Free The Hinky Bearskin Rug by Jennifer Stevenson Page A

picture of everything Jewel couldn’t
measure up to at Baysdorter Boncil: trim, sleek, and pseudo-virginal, as if she
wore her virtue like a carnival mask.
    “Honey, this
is Jewel Heiss and her team from Consumer Services downtown. This little gal’s
my right hand.”
    The brunette
nodded at Clay and dimpled demurely at Randy. Jewel felt her hackles go up.
    “Of course
that’s not what you’ve come to see. Honey, tag along.”
    The assistant
handed off her folder and fell in beside Randy. Clay took Jewel’s elbow, and
they went down a big marble staircase. More Wilmas hung in the stairwell.
    Onika gestured
grandly. “A hundred years of smutty pictures. My inheritance.” On the ground
floor, she pushed open the gray double doors. “And this is the money shot: the
old studio, where we take feelthy pictures — stills only, of course. Who’s the
talent today, honey?”
    “Flash Titty,
and Sancho and the Tokyo Twins.”
    “They won’t
mind company.” Onika paused at the door to the studio. She grinned wickedly at
her guests. “You wanted to see it all. This is what everybody wants to see.”
    Randy bowed.
Clay smiled. Jewel squeaked, “Sure.”
    “Cigarette,”
the assistant murmured. Onika swore and put out her cigarette in the ashtray by
the door.
    “Who writes
your salacious stories?” Randy said as Onika ushered them in.
    “Bunch of
dirty-minded newspapermen,” Onika said. “We need new blood. Care to try?”
    “As a matter
of fact,” Randy began.
    Jewel said, “Oh,
hush.”
    All four of
them stopped in the shadows outside a brightly-lit tableau.
    Under bright
lights, three people were moving around on a huge, red-plush, heart-shaped
divan, or bed, or something.
    The women wore
peasant blouses and bright ruffled red skirts bunched around their waists,
kneeling side by side on the red velvet thingy.
    Sancho wore
only chaps, big fancy ones, all over fringe and shiny silver medallions, and
silver-tipped cowboy boots. He was kneeling behind both women, hard at work
with flesh and with plastic.
    In spite of
Jewel’s sophistication, her temperature rose.
    The twins
howled and barked and bayed. Sancho preserved a thoughtful, almost abstracted
expression.
    The camera
flashed. The photographer yammered in a breathless monotone, “Dumi, twist
right. Duyu, twist left. Sweet. Good action, Sancho. Duyu, grab your right
cheek and look back. Dumi, how about a frig. Atta girl. More elbow. Love it.”
Somehow that was even sexier than the sex.
    Speechless,
Jewel found herself looking at the women more than at the man. They were
impossibly skinny. It was fascinating, and somehow appalling, and she realized
half of her discomfort was because the women were also beautiful. I would look like potato salad doing that.
Potato salad with cellulite.
    Onika said to
someone standing nearby, “Flash Titty, this is Jewel and Clay and Randy.”
    Jewel shook
hands with a totally naked, totally gorgeous woman who believed in truth in
advertising. Clay was warm and friendly and didn’t look at her below the neck,
which Jewel thought was carrying chivalry too far. Randy shook hands, too. In
some way Randy acted more polite than Clay and yet something, his taut posture
or the sparkle in his eye, told Jewel he was fully aware of Flash Titty’s
qualifications.
    The naked
woman smiled at Randy. “Can I have a cappuccino?”
    “They’re not assistants,
they’re just rubbernecking,” Onika said.
    “I once knew a
beauty,” Randy remarked, “who claimed that coffee was ruinous to the
complexion.
    “Baby,” Flash
Titty said, “they’re not looking at my complexion.”
    Jewel wanted
to pull her hair.
    “I’ll get your
cappuccino,” Onika’s assistant said. She lifted her eyebrows at Jewel as if
she’d heard Jewel’s thought.
    God, I am such a bitch! Jewel felt like one solid blush.
    She paid
attention to the contortionists so she didn’t have to hear what Randy said
next. Those women sure were limber. Skinny, exquisite,