"This won't be quite as intense, Sarah. We just want to take afew shots of you on the runway with the ocean as a backdrop. I thinkthat this will look spectacular, and I hope we can get a good shot fromthis group to use on your album."I nodded my understanding. He then stepped over to what I assumed washis car and opened the trunk. He pulled out a black electric guitar. Igrimaced slightly. I wasn't opposed to posing with a guitar, but Iwished it could have been mine. If it was not mine, then it would havebeen better if it was an acoustic guitar. I didn't have much experienceplaying an electric guitar.But he was the creative director, and I took the guitar from him beforefollowing Greg out to where they wanted me to stand.The scene from the beach was repeated: Greg and Jay worked together toget me into a desired pose, and I did my best to comply. We triedhaving me hold the guitar like I was playing it, posing with it on theground, lifting it into what I thought were weird ways, and. "Well, goddamn," he said, grinning. He'd put on some weight since high school. He was beefier now, and his chest was hairier than Trish had remembered from the days when she used to watch him and his friends playing shirts and skins basketball during lunch hour. A bit of roll hung over the belt of his pants but he didn't look fat or sloppy -- just big."I just wanted to say I'm sorry," she told him. The two men who were pissing heard the sound of her voice. One of them turned, splashing a puddle of yellow onto the floor.The real Trish wouldn't have dreamed of invading a men's room, but the real Trish was on vacation for the night. This was a blue-haired slut in a skintight sheath dress, with no underwear and four-inch spikes. She strutted toward him, her ass swaying. Something told her she was ready for anything.He put his hands on her waist and pulled her close. He was six-three and he towered over Tricia. She could smell the rum on his chest from the drink she'd tossed at him, and it.
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