"I'm going to need you to keep your bodies exactly as they are now. Just follow me with your heads as I move, all right? No smiles, but try not to look constipated, either," Tommy says.

The weird instructions bring me back to reality. Unsure of what type of expression the photographer is aiming for, I go with a 'hating life, shoot me now' pout. Tommy seems to love it, and he snaps away, covering multiple angles.

I'm technically only five-seven, but in heels, I'm now as tall as Seb. Our heads are level, so this pose with his arm around my neck is feeling less like the setup for a sexy ship than a sketchy stalker. Was 'chokehold chic' really the artistic vision this pap had for selling jeans?

"Perfect." Tommy lowers the camera and checks the display screen. Well, there's my answer. When he looks up, he waves a finger in the air in a circular motion. "Now I'd like for you, Lauren, to turn around and then, Seb, hold her in a close embrace."

We readjust, and I glance over my shoulder. "Where should I put my hands?" I ask, faced with the options of keeping them at my sides, wrapping them around Seb's waist, or doing something else entirely.

Tommy looks up from fiddling with his equipment. "Good question. How about placing them palm open against his chest?" he says, but before I can move, he speaks again. "On second thought, why don't you grab a bit of his shirtfront like you just want to rip the thing off him?"

I seriously can't with this guy, but I swallow any one of a dozen clap backs and dig my fingers into the freshly laundered-smelling fabric. My fingertips graze Seb's rock-hard chest through the thin material, and I guess it's a good thing I don't have a boyfriend right now because I'd feel guilty as hell with such a provocative pose even if it's just pretend.

"Yeah, that's great," Tommy says. "Now hold on just one sec because now my light's all messed up."

He steps away to get his assistants to adjust the fancy equipment, and Nicola runs over to give us a thumbs-up. "You two look amazing," she gushes, turning away as her cell phone rings.

Left completely alone in the arms of the strong-and-silent Italian—who must think I'm the worst thing to happen to his career since standard fuel specs were imposed—isn't totally weird at all. "This is so typical," I blurt out.

Seb wrinkles his thick brows. "What?"

"The guy holding the girl with her back to the camera setup," I explain as he continues to look at me blankly. "It's like the go-to pose for clothing ads in magazines. You know. Vogue? Cosmo?"

One side of his mouth draws upward. It's reminiscent of the smirk on his poster, but with a dash of warmth. Like if the conceit was replaced with compassion. "If you do not like it, why do you not say something?"

The question sounds like a challenge, but I'm not biting. Celia would have my ass if I made trouble on my first day. "Why bother? This guy's the best, right? They must want his ideas for some reason."

"If you're done with the chit-chat, can I have your attention here, please?" Tommy returns, along with a woman who brushes my hair and smoothes out Seb's collar. "Hold that pose, but both of you look at me," instructs the photographer after she runs out of the frame.

He takes a few pictures before lowering the camera again. "You've got a gorgeous face, sweetheart, but for these, I'd like for you to look away. And we're going to have to do something else with your hands." He nods to Seb.

I grit my teeth at his gross vibes, but turn toward the water. It's definitely more pleasant to look at than that condescending asshole. When he moves one of Seb's hands higher up my back and my teammate's fingers graze my spine, a chill runs through me. But as Tommy pushes the other hand far enough down to cup my butt cheek, my eyes pop wide open.

"Is it okay?" Seb at least has the manners to ask.

"Yeah." I avoid his gaze, wanting to get this over with.

The sound of the camera's shutter opening and closing is the only way I know the photographer is still doing his thing. At least the gentle breeze off the water is picking up the refreshingly salty smell of the ocean.

"I'm really not feeling this, guys." Tommy breaks the silence. "The shot's too busy, so I'm going to have you ditch your top."

I whip my head around, hoping he's talking to Seb, but of course he's not. He's looking straight at me. "What?"

"Don't worry. I'm keeping the same pose, so the camera will only get you from behind. Your face won't even be visible." He dangles the camera in one hand at his side. Turning to one of his assistants, he adds, "I think we have one of those modesty cover things for her, right?"

"Oh, hell no," I say, stepping away from Seb and throwing up my hands.

Nicola also returns just in time. "Is there a problem?"

"Uhm, yeah." I nod. "This perv thinks this is Girls Gone Wild, telling me to take my clothes off. Like, are you out of your mind?"

She turns to Tommy. "Our riders don't do nudity."

He laughs. "Who said nudity? All I need is for her back to be uncovered. It'll bring the eye down to the jeans and add a little excitement to the frame, you know?"

Nicola purses her lips and to my horror, appears to actually be considering this insanity. After a few seconds, she shrugs. "That sounds acceptable. Go ahead, then."

"Excuse me." I wave my hands to get their attention. "Don't I have a say in this?"

"It's no big deal," Tommy says, touching my arm. "I'll take off my shirt too if that'll make you more comfortable."

"God no!" I step back. "Why would you even think that?"

"Babe, I've worked with a lot of people, and no one has ever objected to my ideas," he says.

I thrust my chin up at the assumption that silence means consent. "Well, that's their problem."

"It appears that it's now also your problem, so if you can't get on board then I'm going to call your boss." He holds his hand out toward the people gathered behind him. "Someone get me my phone."

"Come on. We're racers. Do you think anyone expects us to sell stuff half-naked?" I ask, looking at his crew for a hint of support, but of course no one steps up. Bastards. I really, really don't want Nigel involved, so in a last bit of desperation, I turn to Seb. "What do you think?"

He looks at me like I'd just asked for the atomic weight of Boron or something. "What do you want me to say?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe that this setup should better reflect who we are?" I hold back tears, imagining the final product of Tommy Miranda's slut-aesthetic on the glossy pages of a magazine in the hands of a girl just a few years younger than me. I want to inspire other girls to follow their dreams, but I don't see how that's possible if they can't even tell it's me or—even worse—if they assume they have to strip down to be taken seriously.

Seb crosses his arms. "Like what? Motorcycle racers?"

"Why not?" I smile, sensing I'm getting to him.

"Because the bikes aren't the stars of this shoot; the clothes are," Tommy says.

Funny. I thought we were the stars here, but okay. "Can't they be in the background or something?" I ask the photographer.

"Of course they can, if the manufacturer pays. Do you think they'd get the promotion for free?" he asks. "Otherwise, we'd need to get a stock bike without any branding, and we don't have time to hunt around for one."

Shit, I can't argue with that.

I'm being an ass for complaining anyway. At least I have sponsors. Making a fuss will just reflect badly on me because at this level, it's really the team that draws many of them in and not the individual rider. My friend Cameron Garcia wasn't so lucky. She raced alongside me in the US series for the last few years, but last winter, her biggest sponsor decided to pull out. It was some tech company that made it big on their first product, then tried to diversify too fast and watered down their value. They quickly divested from anything that wasn't industry related, including ad placement on Cam's gear and bike. She couldn't find replacement funding fast enough, so she's sitting out this season and is utterly miserable. I know she wouldn't have compromised her values to keep her ride at any cost, but she probably would have sucked it up if all else failed.

What if I gave in? My boobs would be covered. No big deal, right? The fact that I'm practically hyperventilating and my hands are shaking probably mean otherwise. Dammit, my image is worth more than selling some crappy Euro-trash jeans, and if it means bailing right now, then so be it.

I look around for the guy from before to take me back to the pits, when inspiration hits. "What about those?" I point to the scooters parked nearby. With plain, white paintjobs and hardly any brand tags, they could easily be Photoshopped to be generic enough for the ad. "I bet we could do something fun that works for all of us?"

Tommy shakes his head and sighs. "What did you have in mind?"

I explain my idea, and within an hour Seb and I are mock-racing the scooters in front of the backdrop of the ocean while Tommy Miranda snaps his pictures. I've also gotten to change into more loose-fitting jeans, a proper shirt, and even sneakers, which is the best part. Judging by the smiles as we zip by, everyone else is enjoying the setup, too. When it comes time to review some of the shots, the photographer himself admits they're not too bad. But for some reason, it's my teammate's assessment that makes me the happiest.

Stopping on a frame showing me on my scooter turned to look back at him while he laughs and leans onto the handlebars of his bike trying to catch up, Seb nods and says, "Sembra buono."

If this means he's pleased and we don't have to go with Tommy's original idea, then I couldn't agree more.