Iris Blaire - Dark Frame

His eyes sparkle. He scoots his foot—his bare foot—over until it brushes against mine. This is nice—this innocuous flirting. This getting-to-know-a-guy without him seeing me naked or dry-humping me first.

About fifteen minutes into our silent studying, there’s another knock on the door.

Miles looks at me and raises his hands into the air. “I didn’t send out party invitations, promise.”

I get up and creep to the door, cracking it open. My eyes look up, meeting fierce blue ones.

My heart stops.

Dallas’s hand is pressed to the doorframe, and he leans against it. I study him. I guess I didn’t realize earlier that he flew to Boston in his professional teaching attire, for some reason. His shirt matches his eyes, the top button popped to reveal just enough skin to make my mouth water. It’s a little wrinkled—I wonder if that was from my doing when he had me up against the wall. He even sports the slacks and dress shoes.

“Why are you dressed like that?”

His eyebrows furrow. I’m assuming that wasn’t the first question he was expecting out of my mouth. “I told my Costa Rica team I was heading to Boston on business. I wanted to dress the part.”

“Why are you here?” Now, that’s the question I know he was expecting.

“Because A.J. called me and asked nicely.”

“I mean, why are you here, at my room, right now? It’s one in the morning. How did you even get my dorm number?”

“Britain.”

“ Fucking Britain.”

The corners of his mouth perk up. His eyes haven’t left mine once, not even to glance down at my ratty sweats.

“Can I come in?” he asks.

I bite my lip. Time to get down to the nitty gritty. “I’m kind of busy,” I say, letting the door fall open. Dallas’s eyes immediately dart to Miles. I see the shift in them, even though he’s trying to keep cool.

Miles doesn’t blink. He grins and waves his hand. “Hi, there.”

“We’re studying,” I tell Dallas. “How about we talk in the hallway?”

I don’t wait for Dallas’s response. Instead, I slip out of the room and shut the door behind me, leaving Miles alone.

I cross my arms and lean against the wall. It’s my posture to stay closed-off to him, to let him know that coming to my dorm in the middle of the night doesn’t affect me one bit.

Not one bit.

“So you’re here just because A.J. called you and asked nicely?” I press sternly, my eyes locked on his. I’m trying to keep my concentration away from how beautiful they are, and how much I miss him.

He runs his fingers through his dark hair and leans against the opposite wall, right next to Miles’s dorm. “Not just because he asked nicely. Because he’s paying me—a lot. Just like you.”

My face falls. I wasn’t expecting that. “You’re here because he bribed you?”

“ You’re here because he bribed you.”

“Actually, I go to school here, Dallas.” Now I’m mad, and I can’t even place my finger on the reason why. I sigh, rubbing my eyes. “What do you want?”

“I—I just wanted to talk to you. To make things—okay between us.”

Things won’t be okay between us. It’s not even that we had a nasty breakup. But the most polite breakup in the world still stings like a bitch. Everyone knows that.

“They’re okay.”

“Promise?”

I shrug. “That doesn’t mean I want to shoot with you.”

His face grows somber. “I get that. But if it comes down to it—″

“It won’t.”

“But if it does, I’m not going to try and… I don’t know… seduce you or anything.”

“Oh, thanks, I was worried,” I say dryly, even though I can’t lie to myself. I’m a bit disappointed.

What the hell is wrong with you, Evan?

“I mean it. Everything on set is just working.”

I open my mouth to try and come up with some snappy, smart thing to say, but it just hangs open dumbly. I shut it and say, “Okay.”

He nods. “Cool, so I’ll see you tomorrow? And tell your boyfriend I’m sorry I interrupted you guys.”

I narrow my eyes. “Please, I’ve been here for two weeks. He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Whatever,” Dallas says. “I know how those studying situations work out with you, remember?”

He tries to play off his comment coolly, like he’s brushing off our whole relationship to try and prove to me he’s over me.

But Dallas is rarely a mystery to me, or so I’d like to think. And I’d also like to think that I can hear the note of dejection in his voice.

“Who was that?” asks Miles when I sit back down.

There’s no point in hiding it. “My ex,” I say with indifference.

“I see,” he says flatly. “What did he want?”

“He was stopping by to give me a work update.”

“You work with him?”

“I do.”

“And he couldn’t just call you?”

“What is this, twenty questions?”

Without looking up from Atwood, he raises his eyebrow. “It’s a game I’m really good at.”

I grin, stretching my foot forward to brush against his again.

I’ve never been uncomfortable in a photo shoot before.

Not even when the set is busy. Not even last semester when Dallas and I had our naughty school girl theme we had to stick to.

This feeling is entirely new to me.

Maybe that’s because I know he is standing right outside the bright lighting in the dark, leaning against the stone wall with his arms crossed, watching me.

Watching us.

That might be another reason for me being uncomfortable. Britain stuck me with two guys—Jaime and Adam, of all people—for this erotic dungeon shoot.

Oh yeah—we’re also in a dungeon. Talk about cold and creepy and so not sexy.

The dungeon is beneath the first floor next to a small theatre used for who-knows-what kind of performances. Neither are open during tourist season. They stay locked up, and for good reason. They’re creepy as fuck. Historians say that the Vedas hosted mass BDSM parties in the dungeon and theatre. There are straps and chains and boards and weird, terrifying-looking devices everywhere.

“I really hope all of this has been sanitized,” I mutter.

Behind me, Jaime chuckles.

The three of us are on a stone bench. I have an iron chain wrapped around me, erotically covering my most erogenous parts. Jaime’s sitting behind me and Adam in front. Jaime’s torso is pressed against my spine and my legs are wrapped around Adam, like we’re about to take part in a three-way.

In any other situation, I’d probably be able to have a good time with this—especially with guys like Adam and Jaime. We’d whisper some jokes back and forth to each other, snort and chuckle and piss Britain off a bit, and then have a great shoot.

But all models who don’t have other important obligations (which is pretty much just me) are required to sit and watch all of the other photo shoots, like they’ll learn from them or something. Dallas is already made up with fake cuts and bruises for his sexy bondage shoot with Ella, sitting against the wall of the dungeon with the other models.

Watching us.

“You look in pain, Rylan ,” Britain says as she takes a few test shots.

“I thought that was the whole point of the shoot.”

“You don’t look like you’re in sexy pain. You look like you’re in constipated pain.”

Adam busts up laughing right in my face and I smack him on the cheek.

“This is so stupid,” I mutter, trying to blow off my embarrassment. “Where the hell did Britain even get the idea for a shoot like this?”

I watch as Adam shoots Jaime a wicked look. Something happened—something they’re not telling me.