Page 16 of Dance of Ruin

So now here I am, walking through the West Village, dressed in simple leggings and an oversized sweater, my hair swept up in a loose bun. I wasn’t nervous when I left my apartment, but the closer I get to the studio, the more I start to question myself.

A text buzzes in my pocket. I fish out my phone, half-hoping it’s an excuse to turn around, but it’s just Milena.

Milena

We still on for food and drinks tomorrow?

I stare at the message, debating what to say. I didn't tell her about the shoot before, I don’t know why, but now it feels too late. Like saying it out loud will make it sound as sketchy as…well…as it sounds.

Me

HELL yes. Sake and sushi?

Milena

This is why we’re friends, lol. Fuck yeah. Let’s order a stupid amount of rolls.

I grin, tucking my phone away as I reach the address and look up at the building.

Okay, it’s totally normal-looking. Actually, it’s one of the nicer brownstones on the street, which is seriously saying something given how ritzy the West Village is. I exhale, relaxing a little.

I’ve watched too many true crime documentaries. This is totally fine. I also tend to have a really good instinct about people, and Gus seemed completely normal. And it’s not like the guy accosted me in a dark alley to tell me he wanted to photograph me. It was broad daylight in the produce section, for crying out loud.

“Yes?” A voice crackles when I buzz the number he gave me.

“Gus? It’s Naomi?”

“Oh, good! Come on up! We’re all ready for you.”

A moment later, the door unlocks with a mechanical click, and I step inside, climbing a set of stairs that creak beneath my feet. The building is definitely an artists' space, each floor divided into two apartments with names on the doors like “Celine Rios Ceramics”, another photography studio, and a few painters.

At the top, there’s just one door, standing ajar, with a plaque reading “Gus Carson Studio” affixed to it.

My brows arch in surprise when I step inside. The studio iswaybigger than I expected, with a backdrop already set up against one wall and Softbox lights glowing warmly. A bunch of photography equipment is scattered about, and there's a table stacked with books and cameras.

Gus looks up from adjusting a tripod, smiling when he sees me.

“There she is!”

His enthusiasm feels a little different now that I’m here, alone in his space. Maybe it’s just nerves.

I force a smile. “Thanks again for having me.”

“My pleasure,” he says easily, motioning to a clothing rack off to the side. “I borrowed these from a costume designer friend. I’d love some with you in the traditional tutu, of course. But there’s also a couple of salsa-style dresses I thought we could play with?”

I nod, glancing around the huge apartment. Gus clearly lives here, too. Half of it is his studio, the other half a huge open-concept loft space, with a kitchen area, a tastefully modern living room, and a bed in one corner. I blush when I notice the camera on a tripod facing the bed.

Gus laughs a little awkwardly when he sees where my gaze is. “Oh, sorry. Don’t mind that. My boyfriend is acontent creator.” He rolls his eyes, “OnlyFans. It’s weird, but the money isstupidgood.”

Not gonna lie, “boyfriend” definitely has my shoulders relaxing a little.

This is all totally fine. I’ll do the shoot, and I’ll be five hundred dollars richer.

“You can go ahead and change in there.” Gus nods toward a curtained-off corner near the photography backdrop. “Pick whatever fits you from the rack.”

I groan, blushing. “I actually…brought my own? I know, it’s a little extra…”

Gus chuckles. “No, that’s perfect. I meant to ask you to do that anyway and I forgot. So much more authentic. We shot this guy earlier this week who brought over his entire oil painting setup. Made a fucking mess, but Iloved it,” he laughs, his eyes twinkling.

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