Одри Карлан - January (Calendar Girl #1)

With everything that I am,

~Mia

Then I kissed the letter right next to my name leaving a set of fat pink lips. One last kiss for Wes.

***

The next couple of days were a nightmare of appointments my Aunt Millie scheduled for me prior to meeting hot artist guy, Alec Dubois. The hair and nail appointments were pleasant, if not boring as hell. I dig pretty things as much as the next girl, but spending four fucking hours getting your hair done, and another two for your feet and nails is ridiculous. After that, Millie had me with the aesthetician.

An aesthetician is another name for torture mistress. They start with a relaxing facial where they fill your senses with these beautiful scents, calming music, and a facial massage. Then they bust out the bright spotlight. Your choices at that point are close your eyes or lose a retina. The eye closing is designed to help you when they bring forth the excavator, I mean the “extractor.” Otherwise known as a pimple popping, blackhead digging shovel that removes every pore on your face of the nasty gunk your daily makeup leaves behind. It’s serious business, but I will say, my face never looked better. Bright, flawless skin that felt like a baby’s ass. It was so smooth to the touch.

Then my day turned to complete and utter shit. I had to get waxed. Everywhere. The artist had very specific requirements. If I was going to drop my clothes, and he was going to drop an additional twenty -five thousand, I needed to be hairless everywhere but my head. The peach fuzz on my arms was okayed thankfully. My nether regions, not so much. If you’ve never had the pleasure of getting a Brazilian wax, consider yourself lucky. First, your assailant, I mean aesthetician, covers every inch of your lady bits with hot wax barely this side of scalding. Once that cools and hardens into a hard surface, the skin is held down while they proceed to rip a layer of skin and every single hair out leaving your bits hairless, smooth and looking less like a woman and more like a little girl.

It’s demoralizing, and I can’t imagine why women would willingly go through this if they weren’t getting paid the big bucks. At least I know I’m getting a payout at the end of my suffering. What’s their excuse?

***

My phone beeped from my back pocket. I’d received a text. People were still getting settled before take-off, so I could check the message and maybe even have time for a reply.

From: Wes Channing

To: Mia Saunders

Got your letter. Sorry I didn’t contact sooner. I thought it would be better if I gave it time. Want to wish you safe travels. There’s something in your bag in the front pocket. I’ll call you soon. Remember me.

I smiled and pulled the pack from under the seat in front of me. Inside the front pocket was a small black box about three inches wide by an inch tall. Once I opened it, the item inside made me smile so wide I thought my cheeks might burst. Inside the box was a brass key dangling from a small yellow and pink surfboard. It was the key I used while I lived with Wes. My key. Only this time, the keychain had a small addition. A sparkly red heart dangled alongside the surfboard.

A note sat jammed at the bottom of the box. I opened it.

Mia,

You forgot your key. It opens a lot more than a door. One day I hope you’ll use it.

~Wes

With purpose, I pulled out my keys to Suzi and my apartment and attached the surfboard and key to Wes’s house. His intention couldn’t be any clearer. If I wanted to come back to him, I would need to be ready to give him my heart because I already had his.

Mia’s journey is continued in Calendar Girl: February. Keep reading for an excerpt.

Excerpt from February: Calendar Girl (Book 2)

The twisted and rusted iron gates clanged loudly together as the driver pulled them down, locking them in place. He hadn’t uttered a word other than, “You Mia?” when I came down the escalator at Portland International Airport baggage claim. I figured it was safe to follow him since he had a sign with my full name on it and Aunt Millie told me to expect a giant lumberjack of a man to drive me to my next client. The giant part was no joke and it wasn’t his height. Guy stood only a couple inches taller than me but what he made up for in length he made up for in width. Reminded me of a pro wrestler or one of those beefy body builders.

Once the elevator made it to floor ten it came to a screeching, grinding halt, jolting me into Paul Bunion’s baby brother. He was a solid wall, didn’t even flinch when I bumped into him, just grunted like an animal. The giant doors opened and Bunion pulled open the gates and ushered me into what seemed to be an open warehouse. The rafters and piping were visible and no less than fifty feet above the concrete floor. People were milling around everywhere, half of them naked.

What the fuck did I get myself into?

Cameras were clicking, lighting units were being moved around on wheeled carts as I stood in the entryway attempting to take it all in. Bunion set my bag off to a side wall and pointed to a man crouched down, a camera glued to his face. “Mr. Dubois,” he grumbled then abruptly turned around and entered the elevator we just exited leaving me to fend for myself.

“Man of few words,” I let a slow breath leave my too full lungs. I didn’t know what to do. Should I sit off to the side and wait for someone to approach me, hopefully not the naked men and women scattered around, or should I bug the guy busily taking pictures of something I couldn’t quite see.

Instead of waiting I decided to take a better stock of my surroundings and walked around. The room was an open loft, but not a home. Rickety windows lined the walls on the right, some opened from the bottom out, others closed tight. Looked like it took a crank to open them, which I found incredible cool and retro. Naked and half naked women passed by me, sizing me up as they moved in front of giant white canvases. They weren’t really modeling they were just standing next to them, loosely holding a pose attendants were perfecting with subtle shifts of an elbow here, moving a foot there. Then the attendant would back up and take a single photo and start over again. Tiny movements again, then another picture. It was downright weird.

I moved over to another area where there was a couple, naked laying on a huge white canvas. Had to be at least ten by ten feet in size. Then an attendant again, all wearing black, which was incredibly clichéd, climbed up a small ladder that had a platform directly over their bodies. Then he methodically poured what looked to be bright blue paint over every inch of their bodies.

“Don’t move!” he screamed. “We’ll have to start all over and Mr. Dubois won’t be pleased,” he said tightly. The couple stayed in a naked clinch. The female models hands were wrapped around the males head as if she were about to kiss him. His arms were around her, one on her ass holding a leg over his hip, the other cupping the back of her head.

Paint dripped down their legs and fell into globs on the canvas. “Still,” the man warned. I was so fascinated by the inner workings of the odd scene in front of me I didn’t hear a person walk up behind me until my hair was swept off my neck.

“Perfection,” I heard whispered against my ear before a soft kiss hit the bare skin of where my shoulder and neck meet.

I shuffled back, not realizing where I was going, just trying to get away from the stranger touching me when I bumped into something behind me. Before I could turn, my boot caught the edge of the canvas and I went toppling into the platform which held the irritated guy with the paint. Then, utter chaos ensued. The man holding the bucket whet tumbling forward, blue sticky paint flew out of the can into a fan of color before splashing down to the canvas and tarp protecting the concrete.