Model Release (The Art of Domination #1) by Erika Masten Page B

which I wanted to suggest they go to hell. But Beal…. Goddammit, his
reaction was the worst, even if it was just a frown. These weren’t my clothes,
and this wasn’t my idea, and I didn’t deserve to be standing here made to feel
like irregular goods for it.
    “Stan, really?” Nolan
asked.
    The rotund assistant
shrugged. “You said get her clothes. I got her clothes. You don’t like
clothes?”
    “Something that suited
her might have been nice, don’t you think?” Beal argued as he stalked toward
the metal sample racks that now stood in more orderly rows perpendicular to one
wall.
    “That’s a tall order,”
Rilla said, snickering under her breath, “Or a short one.”
    To his credit, Stan
waved away the bitch’s quip as he walked past her to help Beal rifle through
the racks. “Don’t help, darlin ’. The grown-ups have
this one handled.”
    Even the male model
flinched at the pettiness of Rilla’s remark, before he wandered over to offer a
handshake. Now that he faced me fully, I could take account of his water-green
eyes and sharp-angled face. Also shirtless above his black leather pants, he
had a very long, very lean torso that lent itself immediately to thoughts of
lead singers in punk bands. The vaguely gothic tattoos adorning his body in
thick lines—a large cross over his heart, a crest with a crown on one shoulder,
what might have been a falcon curling over the curve of the other—added to the
impression.
    After a few awkward
seconds, I unfurled my arms where I’d folded them defensively over my stomach
and took his offered hand.
    “I’m Finn,” he said in
an affably sincere and unguarded voice. The uptick at end of his sentences
suggested an accent he didn’t quite have. Something vaguely southern California but rougher, like he’d grown up in
Los Angeles but spent time in New York. “Finn Garvey,” he said, as though to
elaborate.
    The name tickled
something in my memory, some recollection I couldn’t quite catch before it
disappeared back into the murk of forgetfulness. His careful attention to my
expression told me he was waiting for me to realize I knew him or maybe knew of
him. When I averted my eyes sheepishly from his, he frowned fleetingly before
resuming the golden boy grin.
    “Viv,” a high voice
called from behind Finn. The flannel-wearing teen had draped herself along the
loveseat, arms tucked behind her head with her dark red hair fanning out on the
cushion, high-tops perched on the velvet arm. “Don’t introduce me, anyone. I
just take out the garbage.”
    “And get the pizza,”
Finn added. “Don’t forget that important service.”
    The teen flipped him
off from her reclining position. “Suck my—.”
    “Where’s that silvery
lavender Posen with the split up the front?” Beal abruptly demanded as he
emerged from the racks. I had to admit that it was kind of impressive the way
he focused when he was working. The way the slick humor in his demeanor
evaporated, leaving a sharp gaze, a purposeful voice, and a firm line pressed
between lips that were too full and sensuous and pink and pretty for a man. Or
most men.
    Rilla snapped from her
deeply arched, oddly angled “relaxed” pose chatting with the makeup girl to a
rigid, rail-stiff attention with her hands balled in fists. “You picked that
dress out for me to wear.”
    Between glances from
dressing room to dressing room at the clothes trailing along the floor and
artfully draped over wooden stools, Beal rolled his eyes. “That wasn’t a good
color on you, Rilla. The test shots, remember?”
    “It’s too long for
her,” Rilla protested, shooting a scathing if brief glare my way.
    I went back to hugging
my folded arms tight to my ribcage. There was nothing like being referred to in
third person to one’s face to make a girl feel like a piece of meat. In the
sale bin. About to go bad.
    When Stan toddled back
from the racks with a half dozen dresses slung over one shoulder and a half
dozen more over the