Page 1 of Size Queen

1

Noelle

The sun is always bright in Florida, when it’s out. Fortunately, as the weekend begins, the clouds and the showers are steering clear of Miami and heading up the coast. It’s hot and bright, and I’m hopeful that I might be able to give my somewhat pale body a bit of a tan.

I’m a model. I don’t look like what one pictures typically when they hear the word “model”—I’m big, beautiful, proud, smart, and confident, which goes against most norms in the modeling industry. I’m a plus-size model, and I usually model swimsuits. I love doing it. It’s basically my passion.

My best friend/roommate, Sabrina Darby, shares the same passion I do. She, too, is a plus-size model. I’ve known her since we were juniors in high school, and we’ve been nearly inseparable ever since. I love her to death, but we’re definitely different people: I date guys; she takes guys home. I’m practically fearless, while she gets so anxious at times it makes me worry. She’s animated where I’m chill. We balance each other out fairly well.

Our modeling agency decided to pick a biker shop called Raw Wheels to host an annual photo shoot over the weekend. The models are all slightly wary about going there due to Raw Wheels having a history of hosting gangs.

I know very little about the activity going on at Raw Wheels before I get in the car. While Sabrina drives, she fills me in on some things on the way there. As I’m finishing up my makeup, I look over and notice her looking at her reflection in the rearview mirror for what seems like the hundredth time.

“Why do you seem so nervous?” I ask Sabrina.

“Probably because I am,” she admits. “I haven’t been to Raw Wheels inages. And every time I go there, it’s the same story: I say I’m just going to flirt with a few guys, then a cute guy pours tequila down my throat, then he shoves his tongue down my throat, and I end up bringing him over to our place.”

“Is that the only thing they shove down your throat?” I wonder impishly.

“Ha-ha,” she says. “Those guys over there are actually dangerous. I really have to watch myself when I’m there.”

“You realize you didn’t answer my question, right?” I prod.

“And I’m not going to,” she says dismissively. “Anyway, what were we talking about?”

“Looking for a new apartment?” I ask, attempting to recall our conversation.

“No, we were talking about Raw Wheels,” says Sabrina. “But for real, though, the rent at our place is too damn high.”

“We’re in Miami, baby,” I remind her. “We live two miles from thebeach. Of course it’s going to be expensive as hell here.”

“We might want to move a bit farther from the coast, that’s all I’m saying,” she persists. “Butanyway—I believe I was going to tell you about some of the… shall we say, ‘meat’ to choose from at this infamous biker bar. There are a lot of hot guys there, and your swimsuit isgoingto get wet.”

“That’s a bold claim,” I laugh. “What makes you so sure?”

“Do you want me to go through my list, or do you want to know about someone who actually knows aboutyou?” she says cryptically.

“Who ‘knows about me’?”

“The ownerof the shop,” she answers. “His name is Damon Abrams—he’s fit, sexy as all hell, and you’ll want to ride his face within three minutes of meeting him.”

“Oh my,” I say facetiously. “Have you had him?”

“Not me, no,” she replies. “Iwish. He doesn’t really strike me as the ‘notch on your bedpost’ type. But I’ve seen him with girls before, and they always look like they’re in heaven.”

“I’m sold already,” I say, continuing to humor her. “But if this Damon Abrams isn’t into just getting laid, why is he adamant about having a swimsuit photo shoot at his shop?”

“Beats me.” She shrugs. “I assume the agency’s paying them to use his space.”

“Yeah, I don’t suppose there’ll be too many bikers hanging around to watch us bright and early on a Saturday morning,” I muse. “It should be a pretty vacant house.”

“You never know,” says Sabrina. “What I wanted to tell you, though, while we’re alone, is to be careful if Damon goes after you. He knows who you are, because he saw pictures of us together online and asked me about you.”

“Really?” I ask. “Come on, I don’t buy that.”

“Okay, don’t believe me!” she says. “He did ask me, though.”

“Why have I not heard about it until now, then?” I retort.