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11
Kelendria
(Kelly)
And here we were, down to the last—and according to Paloma Johns, the raunchiest—photo shoot in the catalogue.
After the San Francisco Botanical Gardens shoot, we’d done a public service professional themed one, with Jase and I dressing up in police, firefighter, and EMT garb with a sexy twist. That session had been fun and playful. Even still, I was flustered around my co-model. Those eyes, that height, that body, that cocky, yet endearing grin. The worst part was, I didn’t even think he was aware of how he affected people. How he affected me.
Under different circumstances, I wouldn’t have minded getting to know him better, and I certainly wouldn’t have minded a ‘mutually beneficial relationship’ either.
I pushed that thought away and took my exit, squinting my eyes against the bright headlights reflecting in my rearview mirror. I hated driving at night, but it was necessary this time around. Our final shoot was scheduled to start at 6 a.m. and was an all-day shoot. I took the author, Lynn Mckynn, who was the manager of a B&B, up on her offer of getting me a room, rather than having to get up at the crack of dawn to make the drive from San Jose.
The day after the shoot, there would be a wrap party, where Jase and I would get to meet all of the authors in the boxed set, so I would be staying in San Francisco for two nights. I was looking forward to that because it could potentially mean more jobs for me as a cover model.
A little before 9:30, I arrived at the Frisco B&B. Lynn was already off work for the day but had left my room key at the front desk. The bed and breakfast was spacious and decorated in antique everything. It was charming and I could see why people came here to relax in a city as busy and as large as San Francisco.
I dragged my small suitcase to the room, opened the door and gasped. Actually, ‘room’ didn’t accurately describe my digs for the next two days. Suite or mini apartment was more fitting. There was a mid-sized living room with a round dining table tucked in the corner. The bedroom held a king-sized bed with crisp white sheets and blankets on it. The bathroom was bigger than my bedroom in my apartment.
I unpacked then sat down by the bay window to read on my Kindle. That didn’t last long, though. Soon, my stomach rumbled and I decided to go down to the bar and eat a late dinner. Grabbing my phone and clutch, I left.
The bar was situated in a little alcove at the back of the B&B. Other than myself and an older man who apparently acted as the front desk attendant and the bartender, there were about four other people here.
“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked.
“Bacon cheeseburger with the works and steak fries on the side, please.”
He jotted my order down on a small notepad. “Anything to drink?” he asked without looking up.
“Water with lemon and…” I hesitated. “A screwdriver, please.”
At that, the bartender looked up, giving me a once-over. “No problem. Just need to see some ID.”
I obliged, digging in my clutch and showing him my California driver’s license.
“Any preference on the vodka?”
“Stoli, please.”
He told me my food would be out in twenty, then disappeared through a double set of swinging doors. A few minutes later, he was back with both my drinks. I bypassed the water with lemon and immediately chugged my screwdriver.
“Another?” he asked. I nodded.
While I waited, I swayed to the music—a catchy new song by The Weeknd—and played around on my phone. I went into my messages, intending to text my brother and see if he still wanted to come out from Pittsburgh next month for our birthdays, but stopped when I saw the string of messages between the last person I had texted: Jase.
Since we’d exchanged numbers, it had become somewhat routine for him to text me every night after a shoot and make sure I’d gotten home safely.
I wonder what he’s doing right now?
My finger hovered over the new message bar. Should I text him?
Before I could decide, my second screwdriver arrived. I reached for it, still staring at my phone.
No, I decided. I wouldn’t text him. I didn’t have anything work-related to discuss, and I’d made it clear what the boundaries were.
Sighing, I put Jase out of my mind and waited for my food.
A few hours later, I was still at the bar, but I’d switched from screwdrivers to straight shots of Stoli. After my third—or was it the fourth—shot, I had a nice buzz going. Actually, I was more than buzzed, I was downright tipsy. And tipsy Kelly had a significantly laxer grasp on her hormones than sober Kelly.
