“I’m working a few small local events,” I tell her. “And there’s an opportunity for another job that could be long-term.”
“Well, that’s great!” Debra replies. “I just wish we had known you were coming sooner.”
“You’re leaving?” I say with a nod of my chin toward her luggage.
“We were. Your dad and I booked a trip for our anniversary. He’s been trying to call you but couldn’t get you to see if you were really headed to town. Of course, we can still cancel…”
“What? No way!” I tell her. “It’s my fault for surprising you. Go on your trip. I would feel terrible if you cancelled.”
“Are you absolutely sure?” she asks.
“Yes, definitely.”
“How long are you here for? We’ll only be gone for a week, so will we see you when we return?”
“Possibly.”
“In that case, while we’re gone, you should stay here. It’s still your house too,” Debra says with a genuine smile, causing me to smile as well. My mom died from an infection from the C-section to deliver me, but I would like to think she was just as amazing a mother as Winston’s.
“Thanks, Deb. I appreciate that and I may take you up on that offer.”
“You should!” she agrees just as my dad walks through the door.
“Are you all ready, my love?” he asks before he spots us sitting on the sofa. “Well, I think I need to have my eyes checked because you look just like my long-lost daughter.”
“I was never lost,” I tell him as I get to my feet to go give him a hug.
“You weren’t? It sometimes feels that way,” he says into my hair, then lets me go to look me over. “You look well. Are you?”
“I’m great, really.”
“You are? That’s wonderful! Deb and I were just leaving for Cabo. You should come with us!”
“No, Dad. I couldn’t possibly third wheel your anniversary trip. Besides, I have work here.”
“So that’s why you’ve come home—for work, not to visit your old man?”
“Both, of course,” I assure him with a smile.
And while I’m sad I won’t get to spend more time with my dad and Deb this week, it’s also a relief because I won’t have to talk about or get a guilt trip for the naked photos.
Chapter Six
Zoe
* * *
Before I sent my dad and Deb on their way, he gave me the keys to his BMW so I can drive myself over to the Harley dealership in an hour. First, I spend a little time wandering around in my childhood bedroom, reminiscing. While I haven’t been here in years, everything is still the same. There’s not even a speck of dust, which means Deb has been cleaning it on a regular basis.
By now, I sort of assumed they had boxed my things up to turn the bedroom into an office or something else they can actually use. But they didn’t. I smile as I spot the photos of me with my high school friends. We all drifted apart little by little. Most of the girls are married with kids and still live in town. I could probably call them up for a reunion, but it would be too awkward. I don’t know who those people are anymore and they sure as hell don’t know me. I’m no longer the doe-eyed girl who wanted to be the center of attention, the envy of other women in designer clothes, strutting down a runway.
Lately, I just wish I had a normal nine to five job where I get to keep my clothes on, and no one tries to get on top of me. Having a sweet husband or boyfriend to come home to doesn’t sound bad either. None of the guys I’ve dated last more than a few nights. Hell, they don’t even count as actual dates. They don’t take me out to dinner or introduce me to their friends or family. I’m nothing but a good time, a hookup to brag about to their friends.
I don’t blame them, though. I get treated like a dirty slut because that’s the image I’ve made for myself as a glamor model. None of the men even bother to get to know me. Why should they when all they want is to get off?
But that’s enough of the pity party since I only have myself to blame.
I start to leave the house to head to the signing event, but first, I make a quick stop in front of the fireplace to take in the family photos on the mantel. There are several of all four of us, but none of Winston and another woman or children, thank god. The one from my dad and Deb’s wedding is probably my favorite. I’m wearing a puffy, pale blue dress with white lace trim and smiling wide enough to show off my mouth full of braces, looking like such a dork.
And then there’s Winston, standing beside me in his black tux, his short, dark hair slicked back and so breathtakingly handsome I couldn’t speak a word to him the whole day. That was when my crush on him really started. It only grew stronger over the next few years when none of the boys at school could compare. It was an unhealthy obsession and I should’ve known it would end with me getting my heart broken.
“What did you expect to happen, you silly girl?” I ask my thirteen-year-old hopeful self in the photo. “That he would say he loved you after he fucked you on top of a car and then follow you to Europe?”
While I, of course, blame myself for being stupid enough to go to the auto shop that night and take my dress off, I still can’t let go of my anger at Winston for finally giving in and sleeping with me only because he knew I was leaving. I was an easy, no-strings attached fuck, like all the other tourists he screwed around with before they left town for good. He hurt me so badly I’ve never been able to trust a man again. They’re all the same, thinking with their dicks.
And, in a few minutes, there will be a long line of them, thinking they can sweet talk their way into getting me out of my bikini bottoms. The truth is, I haven’t slept with anyone in months, and when I do, it’s out of necessity to keep working. Which is why I’ve started to think that getting paid to have sex isn’t really all that different from what I’ve been doing. Still, I’m not sure if I can throw what little is left of my dignity and self-respect out the window just to pay my bills.
The Harley dealership in Myrtle Beach is one of the biggest I’ve ever seen. On the entire side of the enormous gray building is a black painting of a snarling skull, wearing a crown like some sort of long-dead king. The menacing image is not exactly warm and welcoming, yet the parking lot is full of cars and bikes, owned by those who aren’t put off by it.
As soon as I park and walk through the double glass doors, I’m met by a pretty blond guy in a leather biker cut who holds out his palm for me to shake. The front white patch over his chest reads Savage Kings MC. “Hey, Zoe! Thanks for coming. I’m Cannon.”
Great. Now I’m starting to realize the skull king outside was, in fact, an ominous warning. I try to steer clear of the motorcycle clubs after one of my promotions ended up with a group of bikers taking turns with me at their after-party that got way out of hand. I thought the president was hot, so one thing led to another with him. I just wasn’t aware the club shared everything, even, and especially, women. I will not put myself in that situation ever again.
“Just to be clear,” I warn the man after shaking his hand as briefly as possible and releasing it to clutch my pink leather purse to my side, “I’m here for clothed photos and autographs only. The bikini stays on at all times. That’s not negotiable.”