Layton’s brand… I looked at the pair of them. If he had a brand, boob-grabbing was probably a key element. Which was another reason Emma should separate herself from him. Branding was crucial, and I’d learned that lesson from the best.
55
#gotmilk
EMMA: 40,199,210 FOLLOWERS
Layton’s brand was clear. Redneck meets fun. His posts were littered with hashtags like #redneckking and #ilikebeer—and his carefree attitude was refreshing after filming two straight scenes with Marissa.
Edwin and Michelle thought that his audience would respond best to a pic of me wearing an American flag bikini. Dion flatly denied the idea. Dana proposed a compromise—a show scene with a photoshoot where I wore the flag bikini. The shoot would give me an excuse for the fashion faux pas while still giving me the lure for attracting Layton’s fans. It took a day to negotiate with sponsors over the focus of the shoot, which was decided after four hours of frantic negotiations between the Dairy Farmers of America and Sopchoppy Sauce—a hot sauce with a cartoon label of a naked man holding a giant trout over his penis.
The cows won, which was how I ended sitting on a hay bale with a glass of milk in hand, clad in the flag bikini. Layton stood behind me in low-slung jeans and no shirt, his abs newly-enhanced with an airbrush gun.
“I don’t understand why I have to be here.” Cash’s voice carried over the others. I spotted him next to Dana, his arms crossed over a faded UCLA t-shirt.
“You’re here…Marissa.”
I lost most of what Dana said. Whatever it was, the scowl on Cash’s face deepened. His gaze caught mine, and I looked away.
“Right here, guys.” The photographer waved his hand. “Let’s get some shots with both of you looking at me.”
I obeyed, angling my hips a little and giving him my best facial angle.
“That’s it.” The lights flashed in rapid succession. “Layton, show me that dimple. Can you put one knee on the hay bale?”
The bale dipped beneath me as he rested his weight on it. His hand settled on my bare shoulder, and he gave it a gentle squeeze.
“That’s it. Move closer to her, Layton.”
In my peripheral vision, Cash said something in Dana’s ear. She waved him off.
The photographer set down his camera and instructed Layton to sit on the bay, then repositioned me so that I was stretched out on my side, snug against him. “Hold her,” he instructed.
Layton slung his arm around my shoulder and drew me back against his chest. I shifted in a more comfortable position, and the photographer flashed a thumbs up. “There. That’s perfect.”
Cash stood to one side, his expression dark, as he continued to sulk over having to be there. Well, screw him. Whether the setup was ridiculous or not, this was my first national shoot, and it was exciting. Plus, the paycheck—even split with Layton—was massive, enough for me to pay Edwin and Dion’s salaries for a year.
“This is bullshit.” Marissa stomped onto the scene—literally. I watched as she shoved a gaffer to one side and cut into the view line of the shot. “A milk ad? Have you been to a dairy farm and seen the conditions there?”
I rolled my eyes. “Have you?” I took a sip of the milk out of spite, and the bulbs flashed as the photographer recorded the moment. Layton’s grip tightened reassuringly, bringing me closer to him.
“Actually, Emma, I have.” She spat out the words. “And the conditions there are despicable.”
“Whoa.” A short man with an orange blazer and a Texas tie stepped forward. “Defamation and negative opinions on dairy cannot be on the show. Depictions of the dairy industry, as per the contract, must—”
“Marissa?” I asked sweetly. “How about you go jump off that cliff over there?”
She planted her wedge sandals in the grass turf and glared at me. “I’m staying right here.”
“Marissa,” Cash said, appearing beside her. “Come on. Let them finish up. You can say everything you want to say in confessional.”
“And she’s wearing an American flag!” Marissa pointed to me as if I had a nazi symbol painted on my forehead.
“So?” Layton asked.
“Soooo, isn’t it against the law to wear a flag as clothing?”
I waited for Texas tie, or Dana, or someone with some sort of authority, to put her in her place. Instead, an uneasy and problematic silence fell over the group.
56
#weloveourveterans
CASH
Marissa’s second accusation shut everything down for a good half hour so that attorneys could be called, the internet consulted, and our political correctness experts could announce that Emma should definitely not be wearing an American flag bathing suit.
My relief lasted for about two minutes before some light bulb from the Dairy Farmers people suggested that Emma lose the bathing suit entirely. Layton, surprise surprise, loved the idea. Emma was less enthusiastic, and an impromptu meeting of her team huddled in a small circle by the wardrobe rack. I watched them argue, her manager jabbing the air to punctuate some statement.