Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 26061 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 130(@200wpm)___ 104(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26061 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 130(@200wpm)___ 104(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
“So…you’re married?”
I don’t know why I ask that. But it seems important, seeing as how I’m naked two feet away from him.
“Divorced,” he grumbles.
“Oh.” I’m definitely not relieved. That would be silly. Right? With an effort, I drag my attention off the lumberjack and refocus on my manager. “You were saying…?”
“Right.” He punches out a quick text. “We’re trying to break free of this Hey Betty image, are we not?” He doesn’t wait for me to respond. “Would it benefit us to…let the chains slip a little? Maybe leak a few shots of you struggling in the chains and…oops, there’s a nipple slip. Or maybe a flash of something…lower? Just a peek, babe. To show everyone you’re not a child actor anymore. You’re a serious artist.”
My heart is pounding a thousand miles an hour. I was chained before, but now I’m trapped. “How does a wardrobe malfunction make me a serious artist?”
“You know what I mean,” says Dustin. “We’re launching you as a sex symbol!”
I’m suddenly very aware of my position. Chained to a tree with a dozen men staring at me, waiting for me to make a decision. They all came here knowing I would be asked to do this, didn’t they? I’ve been played. I’m a commodity. A body. A paycheck. Not a living, breathing human being with a soul.
In this business, people will climb on your shoulders to reach the next rung. Not only in business, though. The same thing has happened in my personal life. My parents were humble, supportive people once upon a time. Until they were blinded by dollar signs and started draining my bank accounts to make “investments.” Cosmetic surgery, trips to the south of France, shopping sprees at Saint Laurent. Almost like they were in a race to spend my hard-earned money before I got old enough to claim it for myself.
Instead of protecting me from the dangers of this job, they became the danger.
Now my only option is to protect myself.
“I don’t want to catch a wardrobe malfunction on camera,” I whisper. “C-can someone unlock the chains and cover me up?”
“Don’t be precious about this, Jenna.” My manager is rolling his eyes, and I have the strongest urge to cry. “It’s not like we’re doing a full frontal.”
“She asked you to unlock the chains,” rasps the lumberjack. “Do it. Now.”
“You’re not in charge here,” blusters Dustin.
The lumberjack looks him dead in the eye and revs his chainsaw. “The fuck I’m not.”
“Okay. Okay.” My manager backs away, hands aloft in surrender. “Someone get Jenna out of those chains.” Under his breath, he says to the photographer. “You know what to do. Get the shot.”
Helplessness rattles in my limbs, a glopping tear rolling down my cheek, as one of the personal assistants rushes behind the tree to unlock the chains.
I have no control. They’ve taken my control.
Right before the chains drop away, which will leave me completely naked and vulnerable to the camera—not to mention, everyone’s phones—the lumberjack drops his chainsaw and steps in front of me, blocking me from view.
“I’ve got you, baby.”
CHAPTER 2
Penn
Oh lord.
What have I gotten myself into?
One of the park rangers informed me a film crew from Los Angeles was out here making a ruckus and disturbing the wildlife. When I came to kick them out, this scene was the last thing I expected. A beautiful young woman chained to a tree being exploited by a bunch of men old enough to be her father. Vultures.
You’re one to talk.
Yeah. Fine. At thirty-three, I’m damn close to being old enough to be Jenna Fairchild’s father, too…and I shouldn’t be noticing her long legs and painted pink toes. I shouldn’t be wondering how her belly button tastes. Or how those big green eyes would look staring up at me in the dark. And I’m done noticing. Done. My kid has a poster of Jenna on her bedroom wall, for Christ’s sake.
Fine. She sure as shit doesn’t look like that glossy representation anymore.
Not even close.
But she’s still young.
Way too young for a broken-down divorced single dad with a hint of a gut.
With that truth acknowledged, I force myself into a purely protective mindset and shield her from view, unbuttoning my flannel shirt to cover her, as soon as those chains drop. But I don’t quite have the final button undone when the heavy links drop to the forest floor and there she is, in all her naked glory, right there in front of me.
All perky tits and palm-sized hips. Tan lines in the shape of an itty-bitty bikini.
A pussy waxed clean as a whistle. God almighty.
Not to mention the gorgeous face that no doubt made her a multi-millionaire.
Every inch of her was sculpted by angels.
I only get a brief glance at her perfect curves and soft lines, but it’s enough to ruin me for the rest of my life…and now I’m just pissed the hell off, because these men want to show this off to the world against her will? Not if I have something to say about it.