Page 8 of The Hot Shot
“As long as it isn’t my ass in one,” I tell him with a shrug.
He gives me a wry smile. “Right, then. There’s robes or towels you can use. When you’re ready, just head to the studio space.”
He leaves me to undress. The silence in the little dressing area presses in on me. The laughter of the guys rings out, but it only serves to put more distance between them and me. I tug off my shirt and try to shake the sensation of being exposed.
This is bullshit. Rolondo is right, I’ve never had a problem with people seeing me in the buff. I’m proud of my body. I’ve worked hard to perfect it, and it works hard for me. But right now, I’m not asking it to perform a task. Instead, I’m expected to put it on display.
A year ago, I would have been fine with that. Hell, I’d probably have preened like the fucking cock of the walk. Fame and adulation can swallow a person whole, until it’s all you think about. Until you believe the bullshit.
Funny how personal tragedy can strip the veil away so fast, it makes your head spin. I’m no longer blind to the bullshit. Frankly, part of me would have preferred maintaining my ignorance. Because now I feel empty, and the yawing space inside me keeps growing.
“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath. “Just buck the fuck up and do your job.”
I undo the button of my jeans and tell myself that none of itmatters. Then James shows up to oil my skin, “So that the camera can pick up every swell and dip.”
I really hate this day.
Chess
There’s an old saying: the camera never lies.
Photographers know this isn’t true. The camera—and by extension, a photo—lies all the time. We make it lie through manipulation. What looks one way in real life can appear completely different in a photo. Light and dark, negative space and angles... so many things come into play.
The concept of beauty changes with a camera. Some ordinary people come alive behind the lens. Something about the way the light hits them, and suddenly they are utterly beautiful. Haggard, craggy lines can be wondrous. Utterly breathtaking faces can fall oddly flat.
It is my job to find the story in a face, in a body.
I remind myself of this as James leads a sullen Finn Mannus into the studio.
From under my lashes, I watch Mannus move. There is no doubt about it; the man is put together well. So very well. Perfectly proportioned, bold features: a high-bridged and straight nose, a precise jawline, and sculpted lips.
That mouth. It’s the kind of mouth that makes you think about kissing. Lazy, languid, deep kissing. Frantic, tongue-fucking kissing.
That mouth annoys the hell out of me, always quirking as if he’s on the verge of a smug smile or about to say something snarky. Except for right now.
His lips are pressed together so tightly they nearly disappear. He glances my way, and our gazes clash. It is totally unnerving the way my heart kicks in response. And unwelcome. This guy is a jerk. I’m not supposed to get breathless when I look him in the freaking eyes.
I tell myself that it’s because Mannus has beautiful eyes. He does. Deep-set, shockingly sky blue eyes surrounded by long, dark lashes. The color is so intense, it’s almost unworldly.
But I’ve seen pretty eyes before.
No, it’s something else. Something about the way he focuses on a person. The power behind his stare is immense. Given that, when he opens his mouth, it’s all smug teasing and easy charm. His intense gaze doesn’t seem to fit.
I look away first. He’s too pretty for my taste. I like quirky faces with strange lines. Glossy perfection doesn’t interest me. But I’ll have to find something in Finn Mannus’s face that tells a story.
Or maybe I just go with focusing on the body.
Wearing a white towel low around his trim hips, his skin slicked up with baby oil to catch the light, most of that impressive body is on display.
Mannus doesn’t have the super lean physique of a model. He is built in bold, tough lines. Somehow, he is both cutandsolid—well-defined in places, with big slabs of muscular bulk in others. At six foot four, he towers over both James and myself, his shoulders wide enough to blot out the sun.
His pecs twitch as if wanting my attention. They have it. Unlike most models I work with, he has an intriguing smattering of hair over his chest. After seeing so many smooth chests in my profession, it feels almost illicit to look upon him, as if he’s somehowmoreundressed. My hands itch to glide over his torso and feel his textures.
I give myself a mental slap. Objectivity is needed here.View him as art—just as you would any other client, you hussy.
There’s a tattoo down his right side. But he’s facing me and the angle is wrong to fully view it. His right elbow is scraped, and a few bruises pepper his forearm.
He walks farther into the room with a stiff and halting gait. By the scowl on his face, I’m thinking this is due to him not wanting to be here rather than from pain. But who knows?
