Page 7 of A Man To Remember
I snag another shot. "Let me be the judge of that."
CHAPTER 5
JESSE
I FEEL LIKE my spine's been replaced with a metal rod. For someone who spends his nights surrounded by naked people grinding on each other, you'd think standing shirtless in front of a camera would be a walk in the park. Spoiler alert: it's not.
My muscles seem to have developed a mind of their own, each one determined to be as unnatural as possible. Even my face feels weird, like I've suddenly become aware of every tiny muscle that controls my expression.
Seriously, who knew there were so many ways to stand wrong?
"Relax," Austin says from behind his camera, his voice steady and professional. "It's just pictures."
Easy for him to say. He's not the one half-naked with his jeans hanging open, feeling the air conditioning hit his bare chest like a judgmental breeze. I try to loosen up, but now I'm actively thinking about trying to loosen up, which only makes me more aware of how stiff I am.
Austin lowers his camera and walks over to his laptop. "Come here," he says, waving me over with a casual flick of his wrist. "Look at these."
I move to peer over his shoulder at the screen, and... holy shit. That can't be me. I mean, logically I know it is—that's definitely my tattoo sneaking out from under where the light hits my chest, those are definitely my abs—which, okay, look way better than I expected—and that's absolutely my awkward stance. But there's something about the shots that makes them look... raw. Real.
Like he caught me in between moments, vulnerable but powerful at the same time. It's like looking at myself through someone else's eyes, someone who sees past the surface to something I didn't even know was there.
"See?" Austin's voice has a hint of satisfaction, maybe even pride. "Natural is good."
I nod, still mesmerized by the images.
Okay. Maybe this wasn't such a terrible idea after all.
Back in position, I find myself actually listening as Austin directs me, his voice clear and steady over the quiet hum of the air conditioning. "Turn your head to the left."Click. "Lower your chin."Click. "Put your thumbs in your belt loops."
Each instruction is clear, professional. Clinical, almost. I follow them, feeling more at ease with each shot. This isn't so bad. It's just following directions, right? Like a complicated dance where I don't have to move my feet. I can handle this.
"Your shoulders are too stiff."
Before I can process what's happening, Austin is right there, his camera dangling from its strap against his chest. Hishands land on my shoulders. His touch is firm as he adjusts my posture, professional but somehow... not.
It's like being touched by two different people at once—the photographer who knows exactly what he wants, and... someone else. Someone whose hands seem to linger a fraction longer than necessary.
"Like this," he says, his voice closer than I expected, close enough that I can feel his breath ghost across my shoulder.
I manage a nod, proud that I keep my composure even though my skin feels electric where his hands made contact. It's like he left fingerprints of lightning on my skin, tiny sparks that refuse to fade even after he steps away.
We continue shooting, but something's different now. Each time Austin steps in to adjust a pose—turning my torso slightly, lifting my arm, angling my head—I become hyperaware of the contact. It's like my body is keeping a running tally of every touch, every adjustment, every moment his fingers brush against my skin. Each touch feels more significant than the last, like we're building up to something, though I couldn't say what.
"We need to angle your hips more toward the light."
His hands are warm against my skin. Those hands that so confidently handle thousand-dollar equipment are now handling me with the same precise care. He adjusts my stance with small, deliberate movements, each tiny shift of his fingers sending new waves of awareness through my body.
But then…
It hits me like a ton of bricks.
Smashing me to the ground, shattering my body and crushing my skull until I'm nothing more than a puddle of bones and skin and insights I didn't ask for.
It's not a memory, really. There are no images, no sounds, no glimpses of conversations.
Just the knowing.
We're back in high school, and it's almost summer, and Austin's gay.
