Exposure

1

Evan

Selling sex is like owning an ice cream truck. If you make all your clients sticky and satiated, they’ll remember to come back the next day when they’re hot and bothered.

Right now, I’m selling both. Sex, and ice cream. Haagen-Dazs should give me a freaking commission.

Britain has me posing with my back pressed against a tree, a cone of vanilla ice cream tilted in my fingers. Melted cream drips from my glossy lips and down my neck. I’m wearing only a pair of pink panties that say EPU written in university text, and striped knee-high socks.

The only thing I can use to cover my tits are my wrists. They’re pressed tightly against my skin to give that perfect lift so my boobs look fake. Sticky, melted ice cream runs into my cleavage, dripping all the way to my navel.

Britain tosses her blonde hair to the side and squats for a different angle. Come on, Miss Rylan. Look more surprised. Like you don’t know what to do about the mess.

She only calls me Rylan when I’m not giving her what she wants. I huff before popping out my ass a little more, getting the curve in my lower back just right. I know this pose makes all our subscribers go nuts. I shake out my sprayed hair and try to widen my naturally innocent-looking eyes.

Britain sighs and lets the camera drop. More, Rylan. Like someone just came all over your face and you don’t know how you feel about it.

Gross.

I relax my posture, narrowing my eyes. Thank you. For that.

She smirks evilly before raising the camera again. Britain gets off on stuff like this. For one, she’s a total voyeur. And two, she knows when she’s nailed a hot shoot. I can tell this one is hot by the excited energy about her. Boys want sweet, innocent little Rylan. They want to peel those panties away and deflower you with their minds.

You don’t have to remind me. Again, I say with exasperation.

It wasn’t always this way. My shoots used to be more adulteress and less your friend’s bangable little sister until last issue. Correction—until the success of last issue. Britain thinks the high sales were due to my shoot. I had been the cover girl, after all. We went a little fetishy with an oversized teddy bear and heart lollipop. My hair was in pigtails and the only thing I wore were white Mary Janes.

Gag. I miss being an adulteress.

But our customers ate it up. And they are the only ones who matter.

So now I’m Rylan Willow: teeny bopper sweetheart of East Park Exposed. And I don’t think I’ll ever be able to shake that label.

You’re lucky you’re my best friend, I tell Britain, smearing more ice cream in between my breasts and twisting my face to faux shock. Oopsie.

And you’re lucky I pay you, she says, snapping away.

She’s right about that. Damn, do I get paid well. A couple hours a week modeling for Britain is better than thirty hours at the coffee shop, which is where I worked when I first started college. But pulling straight As in classes like Molecular Biology and Immunobiotechnology isn’t exactly a cake walk. I need time. I need to eat.

East Park Exposed gives me both of those things. All I have to do is look like a naked Bratz doll for a few hours and boom. Groceries paid, tuition paid, rent paid. I’m a core model, meaning I have a spread in every issue. Part-time models are contracted, but I’m promised a paycheck from the magazine as long as I model every week. It’s one of the perks of being best friends with the founder.

Alright, Britain says, standing. I think I got something halfway decent.

I relax and head toward the house, but not before Britain yells, Time to hit the showers! and smacks my ass. She regrets that decision as soon as I fling melted ice cream at her.

Britain and I live in the house where we do most of the shooting. I split the rent with her and core-model-slash-other-BFF Delilah Banks. Since it’s usually just us on a micro-shoot day, I don’t think twice about walking around the place topless.

Like now, for instance.

Which is why I’m not expecting to run face-first into a very hard, very broad chest.

"Oomph."

Two large hands grip my shoulders and pry me away, and suddenly I’m staring into the eyes of a very amused, very gorgeous blonde. He glances down at his torso, melted vanilla ice cream running into the crevices of his six-pack abs. And then, of course, he looks at my chest and the ample melted slush slathered all over my breasts.

Finally, his eyes meet mine, and with a glint of recognition he says, Rylan Willow, I presume.

I tug away from him and cross my arms over my chest.

He points to his mouth, swiveling his finger in a circular motion. You have something on your face.

Keeping one arm pinned to my chest, I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth. "Who the fuck are you?" I say.

Being brazen is always better than blushing. Always.

Wasn’t expecting you to have such a bite, he muses with a coy smile.

Ah, shit. Britain halts at the edge of the kitchen and runs her hand through her blond hair. Ev—err—Rylan, this is Adam, our newest addition.

I try to keep my jaw off the floor. "A male model?"

Britain gives a forced smile. Adam, you mind waiting with Delilah in the shooting room?

"Waiting with Delilah?" I say, but Britain doesn’t respond until Adam winks at me and leaves us alone.

What the hell’s going on, Brit?

I swear, I was totally going to tell you.

"Male model?"

Delilah and I, well. . . She places her camera on the kitchen island and wrings her hands. We were talking about expanding our audience. Bringing in a couple of male models would be a good opportunity to make EPE less of a wank show, you know?

I don’t know why I feel so blindsided. I mean, it makes sense, but did she and Delilah really have to keep a secret from me? Britain always runs ideas by both of us before she executes on them.

So, a male solo shoot?

Britain shakes her head. Don’t be mad.

"He’s shooting with Delilah?"

"They’re so gorgeous together, Evan."

I glance about the room, making sure we’re alone. If this Adam guy is sticking around, he’s going to eventually hear my real name. Great. No man employed by EPE knows my real name. Not Rob, our layout genius, not the tech guy, nor the stagecraft boys who help out for the magazine credit.

No men have had the opportunity to connect Evan Cosette to Rylan Willow. I’d like to keep it that way.

But I’m not ashamed of the work. Society wants me to be self-conscious because society wants all women to be self-conscious. I’m proud of my body. And if erotic modeling weren’t such a stigma to the rest of the world, maybe I wouldn’t even have a stage name.

But as of now, it is a stigma. So I keep my two lives separate.

Hey! Britain throws her hands up. If it doesn’t work, then it doesn’t work, and you don’t have to worry about it. Alright?

"It’s just him?"

She takes a deep breath and I know she’s about to spill something that I’m not going to want to hear. We have a lot of good applicants. I’m thinking we might hire another.

I roll my eyes. Whatever. Just keep me out of the shoots with them, alright?

A wicked smile creeps across her face. What, Evan? Afraid of some boy?

Yeah, right. I strut away from her. "I’d rather not have some boy stealing my spotlight. Or my fans."

Trust me, she yells. Your fans are all about Rylan. They won’t be wanting male accessories any day of the week.

I don’t know if I should be offended or not, so I don’t respond. East Park Exposed is a trashy name with a classy interior. Britain is a pro with boudoir shots, which is why the mag is seen as more edgy than softcore.

Since edgy boudoir sells less than softcore, I guess that—with these pink panties and sloppy vanilla ice cream—I’m going to be the one thrown under the bus to attract freshmen with raging boners.

Our house used to be for two tenants until we decided to rent out both sides from the landlords, turning one side into a studio and the other into our home. There are two of everything—kitchens, bathrooms, bedrooms, and even driveways. A single oak door by the studio’s living room glues my two lives together.

Still wearing only my panties, I grab my purse from the couch, dig for my key, and open the door to the other side.

The smell of home is totally different from the smell of the studio. Less cheap hairspray and shellac makeup and more sugar cookie and lavender. The sound of my keys rattling against the kitchen counter echo through the empty space. I relax and glance toward the stove clock. I have an hour before bio lecture starts.

I dart upstairs and into the bathroom I share with Britain. It’s white, clean, and always smelling faintly of lemon cleaner. We’re slightly neurotic with our tidiness. I turn on the shower and, as the water is heating up, glance at myself in the mirror.

Teased and sprayed chocolate curls. Makeup pancaked so thick you can’t even see my freckles. Nora, the hair and makeup girl, has perfected the way she transforms my eyes to make them pop. Then Britain does her job by photo-editing my brown irises a bright emerald green. Just another thing that separates Evan from Rylan.

After peeling off my fake eyelashes, I step into the shower. Rylan melts away with the help of the berry soap and shampoo Britain is totally into.

I dry myself off and wipe the steam from the mirror. I take out my contacts and shove my glasses on my face.

Evan is back, glorious freckles and all.

My school garb is basically a uniform: yoga pants, an East Park sweatshirt, flip-flops, a messy bun, hipster glasses, and no makeup. I sling my school bag over my shoulder, grab a green juice from the fridge, and head out the door.

I hate night classes with a passion. The only reason I sign up for them is so I can lurk around a dark campus. I never stick around for any school spirit crap. No sororities, clubs, readings, or galleries—though I do make an exception for the occasional scientist visit. I’m in and out of my lectures and labs, not giving anyone a chance to make the connection of where they’ve seen me before.

I slurp on my green juice at the back of the lecture hall. My laptop is out on the flip-desk and I’m scrolling through my notes from Monday’s lecture. It’s the only way I can process all the material from the five classes and two labs I’m taking this semester. Reading and drilling and re-reading.

Someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn and it’s the guy next to me, the only thing separating us a vacant chair. You mind? My pencil rolled under your seat, he says.

I shift and bend forward, reaching beneath my chair. When I find his pencil, I raise my arm to give it to him and catch sight of his phone screen.

Oh, God.

There I am in all my softcore glory, snuggled up next to that stuffed animal. The tips of my fingers go cold.

Uh, my pencil?

I meet his eyes. The guy looks incredibly annoyed, but that’s about it. Nothing about his face tells me that he recognizes me at all.

I lean forward enough so that we can make the exchange. Thanks, he mutters. I sit up and breathe a sigh of relief.

Messy bun, baggy sweatshirt, glasses. I have to trust my own clever disguise.

But I’m still waiting for the moment where someone sees me from across the lecture hall and knows who I am. I’ve managed hiding in plain sight for two years without being recognized. I can manage one more semester.

One more.

Professor Gates takes the stage. The murmuring doesn’t die down until he says, I’ll be taking a seat today. We have a guest lecturer. One of my brightest students, Dallas Whitley.

One of his students? Must be a biology grad student. Everyone knows bio students are either med students