Dirty Little Secrets(2)

I nodded in understanding on both of his points. The man was a giant, easily six foot six, not an ounce of fat on his body. On the other hand, like any model who had to do photo shoots in swimwear and lingerie, I knew the temporary advantages of wringing out some water from under my skin right before going in front of the camera. I guessed the same idea applied to the fighters who were mostly worried about making a weight limit. “So how’s your weight looking?”

“I did well this camp,” he replied casually, taking a drink from his flute of what looked like champagne. “This morning I was an easy two sixty, so I’ll be able to relax tonight and make weight just fine. It’s actually easier on my body than when I was in college and playing football. Then we had to try and pack on weight as well as stay high-impact athletes.”

“Never had that problem,” I replied, chuckling. “My father was always worried about me keeping weight on. Just the way my metabolism was back in my childhood years, I guess.”

“And now?” the fighter asked, curious. “What does he think of your modeling?”

I shook my head sadly. “My father died years ago. I hadn’t seen him in years, so I doubt he ever got a chance to see me do any modeling at all.”

The man looked apologetic, so I smiled despite the emotional pain. I was there to make the party more enjoyable, not rain on someone’s day. “You didn’t know when you asked, so don’t feel bad. Good luck with your fight.”

“Thanks,” he said, and I drifted off, keeping to the rule the UFC executives told us, which was to not monopolize our time with any one fighter. We were eye candy, and if we spent all of our time with one person, that could lead to not only a poor event, but rumors on Twitter that the UFC didn’t want to have. For the rest of the party, I tried my best to enjoy myself, chatting with the fighters who said something or waving, posing for photos, and even getting in on the planned “spontaneous” water fight, which ended with the girls throwing the president of the UFC into the pool.

The party was just starting to break up when I saw my boyfriend, Sydney, on the fringes of the pool area near the drink table. He had finagled a deal with the UFC to get a press pass for the event, ostensibly as a photographer. He had a reputation among the glamour industry, especially for his sexy shoots. While I didn’t approve, he’d even done some shoots for Playboy and Penthouse, earning a reputation for being able to walk that fine line between sexy and slutty that aroused readers and increased sales. How that translated over to being able to photograph two men beat the hell out of each other inside a fenced octagon I didn’t know, but Sydney loved the UFC and he had the ability to talk people into almost anything. I knew from personal experience.

I resisted the urge to wave to Syd, knowing I couldn’t be seen with my boyfriend as I worked. As I looked closer, I felt my heart break. He was standing with some woman, a pretty half-Chinese, half-Brazilian girl who I thought was there as one of the fighter’s girlfriends or sisters or something. They were sipping drinks and chatting when she started laughing and giving him the look. I’m pretty innocent, but I could read the signs in her face. What was even worse was how Sydney nodded and leaned in, whispering in her ear in such a way that I knew his lips were doing more than just forming words. The woman pushed her body up against him and nodded. They walked off, his arm resting far too low on her waist for my comfort, heading inside the mansion that the UFC had rented for the party.

Ignoring the looks and waves of some of the people at the party who wondered why one of the paid models was walking away without an explanation, I followed Syd and the girl. I had to work my way through the crowd, my smile going from professional to forced as I went. There was something that spoke in my head, something that I just couldn’t dismiss.

It took me nearly seven minutes to find them in a bedroom. The mansion, unique to California in that it seemed to follow no particular architecture style, was one of those big places with a seemingly endless collection of hallways, rooms, and corridors, and I seemed to keep getting stopped by people who were either in my way or just wanted to chat me up. Sydney and the girl were upstairs, his pants around his ankles with her head between his legs, him leaning against a nightstand with most of his back to me. I had seen all I could take.

“You son of a bitch,” I said, my voice surprisingly dead and lifeless as I watched. “How could you?”

Syd’s head whipped around and he stared at me in open shock. The girl, who’d paused her cock-sucking long enough to at least see who was speaking, smiled and said something in Portuguese that I didn’t have the mental focus to translate from the little bit I had picked up. Instead, my eyes were locked on Syd, who stammered an excuse I didn’t care to listen to. Ignoring his lies, I turned on my heel and stalked my way back downstairs, ducking into a bathroom to let the tears flow before dabbing at my eyes. I had a job to finish, regardless of what this asshole had just done to me.