Page 3 of Camera Chemistry
“You’re going to hate me.”My best friend, Shawn, smirks from across the table.
His arm is draped over the back of the chair beside him, a colorful tattoo sleeve on full display. Ink spirals down the ridges of his biceps, and his muscles nearly rip the shirt he’s wearing.
Showoff.
“I already hate you,” I reply. I take a sip of my beer, alcohol a necessity to combat the headache forming across my temples from the loud, pulsing music of the club he’s dragged me to. “I’m out past eight p.m. This shit sucks. I want my bed.”
“You’ll want it even more in a few minutes.”
I raise my eyebrows, and for the first time since I walked into this overcrowded building, bodies pushed together and the smell of sweat and spilled drinks permeating the air, I’m nervous.
Shawn and I have been friends for years, stretching back to the days where we lined up beside each other at Pop Warner football in elementary school. Our companionship spans decades, consisting of divorces, children, and contract deals with the NFL. He’s the youngest head coach in league history, and was recently named Sexiest Athlete Alive, an accolade I tease him about mercilessly.
He thrives in the spotlight, gravitating toward people like a moth to a flame. The more social he can be, the more conversations he can have, the more galas and fundraisers he can attend: the better. His phone is constantly lighting up with messages from family, friends, or his players seeking advice and words of wisdom. Everyone who comes in contact with Shawn Holmes loves him; a vitalizing beacon of positivity.
For me? This club is a place of fucking nightmares. I hate crowds and loud gatherings. My job as a pediatric oncologist is stressful as hell, and the last thing I want to do at the end of a fourteen-hour shift is go to happy hour or meet up with a group of friends to shoot the shit late into the night. That was reserved for my twenties. At forty-five, I’m just fuckingtired.
Shawn texted me earlier and said we needed to talk, though, and I agreed to accompany him to Hell on Earth if he promised to buy drinks. A futile proposition, since he’s recognized everywhere he goes, women—and men—flocking to him. We’ve had three complimentary rounds sent over so far tonight, all from various interested parties trying to gain his attention. I don’t care who he goes home with. I’m just glad I don’t have to foot the bill.
“What did you do?” I knock back the last sip of my beer.
“I volunteered you for something,” he answers. His confidence has slipped a bit, and I see him fidget with the collar of his shirt. It looks like he could have bought it for ten bucks at Walmart, but I’m certain it cost at least two hundred from some designer I’ve never heard of.
“Okay. Like, a fundraiser? I’ll check my calendar and–”
“A photo shoot,” he interrupts.
I blink. My brain is turning murkier by the minute, and clear, rational thoughts are becoming increasingly difficult with every bottle I down. There’s no way I heard him correctly. “Can you repeat that, because I think you just told me you put my hand up to stand in front of a camera and model?”
“Do you know Jeremiah Porter?”
“Who the hell is that?”
“He’s a local photographer. He shot myGQcover last month, and we got to talking. Nice guy. I told him to stay in touch about upcoming projects, and he called me a couple days ago with this idea for a new shoot.”
“And you heard that and thought I would be interested? Your friend with no social media who doesn’t know how to take a selfie?”
“The angle he’s going for is real people,” Shawn continues. He sits forward in his chair and stares at me. “People who work nine-to-five jobs, have some flaws, and don’t look like what you’d see on television. When he explained his vision, I thought you would be perfect.”
I blink again. This has to be a joke. Some elaborate ploy to pull my leg, because no way inhellam I posing in front of a camera. “You’re out of your mind.”
“I haven’t gotten to the best part yet.” His lips split into a grin. It’s the smile that makes panties drop and women go weak in the knees. I want to swat the stupid elation off his face. He’s lucky I’m teetering toward inebriation, otherwise I would be storming out of here and not bothering to look back to hear the rest of this lunacy.
“I can’t wait to hear how this gets better.”
“You don’t meet the woman until the day of the shoot.”
Yeah, I must be shit-faced. The only reaction I have is laughter. I keel over, clutching my side as I howl. Beer almost comes out of my nose, and I think I’ve reached a level of insanity I never thought achievable. “You’re right,” I say. “It gets way better. Taking photos with a stranger I’ve never met. Surrounded by other people I don’t know. Where my picture will end up on the internet. No, thank you.”
“What if I told you she’s pretty?”
“I don’t care if she’s Anne fucking Hathaway. It doesn’t change my mind. The answer is no. Let me know if I need to spell it out for you.”
“Anne Hathaway is your celebrity crush? Really? I pegged you as a Scarlett Johansson guy.”
If looks could kill, Shawn would be six feet under, and I’d have no remorse. “No way. I’m not doing it. Sorry, your friend is going to have to find someone else.”
“Aiden.” He sighs, sounding exasperated, like I’ve done nothing but annoy him for thirty-eight years. “Since Katie left, your life is stagnant and boring. You don’t do anything. You work, and you go home.”
