The photographer, maybe not oblivious but probably more accurately ambivalent to the fact, interrupts our tense stand-off. “Tristan, we’re wasting light. Let’s go. I want you sitting in front of the bike, boots on display, make it look like you’ve been working for it. Maverick you can be walking away behind the scene. Everyone else in the background is walking. Shot is set up people, and we’re not waiting for you lot to play catch ups.”
Big Tom takes a step forward, but I stop him by putting my hand out while turning to Maverick, “It’s not an issue if you are patched, but it would be an issue if you said you weren’t then they found out you were.”
“Got it. Still not patched,” he hisses back towards Big Tom before he drops his focus to me. His eyes begging me to believe him but speaking from experience, lying is easy.
“Tris?” Big Tom asks since in his eyes, and King’s, I am the only thing that matters.
“I promise,” Maverick whispers quietly.
“Guess we have to trust he’s a man of his word.” I look right at Maverick when I speak and he nods slowly confirming what I’m saying.
It must sink in too, because the stress in his posture changes and a tease of his yummy blackberry scent fills the space between us.
And then I hustle because there comes a point you do have to trust people. If Maverick says he’s not patched, he’s not patched. If Big Tom was worried about my safety, he’d rush me out but right now nothing is stopping me from working.
I’ve worked my ass off to get where I am and I’m not about to ruin my career over a man. But Maverick is a delicious-smelling Alpha, and I am a liar.
I’m on set and in work mode before he can utter another word. Of course we work well together. He’s one of those modelsthat can read the scene but more importantly can feel the intention of the photographer.
“Can I touch you yet?” He purrs in my ear when he gets told to stand by. The both of us watch as one of the other models gets sent off set for some unknown reason.
“Are you going to be good?” I laugh before pushing out of where we’re standing waiting, to sit on a bench seat of a worn-out picnic table.
The stylist flicks my hair to one side, curling it loosely before tugging the edge of the neck of my shirt open. Behind me a team of people rush around with armfuls of props and different shoes, getting the entire cast ready for the next shot.
The director stands around before he calls over to Maverick.
“I want you sitting on the table facing forward. Tristan, stay where you are, but lounge back against his legs, arms over his legs.”
I stop listening at that point and focus on watching the way Maverick moves. It’s almost slinky, like a jaguar prowling, and much like the jungle cat I can easily see the purposeful and hidden strength in each considered step he takes.
Some people know they look good, and he’s one of those people but he’s not overly cocky about it. Or maybe he is, and I’m just glossing over the way everything about him works. Besides his pretty eyes and deliciously long eyelashes, he’s also got great hair—deep brown and so glossy it would have to feel like velvet if you ran your fingers through it. The best part is no matter who brushes it or how many times he runs his fingers through it, there’s a long lock that refuses to stay put, so it keeps flopping forward. But it works. Jesus how it works.
“You’re staring again,” he says when he’s close enough for him to talk quietly.
“Righto.” I laugh loudly, half destroying the suggested intimacy in the way he was speaking. “Come on, pretty boy, sit your ass down and let’s sell these boots.”
“You know I’m not just a pretty face, right?” he teases.
“Hey?” I swing around looking up at him. The director calls out hold, and in the space we share I can read his interest plain as day, and it only adds to mine.
As soon as we get told to move, he leans in close, “Are you gonna Google my name later?”
I laugh, wiping absolutely nothing off my lip, they’re all tingly and shit, but I have to touch my lips before I look at him again.“Are you going to do that to mine?”
“Fuck yes. I’m going to download every image I can of you like a creeper too.”
I laugh because his enthusiasm is sweet. He makes me swallow my laughter when he stares into my eyes. “I hope you’re into Alphas who fight.”
“Excuse me?” I squeak, my mind instantly full of images of Maverick half undressed, covered in sweat. “Like, fight fight or…”
“There is only MMA, Tristan.” He rolls his eyes for extra emphasis before his lips twist into a killer smirk again. “Everything else is for the weak.”
And my heart races while I get completely distracted by images of him fighting, in tight silky shorts showcasing his strong thighs in my head.
“Tristan, will you stop moving?” the director yells out and I freeze like a rabbit in the lights.
Maverick adds to my first impression of him being a right bloody tease too when he barely moves his lips, talking while holding a killer smile. “You thinking of how I’d look? Because it kind of looks like it.” He takes a deep inhale, “And scents like it too.”
