Strike a Pose (Blame It on Fame #1)

32. Willow

Chapter 32

Willow

T he good news is that Mom’s surgery went well. The bad news is that she couldn’t really talk for the first day or so…but I guess that’s to be expected after lung surgery. Visiting hours ended shortly after Mom woke up that first night, so the rest of us—even Aspen, who has her own place in LA—went home to my parents’ rented penthouse in the city. A few days after the surgery, Mom was able to come home. We spent the next couple of weeks taking turns fussing over her until it was time for chemotherapy.

“I’m canceling the photo shoot,” I tell Mom, sitting on the couch next to where she reclines, her feet resting on me.

“Willow Elizabeth Jordan, if you cancel your tropical Sports Illustrated shoot to sit in a musty hospital with me, I will be absolutely livid. I’ll tell the nurses that you’re not even allowed to come into the room to sit with me. You’ll be cooped up like you have been for the past two weeks. Please, Willow. Go.”

“But I–”

“Willow. Are you seriously going to disobey your sick mother? You’ve done enough damage by arguing this with me and raising my blood pressure. Get in your room and start packing right this second. You need to leave tonight,” she demands. My mom rarely gets serious, but I can tell she means business right now. She wants me gone.

“Mom, I want to be here with you, I want to help.”

“I know,” she says, softening her tone. “But there’s nothing you can do to help. And I’ll be damned if my little bump in the road gets in the way of you living your life. You’ve been here two weeks, Willow, and it means the world to me. But please, please don’t put your life on hold for me. If you really wanted to make me feel better, you’d go. I can’t stand the thought of holding all of you up.”

“You’re not holding us up. We want to be here,” I say, holding her hand.

“Send me pictures of the water,” she says, squeezing my hand. “It’ll motivate me because your father promised me that when this whole thing is over, we’ll take a big family vacation anywhere I want to go to celebrate.”

“Okay,” I say, trying to push back the tears threatening to spill over my eyes. “But even if I resume modeling, I’ll be back to check in on you every week or so.”

“Willow, honey, that’s a lot on you. You don’t have to. I’ll be fine, I promise you .”

“I know you will be.” I nod. “I’ll see you in a week, okay?”

“I can’t wait to hear all about it.” She smiles. “Little Willow on the cover of Sports Illustrated ,” she says merrily.

Forty-eight hours later, I’m on the beach of Turks and Caicos in a tiny white string bikini. I arrived yesterday, and the crew spent all day preening over me—massaging, exfoliating, tanning, manicuring…the list goes on and on. Then, before dawn this morning, they plucked my brows, expertly applied a full face of “natu ral” makeup (including some fake freckles to make me seem more beachy), and then I had a fitting and lighting check.

“Let’s try both hands in your hair, really mess it up a bit,” the shoot director calls. “You’re doing great, Willow.”

I smile tightly and run my hands through my hair, tousling it. “More teeth, give us a real smile,” the director calls. I do as he asks, cycling through a few different poses, all with my hands in my hair.

“Alright, let’s get some seated ones. Well, actually let’s start with you on your knees, legs spread a little. And give us more of a serious look. Perfect,” he says as I follow directions.

After about thirty more minutes of that, I switch bikinis behind a flimsy little tent and we resume the shoot for a few more hours.

“Alright.” The director smiles. “I think we have everything we need. Great job, Willow, you were an absolute vision.”

“Thanks.”

There are a few other models who were shooting simultaneously with me (although I have the cover spread), and we all go out to dinner together. I’m wrapped in a towel, sitting on a picnic bench eating fish tacos, when my phone lights up with a call from Riley. With my mom being sick, we haven’t had much time to talk over the past couple of weeks, so I excuse myself from the table and pick up.

“Hey,” I answer as I walk down the narrow beach access.

“Hey. How are you?” he asks.

“I’m alright. How’s being back on tour?”

“It’s great.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “We’re on the bus again, driving to Nashville. Last night, we played Atlanta, which was a blast. Oh, and a few nights before that, we played Jacksonville, and my sister surprised me. It was great. ”

“Aw, I’m so glad.” My mood instantly lifts tenfold. “How is she?”

“She’s great. I’m so glad she was able to catch a show. Your turn to watch one next.”

“I will, I promise.”

And I mean it. As soon as I get back to LA and check in with my family, I plan on figuring out when I’m free to see one of his shows. Even though his tour is sold out, I’m sure Riley could get me a ticket, or I could buy a scalped one if need be.

“How’s your mom? Still doing well? And how’s the Caribbean?”

“She’s doing well, yeah. I called her earlier this morning, and she seemed happy. She started chemo yesterday, and she said it went well. But I know she feels like shit and is just putting on a brave face. I’ll go back and check in with her in a few days. Sports Illustrated gave us all a few extra days to spend lounging around the resort, and my mom said, and I quote, ‘The thought of you leaving free beach days on the table makes me sicker than any cancer.’ So, since she made it very clear that I can’t show my face back to LA until my free beach days are over, Heena is flying out to stay with me here for a few days tomorrow morning.”

“That’s tough. But I guess there are worse places to be banished to,” he offers.

“Very true. Did you get any time on the beach while you were in Florida?” I ask, plopping down in the sand, close enough to the water that the waves lap at my feet.

“Yeah, I did. Finally got some color back. Although, unfortunately, nobody paid me to spend the day at the beach.”

“Maybe you should explore your options. Find a rich Floridian sugar momma who’ll pay you to lounge next to her all day.”

Riley laughs. “If my next album flops, that’s the plan. ”

“I’m sure it won’t. I heard that song you posted on your Instagram the other day. If that’s on the album, I’m sure it’ll go triple platinum.”

“Eh. I just had a good muse.”

“Claire?” I ask reluctantly.

“What?” his brows bunch together, as if he’s both offended and amused. “No, Willow, it’s about you.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“So you think I’m a masterpiece?” I tease, twirling my hair around my finger even though he can’t see me.

“Doesn’t everyone?”

I laugh. “You’re great for my ego. I’m keeping you.”

“Your ego needs a boost?”

“Every now and then, sure. I’m flattered, really. I’m going to add that to my resume: Superstar Riley Coleman’s muse.”

Riley laughs in my ear, making me grin as I run my fingers through the wet sand, disrupting it and then smoothing it back over. “Remind me to never write you another song,” he says.

“I can remind you all I want, but something tells me you’ll write another just to spite me.”

“Probably.”

Wow, I didn’t expect him to agree with me. Suddenly, my stomach is full of butterflies. Addicted to the feeling of Riley’s admiration, I get an idea to keep it going.

“On another note, I already got some proofs back from the shoot today. Want to help me narrow down the general idea of which one should be the cover shot?”

“You get to choose your own cover photo?”

“Sort of. It’s a team effort. The photo gets approval from both the magazine and from me and my team. Want to see?”

“Sure. ”

I send a few photos over. One of me standing in a red one-piece with enough cut-outs to be skimpier than most bikinis, one of me kneeling in the surf in the tiny white string bikini, and one of me laying on my side in the same tiny string bikini, but in black.

“Did you get them?” I ask after a few seconds of silence on Riley’s end.

“Yeah,” he answers, his voice a full octave deeper than usual.

Mission accomplished .

“I sort of like the white one,” I goad. The white one is definitely the most seductive in style, pose, and facial expression.

“That one’s good,” he responds, his voice still gravelly. “I like the water in that one.”

The water, I kick my feet, practically giggling out loud.

“That’s the differentiator? Because I have shots of the other two suits in the water, too.”

“I like everything about that one,” he corrects. “But I also like the other two…I mean Jesus, Willow.”

“What?” I ask innocently.

“How do you look like that? You’re like…from another planet, I swear.”

“In a good way?” I fish. I’m almost ashamed of myself, but my inner-Heena is telling me to embrace the narcissism.

“In a great way. If I were you, I don’t think I’d ever leave the house. I’d be glued to the mirror all day admiring myself.”

A deep laugh escapes me. “Be so for real, Riley.”

“I swear to God, Willow, I would. I’d also never touch a piece of clothing ever again.”

“I think I’d probably get arrested.”

“No way. Everyone would be too awestruck to arrest you.”

“Maybe I’ll have to try it sometime. ”

“Give me a call when you do. I’ll come watch and see what happens. Purely for science.”

“Of course. So, you don’t think my tits look better in the red suit?”

Wow, I really must be possessed by Heena today.

“Willow,” he groans. “I’m begging you, don’t ask me to look at your tits.”

“Why not? It’s really important. It’s for the cover.”

“Do you want the honest answer?”

“Always.”

“Because I’m hard as a rock, and I’m genuinely worried I’ll come in my pants if I look at your tits again.”

“Riley!” I laugh. “ Again ?”

“Willow. I’m a man. How could I not look? It’s genuinely mortifying how turned on I am from a photo.”

“Well, technically, it was three photos. Maybe one of the guys could help you out with your little…issue.”

I laugh wickedly.

“Hey, watch what you call little, Willow Jordan.”

“Or what, you’ll come? I didn’t peg you for a degradation guy, but hey, I’m not one to kink shame.”

“Okay, I’m hanging up with you now.” I can just tell he’s shaking his head at me through the phone.

“To go jerk off?”

“I mean, yeah,” he says. “Bye, Willow.”

I laugh, hanging up. “Have fun.”

On the way back to my room, I can’t stop giggling to myself, thinking back over our conversation. And when I get there, I lock the door, grab my vibrator, and pull up some of my favorite thirst traps of Riley…it’s only fair.