Exposed to You (Overexposed)

  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.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Chapter One

  “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.

  “Good. I’m looking for an amateur. I want a... natural feel.”

  “What exactly is the modeling position for?” I asked, fiddling with the hem of my skirt.

  Mr. King noticed the gesture and smiled. “It’s a side project. I’m interested in artistic photography and looking for a very specific look.”

  He continued to stare at me, and as he did so, his expression… altered. It was like he was looking through me. The effect was instantaneous: I felt it in my stomach, and my nerves fluttered to attention. Suddenly, the air between us felt different. Charged.

  Mr. King hopped off the desk. “Stand up.”

  I instantly stood and saw him smile again.

  “Yes, you are the perfect height. I’d guess about five-foot-two?”

  I nodded.

  “You have a petite figure, so there is no doubt you fall within the weight scale provided in the advertisement.”

  I nodded again, my cheeks heating. It was hard not to find talk of my weight offensive, but I reminded myself that if I wanted to be a model, I was going to have to toughen up. In the modeling industry, models’ statistics were common knowledge. It was how they got opportunities. So, I went a step further.

  “I think I’m about 105.”

  Mr. King nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. “Very good. Very good, indeed.”

  He continued to smile as if at a private joke, crossed his arms and walked back to the desk, leaned against it. “However, we still need to get to know each other. Like I said, the position requires a certain personality.”

  A tougher personality, I supposed—one not thrown off by questions about weight.

  “Do you have any objections to nudity?”

  Even though I had prepared myself for that question, I still blushed. I took a deep breath and shook my head.

  “We would have to work on that blush,” he smirked, making me blush redder. He made a twirling motion with his finger, and I turned on the spot.

  “Perfect.”

  So quickly it made me jump, he grabbed his desk chair and placed it across from the couch, told me to sit again. I sank back down on the couch and crossed one leg over the other, trying to look calm and professional, when in truth I couldn’t remember ever being as nervous.

  He pulled out his phone and scrolled through it. “I composed a list of personal questions I thought relevant to ask in order to get to know one another.”

  He glanced up at me as if to ask if that was okay, and when I nodded, he began.

  “How old are you, Miss Clair?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “Are you from New York?”

  “No, I’m from California. I came here for school.”

  “And what did you take in school?”

  “BA in Fine Arts.”

  “Oh?” Mr. King raised an eyebrow. “What fine art did you study?”

  “Both drawing and painting. I tried to study something that would be more... useful, but I wasn’t interested.”

  “Useful?” He arched a dark brow.

  “I considered going into law afterward because, well, my parents suggested it and my best friend wanted to study it.”

  “But it wasn’t for you,” he said, finishing my sentence and looking at me intently with his blue eyes.

  “No,” I said softly.

  “You’re passionate,” Mr. King nodded in understanding. “I am too.”

  I looked down at my hands, trying not to think of all the ways Dallon King might be passionate. A glance around his office, and my thoughts traveled to him being passionate on the couch, on the desk, against the door…

  “Where are you living at the moment?” His question broke through my thoughts.

  I knit my fingers together and instantly pulled them apart, realizing it betrayed my nervousness. “I’m still in the student residence apartments with a friend, but I have to find my own place by the end of the week.”

  The eyebrow raised again. “Do you have any leads?”

  “No.” I looked down. What was the point in asking all these questions, just to get to know me better? Or was he trying to gauge what he should offer me, if anything?

  “Well, Miss Clair, I should let you know that I am prepared to compensate you very generously. If you’re interested in the position, that is.”

  “I am,” I said, almost too quickly. “I mean, if you’re interested in me, that is,” I added and instantly blushed again. I saw the corner of his mouth twitch and he adjusted his position on the chair.

  I hadn’t meant to sound so eager, but I was. It wasn’t just that I needed the money; I also liked how Mr. Kin
g made me feel. There was something about the way he looked at me and asked me questions that made me feel like I was truly being seen. For the first time in my life.

  Mr. King smiled and leaned forward to touch my knee. “You’re so sweet. Before you agree, however, I would like to show you my studio. It will give you an idea of what I expect. Are you free right now?”

  “Sure,” I said, somewhat surprised.

  Without further discussion, he led me back through the now dark, empty office. Outside the building, a black Audi SUV was waiting. The driver greeted us and then opened the door. I climbed in and Mr. King slid onto the seat after me.

  “Home, Sir?” The driver asked.

  “Please, Arnold.” Mr. King responded before turning to me. “My studio is in my home.”

  My eyes widened slightly and I turned to the window so he couldn’t see my surprise. The butterflies in my stomach intensified at the thought of going to Dallon King’s home, and the logical part of me was freaking out that I was doing something I shouldn’t be. My parents would have said it wasn’t appropriate, considering I didn’t really know him, and he could get in trouble for taking a young woman to his home after work hours. Then again, my parents would also die if they knew I was pursuing something as lowly as a modeling career.

  Beside me, Mr. King was looking out his own window as if lost in his thoughts. I leaned back in my seat and tried to relax. His receptionist had known about our interview, so there was nothing to worry about. I was new to the corporate world, after all. How was I supposed to judge what was appropriate?

  He adjusted his perfectly knotted tie, shifting the seat slightly, and his scent wafted toward me. I inhaled and held my breath, trying to shut him out, even though there was less than a foot of space between us. I’d never felt like this around someone before—it was like every fiber of my body was aware of him. I tried to focus on the scenery out the window, but to no avail; all I could think about was how I was reacting to him. I’d entered the interview only somewhat intrigued, but now I wanted desperately to be the person Dallon King was looking for.