The art building is empty Saturday night, but on the second floor, Dahlia leans against the panel where we swipe our IDs for studio access. She elected to wait for me.

“What took you so long?” She pushes away, and the door unlocks when she waves her ID over the panel.

“I didn’t realize I was late.”

Inside, the studio is a simple rectangular room with black walls, standing spotlights, and a two-person table with chairs in one corner.

“How are we doing this?” I drop my backpack on a chair. “I don’t want this to take longer than necessary.”

Dahlia assesses me in amusement and lays her bag on the table to reach her equipment. She hangs the SLR around her neck and removes the lens cap. “You’ve got your camera, right?”

I scoff. “Of course I brought my camera. I want to finish this tonight.”

“I want to go first.”

I pause in the middle of unzipping my backpack. “Modeling?”

Her sharp laughter echoes through the dark room. “No, silly. I want to take your pictures. I told you to dress nice. What are you wearing?”

I set my camera on the table. “Clothes.”

Dahlia turns toward the black backdrop to assess the area. “Nothing too dark, right? I need contrast. Preferably something tight.”

Under my hoody, the shirt is a pale-blue fitted t-shirt. No patterns or designs. Not skin-tight, but not loose either.

She glances over as I tug my arm out of the sleeve. I shift uncomfortably under her gaze but yank the hoody over my head. It drops to the floor beside my backpack.

Dahlia undoes the toggles, then the zipper of her own coat. When she tosses it over the second chair, her pink shirt, complete with scoop neckline and three-quarter sleeves, is tight and thin enough to show her ribs.

She drags two spotlights toward the backdrop with an air of confidence I have never understood. She has a plan, but I have nothing to contribute.

I sort through the notifications on my phone. Nothing pertinent and only one text, a short one from Imogene: Why are all men assholes?

She’s having boy trouble. Again.

I’ll call you tonight, I text. When I can.

“You ready?”

I look up. “How are we doing this?”

Dahlia nods toward the opposite side of the room, lit up by spotlights. “I want you up against the wall.”

I leave my phone next to the camera and slip past the spotlights. The wall is cold through my shirt, but I await further instructions.

Instead, she approaches.

She clucks her tongue. “Do I have to do everything?” Her petite hands press me flat against the wall, spread out my fingers over the cold surface, and she murmurs a quiet, “Glasses,” before sliding them off my nose.

“I need those to see.”

She lays a finger over my lips to shush me. “You’ll get them when we’re done with the shoot.” She pushes my curls behind my head and tilts one cheek toward the wall. “Loosen your jaw. Mouth slightly open.”

I comply. There’s no faster way to get this over with.

“Good.” Her voice is quiet as she runs a final hand over my shoulder. “Relax.” She’s blurry as soon as she’s out of reach. Not that I can see anything once she retreats behind the spotlights.

A moment later, the camera clicks.

“Look at me, but don’t move your head. Eyes wide, like you’re surprised.”

I locate the pink blur of her shirt. She’s to my left, and I can barely see her without twisting my neck.

For a few minutes, the only sound is the camera shutter and Dahlia’s quiet footsteps as she continually seeks a better angle.

“How are you, Billie?” She steps into the spotlight for a direct shot. “You and Xander still together?”

I frown—

“Don’t move.”

—and slacken my jaw, forcing my body to relax.

I don’t know how she can ask the question. Dahlia may be an outsider, but she’s probably taken more than a few glances to know Xander and I haven’t been “together” for months.

“That’s a shame,” she says. “I was rooting for you two, you know.”

I want to turn to her, to ask why she’s lying so poorly. She made her opinion on the matter infinitely clear from the moment I took a sip of that bloody mary.

“Now that I think about it—” she pauses to take another shot “—I haven’t seen the two of you in the same room for a long time. What happened?”

My lips clamp together, but that’s all the response she needs.

Dahlia pulls her camera away. She’s close enough I can distinguish her fuzzy features, but only just. “He seeing someone new? Or would you prefer not to talk about your ex?”

That must be my cue to speak.

“We were never technically dating.”

Her derisive laughter reverberates off the walls. “As close as it gets, right? I can’t imagine you in a real relationship. Let’s switch up positions.”

I’m sweating under the lights, but she sets the camera on the table and joins me.

At close range, her protruding brown eyes study me, but my gaze gravitates toward the smirk on her glistening lips.

“What position now?” My mouth is dry.

Dahlia doesn’t hesitate before tugging at the neck of my tee. “You’ve got a great body. You should show more skin.”

My jaw slackens. “What?”

“Oh well.” Her hands slide down and clamp around my hips—I gasp—to shift my position, her mouth pulling to the side pensively. “You know…” Her cold fingers trail up my abdomen, dragging the shirt with them, until my stomach is bare. “You’d look super cute in a crop-top.”

I shiver under her touch. “I didn’t bring extra clothes, and I don’t own a crop-top.”

She shrugs.

“What, you want me to take off my shirt?”

Dahlia snickers. “I mean, I’m not against it…” Her hands slide upward again.

I inhale sharply as the shirt grazes my nipples. “I’m not wearing a bra.”

Her fingers skim the sides of my breasts. “It’s me. We’re alone.”

“I don’t want you to take pictures of me half naked for class.” My voice is barely above a whisper.

“I wouldn’t use the photos that show anything. You can trust me.”

My eyelids fall shut, and I bite my lip.

I can’t trust her. I know I can’t trust her. But her fingers are warming up against my skin, and she lifts the shirt over my breasts. A soft fingerpad circles my erect nipple. I can’t steady my breathing.

My eyes flash open. “You don’t want to use them for our project?”

She shakes her head, a conspiratorial smirk on her wet lips.

“Then why?”

Dahlia steps closer, pressing against me, and I gasp as her hand engulfs my breast. “If you have to ask—”

“Knock, knock!”

She steps back, and I yank my shirt down. Light bursts into the studio from the newly-opened door. I can’t see who it is, but I don’t have to.

“Lia, I brought your food—oh!” He pauses, his silhouette in the bright doorway. “Hey, Billie.”

I slump against the wall. “Hi, Brent.”

Dahlia crosses her arms over her chest. “What the fuck are you doing here, Brent?”

I slip away from her to retrieve my glasses, and when I turn back, he’s frowning.

“What’re you talking about? You asked me to bring you some food.”

But Dahlia is livid. “I did not ask you to bring me food. I’m not hungry.”

Brent quirks his head. “Lia, you texted me two hours ago to bring you pie. What the hell are you overreacting about?”

“I said I’m not hungry.”

I grab my phone and sit on one of the chairs, squeezing my legs together uncomfortably. My hard nipples protrude through the shirt. Thankfully, they can’t see how wet my underwear is.

Dahlia scoffs. “Fine, we can take a break.” She snatches the box from him and takes the open seat. Inside are two slices of cream pie.

I recline and flip through my phone, waiting. Mo hasn’t responded to my last text, not even a confirmation.

“How you doing, Billie?”

Glaring, I turn off the screen. “I’m fine.”

He offers me his typical grin from his spot against the wall behind Dahlia. “It’s nice to see you again so soon.”

“It is?”

“Of course! Aren’t you twenty-one yet? You should come out with us. We go to Draft Horse all the time.”

“Not till April.” I’m too surprised to remind him I don’t drink. He probably doesn’t remember.

“You’ve seen the bar.” He doesn’t acknowledge I spoke. “I mean, there are like four bars in St. Clare, but this one is the best. You’d have a lot of fun with us.”

“Probably not.”

“What a shame.” Irritation laces his voice. “It’s kind of lonely without Darius.”

“What?”

Dahlia kicks him without turning around, and he rubs his shin with a deep frown. “That was unnecessary.”

But she fiddles with the dials on her SLR as she chews, humming occasionally.

“Did we get enough photos?” I ask in a small voice.

Her lips twist to the side in concentration. “I know we booked this till midnight, but the studio’s boring. We need a change of scenery. Explore around town?” She lifts her eyes to meet mine. “Or maybe we could do it somewhere more relaxing. You could come over to my apartment.”

I swallow. “Is that necessary? This is a perfectly good place for portraits.”

“I don’t want good. I want perfect. This is our final, Billie. Don’t you want an A?”

Of course I do, and she’s well aware of that fact. But she’s backing me into a corner, and I doubt being alone in her apartment is a good idea. Before Brent got here…

Well, I don’t know what the hell that was.

Or what it was about to be.

“Somewhere around town,” I concede.

She takes another bite, a smug smile on her lips.

“Are we done here?”

She shrugs. “I guess you can go.”

Behind her, Brent’s chortle echoes through the room. “Oh, come on, Billie. Don’t go yet. You should hang out with us.” He reaches inside his heavy coat and withdraws a couple dark bottles. “I brought some beer.”

My mouth contorts into a scowl. “I don’t drink.”

He laughs again. “Don’t be a killjoy. This is fun.”

I scoff and rise from the chair to put my things away. The last thing I grab is my hoody.

In pure Dahlia fashion, she’s unmoved by my irritation. “I’ll text you so we can get together for another photo shoot.”

“Sure.” I’m already out the door.