Iris Blaire - Dark Frame

Laina waits for him by security. God, this blows.

“You still doing the launch?” he asks.

I nod, and he frowns.

“I don’t know what happened, Dallas,” I say. My voice is shaking and I wish it wouldn’t. “I really thought we had each other figured out, but I guess we don’t.”

He doesn’t argue. Instead, he nods, and I feel the knife of regret slowly rip through my insides.

He reaches out and cups my chin with his hands. His eye brim with concern and sadness, like he’s taking his time. I wish he wouldn’t. For the sake of my sanity, this moment needs to end as soon as possible. “We moved too fast, didn’t we?”

My nod is barely a shiver. “Yeah. Yeah, I think we did.” Granted, it was hard not to.

“You think we should take a break,” he says. It isn’t a question—I feel like he’s been reading my mind since I walked into this airport.

I take a deep breath when my eyes begin to water. I can’t let him see me cry right now. If I cry, then he’ll feel horrible and we’ll kiss and not break up. The cycle will repeat itself. But it will be worse this time, because we won’t be together.

“I think—″ I wait, taking the time to conjure the perfect words. “I think that you’re amazingly brilliant, and sexy as hell.”

The corners of his mouth perk up.

“And what we had was fun. But that’s all—fun. I don’t know if it’s strong enough to hold us together while we’re apart.”

His eyes begin to water, and all I know is that he better not fucking cry right now. I won’t be able to keep control of myself.

“I wish we had more time,” he says.

As if on cue, Laina calls Dallas’s name and points to her watch.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter quickly.

He leans down and softly kisses the top of my head, and my eyes flutter shut, savoring him. I know I shouldn’t be. I should be tossing him over my shoulder like every other hook-up and move on with Harvard and modeling and my life.

But there’s something about Dallas Whitley that I’ll never be able to shake.

He squeezes my hand and turns away. I force myself to not buy into the sentimental bullshit of watching him go through security until the second that I can’t see him anymore. Instead, I quickly turn on my heel and hurry out of the airport like the place is on fire, diving into my car parked in short-term. I collapse into a puddle of tears.

I keep trying to tell myself that this is typical break-up crying. That I’d sob over any boyfriend, because that’s what emotions do, right?

But deep inside, something nags at me, screaming that this is a horrible mistake. Dallas understood me on a deeper level than anyone—even Britain. He got what it was like to be both an erotic model and a bio major. A difficult degree and a job taboo as all hell. He was willing to joke about it, to tear guys apart who threw offhanded comments at me, and to understand my crazy before an exam and help me study through it.

Maybe we shouldn’t have immediately jumped into becoming lovers. But we weren’t just lovers.

He could have been on the way to becoming my best friend too.

I curl up into a ball in my seat and allow myself to cry for a few more minutes, and then I start my car and drive home.

The second I walk inside, Britain knows. She doesn’t say anything. Instead, she moves from the computer to the couch, pats the seat next to her, and asks, “Wanna talk about it?”

I wipe my eyes. “Not really.”

“Wanna scoop out some coconut milk ice cream and watch a couple of horribly corny chick flicks?”

I nod, and she prepares the ice cream as I change into my pjs. I toss a couple of blankets on the living room floor and get situated as Britain flicks through options on Netflix. When we finally decide on a rom-com that looks achingly bad, Delilah comes home, throws her keys and purse on the couch, darts up the stairs, and shrieks, “Wait for me!”

She returns in a satin pink camisole and matching pants—something I’d catch a second-grader wearing—and plops in the middle of us with a heaping bowl of popcorn. I feel a million times better already.

If a bad movie and a couple of girlfriends can make me forget about Dallas, even for an evening, then maybe I made the right decision.

Maybe I really wasn’t in love.

Britain

Audition day is weird as balls.

First of all, it’s uncomfortable. My team walks around, performing their tasks stiffly and manically. I’m almost positive it’s because of the Amora Acquisitions rep. This time, a man named Dwain watches over us. Dwain isn’t the kind of guy you think of when fun and sexy media comes to mind. Dwain reminds me of a geometry substitute teacher. He’s gangly, balding, and wears a heinously patterned short-sleeved button-up shirt tucked into a pair of over-sized Dockers. He’s also always writing on his iPad. The fact that he so obviously doesn’t fit into a room filled with half-naked women and men is, humorously enough, setting everyone on edge.

Apparently, Dwain isn’t the only Amora Acquisitions rep attending the audition. There are five more coming at noon. This is what’s setting me on edge, considering I can hardly handle Dwain. But the one good thing about Dwain is that, even with the timid substitute teacher look, he’s not afraid of barking out orders to my workers.

I’ve never felt more organized before an audition in my life. There’s an entire waiting room set up right where the front door is. Potential models sign up with one of my writers, grab a number, and then wait until they’re called. All of my models who are helping with the shots today have been through hair and makeup, and we still have two hours to spare.

Evan is a train wreck. She doesn’t simply look like a train wreck—her head isn’t screwed on straight either. After all models are done in the dressing room, Evan practically stumbles into the studio in her bathrobe, her hair a rat’s nest. Her eyes are bloodshot, her nose permanently Rudolph-red. She looks… well… almost monstrous. The other models, including Delilah, begin whispering rapidly to each other. I snap my fingers and glare at Delilah when she looks at me, and she sulks in the corner like a punished puppy.

Ugh. Girls.

“We don’t need you today,” I tell Evan. It escapes my mouth more harshly than I mean it to, and I know I’ve given those gossiping girls fuel for their fire.

She stares at me blankly and scratches her head. “What do you mean?”

I groan, grabbing her arm and pulling her back into the house. When I shut the door, I look her straight in the eye and say, “Be honest—how intimate was your audition shoot with Dallas?”

When I say his name, she flinches. “What are you talking about?”

“You know, the shoot on the pool chair that was his audition for EPE.” When she flinches again, I continue. “See? You really think I want to damage you more by making you do that again with a guy that isn’t… him ? No. So you’re sitting this one out.”

Her eyes grow fiery. “I don’t need you to be my emotional babysitter. I can handle myself.”

“Obviously, you can’t.” Her face twists until she looks like she’s about to cry, so I add, “I’m doing this because A. I’m your best friend, B. I have enough sample models, and C. you’ve already done enough for EPE. Hell, you’re coming back for the launch shoot even though you specifically stated that you want nothing to do with this shit when you’re at Harvard. So take a break, will you? Christ .” I point toward the kitchen island. “Eat your damn nasty vegan protein drink, take a shower, read a book, and I’ll let you know how it goes.”

I turn on my heel and hurry back into the studio, shutting the door and locking it behind me for effect. Two more of A.J. Harrison’s cronies have arrived, and they’re both dressed in black and holding cameras. Immediately, my defenses go up. As they stand by the door and fiddle with their equipment, I march up to Dwain.