Desperate Lovers by Adam Carpenter (good beach reads TXT) 📕

to go on. Bart grabbed one by the shoulder. Sawyer Block. Good, someone he could count on. “Sawyer, we’re about a minute or two off. Nothing fancy. Just streamline. And get your ass back here.” He adjusted the model’s shirt and sent him on his way.

Sawyer nodded. A streamline was one of several walks that models could be directed to do. As opposed to more stylish gaits, a streamline was a simple down and back. No attitude, nothing fancy. No pause at the far end for the cameras. Sawyer performed the maneuver flawlessly; chin high, shoulders relaxed, feet close together as was usually the case for male models. Women had it far worse, having to place each foot directly in front of the other, while somehow managing to sway their hips. Sawyer had tried it once as a joke and nearly fell over.

He had barely made it back to the curtain when Bart, in a panic, shooed all of the models onto the runway for the finale. After a moment of applause, the men parted like the red sea, making way for self-proclaimed fashion messiah Jimmy Bart. However annoyed the designer really felt, the crowd would never know it as he beamed and animatedly raised his hand to his heart to convey his thanks for the accolades. Then the pounding music ended. The audience quieted in expectation. Cursing a storm under his smile, Bart waved goodbye and ushered his models back behind the curtain.

In the dressing room, Sawyer carefully hung up the couture he had been asked to model and retrieved his own clothes from his bag. To one side, a lanky model sporting a Justin Bieber-esque haircut was preening in the full-length mirror, dancing to a club mix playing from a boom box, dressed only in a pair of skimpy briefs. Sawyer paused, not realizing he was staring.

“Like what you see?”

One of the other guys in the dressing room had caught him and made the catty remark. Sawyer straightened up quickly, pretended to rummage through his duffel bag. “What?” He tried to shrug it off, though his face pulsed with heat. He slipped his toned legs into his jeans and buttoned them. When he looked up again, Sawyer found the room watching him, including Mr. Bieber-bangs. He repeated himself, “What?”

The guy from the mirror sauntered over, flicking long hair out of his eyes with a toss of his head. “Are you gay, Sawyer? Wanna fuck around with me?” He rubbed his crotch.

Sawyer made a face and mockingly replied, “Oh yeah. I want you,

Gary.”

“Sure looked like it. Has the great Sawyer Block switched teams?”

“Not likely. But I do like those nice child-bearing hips of yours.”

Gary’s smirk crumbled into a scowl. The model huffed indignantly, turning on his heel. Sawyer snorted a humorless laugh, picked up his bag and headed for the door, bare-chested, t-shirt in hand.

Outside, in the hallway, he exhaled nervously. That was close. He had to stay more alert, especially in situations where he was changing clothes in cramped quarters with other hot-looking men. His heart may belong to Dane but his body had a mind of his own. At least he hadn’t popped a woody. That would have been a nightmare.

“Sawyer!”

Monica Paris caught up to him and walked with him down the hall, her arm around his trim waist and her hand worked just inside the back pocket of his stonewashed jeans. Like Sawyer, Monica’s star was rising in the fashion industry. Accordingly, they had become friends, meeting now and again at photo shoots and, as was the case here, fashion shows. She traced a slender finger up his exposed spine.

“Careful. If you go outside without your shirt, you’re going to be attacked by your fans. Hell, I’m tempted to jump you right here and now.”

Sawyer looked at her with a playful smile. Their flirtations, friendly as they were, were attracting the attention of those around them.

Ordinary people had a tendency to become voyeurs when two good looking people connected in any noticeable way. And were always ready, if things went south, to turn from voyeurs to vultures.

The smile on Sawyer’s face hardened a bit as an idea came to him.

He guided Monica a little further down the corridor, and then steered her through a doorway.

Minutes later, Max Melbourne marched through the premises like he owned the place, a few carefully selected paparazzi in tow. The agent liked to generate buzz for those he represented and what better venue than the Beverly Hills Fashion Festival? He introduced the photographers to a few models who were standing about. But the one he was looking for in particular was nowhere to be found.

He stopped one of his boys. “Terry, where’s Sawyer?”

“He just came out. I think he went through there.” He pointed to a room off to the side where a number of looky-loos appeared to be gathering.

What was going on? Though physically not as big as his persona, Max made a noticeable presence. He pushed his way through the crowd to what looked like just another dressing room. Only it wasn’t marked, which probably meant the room wasn’t being used for the show. Sawyer had probably ducked in either to avoid the crowd or to make a private phone call. Max considered knocking and then, noticing so many heads leaning in, looking his way, he remembered who he was. He was Max Melbourne, baron of the beautiful people, master of modeling careers from coast to coast. He pushed open the door with flourish.

“Oh!”

“Max? What the hell?”

So dumbfounded was Melbourne by what he saw, he leaned back on his heels, hands up to steady himself in the doorframe. The two photographers were quicker to react, lifting their cameras and snapping away. Others in the immediate vicinity peered in to see Sawyer pounding Monica Paris against the wall. His pants hung loose around his waist. Her dress was pushed up over her hips. Both models turned to the paparazzi with looks of shock, arms around one another. A priceless image that would play on TMZ for weeks.

“Out! Everybody out!” Max pushed the cameramen back and slammed the door shut. It took less than one