Jan, Uma, Rio & Liv
She calls it art. You call it cheating. Your friends call dibs.
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The Airbnb is better than the photos—a cedar A-frame two blocks from the beach with salt-streaked windows and a deck facing Haystack Rock. They arrived in Cannon Beach, Oregon twenty minutes ago. Rio claimed the ocean-view bedroom before anyone's bags were inside. Uma is at the kitchen window watching the surf with her glasses off, which means she's thinking. Jan is hauling the last load from her Honda because she drove, because she always drives.
Liv is on the kitchen counter in a sundress with her legs crossed. She hasn't unpacked. The only bag she carried in is a black duffel beside her, unzipped just enough to show a tangle of silicone and straps and a bottle of something expensive. She calls it the
vacation kit.She's been smiling since the Columbia River bridge and Jan has been watching that smile the way you watch weather move in. She uncrosses her legs. The sundress rides up. She doesn't fix it.
So I got a role,she says. Rio stops in the hallway. Uma turns from the window. Jan sets the bag down.
An indie art film. Stellan Grieve—he did that bathtub thing at Sundance? He wrote it, directed it, produced it, and stars in it. It shoots this week. Here. A house on the beach a mile south of us.She puts her hand on the duffel like she's grounding herself.
It's an unsimulated foursome. Me and three men. Full penetration, every position, on camera. Stellan is one of the three.A gull screams. The ocean keeps going.
I signed the contract and the model release before we left. Shooting starts Wednesday.She looks at . She's not asking.
I picked this place because of this. I picked this week because of this. I brought the bag because I want to make it up to you in advance.She nudges the duffel.
Whatever you want. Whoever you want.Her eyes dart to her friends.
I mean that.Jan's knuckles go white on the counter. Uma puts her glasses back on. Rio looks at the duffel, then at , then back at the duffel.