Elsie

“You have the ass of a goddess,” Isabel says, touching up my mascara.

Somehow, I let my best friend, Isabel, talk me into taking boudoir photos. She couldn’t afford to do them for herself on her own, but a local photographer was having a two-for-one sale and she nagged and pestered me until I gave in.

And now here I am in one of our hotel rooms wearing a red corset, thong and black pull-up stockings my ex-boyfriend gave me ages ago, plus a pair of sky-high heels. All during work hours, no less.

“Seriously, you look amazing, Elsie,” Isabel says, placing her hands on my bare shoulders and squaring me to her. She’s still in her bathrobe and hasn’t revealed her outfit yet.

“I’d better because I can’t imagine doing this again,” I say.

“Just think, you will be young and beautiful for all eternity. You’re going to be so happy you did this,” she says, her freckled nose crinkling and her dark eyes shining with excitement.

I glance around the hotel room and my eyes land on the perfectly made bed, complete with several silver accent pillows that match the color scheme of the room. When Isabel makes a bed, you can bounce a nickel off it. Although right now I’m not even sure if the bed stays made or not. I have no idea how these things work.

My boss Cynthia had better never find out. How on earth would I ever explain this?

Yes, I know I’m on work hours and that we haven’t paid for the hotel room and that we are using it to take risqué photos during work hours, but it’s all good, I promise.

Yeah, right. Cynthia isn’t exactly the nicest boss in the world.

Isabel would have an even harder time, since she’s a cleaner here at Good Rest Inn. I got her the job while she studies marketing at community college.

At least I’m an assistant manager and can probably get away with more. Not that I want to test that theory out. The last thing I would want to do is risk my career. At twenty-six, I’m already the youngest assistant manager in the region and I hope to be promoted to manager when Cynthia moves on to her next hotel in the Good Rest Inn chain. She hates living in Trenton, New Jersey and is desperately trying to get transferred somewhere warm like California or Florida. Anywhere but here, she says.

“Who are these photos for? I don’t even have a boyfriend,” I say, grabbing the tops of her arms and giving her a playful shake.

“Who cares? You’re going to have these photographs forever. Even you are bound to have a boyfriend at some point in your life.”

“Fat chance,” I say, breaking our hold on each other and turning away. I haven’t been able to tell her the big fear that’s been hanging over me for the last couple of years. I’m hoping I’m being paranoid about things, but if I’m not then there’s no way I will ever have a boyfriend. I bury the thought deep inside me.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Hell, if you want a man all you have to do is walk through the lobby right now looking like that.”

“If I walk through the lobby right now looking like this people would ask me how much.”

“You’d make good money if you wanted. I’m serious, look at you.” Isabel grabs me and spins me to the full-length mirror that hangs on the wall between the white door and the glossy black desk. My wavy brown hair flies across my face, and I brush it out of my eyes.

“First off, your eyes are striking. I mean, how many people have green eyes?”

“No one’s looking at my eyes.”

Isabel tilts her head and says, “I would kill for a body like this. Damn, I don’t know how you eat as much junk food as you do and look like that. I eat one pack of Twix and it goes straight to my hips.”

“We wear the same jean size, remember?”

There’s a loud knock at the door and we both startle.

“Isabel?” a woman’s voice says through the door.

“Becca, is that you?” Isabel asks as she flits to the door.

“Absolutely,” Becca says in a voice so sultry I suddenly question what the hell I’m doing.

Isabel opens the door and Becca marches into the room with purpose. Her black hair is cut into a severe bob. A heavy-looking camera bag is slung over her shoulder and lighting reflectors are tucked under her arm.

She sets all the equipment on the bed and says, “This room is perfect. Normally I’m in someone’s boring everyday bedroom. Hell, the last person I did was a forty-year-old woman in pigtails and white knee highs who posed on a bed that hadn’t been made this century. I mean, anything was bound to be better than that, but this is fantastic. Maybe I should insist on hotel locations from now on.”

Isabel and I look at each other and try not to laugh. Talk about a surreal afternoon. And we haven’t even started taking pictures yet.

“I’m going to go first and then I have to get back to work,” I say. I left Nathan in charge of the front desk, but he has a meeting and couldn’t cover the whole time, which sucks because that means I won’t get to see Isabel’s shoot. Although I have every confidence she will show me every picture ad nauseam and it will be like being there anyway.

“Sounds good, just let me set up my stuff. How raunchy do you want these to be?” Becca asks, busying herself with her equipment.

“Super raunchy,” Isabel says without hesitation.

“For her, not me. I want simple and classy,” I say. Maybe it’s a good thing I won’t be here for Isabel’s photos. She’s my best friend and all but I don’t know that I want to see her getting really raunchy with a camera. I wonder what she has on under the bathrobe. I narrow my eyes at it, as if squinting will give me x-ray vision.

“Don’t listen to her,” Isabel says.

“Okay, one nice, one nasty,” Becca says, popping open a reflective canopy.

“Where do I stand?” I ask.

“Up to you, you can stand in front of the bed and kind of prop yourself up with it, or you can lie out on it. We’ll do a mix,” Becca says. Her voice is cold and mechanical.

“But remember, classy,” I say.

“With a little bit of raunchy. Remember your pledge to lighten up and have more fun,” Isabel says, poking me.

“What on earth do you think this is if not me lightening up and having more fun?” I say.

Isabel shrugs and says, “You giving in to my begging?”

I roll my eyes and laugh knowing that I wouldn’t be doing this if she hadn’t come up with the idea, but that’s not the whole truth. I’ve made a recent decision have more fun while I still can. Boudoir photos were never on my bucket list, but I’ll tick it off anyway.

“All set, ready when you are,” Becca says, holding her camera out in front of her.

Trying my best not to look awkward, I stand in front of the bed and put my hands on my hips. It’s boring but it’s the sexiest pose I can come up with.

“Pout your lips like a Kardashian doing a kissy face against a palm tree in Barbados,” Isabel says.

I tilt my head and pout my lips, trying to look anything other than ridiculous.

“That’s great, just keep moving around and I’ll take lots of snaps and we’ll get some good ones. Don’t be afraid to try different poses and expressions because we’ll just delete the bad ones and it will be like they never existed,” Becca says, her voice commanding and all business.

Becca’s shutter snaps as I get bolder and more comfortable with the situation. Although I’m definitely still on the side of classy, I do try my best to look more Victoria’s Secret than JCPenney catalog. On a roll, I turn my back to the door and bend over the bed, arching my back and sticking my butt out, one hand clasped against my chest.

Before I realize what’s happening, the door to the room behind me flings open and a man’s voice says, “Sweet.”