one pink manicured nail.

In the corner of my eye, I see Renee glaring daggers at this presumptuous little thing, who still hasn’t actually told me her name.

“How is having my shirt off going to sell the car?”

She narrows her eyes and snarls, “Just take your damn shirt off and go stand over there.” She jabs that nail toward the hood of the car. “Or I’ll be sure to tell my uncle how cooperative you’re being.”

My frown turns into bared, gritted teeth. “Are you threatening me?”

“I’m just telling you what’s going to happen if things don’t go according to plan,” she says in a smarmy, fake-sweet voice that makes my blood boil. “I’m asking oh-so nicely for you to help make my dreams into reality and I’d love it oh-so much if you’d be a doll and play your part. I’m doing this for you, you know.”

Like all insane narcissists, she really believes the bullshit she’s spewing. Luckily, I’m saved from having to answer when a member of her team comes and grabs her to discuss a technical detail.

While she’s occupied, Renee stomps over. “You look miserable,” she tells me.

“That’s funny. I was actually going to say the same about you.”

“I’m not miserable; I’m pissed. Michelle and Danni sent me to see if I could grab any B-roll footage or behind-the-scenes stuff, but that little imp told me she’d bar me from set if I even took my camera out of my bag. I want to squash her like a bug.”

“Join the fucking club,” I mutter. “I’ll help.”

Renee’s scowl quirks into an amused grin, just for a moment. She opens her mouth to say something else, but before she can, we hear an unwelcome screech from a few yards away.

“You!” The Forrestor niece points at Renee. “Stay in the back. Out of the way.”

Sighing, Renee turns to look at me. “Looks like the squashing will have to wait. I’m sorry about this, Weston. If I’d known it would be this way…”

“It’s okay,” I reassure her. “None of us had a real choice.”

A horde of makeup artists descend on me. I’m poked and prodded and dabbed and daubed, and they somehow peel my shirt off in the midst of it all. Then lights click on, blinding me; fans start whirring, suffocating me; and cameras start snapping like cicadas.

The whole time, the five-foot-nothing redhead dictator is shrieking orders.

“Seduce the camera, Weston!”

“Make love to it! To me!”

“Come around the front of the car and lean over the hood, look back at me over your shoulder.”

This is a fucking joke. But the whole time, I hear Hud’s advice in my head. Use it as fuel. God have mercy on our next opponent. I’m going to smash them into oblivion.

The redhead tells me I’m halfway through her pose list and is readjusting the lights for the next set when I glance over and see something in the background.

Renee, obviously, whom I haven’t taken my eyes off of.

But there’s someone else with her.

He’s tall and handsome, with a camera slung gracefully around his neck and an easy confidence in his pose. And judging by the goo-goo eyes he’s making at Renee, his intentions aren’t exactly cordial.

I thought my blood was boiling before. But now, it’s the temperature of the sun. I’m standing here like a fucking show pony, getting led around this way and that by this nepotistic little brat, while some photographer’s assistant chats up my girl?

I don’t fucking think so.

And when he writes something on his clipboard, tears off the corner, and hands it to her, I’ve had enough. “Woah.” I hold up a hand and everything grinds to a halt. “Everybody out.”

The redhead’s jaw drops. “We’re in the middle of a shoot.”

“I don’t give a flying fuck. I said, Out.”

“You can’t clear us out! This is my set!”

With a snarl, I turn, snatch up the nearest light fixture, and snap the whole goddamn thing in half across my knee. I drop the broken pieces to the ground and stare the presumptuous bitch in the eye as I say with as much fire and brimstone as I can muster, “I just told you to get out. I won’t say it again.”

Silence. You could cut it with a knife.

Then, one by one, they all leave. The makeup artists, the assistants, the people actually operating the cameras—all of them troop to the exits and disappear. Even the assistant who just tried to swoop my woman scurries his way out of my sight.

The Forrestor girl is the last to go. She’s a quivering ball of rage. “My uncle will hear about this!” she hisses. “Every last detail.”

“Tell him,” I encourage her. “Or I’ll do it myself.”

Then, with a huff, she spins on her heel and disappears.

That leaves just Renee and me and this admittedly gorgeous vehicle still gleaming behind me. Renee’s jaw is wide open, like she can’t believe the Viking display I just put on.

But I’m not worried about that. I’m worried about one thing and one thing only.

Making sure she knows she’s mine.