The Fence || h. s.

2 || Wanna Mow My Lawn?

I glance over my shoulder warily, clutching the fabric of my dress close to my chest. My thighs are on full display, and I'm pretty sure some of my backside is showing too. The flimsy bikini bottoms I chose to wear this morning don't leave much to imagination, but I didn't expect them to be seen by anyone else than me.

"Not sexy enough," Ryan mutters under his breath. To my utter mortification, I feel moisture gather in the corners of my eyes.

This is humiliating. Definitely not what I signed up for.

"What else do you want me to do?" I must sound pathetic but at this point, but somehow my pride won't let me leave. There's this irrational need to prove—to myself and anyone else involved—that it's not yet another thing that I'm hopeless at.

"Let it fall down," Ryan urges impatiently, "and loosen up these bikini straps. I need you to look more mature for this shot. You think you can do that for me?"

Though my skin is on fire and my heart is beating irregularly in my chest, I swallow my pride and follow his instructions this one last time. Each snap of the camera makes a loud, echoing sound that drills through my head. Once he's done, I fix my clothes with shaky hands.

"You have potential," Ryan speaks again, inspecting the pictures one by one. I just sit there, unsure if I even want to see the results of his 'work', especially after the traumatic experience I just went through. "Here, take a look."

The picture he shows me isn't ugly in itself. I'm sat with my back facing the camera, the flowery dress bunched around my waist as if I were about to get naked. It's alluring, sexy, and makes me look at least a couple of years older.

Simply put, the girl on this picture is nothing like me.

Regardless of it all, if it weren't for the fact that it makes me extremely uncomfortable to have my body exposed in such a way, I would even go as far as call this photograph beautiful. Ryan may be an asshole with no boundaries, but I can't deny that the guy's got talent.

However, the moment is shattered once he opens his mouth again, "I'll get rid of the freckles, lighten up the hair... Yeah, that one might turn out good. If I pull some strings, boss might let me post it on our Instagram page."

"Not this one," I mumble, "or any of them for that matter. In fact, I'm not sure if this is for me after all." The way I just sprung to my feet may appear like I'm about to throw a fit, but I'm way past the point of caring. I've endured enough "freckled ginger" jokes to last me a lifetime.

"What? Why? These are really fucking good!"

I roll my eyes when I'm sure he's not looking. "You just said they needed to be edited in order to look decent. Make up your mind."

"Yeah, but...." he sounds surprised. "It's normal. It's what we always do."

"Not when you want to change the very core of who I am." Behind me, I hear the sound of him gathering his equipment. Not bothering to wait, I snatch my bag off the ground and start walking down the beach.

"Babe, I'm just doing what's best for you! I want you to get noticed. Your success is my success," his voice sounds borderline whiney. "C'mon, let's discuss it over coffee... Or, even better, let's just have a quick dip in the ocean. Might as well have some fun since we're already here, right? I know you wore this bikini for a reason." The tone of his voice alone makes his intentions clear.

"Sorry, but I have plans," I'm equal parts disgusted and angry at myself for ever coming here. "We'll be in touch."

I may have been naive enough to agree to this photoshoot, but I sure as hell won't let this guy use his position to drag me into his bed.