Page 31 of Dirty Shots

Chapter Eleven

Eric

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Breaking his usual routine, Ericheaded to the gym. He needed somewhere he could think with a clear head. Somewhere he wouldn’t be surrounded with images and thoughts of Anya.

He hoped he was doing the right thing by exhibiting his work, and wasn’t about to commit professional suicide.

No,he told himself, plenty of photographers are held in high esteem with their erotic work. There was no reason he couldn’t join their ranks. His problem only occurred because this kind of work simply wasn’t expected from Eric Rutherford. The art world expected introvert pieces, deep studies of the human soul, and, despite Eric believing what he and Anya created contained the same qualities, he knew it would take awhile for the critics to come up to speed.

The sickening sensation in the pit of his stomach didn’t go away at his own reassurances.

He paid enough money to have his own locker at the gym, and he kept a spare set of workout clothes in it, in case of times like these. Because most other people had started work by now, the place was relatively quiet, so he changed in peace.

Over the next hour, Eric worked hard, his feet pounding the treadmill on an incline until the sweat dampened his hair, dripped down his torso, and soaked into his shirt. Still, he found no release, nerves coiled tightly inside him. He moved on to the weights, pushing his muscles to the point of exhaustion, until they trembled and could lift no more. The anxious, nervous sensation inside him remained.

But he knew one thing that would fix it.

Eric wiped down the gym equipment and made his way to the men’s changing room. Quickly, he showered and changed, before plucking his cell phone from his jacket pocket. He hesitated, his phone in one hand. He didn’t want her to think he was just making a booty call. He wanted to talk to Anya about the exhibition anyway. She needed to know, and besides, he wanted her by his side. He could imagine her on the night of the opening, sophisticated and elegant as everyone around them admired her.

He had her number on speed dial, so hit the button before he could change his mind.

“Hi, Eric!” she answered, her voice bright. She sounded pleased to hear from him, and the fact she’d not asked who was calling meant she’d saved his number to her phone, something that, albeit absurdly, pleased him. “How are you?”

“I’m missing you. Are you free?”

He heard her breath hitch. “No, not right now. I’ve got class to go to, but I can come over right after.”

“How long?” He felt almost desperate in his need to see her, to feast on her like a fine meal, to savor her like an expensive wine.

“A couple of hours at most.”

“Okay, great.”

She hesitated. “Eric, I’m glad you phoned.”

“Me too.”

“I’ll see you soon.”

He hung up and left the gym to begin the walk home. He’d rather walk than get a cab. He normally would anyway, but his motivation for doing so was different today. Walking minimized the time he’d spend in the apartment on his own. He knew what he would do as soon as he walked through the door—he would start to analyze and overanalyze every single photograph in his collection, trying to figure out which ones were good enough to been seen and scrutinized by the public eye. The art world could be a cruel scene, and if the critics didn’t like what he’d done, they would tear him apart like a pack of wolves over a hare.

The fact this work was erotic didn’t change anything. No matter how brilliant his work was, he always felt as though it wasn’t good enough. He’d study the photographs for hours at a time, scrutinizing every single aspect—depth, composition, light, did he get the position exactly right, could he have done something differently? In the past, he’d repeated photo shoots over and over, wanting to capture precisely the right atmosphere, but he couldn’t do that with Anya, could he? She said she knew who he was, but in truth she only knew the Eric portrayed by the media. She didn’t understand what it was like to be inside his head.

He took a longer route home, wanting to fill his time before Anya arrived. He eventually reached his apartment, his legs aching after his time in the gym and his long walk, the lean muscles straining and taut beneath his skin. He would fuck Anya and then coax her into his bath, hot water and bubbles hopefully easing both his mind and body.

Inside his apartment, Eric forced himself to stay away from both his camera and computer, busying himself by making fresh coffee and flicking through the morning’s mail.

The buzzer sounded, and his heart leapt. She was here. He buzzed her up and then went to his front door, opening it to wait for her. The doors to the elevator slid open, revealing her like some precious pearl inside a shell.

She walked toward him, a high flush in her creamy cheeks. “I’ve got a surprise for you,” she said, catching him out. She gave him a smile he couldn’t quite read, before brushing past him into the apartment.

He pushed the door shut behind her. “You do?”

“I hope you won’t be mad.”

“I couldn’t be mad with you.”

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