“Coming, Evan,” I called out.
Cal bumped his shoulder against mine as we started walking, his voice dropping to a whisper so only I could hear.
“I’m keeping that camera in our bag,” he murmured, nodding at the Polaroid hanging around my neck. “We have a lot of film left.”
I felt my face heat up. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Cal grinned, wicked and sharp.
“Graveyard lighting is okay. But hotel lighting? That’s where I want to see you. I have a few poses in mind for that film.”
11
JULY - ATLANTA, GEORGIA
Now playing: Is There Somewhere - Halsey
AtlantainJulywasn’tjust hot; it was a physical assault. Even inside the cavernous warehouse the UWF had rented for the Heatwave promo shoot, the air was thick enough to chew. It reeked of hairspray, ozone, and countless sweaty men doing their best to look tough.
“Again! Give me rage, Silas! You want the title! You’re hungry for it!”
I gritted my teeth, gripping the heavy steel chain suspended from the ceiling. My arms were screaming. My chest was heaving. I had been jumping off boxes, slamming battle ropes, and screaming into a camera lens for two hours straight.
“Yes! Flex the bicep! Veins! I want veins!” the photographer shouted.
I yanked the chain and let out a guttural roar.
Click. Click. Click.
“Cut! Beautiful! Wipe him down!”
I let go of the chain, collapsing forward, hands on my knees, gasping for air. Immediately, a makeup artist was there, dabbing my face with a towel, while another person sprayed a fresh coat of baby oil onto my chest.
I felt like a racehorse being run into the ground.
“You look like you’re about to have a stroke,” a familiar voice chirped.
I looked up. Evan was sitting on a folding chair near catering, eating a bagel. He looked cool, comfortable, and completely unbothered.
“Shut up,” I wheezed. “Don’t you have a shoot?”
“Did mine an hour ago.” Evan shrugged. “I stood there. I looked tall. I scowled. We were done in ten minutes. I’m just waiting for the group shots now.”
I grabbed a water bottle, downing half of it. “Where’s Cal?”
Evan pointed a thumb toward the far end of the warehouse. “Stage B. The ‘Moody’ set. Mara is over there directing like the creative drill sergeant she is. Apparently, Cal needs ‘atmosphere’.”
I wiped my mouth and walked through the chaos until the lighting changed. The bright, clinical lights faded into deep, saturated reds and purples.
And there, in the center of the set, was a throne.
It was a ridiculous prop, oversized, gothic, upholstered in crushed red velvet.
And Cal Kincaid looked like he owned it.
Shirtless in black gear, he slouched with effortless authority, one leg draped over the armrest, the other stretched out. His chin rested on his fist, elbow propped on the velvet.
He looked bored. He looked dangerous. He looked like a king who had just conquered a kingdom and found it underwhelming.
