Exposed to You
Exposed to You
Andra Lake
Text copyright © 2013 Andra Lake
www.andralake.com
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution
of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or
reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the
case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and
places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales,
organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
“Have you found a
job?”
I cringed, holding my
cell away before I could utter something I would regret. I’d been on the phone
with my mother for less than a minute and she was already asking the question
I’d been dreading.
“Working on it,” I
told her, staring at the open webpages in front of me, remnants of my hopeless
search.
I had just graduated
from NYU with the most useless degree imaginable—a Bachelor of Fine Arts in
sketching and drawing—and was facing the reality of my decision. I had to move
out of my apartment in student residence by the end of the week, and I hadn’t
found a new place to live, let alone a job to pay for it.
“New York is
expensive,” Mom continued. “I hope you have a plan.”
My fingers closed
tightly around my phone. Her meaning wasn’t lost on me; the plan had always
been for me to enter law school after completing my BFA, and now that I wasn’t,
my parents were cutting me off. They were hoping I’d crash and burn and come
running back to them saying how right they were and pleading with them to send
me. I was their only child and they had all their eggs in one basket.
Then she began the
guilt trip. “Your father and I are very worried about you, darling. You’re all
alone in such a big city and have no way to support yourself. I really wish
you’d reconsider—”
I cut her off before
she could continue, saying that my roommate Sam needed me. “It’s an emergency.
She… burnt something. Sorry, Mom—gotta go!”
I hit END and let my
head fall into my hands. All my life I’d done whatever my parents wanted me to
do and strived to be the perfect daughter they wanted me to be. They’d raised me
to be well-mannered, modest, ambitious and concerned about financial security.
But it wasn’t me. When I’d finally decided to forge my own path and pursue my
love of the arts, I’d felt free for the first time in my life, like I could be
whomever I wanted and do whatever made me happy.
Now it looked like my
decision was threatening to blow up in my face.
Sighing miserably, I
scrolled through the search results again. Retail, restaurant industry, retail,
telemarketing. I was about to close the page and give up for the night when I
saw the ad. It was at the top of the page in one of those paid advertising
spots, written in bold: Modeling Opportunity. I definitely wasn’t model
material, but out of curiosity, I clicked the link.
“Modeling Opportunity:
Model must be female, in her twenties, blonde, 5’0”-5’5”, 100-120 lbs. Lower
end of height and weight scale preferred. Picture required with application.”
My mouth dropped open.
It was like the ad was made for me.
I stared at my
computer screen for a long time, processing this. Being barely over five feet,
I’d never considered modeling a viable career option until now. What modeling
position asked for a tiny female? A line of clothes for petite women was my
only guess. But even at the proper height and weight, could I be a model?
People had told me I was pretty, and though my hair was growing darker, I was
one of those rare natural blondes at the age of twenty-two. Maybe I had a
chance.
I pulled my legs up
onto the chair, wrapped my arms around them as I read through the ad again. The
weirdest thing was that it had a numbered email address rather than a company
name, so I couldn’t even research the company. What’s more, if I applied, I
wouldn’t know where my picture was going. But did that matter? Worst case
scenario: some weirdo had my picture. Best case scenario: I got a job.
As I opened my
pictures folder and began to skim through, Sam entered.
“What are you up to?”
I slammed the lid of
my laptop closed.
“Whoa! What are you doing
that you don’t want me to see?”
Sam sat down on the
edge of my bed holding a bottle of red wine in one hand and two glasses in
another. “I thought we’d celebrate graduation!” she smiled, green eyes
twinkling.
Now Sam was someone
who could be a model. She had dark, almost black hair, and emerald eyes. Plus
she had the height. But Sam didn’t need to consider becoming a model because
she was headed straight for law school in September. Our plan had always been
to go through together, back before I realized my personality wasn’t really
Lawyer material. I wouldn’t be able to handle people getting off on
technicalities.
We clinked glasses and
took a sip of wine.
“Do you have any
leads?” Sam asked.
I shrugged, looking
away. “Not really. I just started looking.”
“Were you chatting
with a guy just now? Or looking at porn?” she teased.
I laughed and threw a
pillow at her.
We spent the next few
hours chatting about our plans for the summer. Sam was moving in with her
boyfriend of a year, Luke. He was a Lawyer who had just finished his articling
and would now be making a decent salary. They’d met at some law faculty
information session. Sam couldn’t wait to move in with him and enter law school
and “start her real life”. She had everything planned out and it was all
falling into place.
“It’s just so
exciting, don’t you think, Amy? We’re making it on our own now, like real
adults!” Sam squealed and gave me a tight hug before skipping out of my room to
call Luke.
When my door closed,
the plastered smile on my face vanished and I sighed deeply. Turning back to my
computer, I found the best full body picture of myself available, wrote a cover
letter and sent my application.
***
The next morning, I
rolled over and checked the time on my phone. 9 a.m. Next I checked my email
and almost fell out of bed. There was already a response.
Dear Miss Clair,
Thank you for your application. I believe you
might be a perfect fit, but would of course like to meet you in person for an
interview. The position requires a very specific personality. Would you be
available this afternoon at 6 p.m.? If so, please let me know and we can meet
at my office.
Regards,
Dallon King
6 p.m. today? Whoa, he
moved fast.
I rolled out of bed,
still groggy, and stumbled into the bathroom to brush my teeth. I frowned at
myself in the mirror, realizing that he hadn’t provided the name of the
modeling company, only the address. An obscure email address and no company
name?
Still, I wrote him a
quick message back saying I would be happy to meet him. It took me most of the
day to decide what to wear, but I settled on a knee-length black dress with a
ruched bodice and a pair of pumps.
When I arrived at the
building at 6 p.m., I went to the floor Dallon King had provided in his
instructions, surprised when the elevator doors opened to reveal a glass wall
with the name Walters King Capital. I hesitated, sure I’d made a mistake, and
opened the email again. There was no mistake; this was the building and floor
Dallon King had provided me. I noticed the receptionist watching me quizzically
through the glass wall and entered the office.
“Do you have an
appointment?”
“I’m here to see
Dallon King.” It sounded more like a question than a statement.
“You must be Amy
Clair. Would you like a glass of water? Mr. King is just finishing up with a
meeting.”
Soon I was perched on
a leather chair, sipping my bottle of water while looking around nervously. The
reception area was sparse, modern. Almost cold. I was about to pick up a
magazine and pretend to look nonchalant when the receptionist called my name,
asked me to follow her. She led me through a hallway and knocked once on the
door at the very end of the hall. The name plate on the door read Dallon King,
CEO.
“Come in,” a deep
voice said.
The receptionist
smiled reassuringly and opened the door. My first impression was that the
office was enormous, much larger than one man needed. Two walls were made
entirely of glass, offering city views on both sides. Like the lobby, the room
was sparse, decorated with only a wide wooden desk, bar with crystal decanters,
white leather couch, and glass coffee table. On its surface sat a rectangular
glass vase holding three flowers of red, orange and yellow, providing the only
color in the room. Also like the lobby, the atmosphere felt cold.
The man behind the
desk looked up, smiled at us before standing and buttoning his suit jacket. He
was all monotones: black suit, white shirt, silver tie. I felt my eyes widen,
unable to look away. He was so… pretty. And somehow intensely masculine at the
same time, standing well over six feet tall with dark hair, a chiseled jaw line
and piercing blue eyes. I tried not to look shocked at his appearance, though
from the smirk on his face as he approached me, he had already taken note.
“Mr. King, this is
Miss Amy Clair.” The receptionist introduced us and then promptly turned on her
heel and closed the door, leaving us alone in his office.
I made my way over to
him on shaky legs.
“Hi, Miss Clair,” he
smiled warmly, extending his hand. My pulse leapt as he squeezed my hand, his
grip tightening.
“I’m Mr. King. Such a
pleasure to meet you.” He paused, still holding my hand, those striking eyes
locked on mine. “I’m so relieved that you look like your picture.”
I blushed as he
released me, saying an awkward thank you. Who was this man? I estimated him to
be thirty at most, and he was a CEO. A jaw-dropping CEO at that.
“Please, sit.” Mr.
King motioned for me to sit on the couch. Instead of sitting beside me, he sat
on top of the desk and studied me for a moment before pushing a button on his
telephone. “You may go home now, Madeline.”
“Good evening, Mr.
King,” came the response.
Mr. King turned to me
again, his grey eyes narrowing slightly. “Have you ever modeled?”
I shook my head, heat
rising to my cheeks. I was waiting for him to tell me he was no longer
interested, but to my surprise, it seemed to please him.