Such a proposition wouldn’t have bothered me in the slightest a few months ago. Even a week ago. Before the article, I could have turned it down because of Noah.
Before Noah I would have hopped at the chance.
Now? Now I felt disgusting. Dirty.
“Um.” I managed to shake my head and finally force out some words. “I’m not…. I don’t do massage anymore. Sorry.”
He leaned even closer, dropping his voice to a lower whisper. Near enough that his breath was warm on my face. “I’ll pay extra if you’ll let me fuck you bare. Fill up your ass.”
I blanched. “What?” Maybe he was one of the ones leaving messages.
“I’m negative. Was tested about a month ago.” He settled his large hand on my upper thigh and squeezed. “What would you normally charge for something like that?”
I shook my head.
A thought seemed to hit him, his eyes widened, and his voice took on an excited panting quality. “Actually you do photography too, I read, right? Can you film us as I fuck your ass? I’d pay even more for that.”
“No. I don’t do that.” I slid back, trying to get free of his hand. The leg of the chair caught on a crack in the tile. Only thanks to the man’s grip on my leg I didn’t fall.
“Okay. No filming, that’s okay.” His smile wavered. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to overstep on that one. So how much we talking about for the other?”
I stood, the man’s hand sliding off my leg, my voice louder than it should have been. Much louder. “No. I said no. I don’t do that. Fuck.”
Anger flashed over his face, erasing the lust. He glanced around, suddenly concerned we’d been overheard. Without another word, he hurried back to his table. As I frantically unplugged and shoved the computer into its carrying case, the man grabbed his book off the table, left his dishes where they were, and walked out the door, never looking back at me.
I watched him go, making sure to keep my eyes averted from the other coffee shop patrons and to head in the opposite direction when I rushed out a few moments later.
BY THEtime I reached the cliffs for yet another ocean-side shoot, I was fairly certain I was under control. For the next hour or so, I could stop the shaking from the coffee shop experience. I could hold back the tears over Bailey. I could be okay.
In other words, you could fake anything for an hour, right?
A photo shoot was kinda like cardio. Once behind the camera, everything else disappeared except the shot. The framing of the subject. The clouds in the background. Waiting for the perfect spray of waves on the rocks. Envisioning the edits I’d make. Picturing the end result and figuring out how best to get there.
Creating.
If there was any chance of being normal and okay, even for a finite number of minutes, it was a photo shoot. My drug of choice. Maybe even equal to sex.
The weather was perfect. Just enough cloud cover to give a soft quality to the photos. Just enough sun to offer some depth and variation. As I took a couple of practice shots, adjusting the settings on the camera to better suit the light, I felt myself start to disappear in a wonderfully soothing way. Breathing was easier. Each heartbeat didn’t seem like an act of will.
The ease of the moment began to fade when the client was ten minutes late. It wasn’t all that uncommon for people to be late, but rare enough. My photos weren’t cheap, and they were sort of an event. Most showed up early. And this particular client I’d shot a couple of times before. They got pictures of their daughter every couple of years. And they’d never been late.
The Jensens were my favorite type of family to work with. Easygoing and friendly. The mom and dad were content to let me know what they were hoping for and then to step back and simply watch and let me do my thing with their daughter, who was always a breeze to work with. While not an exceptionally pretty child, she was well behaved, kind, and had expressive features that gave a lot of range on film, which was equally as important as looks in the end result of a photo shoot. More important, really.
After fifteen minutes, nerves began to chew at my stomach.
Sure, they could have hit traffic. Maybe had to run back home for insulin since the father was diabetic. Something.
Them being late didn’t mean what I feared. I was being dramatic and searching for reasons to be stressed.
Right. Like I was at the coffee shop.
This was different. They were a great family. They were just late. And we’d confirmed only a few hours before.
At twenty minutes, I pulled out my phone to text them. There was a message from Noah I’d not noticed. Too caught up in the prep for the photo shoot, I supposed.
Hey, Babe. Hope the shoot is going well. Please give me a call as soon as you’re done.
Not unusual, though a touch more insistent than Noah’s typical style.
