Beside me, Bojan propped up on one elbow, his stomach covered in a thin carpet of dark hair, and flipped a football into the air, then caught it. Pointing it at the drone, he reared back his hand.
“Don’t do it….” Vidal’s voice warned through the walkie-talkie beside me. “We’re almost done, I promise. Bo, put your hand on Emma’s ass.”
I felt Bo’s warm palm settle on my bare ass cheek, and I rolled away, shrieking in pain when my elbow connected with a handle on the yacht’s deck. I kicked in his direction and connected with his shin.
“Stop it,” Vidal said sharply. “I only need a few more shots, then you can both be idiots. Emma, roll over for me.”
I groaned and rolled onto my back, stealing one of the fluffy blue pillows off the pile and stuffing it under my head. I glanced slightly left, giving my good angle to the camera, and shifted my hips, moving the bikini tie higher and positioning the Luli Fama emblem to a place of higher visibility for the camera. Everything was about the angles. A slight hip swivel made me look thinner. A twenty-degree head tilt made my face prettier. Good posture made my small breasts bigger, my stomach flatter, and a slightly arched foot would trigger #footfetishnation to surge to their, well, feet.
“That’s it. Spread the ends of your braids out more. I’m going to get a close shot, then a far. Bojan, can we get your watch in? And move your drink closer where we can catch the colors from it.”
Bojan tossed the ball in the air again, and caught it. “Ten seconds, V.”
There was a fumble of sound and I heard Edwin mutter in the background. “Bo…” I warned him, my lips barely moving.
“Okay, we got it,” Edwin came on the walkie, exasperated. “You’re done until four when the girls arrive.”
Bo arched back his arm and let the ball fly. I shaded my eyes with my hand and watched it completely miss the drone, which dipped to one side. The football bounced off the bottom deck of the yacht, then skittered to one side. I reached over and flipped off the walkie, which connected us to the chase boat—a mini version of our own that was housing Vidal and Edwin. Dion had stayed in LA, but packed me nineteen different garment bags, each with its own perfectly coordinated and sponsored outfit, down to the sunglasses. We were on day two, and I was already six outfits in. This one—an emerald green bikini with Versace sunglasses (perch on top of the head, not on the face) and a gold Tiffany’s anklet. Pale pink polish on toes and fingers. Hair in low twin braids. In addition to the captain, chef, photographer, and butler—I had a makeup and hair stylist who had already slept with Bojan, a development which had quieted down his level of bitchery quite a bit.
This afternoon the other influencers would arrive. It was a bit of a cheap hack to more followers—put four girls in bikinis on a billionaire’s yacht—but it worked. The girls were all carefully selected, all in the three-million-follower category, and with varying audiences. Our combined reach would get us trending, and our followers were the sort that were easily courted and captured. We had cultivated my last twelve posts to appeal to their market, and I should get a three or four hundred thousand bump, easily, if it was performed correctly. Lots of open mouth laughter with the right ratio of cleavage and fun. Water gun fights on jet skis. Cannonballs off the top level into the Aruba water, set to a song selected from a music studio that was paying for the placement and would share it on their feeds.
I was at eight million followers and growing. Cash Mitchell, despite my reluctant click on his ‘follow’ button, had not returned the favor and joined the ranks. Since our awards argument, we’d crossed paths three times, and he’d completely ignored me at each instance.
I leaned forward and pulled my phone out from underneath the towel. Checking my feeds, I flipped to Cash’s. His numbers were insane, and his latest post—a sponsored ad for Ray-Bans—had a nine percent engagement. I growled under my breath and fought the urge to like it.
“Stop being a stalker,” Bo intoned, pulling my phone out of my hand and tossing it toward my bag. “You’ve got to get over this obsession, Em.”
“It’s not an obsession,” I said tartly. “It’s an annoyance. Cash is annoying.”
“Completely agree.” He pushed his sunglasses up on the top of his head. “The guy is a tool.”
I swallowed an automatic defense that seemed to rise, unwelcomed, whenever Bojan trashed him. “Sure.”
He groaned. “He likes beauty queens. No offense, but nothing is going to happen with you two.”