Page 28 of Dirty Shots

Chapter Ten

Eric

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The following morning, Eric crossed the road at a brisk stride, his leather portfolio clutched in one hand and banging against his thigh as he walked. He dodged traffic, heading toward the building with the floor to ceiling blackened glass windows, posters advertising the previous night’s exhibition still stuck to the smooth surface. The Blanc Art Space, located in lower Manhattan, was owned by his friend, Logan Blanc. Logan came from old money, not that this prevented the two of them becoming firm friends at Art College. Logan’s parents had financed the studio, but Logan’s eye for what sold had made the gallery a success.

He recognized the name the posters displayed, a hip young thing right out of art school. This was his competition, the reason he had to work as hard as he did. Sometimes he felt like he was running to keep still, but the truth was he was simply trying to stay ahead of the pack.

The exhibition had already taken place the previous night. Eric knew from experience that bottles of expensive imported beer, and even more expensive champagne, would have been served from ice filled silver buckets. Smartly dressed men and women would have moved around each other elegantly, as though in a dance, stopping to speak in low tones about the art displayed and the potential of that particular artist. Eric had received his invitation, plus one, months earlier, but, as usual, he’d been too busy to attend such an event.

I should have taken Anya,he thought with a sudden pang of longing. He’d felt strange that morning, waking up without her in his bed. Even though she’d only stayed with him for one night, he’d become used to her in his apartment, the small lump beneath his bedcovers, the smell of her sleeping, and of sex on his sheets. He liked to turn and find her propped up at the kitchen counter on a stool, sipping coffee, or else with her legs tucked up beneath her body as she drank the wine he’d poured.

She’d have enjoyed the exhibition. He imagined her in a slinky black dress and heels as he introduced her to numerous people in the art world. Or perhaps he was giving himself too much credit. Would she even want to be seen out so publically with him?

Eric rapped his knuckles on the door and hit the buzzer for the intercom. The sound of movement came from inside, bottles clinking together as someone either picked them up or set them down. Then the door cracked open. Logan’s tousled, blond head appeared in the gap, his green eyes smudged with dark shadows.

“Late night, was it?” Eric asked with a grin. He wondered why he’d bothered to make the effort to be fresh today, when Logan clearly hadn’t. But then, he guessed, this meeting was more important to him than his friend.

The door opened fully. Logan stood in the gap wearing faded jeans, his shirt partially un-tucked. He tugged a hand through his curls. “As far as I can remember,” he laughed. “Come on through. It’s good to see you again. I was worried you’d gone back into hiding.”

Eric entered, surveying the remnants of the exhibition. The gallery was a vast, white space, broken only by pillars which were strategically placed as dividers to create smaller pockets of privacy. Oil paintings were hung on the walls, abstract landscapes on a large scale. Most of the pieces had small colored stickers in the corners to show they were sold.

“Well, it looks like you had a profitable night,” Eric observed.

“It was, my friend. Just clearing up the mess now, and then I’ll be adding up the profit.” He rubbed his hands together in mock glee. Eric rolled his eyes. He knew his friend didn’t need the money.

Logan picked up a silver bucket sitting on the floor beside a pillar, inverted, empty beer bottles protruding from the top. Eric collected a couple of empty champagne glasses from a table and followed his friend as he headed into the back of the gallery and out into the offices beyond.

“I don’t know about you,” Logan called over his shoulder, “but I could kill for some seriously strong coffee.”

“Sure.”

“Then we can check out this new project of yours.”

They’d entered a small kitchenette containing a sink, refrigerator, coffee machine, and microwave. Another door on the far side led off the area. Eric knew from experience that this door led to Logan’s office.

Logan set the bucket down by the sink, to join a number of other identical silver pails. “Dump the glasses there,” he said, nodding toward the kitchen worktop. “They’re all rented, and someone will be here to collect them in an hour or so.” Eric did as he was told, and Logan got to work pouring their coffee. He pushed a mug into Eric’s hands and headed through the kitchen and into the office. Eric followed.

Logan took a seat in a comfortable leather chair on the far side of his desk, and nodded for Eric to take a seat on the opposite side. “I have to say I’m intrigued. It’s not often you’d come to me with your work. Normally people are hunting you down to display your stuff.”

Eric sank into the chair. “Yeah, well, this work is a little different from my normal stuff.”

“So you said on the phone.” Logan took a gulp of his coffee and sat back. “Sock it to me.”

Eric took a deep breath and slid his portfolio across the desk. He was always nervous when it came to showing anyone a new project, but this one was particularly personal to him. His friend reached out and pulled the portfolio closer, unclipped the folder, and swung it open.

All the images were in black and white. The first photograph was one of the earlier pictures of Anya. She was wearing a short skirt flipped up, naked beneath, her fingers pulling open the lips of her pussy in an inverted V. He loved the expression on her face, sulky, almost petulant, as if the V of her fingers was a deliberate insult.

Logan flipped the page.

A photograph of her bound chest, a close up shot, focusing on the inky pools of shadows beneath her breasts, the marks the rope left on her skin. The peak of one nipple poked between the coarse material of the rope.

The page turned.

An image from only a couple of nights ago—Anya’s pussy, and, just above, the silver circle of the plug in her ass, the light glinting from the smooth metal, the dip of darkness and promise below.

Eric glanced up at Logan’s face, trying to judge his reaction. He didn’t know what he’d thought his friend would say, but Eric knew Logan wouldn’t have the sort of reaction of most men—perhaps a wolf whistle and a slap on the back. His expression gave nothing away. His face was serious, his gaze flicking over the images, drinking them in with a professional eye. So far, Logan’s only external reaction was a slight high flush to his cheeks, and that could have been due to his hangover or even the hot coffee.

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