Fake Model by Cassie Mint

Two

Archer

It’s a dawn shoot on the beach, which means two things: sand fucking everywhere, and bucket loads of coffee. So much black coffee that energy crackles through my veins, and my vision sharpens as I glare through my camera lens.

Everyone else stifles yawns as they set up the equipment. The dress rails bristling with garment bags; the makeshift shelters for the model to change out of the wind. There are small tables set out with huge silver boilers of coffee, and covered baskets of muffins and fruit.

Across the long stretch of pale sand, clear blue waves froth and break on the beach. They’re lazy too, the tide sighing and rolling over in its sleep.

Seabirds wheel overhead, screaming at the wisps of cloud. Shells dot the sand, either whole or in sharp white fragments.

It will do.

I turn to the dress rails, barking for one of my assistants to open the first garment bags. I want to see the material in the morning light, want to see how it reacts to the cold sun. I chew on the inside of my cheek, fiddling with my camera as I swap out lenses and check my memory cards.

“We’ll start with the bridal gowns. Work backward through the styles and end on the lingerie.” There’s a squeak behind me, and I twitch my head to look, but my assistant comes and mutters in my ear.

“There’s a problem.”

Fuck. Already? There’s no such thing as a perfect shoot, but we haven’t even started. How have we gone wrong so fast?

I roll my head on my neck, annoyed. It’s my name on the line, here. I’m at the top of this pyramid, which means if this shoot is a bust, I’m to blame.

I don’t like fuck-ups. I don’t make mistakes. So when I nod at Gavin to keep talking, I’m already grinding my teeth.

He lowers his voice, eyes darting away. He’s uncomfortable.

“The model… she’s bigger than the measurements we have on file. We need to take out the gowns.”

I huff out a breath, pinching the bridge of my nose. I keep the best seamstresses in the business on standby for this exact reason, but it still pisses me the hell off. This model, this Billie Blue Walsh—she’s supposed to be the best. I only work with the best.

And this? This is a rookie error. What kind of model doesn’t update her measurements?

“Big breakfast?” I snarl, turning on my heel and pinning the girl with a glare. She’s waiting a few feet back by the garment rail, wrapped in a robe with her arms clamped around her waist. She starts, her blue eyes widening, and a flush creeps over her cheeks. She tries to speak, her mouth opening and closing a few times, before she gives up and shakes her head, staring at her bare toes buried in the sand.

Shit. I’ve always been a grade A asshole, but a sliver of guilt squirms through my gut.

I tamp it down. I’m not here to make everyone feel good about themselves. This isn’t an after school special; we’re here to work.

Even if the sight of her creamy skin and red hair makes my chest seize.

I turn back to my camera, flipping through the settings, a new eagerness urging me on. For months now, I’ve been feeling… flat. Uninspired. I’ve been going through the motions, winning awards and making the front page of fashion magazines, but there’s been no joy in it. No passion.

One glance at Billie Blue Walsh, and suddenly the love for my art comes rushing back. I want to capture the soulful depth to her eyes; want to pick out the copper highlights in her auburn curls.

A stuttered breath makes me turn around, dread freezing my veins.

She’s dressed in the first gown, arms held out at her sides, two seamstresses altering it to fit. And she’s staring off in a daze, a single tear rolling down her cheek.

Fuck.

Fuck.

What have I done?

One careless, throwaway question, borne out of impatience, and I made her cry.

I want to smash my camera over the rocks that line the edge of the beach. I want to walk into the goddamn sea. But I can’t, because I need to make this right. I need to wipe that look of glazed horror off her face.

I need to show Billie Blue Walsh that she’s the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.

* * *

It’s odd. I picked the model for this shoot myself, flicking through hundreds of head shots and profiles. And while I thought Billie Blue had potential, had good cheekbones and striking eyes, her photos didn’t move me.

Not like this.

Seeing her in person… I have a heart attack every time I glance over.

Gavin notices her crying too, and he’s better at this than me. He takes her a coffee and a muffin from the basket. She waves the muffin off, a queasy look on her face, and I want to howl at the sky.

I don’t know what I hate more—the fact that I’ve scared her off eating, or that Gavin is the man offering her comfort. I stride over without thinking, needing to break the two of them up.

“Are we ready?” I grit out, eying the two seamstresses. They glance up at me, mouths full of pins, and nod. I look down at Billie Blue, raising my eyebrows. She cringes under my gaze, but nods too.

I vow here and now that she won’t be scared of me for long. That by the end of today, she’ll look to me for praise and comfort.

I might not be practiced in giving those things, but I could be. For her.

Her first gown is elegant. Modest. A good dress to start with, since I’ve so thoroughly dented her confidence. I make her pose by the rocks; on the golden sand; and holding her hem up, ankle deep in the waves.

She’s so stiff and unhappy, flinching at every instruction, that you’d think she’d never modeled before. I have to coax her into each photo, and it takes three times as long as it should to get a usable shot.

I say nothing. I’ve hurt her enough.

But when we walk back up the beach, her shorter legs hurrying ahead of mine, I sigh and check my watch. She hasn’t spoken a single word since she arrived, and she’s utterly wooden when she strikes each pose.

There are dozens more outfits. And who knows how many more hours of good light? At this rate, we won’t get a third of the shoot done.

I toy with the idea of summoning another model at short notice. Strictly speaking, it’s the most professional thing to do.

But the thought of the hurt and dismay on her face when I snapped at her earlier…

No. I won’t do it. This is our model, and we’ll make it work.

When we reach the huddle of whispering assistants, I snag Billie Blue’s elbow and drag her aside. Out of earshot, where I can give her a little talk. Remind her of her job.

But when she looks up at me, her mouth pressed in a tight line and her expression resigned, that all falls away. I cup her face and breathe out a ragged sigh.