Page 43 of Pack Baines

And, with a blinding grin he only ever shows me and another panty melting wink, he disappears, and I’m left standing in front of the looming building before me. Nerves suddenly rattle my bones, and I have to take a steadying deep breath before steeling my spine and heading inside.

Guess my future starts here.

Chapter 17

Juniper

The room is practically empty when I step inside, my introductory class to becoming a professional photographer only sitting six other students so far.

Heading to an empty seat that’s entirely void of students, I place my bag to the floor near my seat and hook my camera over the back of my chair. I’m seated for five minutes before several students trail into the classroom, followed by the professor who looks every bit the polished photographer I read he is. Dressed in jeans tighter than a nun’s snatch, a bold shirt I would see on a catwalk rather than in a store, and a pair of calf-high combat boots, the bald professor with a fancy handlebar mustache carries several stacks of books to his desk, dropping them all with a loud thud.

Meanwhile, a student with dark hair, tattoos as far as the eye can see, and covered in a black shirt, dark jeans, and a pair of sneakers that would look really good with my collection, takes a seat in the row in front of me. I catch a faint whiff of pine and citrus when the air shifts around him, a clean, refreshing scent that makes me believe he’s a beta, and something inside me does a little flip knowing this university caters to literally every designation. It makes it easier to relax, to settle into my chair, and simply enjoy the classes ahead.

“Are we all here, guys?” the professor asks, peering down at a piece of paper on his desk, counting out loud as his finger trailsover the white sheet. “We only have twelve students this year studying for a degree in Photography. Are twelve of you here?”

I look around, counting each head as I go, and note that there are only eleven of us. The guy in front notices, too, and mumbles, “You’re one short, sir.”

“Ah, yeah. Looks like we had a drop out over the weekend,” the professor notes, nodding once before reaching for a case and pulling out a pair of dark-rimmed glasses that almost look made more for fashion than practicality. The rims take up the majority of the glasses, but hell, what do I know of fashion? Each to their own.

“Alright, folks. Looks like I have you for the next two hours, and I’m afraid we’re not going to get into anything too exciting today. This is an introductory class, after all. I hope you all brought your notebooks and writing utensils,” the professor drawls, taking a seat behind his desk before he fiddles with the mouse attached to his computer. Just as the board behind him comes to life, he says, “If you didn’t already know, my name is Paul Pascal. I’ve had the pleasure of snapping celebrity shots for magazines all over the globe, have won countless awards, and I aspire to share my passion, knowledge, and expertise to those inching into the world of snapshots, landscapes, portraits, and everything in between. I’m dedicating my time and energy into shaping your minds, feeding your creative flow, and molding you all to become the best you can possibly be. Any questions thus far?”

A girl near the front throws her arm up so suddenly that I hear a creak of her bones, and I wince, sinking lower in my seat. The guy in front of me mutters, “Fuck’s sake, here we go.”

I snort despite the confusion his words bring, and the guy turns his head slightly to nod at me. And then the girl speaks, “What was it like working withtheGiselle Baltzier?”

“Oh, what about Damon Frazier?” another girl nearby shouts. “I cut out all of the shots from the Devil’s Kill Movie promo shoot and plastered them all over my wall when they were released.”

Professor Pascal looks utterly bored out of his mind by the questions, and he doesn’t bother looking up from his computer when he answers. “They were both thrilling experiences and I will cherish them until the day I die. Any questions regarding the course you’ll all be taking? Anything related to the work you’ll be expecting to do? Anything else at all?”

When silence answers him, I roll my eyes and find myself suddenly blurting, “Is there a reason you prefer monochrome portraits to the magazine shoots you’re famous for?”

Sure enough, Paul Pascal’s head turns slowly, until he’s peering at me over the frame of his gaudy glasses. He narrows his dark eyes at me and questions, “What makes you think that’s my preferred style?”

I suddenly feel too many eyes on me, and I want to shrink into my fucking chair and pool to the floor in hiding. Since I can’t do that without looking like a weapons-grade idiot, I decide to be truthful and simply state, “Last year you posted more portraits, all of which were black and white. I believe you titled them Natural Selection.”

Thankfully, the guy in front of me nods and inserts, “There was that pack from the Amazon you took candids of. Stunning work, also monochrome, but beautiful detail in every single one.”

“Especially the one with the pack kids wearing ceremonial face paint,” I add, remembering the series well, only because they were so unlike Pascal’s usual work. His feed is usually full of models glammed up enough that they barely look recognizable anymore, celebs on movie or television show shoots, all very pretty photographs. It’s the monochrome shots that hold all of the emotion, the raw beauty, and breathtaking detail.

The guy in front of me nods and jerks his thumb at me. “What she said. The one with the pack omega was out of this world, too.”

“She was gorgeous,” I confirm, remembering the slight smirk of the stunning woman with russet skin and beautiful markings over every inch of her skin. With a piercing through her septum, a goldhoop hanging just above her lip. The tasteful way Pascal captured her bare torso as she cuddled a babe to her chest while she fed her infant, the freckles in her chest and shoulders contrasted to her smooth skin. Those are the shorts I follow the man for, and I’ve always been disappointed he doesn’t post more shots like those.

Slowly, a pleased grin forms on his face, and he offers me and the guy in the row in front a slow clap before he delightfully proclaims, “Looks like we have two fans here with us in class. I already know it’s going to be a pleasure to teach you both. As for your question, I prefer monochrome portraits, mostly candid shots, because they hold a natural beauty that can’t be falsified through materialistic means. They’re raw, show vulnerability, and I enjoy capturing the inhabitants of this world as the Gods intended them to be shown.”

He ends his explanation with a fond smile, right before he scares the shit out of me by clapping loud enough that my ears pop.

“Jesus fucks,” the guy in front of me mutters, shaking his head like he’s trying to clear the echo of the sound that still rattles my brain.

“Preach,” I mutter, shaking a finger in my ear to try and get my hearing back.

One look at the other students assures me we aren’t the only ones affected, though the professor seems utterly oblivious. Instead, he turns back to his computer and begins his introduction to our degree.

“Notebooks and pens at the ready, folks. You’ll want to remember this,” he declares, right before he clicks to the first screen on an aesthetically pleasing slideshow he’s prepared for us.

I have my notebook and pen clutched in my hand at the ready, and just as the professor reads the title of the first slide, the guy before me turns in his seat andpsst’sme like I’m a cat he’s trying to beckon. I glance at him and raise an eyebrow in question.

“Don’t suppose you have a pen or pencil I could borrow?” he asks bluntly, looking annoyed for forgetting his own.

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