Page 135 of Bad Seed
Three years later…
“Okay. Perfect. Perfect. Sit perfectly still…” I press the button and rapidly take five shots before I hobble away from the tripod. Golden light bathes a head of cabbage perched on a satin pillow, beads of dew clinging to its crisp leaves. After checking the images in the camera, I turn my back on the shot and stare at the computer readout on the table instead. “I think we got it,” I call out over my shoulder.
There’s no sound until bare feet slap the tiled floor. “Can I see?” a trepidatious voice asks.
I don’t turn around but keep staring at the monitor. “Sure. What do you think?”
My client moves closer but still maintains a respectful distance. “Is that me?” he asks as I scroll through the hundreds of shots of the cabbage. Some are simple and elegant photos that could be served up in a food magazine. In others, he’s posing by a pair of handcuffs or a zester. Apparently, that’s the rage in the underground vegetable BDSM clubs.
“Yep. What do you think?” I start to glance over my shoulder, wanting to see the client’s face to make sure he’s happy. All I catch is a hint of tan skin coated in water spray before I turn back. “There’s a robe under the pedestal.”
“Right, right.” He shuffles back, hopefully covering himself. But he also can’t stop cheering. “That’s amazing. I’ve never looked so… Damn. Are those my leaves? They’re going to love it.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll get to editing the best and pass them on to you. Sound good?”
“Yes. Thank you.” He sticks out his hand. Even though it’s coated in oil, I take it and give him a hearty pump.
“Congratulations,” I say.
The groom blushes like he didn’t just pose for some boudoir photos in his very natural state. “Thank you, Ms…” His gaze drifts to the ring on my finger. Everyone knows who runs Crudité and what happens to those who disrespect the woman behind the desk. Wandering off my hand, he stares at the signage plastered on the walls and the door. “Nair.”
I had to keep my last name. All of my business contacts know me as Nair.
True, I didn’t expect to start supplementing catalog shots with portraits of vegetable shifters. But I’ve cornered the market on shoots of steamy vegetables to share with loved ones.
The happy groom takes one last look at himself on screen before he drifts back to the lockers. I linger by my camera in my studio. I’ve upgraded my hardware twice in the past few years, but I still have my old camera and the memory card crammed with pictures of eggplants.
“Excuse me.” The door into my white world swings open and the Vegas life comes blasting in at full color.
“What is it?” I ask, recognizing the faces behind the sunglasses and suits.
“It’s your…special guests.”
With a deep sigh, I stop putting away my camera. “Take me to them.”
People take notice of the woman in a simple white button up and slacks strolling just in front of two armed men in suits. They move aside without knowing why. A few of the employees give a small nod or acknowledgement as we pass onto the main floor.
Past the slot machines and tucked back by one of the nicer bars with complimentary beverages sits the high roller room. Guarded by a familiar face, I nod to Green Bell. “Are they in there?”
“Yes, ma’am. But you should be careful. Things are getting out of control inside.”
My two guards stiffen, hands dropping to the pistols at their sides. “I can handle it,” I assure them. Before I can reach for the door, Green opens it.
Here is opulence. The whole room has a crisper drawer in heaven feel. White walls are circled with sharp lined wainscoting. Tiled floors dotted with gold and soft but pleasing lights highlight the room from chandeliers dotted with pearls. Even the tables, staffed by the best in Vegas wearing white gloves, have marble tops instead of green felt. Only the richest patrons can even get inside.
“Woo! Come to papa!”
For the most part.
I raise my head and chase the voice echoing through the room. It doesn’t take long to find the source. Just past a tasteful statue of a nude man covered only by a cornucopia of vegetables I spot him in a Hawaiian shirt. He’s tipping back his foot tall drink, trying to slurp up the last of the pink juice with a twisty straw.
“Sadvhi!” my father shouts, waving me over. He’s so excited he tips over his drink. The last dredges of pink slush drip across the venetian marble. “Look, I’m up two hundred dollars.”
“After blowing five hundred and fifty at roulette.” My mother explains from behind him. She’s dressed more respectably for the back room, but insisted on the sandals and shorts. Though, her earrings and bangles fit in perfectly with the women decked out from head to toe in diamonds. I got all my height from my father, and all my curves from her.
It’s no wonder Aubry is happy to host them for every little weekend vacation.
“Sadvhi, please tell him he’s being a fool.”
