Page 39 of Dirty Shots

“Okay,” he relented. “But we do need to talk.”

She gave him a grim nod before turning and walking at a brisk pace back across campus. He sat and watched her go, noting how people glanced her way as she walked, but no one stopped her to ask if she was all right. He waited until he’d seen her disappear into a building, before he started the car and pulled away from the curb.

As Anya had instructed, he found a parking space a block south and pulled up, waiting for her. His face throbbed, as did the knuckles of his right hand, which were already swollen and flowering in purple and green bruises. He reached out and twisted the rear view mirror to get a better look at his face. Another bruise was blooming across his jaw, and the bridge of his nose was swollen, dark marks of a couple of shiners below both eyes. Blood had crusted and darkened beneath his nostril and in the corner of his mouth.

He hoped no one who had witnessed the fight placed him as the art lecturer who sometimes came in to teach. That would be the end of that job—not that he needed the money, but he enjoyed teaching. He hated the idea his name would be blighted with the news he had beaten up a student. What if the media got hold of it? He cringed at himself. What had come over him?

The passenger door opening startled him from his thoughts. Anya slipped into the seat, wearing a fresh pair of jeans and a sweater, her blonde hair tied up and away from her face.

She opened her mouth to speak, but he interrupted her. “I don’t want to talk about the fight, Anya. I shouldn’t have hit a student, but I won’t apologize for defending you. If the same thing happened again, I would still step in. And it wasn’t as if I followed you in a stalker way, either. I was worried that you hadn’t gotten home safely, and as far as I’m concerned, witnessing what I did meant my instincts were right.”

She looked down at her hands in her lap. “I guess that’s another thing we’ll have to agree to disagree about.”

“We still need to figure out what we’re going to do about the exhibition.”

She lifted her eyes to his, liquid blue he could fall into and drown. “I’ve said everything I mean to about that matter.”

“Wait one minute. Will you come and meet Logan Blanc? I want you to hear from someone else about how perfect your pictures are, how they’re nothing to be ashamed of, and how the ones with your face in them are so much more intense than the others.”

“You’re trying to change my mind?”

He shrugged. “You can’t blame me, Anya. This is important to me.”

“I don’t want my mind changing.”

“You said you would do anything for art.”

“Don’t try to manipulate me.”

“I’m not. I’m just repeating what you said.”

She sighed, deep and filled with pain. “I guess I should have thought this through.”

“Okay, so you admit that much. If you care about my art, if you care about me, please give me this one thing and come with me to meet Logan.”

“What if Logan can’t change my mind?”

“Then I guess I will have to do the exhibition with none of the photographs of your face. But you realize doing so may ruin my career. People—critics—may not understand what I am trying to achieve in our photographs, because they won’t be shown the full collection.”

Anya bit her lower lip, and he realized she was trying not to cry. She gave a sniff. “I’m sorry, Eric. I never meant to put you in this position.”

He leaned into her, reached out to slip his hand around the back of her neck, his fingers lacing in her hair at the nape. He tightened his grip slightly, forcing her to lift her face up to him. “Just come with me to meet Logan.”

“Okay,” she relented. “Okay.”

His whole body sagged with relief. He’d not won the war yet, but felt he’d at least won the battle. But his relief came with a deep sense of remorse. He couldn’t stand to see her so sad, especially knowing he was at the root of the cause. He released her hair, his hand dropping into his lap.

“I don’t want to lose you, Anya. We work too well together to let this come between us. We need to figure this out.”

She looked at him, her eyes glistening. “That’s what worries me, Eric. That you only want me because of my photographs.”

Unable to stop himself from touching her, he reached out and brushed her cheek, her skin soft and smooth against his knuckles. “We are art, Anya. We can’t escape that. And we shouldn’t try to stop it either.”

She looked at him, almost pleading. “I want to be more than just your model.”

“You are. You’re everything to me.”

He just hoped Logan could convince her.

---