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I grab two whiskey splits from the minibar and down them, one after the other. Then, setting aside my pride, I text Trent for information on booking Aurora.
He promptly sends me the website and login credentials, accompanied by a smiling purple devil emoji.
After consuming another mini bottle to ease my apprehension, I log in to his account, only to discover she’s unavailable for the next month. A fucking month? Is she that popular?
I don’t want anyone but her, escort or otherwise. Dejected and bone-crushingly lonely, I end the night tipsy, alone, and angrily jerking myself to fantasies of Aurora riding my cock.
TWELVE
AURORA
The months followingthe bikini photoshoot are a whirlwind. Not only did I secure a contract for the swimsuit layout, but I also landed an exclusive modeling deal with Worldwide Enterprises, one ofthetop modeling agencies. Even now, I still can’t believe it.
Since the morning after the beach shoot, Emily and I have been jet-setting. I’ve been featured in everything from lingerie to designer clothing. We’ve been to a different city nearly every week.
Yet, amidst all the success, the first shoot stands as my crowning achievement.
I’m now, and will forever be, a swimsuit cover model—all thanks to one playful photoshoot.
Emily has become my full-time makeup artist, assistant, and closest companion. She’s nothing short of irreplaceable. I can’t fathom navigating this chaotic journey without her. She’s my buffer in social situations and does all the networking, which I loathe.
My dream of providing Grams with the care she deserves came true. She was moved from the state nursing home to a legitimate rehabilitative and assisted living facility in Santa Monica. Her improvement is remarkable. She went from being a zombie to walking short distances and regaining her speech.
And, of course, we’re no longer escorting. Or, in Emily’s case, dating athletes with the hopes of becoming a wife. Our hectic schedule rarely allows the opportunity to return home, let alone revisit that chapter of our lives.
For the first time in months, we’re about to settle down. It’s fashion season in New York City, and I’m working with several designers to see who fits before gracing the runway. I love this part—putting all the pieces together and showcasing the finished product. It requires long days and hard work, but in the end, it’ll be worth the half-a-million-dollar paycheck.
And I thought escorting paid big.
I yawn, flipping through channels on the flatscreen in our hotel suite. “Where are we headed tomorrow?”
“You’ve been doing that a lot, forgetting your schedule. Maybe you need to take some time off before you burn out.”
I glance over at Emily, her signature stern expression in place. “Doing what?” I set the remote down, too tired to scroll.
“I just said! You keep forgetting what shoots you have coming up. You’re always yawning, always tired. I thought you were going to doze off during the shoot yesterday.” She crosses her arms and flops back in the leather chair.
“Okay, that photog was slower than a sloth and playing jazz music. Besides, we have to seize every opportunity that comes our way before it disappears.” I gesture to our opulent hotel suite provided by the modeling agency, along with our food, driver, and security, not to mention all the clothes.
I fear that, at any moment, someone else could rise to become the new “it girl,” and I’ll be left in the dust. I’ll work my ass off for as long as the offers keep pouring in.
“Not getting enough rest won’t maintain your beauty or energy.” She purses her perfectly lined lips and raises her brows without a single wrinkle on her forehead.
I love Emily. She’s exceptional at what she does, but I often wonder if she resents our new life. I’m too drained to party, and she’s always on-point, ready to go clubbing or meet some hot guy who’ll sweep her off her feet. When my day ends, I’m too exhausted to do anything except check in on Grams. I pay her forty percent of what I make after paying my agent, which is perhaps the only reason she hasn’t returned home.
When I say nothing, she continues. “And your anxiety has gotten worse. You’re always sick and not eating. You’ve lost weight—more than you should.”
“Can you blame me? I’m constantly in the spotlight. But, honestly, it’s not my anxiety. I’m not anxious.” At least, not any more than usual.
“Then what is it? Because you can’t keep going like this. Starving yourself, throwing up, sleeping all the time… It’s unhealthy.”
Giving up the fight, I collapse into the plush couch cushions. Perhaps she’s right, and I need a break. “I’m exhausted. That’s all.”
She leans forward, places her elbows on her knees, and regards me for several long seconds.
I release a deep sigh. “What is it, Em? You want to go home? You miss the guys?”
She never talks about any of them except Jackson. He has become a daily presence in our lives—on social media, where he leaves outlandish comments on my modeling pics.