I’m so fucking bored. Another day hanging around in my apartment.

No jobs on the horizon. Not that I need the money, but I need to be fucking stimulated, for fuck’s sake.

Ten years of modeling, and I’m reduced to this. Keeping my own goddamn company.

I remember when I moved into this building eight years ago. I was so excited.

Cash was just falling out of my pockets, and I couldn’t wait to move in with such a hip crowd. Now I find them all mortifyingly annoying.

Well, most of them.

My phone does its jingle thing, and I pull myself up from the big white couch. White chairs, white curtains, white everything. Hardwood floors in golden honey and lots of light.

I love it as much now as I did years ago.

I’m hoping the phone is a job, but it’s not. It’s Emilia.

“Hey, babes! How’s it cookin?”

I’m so happy for any distraction. Fuck, I sound like one of those positive people.

“Hey,” Emilia says.

Even through the phone, I can tell she’s upset. Her voice just has that sound to it—like she’s either just finished crying or she’s trying not to start.

“Wanna go out tonight?” she asks.

Oh, Jesus, fuck. I’m in over my head now.

“Evan problems?” I say, picking up one of my magazines for a look-through.

Excellent black and white shoot. I look incredible. This photographer really knows his shit.

I thought black and white would wash me out—long, dark brown hair, brown eyes, and pale skin. He’s a fucking genius of grey tones, though.

“Not anymore. So are we going out or what?”

“Nope. Uh-uh. Sorry babe, but you know I can’t support this. You two are being idiots—you know that, right?”

“He’s being the idiot,” Em argues. “I’m totally justified in every way, not at fault at all—et cetera, et cetera.”

“Yeah, uh-huh.” I roll my eyes. “Call me when you guys are back together, and we’ll talk.”

Like, I don’t believe in this soul mate shit, but if there have ever been two people who are meant for each other, it’s those two dummies.

I pick up the magazine again. I’d like to work with this photographer again. He was awesome, and not just with editing.

He really knew how to position me so my tits and pussy looked just delicious. I’m getting older now—not that thirty-two is old, no fucking way!—but it certainly helps to have someone that understands angles.

Three hours of soft touching and instructions, and I couldn’t figure if he was wicked professional or just gay.

When did I start doing nudes? When all the good face shot jobs got taken.

When I got told I was ‘too tall’ for a runway. Too tall…ever heard of a model who was too fucking tall? For fuck’s sake.

It’s not like nudes or porn is difficult. The first one was, for a while.

It was outside on a cliff near a beach. We went out early to catch the light and because it would be quieter, or so the photographer said.

Yeah, quieter. Except for the fisherman and the joggers and the drunks waking up.

None of that mattered, though. Once the cool breeze started stroking me in the dawn light, and I realized I was naked—fucking bare-assed!—out on a cliff getting pictures taken of my gorgeous pussy, I was fucking thrilled.

Hence the current boredom. Haven’t had a fix in a while.

I decide to wander down and check my mail. Might be a few magazines or offers.

I don’t bother changing. Instead, I just throw a cardigan over my grey singlet and slacks. I don’t give a fuck what any of these dicks think of me.

I’m still on that thought, lingering over the mail, thinking about ignoring the others hard enough. Maybe then they won’t actually say hi to me.

Who does that anyway? I don’t get people walking around saying hi to people they don’t know.

From the corner of my eye, I see a flash of dark blue, and my head turns before I can stop it. I get a nice quick look of the tall form, toned butt sliding under the expensive fabric as he goes through the door. He’s on the phone, briefcase in hand, trying to ignore the other occupants as I do.

Derek. Oh, my fucking god. Derek!

The only guy I have ever seen tall enough to look me in the eye. Not that we have—I mean, we’ve seen each other, but since we ignore every other creature in the building, it’s not like we say hi.

He’s got a really hectic schedule. Works for some advertising agency. Hell, he has probably seen my centerfolds.

I frown, clutching my mail and heading upstairs. Wish I hadn’t thought of that.

I’m confident as hell, and I love my job. I don’t bow to anybody, and I don’t accept judgments from society about anything I do.

But that Derek. He’s hot. I heard he does four hours a day at the gym, as well as twelve-hour work days.

He will more than likely marry some picture-perfect princess who wears elegant flowery dresses and big, wide-brimmed hats, someone who smiles sweetly when random people say hi.

A guy like that doesn’t need a modeling reject. Why would he? He can see it all for free in one of my centerfolds.

Just thinking about his deep blue eyes roving over the pages of my centerfolds gets me wet.

Where does he look first? What does he want to touch the most? Even if he wouldn’t marry me, would he still fuck me?