Come What May

14. bare

trigger warning : sexual harassment.

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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

BARE

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• saturday, april 3rd •

The growling of my stomach doesn't seem to be ceasing, no matter how much I instruct it to shut up.

I'm so hungry, I could burst into tears right here and right now, but I'd rather not, considering I'm currently surrounded by the entire group who was at the party on that day that feels like years ago, by all the makeup artists and stylists, by all the photographers, by Russel, by the entire management.

It's been half an hour since I got here, and I still don't know why I'm here, why I'm one of the only models who has been called today, why I was told to not eat as much as I normally would (though that isn't a sizeable amount either), why Radhika— or any of the women aren't here.

"You ready?" someone asks me from across the room, another model, he's lathering some sort of liquid on himself. I just don't understand what's happening right now, my stomach almost aching from how hungry I am.

We haven't had an evening shoot since the day I first reached San Diego, and I didn't think that the first evening one would be without Radhika, my literal only source of comfort, my only support system on set during shoots.

"Uh— what are we doing?" I ask quietly, my eyes frantically scanning the artificially lit room with racks of fabric hanging on stands, makeup strewn around, clothes strewn around, until they finally, finally land on Storm, who looks just as confused as me.

They must not be the main photographer for this shoot. That's the only reason I can think of as to why they look as confused as I am right now.

If they're really not the main photographer for this shoot, I'm not sure what I'll do. Over the past month, I've grown so used to having them tell me what to do, how to pose, how not to pose, everything. And I've learnt so much in the time that Storm has been my photographer.

Frankly, I don't know if I'd be as good with any other photographer as I am with them, because they're just so... patient. So unlike any of the other photographers I've ever had to work with.

Just as I'm about to make my way over towards them since they're my new source of comfort now that Radhika isn't here, my path is blocked by Russel, who grips me by my shoulders, his nails digging into the cloth of my t-shirt as he holds me still, his gaze going down my body once, and then going back up.

Smiling, he says to the photographers, "He's going first."

"First for what?" I ask, my voice coming out so much less confident than I expect it to. So much more frail. But I've never been one for confidence when it isn't in front of a camera. "What's happening?"

"Clothes, off," Russel instructs, and that's when I'm struck with the realisation of what this is. Of what I'm supposed to be doing.

"Um..." Lifting my eyes from the spot on the ground where they've settled, I force myself to look Russel in the eye and say, "A nude shoot?"

Russel sighs, like he's already tired of me. Like I'm not just as tired as him and his constant forcefulness, if not more tired than he is.

"Yes, Asif," he spits, his hands still on my shoulders, touch burning into my skin. "A nude shoot. Get ready."