Iris Blaire - Dark Frame

I growl. “Just leave me alone!” I bury the vibrator and stomp back to the door, swinging it open to no one.

Just a note folded up on the ground on top of a pair of panties.

I look to my left and to my right, but the hallway is empty. I hear voices downstairs—everyone must already be changed and making their way to dinner. I stoop to pick up the note and slink back into my room, unfolding it.

The hand-writing is obviously a boy’s.

Here is the first apology:

There was that one time I snuck into your drawers and found your sexiest pair of panties and hung them on the fence.

I’m pretty sure you burned them that night in the fire pit by the pool.

So here are your replacements.

Don’t worry—they’re new. I bought them in town this morning.

And if I ever get to see you in them, I might just give you a clue as to why I enjoyed tormenting you every chance that I could.

What a narcissistic asshat.

At least he wasn’t lying about the underwear. They still have the Victoria’s Secret tag on them. They’re black lace and cheeky cut—actually pretty cute. And they’re my size.

“Damn him,” I mutter, closing the door.

I have two choices: ignore his cockiness, accept his apologies, and move on.

Or I can take Evan’s advice and play along—exactly what Jaime isn’t expecting out of sweet little Britain.

I gather myself and make my way toward the dining hall, holding my iPad in my hand. A.J. just emailed me, and he has a message that he wants me to convey to the other models. A message that is going to make Evan pissed.

Good thing she won’t be around tonight to hear it.

Surprisingly, after the smoking hot shoot that took up most of the day, the atmosphere in the dining room is very relaxed. The table is full tonight, the models congregating to one side and the staff from AA at the far end. I get the head seat, just like last night. While it’s kind of cool that everyone here expects me to be the boss, I’m also intimidated by the thought of running a show this big.

I won’t ever admit that to anyone, though.

I try to catch Jaime’s eye, but he and Adam are talking football scores dramatically, like they weren’t being sensual with each other earlier today.

Maybe I should shoot bi-curious orgies more often.

Picking my crystal glass off the table, I carefully clink my fork against it until I have everyone’s attention. Finally, the table falls into a hush right as the Veda staff begin serving the food.

“I have a message straight from Mr. Harrison that he wants me to read to all of you.”

Whispers break out across the table.

“ To the wonderful crew of East Park Exposed:

I am very thankful to have acquired such an excellent magazine, and an even more excellent team.”

“We are excellenter. The most excellentest,” I hear Patrick mutter. Ella giggles.

I shoot him an evil eye and continue. “I am incredibly impressed with the sample images that Miss McCulley has sent me thus far. I hope all of you will continue to be comfortable as I ask her to increase the heat even further during your remaining time in Boston.”

This part didn’t strike me before when I read it, but it does now. What does he mean by increase the heat? Wasn’t today’s shoot scorching enough for him?

A couple of the models have similar reactions. I hear a few gasps, along with a “damn.”

“ I am sending a surprise to Boston for all of you. I didn’t think that this would even be possible to attain, so I am delighted to announce…”

When I tell the models A.J.’s surprise, Delilah’s eyes bug out of her head. The rest of the girls squeal simultaneously, and Adam raises a fist into the air. “This is a testosterone victory for sure.”

Jessica scoffs. “Pulease. The girls are going to be the ones who get to climb all over—″

“But then the girls are going to be outshined by his greatness and be all butthurt.”

“Guys, guys! Settle down!” I cry, trying to get everyone’s attention back.

“Britain!” I turn to Delilah, whose expression is grave. “Does Evan know?”

I convey her the look, the one that tells her Evan doesn’t know, and that’s when Delilah says, “Oh fuck. Fuckity fuck.”

Evan

My ass is sore from sitting in one of those dreadful library chairs for five hours. My eyes are sticking to my eyelids. All I want to do is fall onto my lumpy twin-sized bed and shut my eyes.

But I don’t.

Instead, I order two hot chocolates from an on-campus coffee shop and make my way back to Perkins Hall. I don’t go to my room, but knock on the one across from my own.

Miles opens the door, looking just as delirious as I feel. He rubs at his eyes and grins. “I definitely was not expecting it to be you.”

“Who were you expecting?” I ask slyly. “Some sexy creative writer you met in your feminist theory class?”

He points a finger at me. “No, but only because I have yet to meet a sexy creative writer.”

“I’m sure biologists are more frumpy.”

“Guess again,” he says, opening the door wide enough for me to enter. I sit on his bed, handing him a hot chocolate. “Your room is as dull and empty as mine. That’s surprising.”

He shrugs. “After a while of dorm rooms, you don’t really care enough. Or have time to go and buy stuff…”

“And decorate,” I finish. “The curse of a grad student.” I take a sip of my soy hot chocolate. It’s perfect.

“So, what’s the occasion?” he asks. “Hot chocolate at ten at night—should I be looking forward to this from now on?”

“I’ve had a long day, and the studying has only begun,” I say. “So this is about as close as I can get to taking you up on that date.”

His eyes brighten. “Well then, if I can consider this a date, then I am one lucky guy.

I grin stupidly and cheers him, taking another gulp of hot chocolate.

“You know, we can always utilize the minimal space there is between us,” he tells me. “I have to finish an entire Faulkner novel by tomorrow, so I’m going to be up all night anyway. You want to study over here? I hear homework dates are the best.”

My stomach twists involuntarily. Yes, I know from experience that homework dates are the best. The wound of homework dates might be too fresh to return to. Been there, done that. Didn’t end too pleasantly.

But Miles looks so hopeful, so excited. Like I’ll break his heart if I say no.

“Okay, okay,” I say, giving in. “Let me go grab my books.”

“Sweet!” he says, grabbing his beat up novel from the windowsill.

As I head back to my room to grab my books, I get a text from Britain:

I don’t care if you have to pull an all-nighter to catch up with homework, but we’re having a party at the manor on Saturday. You’ve got to come, no excuses.

I text her back: Okay, but you owe me .

Britain: It will be worth it, trust me.

Studying with Miles actually helps me get caught up enough so I can go to Britain’s party on Saturday.

And when I say party, I use the term loosely.

I walk into the manor half-expecting the models to have met a billion Boston locals by now and for the house to be jam-packed, but the truth is, none of them have met a soul. I guess Britain wasn’t exaggerating when she said that all of them have been working to the bone.

The girl looks drained. “You’ve missed out on some of the best shoots.”