Page 75 of Wild Flower

“We’ve got you,” I say. “Trust us.”

And for what it’s worth, I know that’s true—at least for the next few hours. Archer is still present and healthy—for now. He’ll be that way for days, months maybe. Years, if he actually went to the doctor and monitored his condition. But I can see why he wants the illusion that there’s nothing but promise ahead. It makes things lighter, despite the fact that it’s temporary. Despite the fact that he’s lying.

I brush off the doom and gloom, and we head out to the shooting area. I pose Becca and Archer on the couch, inviting Arie to start setting her masterpieces on fire. If there’s one thing Flambé is good at, it’s making you focus on the here and now: taste and touch and the passion of the moment. So for one night, I may as well embrace the momentary perfection of Archer and Becca in each other’s arms. There’s always tomorrow to worry about time ticking by.

An hour later, we’re in the thick of the photoshoot. Archer’s lost his suit coat and his button-up is completely open, showing off his chest. Becca kneels below him in an overtly sexual position with him offering her a flaming cherry.

They’re both naturals in front of my lens, instinctually working with the props while keeping the heat and tension brewing. Becca blows out the flame on the cherry and looks up through the billows of smoke, slowly opening her mouth for the fruit. Her eyes plead for Archer to give her a real Flambé delicacy.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little turned on. Not completely, of course, since Simon, Arie, and Connor are all here. But I swear, even they are sweating a little.

“Oh my God, this is so hot!” Arie keeps praising. “These images are on fire!”

And she’s right; the juxtaposition of flowers and food, luscious fabrics and tattoos, combined with the pure magnetism of Becca and Archer … it’s alchemy. Except, in the back of my mind, I keep imagining Katz and Krista frowning at me in condemnation and complaining that this is a fashion shoot: a derivative, set-up, piece of corporate bullshit.

But to me, it’s more. To me, it’s about the fall of inhibition. It’s witnessing and capturing Becca’s transformation into her vibrant, sexy self, who’s unafraid of the eyes outside peering in. It’s about honoring the way Archer embraces the moment and is one-hundred-percent present. Artists talk about a creative flow—and I’m in it—doing my best to keep the shoot honest and intimate. Arie’s right, there’s something about the confidence and vulnerability of Becca and Archer that smacks you with life, wishing you could bottle it.

“I’d like to do a few with you in the photos too, Finn,” Arie announces, as we near the end of the session. “You set up the frame, the camera settings, and I’ll press the button. They’ll be tasteful, of course. Just a few with the three of you for a hint of overindulgence.”

Is the three of us overindulgent?

Are we like that chocolate rose we fed Becca the first night? Are we a dark and creamy sin with every bite? Too much to finish? Is that why Archer doesn’t want to tell Becca about his sickness? Will we not last that long?

I push those thoughts away and set up the camera. Then I sit on the couch with Becca between me and Archer. Arie directs us and we nuzzle and feed Becca, the camera flashing.

Capturing a fantasy.

A naughty promise.

An overindulgence you hedonistically swallow.

Except, in reality, we are none of those things. We are real. I kiss Becca as if I need to prove it. It’s the only time lips have met for the whole shoot. All the images and positions have been suggestion and innuendo. But Becca melts into me as the shutter clicks, and I don’t care if it’s too real, or too intimate. This is the true us, and I want to capture it—especially if Archer’s right, and there’s only so many fleeting moments left before the flames blow out and the ocean comes crashing down.

43

BECCA

Isit behind Finn’s computer in Simon’s office going through the images, prepared to exercise my veto power if necessary. But as we move through the photos, all I can see is the beauty and power of Finn’s art. These photos are flashier than his other work, but there’s a humanity to them that makes me feel seen. I expected these to be full of stiff poses and fakeness like in a magazine. But the flowers and food spring to life with the weight and polish of a high-end brand while still feeling intimate.

“You’re so talented,” I praise Finn, clicking from shot to shot.

I’ve only discarded the images where I’ve blinked or my position is slightly awkward. I haven’t vetoed a single one for being too sexy.

And theyaresexy.

There are images of Archer leaning over me in an almost kiss, his hand on my tattooed thigh, and mine on his bare chest. There are images where the strap of my gown has fallen down my shoulder as I taste food and look like I’m on the verge of an orgasm. There are so many flirty poses with longing looks, it’s obvious we’re selling sex. And yet, I don’t feel scared of what’s in the images. Not even when we get to the ones of the three of us toward the end. Those photos feel the most suggestive—and yet …

“Arie’s definitely going to use these,” I say, pointing to the series of the three of us. Finn is kissing me in the images while Archer whispers in my ear. Both of their hands are on my body as I hold a flaming cocktail. It’s the money shot and I know it.

“She won’t use it if you veto it,” Finn reassures me, but when our eyes connect, I shake my head. Sayingnoto these images feels like sayingnoto him, as if I’m somehow ashamed of the three of us and what we’ve been sharing.

I pull Finn into a soft kiss, tangling my fingers in his golden hair and breathing him in. “I can’t say no to this,” I say against his mouth. “And I refuse to be afraid of it.”

“But you also have to be comfortable with where these photos might end up,” Finn insists. “Magazines, fliers, billboards.”

“I know,” I mumble against his mouth. “But in my heart, I need to be all in with this. All of it. Publicly. Privately. Finn, I—”

I pull back and look at him, my heart swelling, but my words are lost.

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