Chapter 3
Chapter Three
DYLAN
My turnaround time for a photo shoot is usually four or five days until I get the complete set ready for printing. Less than twenty-four hours after Larson and Tomy were in here, I have their photos on my screens. All four of my screens.
To be clear, I don’t have Larson and Tomy on my screens. I have my five favorite photos of Larson all alone. One screen has two of them.
I’m trying to convince myself to get over this man I don’t know, and who’s very clearly in a relationship with someone else. He’s just a guy. There are millions—billions—of guys in the world. This one is nothing special.
That doesn’t mean I didn’t go home last night and turn on Sports Spot looking for hockey coverage or that I spent several hours tracking this man down and learning everything I can about him.
Fortunately, he’s a public figure and the only Larson who plays professional hockey in the US currently, though there are two in the AHL and one in the ECHL.
Once I found him, I spent hours scrolling through his profile, and everywhere he was tagged. He is good. Everything I read about him says as much and supports his statement that he’s getting better every year.
I stopped in the sports place on my way to work to ask them to order me some hockey gear. One of everything hockey-related. Imagine my surprise when they emailed me a quote this morning, and it’s fucking ridiculously expensive. Are these pads lined with diamonds?
No wonder they get paid so much money. It’s expensive just to own the correct pads and all the other things that come along with playing.
I ordered the stuff anyway. I already have a sexy shoot in mind as both a hockey player and maybe their lover, with all sorts of different creative uses for the things I bought.
There are hundreds of photos of Larson online in his gear, so my imagination is all about him in the equipment I purchased.
And maybe me, as the lover, playing with the equipment.
I can totally see him—this giant of a beast in his gear—on his stomach at my feet, looking up at me as I wear nothing but his jersey with my hard-on obscuring his view of my face.
Yep, it’s sexy. Wonder if I can commission him for this purpose?
Wonder what it’ll take to make him mine?
Not that I’m seriously thinking about making him mine. He’s in a relationship. I would never lower myself to get in the middle of someone else’s love life. I’m not that desperate. Not that lonely. I can have any guy I want—there are thousands to choose from on any given day.
“Your sandwich, Dylan,” Lawrence says as he sets a plate down on my desk.
“Rye, not seeded?” I ask.
“Yes. They won’t make that mistake again,” Lawrence assures me.
“Aioli, not mayo?”
“Yes.”
“The roast beef isn’t still bleeding?”
“It’s pink, but dry.”
“Fresh tomato? I hate when it’s been sitting there. It gets watery.”
“They cut into a new one, and the lettuce was just brought in from the garden.”
“What kind of cheese today?”
“They said the Havarti-dill was really good, so I had them add it. I questioned the combination with roast beef, but they assured me with the aioli that you’d like it.”
“Thank you.”
Lawrence smiles. “I’m going to get the studio prepped for the next client.”
I nod. He needs a raise. He’s on his shit, and I never have to pretend to hide rolling my eyes.
Once alone, I turn my attention back to my screens. I appreciate that Lawrence is polite enough to ignore the fact that I’m drooling over this man. It’s not only unprofessional, but I think I’m breaking some laws by staring at his photos.
Arguably, it’s my job to analyze each so I can determine what needs to be edited before they’re ready for the client. Looking at these photos, I remember that he’s staring at me in each of them. His eyes are trained on me and me alone. He doesn’t look away.
I can still feel the intensity of his eyes on me as I stare at them. The way his gaze made me all tingly. How I ached to touch him.
That same feeling lingers in my gut right now.
I sigh, resting my chin on my palm as I look at this man on his knees, legs wide, and looking up at me as I take his photo. He’s in shorts, and his cock is so fucking obviously lying along his thigh that I’m fucking drooling right now.
What did I do to piss off karma and make her put this perfect man in front of me, but make him off-limits? Am I actually that high maintenance?
I’d be so good to him, I promise karma. He’ll never want for anything again. I swear.
I bet he’d look so pretty on his hands and knees. I bet he’s so fucking loud when he takes it. I imagine that he’s such a sexy bottom.
“I bet you have such a pretty, needy hole, don’t you?” I whisper to the screen.
“Dylan?”
I jump and spin around. “Yeah?”
“Your next client is here.” Lawrence frowns. “You didn’t eat. Is there something wrong with it? I can take it back and get—”
“No, it’s fine. I guess I’m not hungry right now.”
“I’ll wrap it up and put it in the fridge for you.”
“Thanks.”
Lawrence smiles. “I’ll bring them in when you’re ready.” He busies himself taking my sandwich away and hurrying from the room.
With one more look at Larson on my screen, I get to my feet and check all gear.
Generally, I have three cameras because sometimes I like the older models for their vintage captures.
Yes, I said it. The very first digital cameras were certainly lacking when compared to the technical advancements available today, but they also had a few settings and features that I can’t replicate quite so easily.
I’m finishing washing my last lens when Lawrence returns. “You can bring them in. Thanks.”
He gives me a curt nod before leaving the room. One of my favorite things about Lawrence—besides his ability to pay attention and succeed at little details—is his charm. He’s able to charm even the grumpiest of people. It’s a talent he turns on only when necessary.
I can hear his tone as he brings in the next person, and I know that they’re grumpy. That’s Lawrence’s sweet, southern drawl, where he silently tells them off with a sugary bless your sweet soul, darlin’ when they’ve truly pissed him off.
It’s one of my favorite things about him.
“Very good, darlin’,” Lawrence says. “As you can see on the wall, you can be anything you want to be today. You’re going to look stunning since you’re already simply sweet as a pumpkin pie.”
The man’s eyes move across the wall. I don’t know whether it’s Lawrence or the wide collection of props to choose from, but whatever tension the man had been holding onto begins to slip away. He nods, almost absently.
“This is the photographer, Dylan. Dylan, this is Prince.”
No wonder he’s grumpy. Going through life with Prince for a name meant he was likely the butt of endless jokes and ribbing. Parents can be so damn clueless.
“Hello, Prince,” I greet. “Do you have an idea of what you’d like to do today?”
Prince chews his lip, his eyes flickering to Lawrence.
“This sweet pumpkin pie was scheduled by his partner with very specific instructions.” Lawrence produces a list and meets my eyes. “However, I’m not sure Prince is comfortable with a good two-thirds of these descriptions.”
Prince’s cheeks are red as he shakes his head.
“Ah. Unfortunately for your partner, they’re not the one being photographed.
So they have no say. I’ll happily write you a note and tell them that these are against our company policy.
I’m sure we can have Kyanne whip something up that looks official.
” It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve rescued an uncomfortable participant.
Prince’s shoulders sag in relief. “Thanks.”
“How about if you come with me, and Lawrence will take your list back to Kyanne to take care of while we choose together what you’re comfortable with, hm?”
He nods. “I appreciate that. He means well, but…” Prince looks down at himself. “I’m just not… comfortable.”
And thus, his discomfort was making him defensive. I don’t blame him. So much of what we do requires our clients to show us their most vulnerable sides. If he’s already a bit self-conscious, it’s kind of shitty to try to force him into having all those insecurities immortalized in photos.
No relationship lasts forever, and some photos you’re embarrassed about can be a very big source of contention in a breakup.
Briefly, my mind wanders to Larson and Tomy, wondering what’ll happen to the photos I took when they break up.
Nope. Not thinking about them. I’m not even going to put out that negative energy into the air. You don’t wish a happy couple apart for selfish reasons. That’s what makes karma stick your perfect man right in front of you and tell you not to touch him.
Prince gets more comfortable and more risqué as the photoshoot progresses. He’s having fun, which is always my goal when I’m taking pictures. I want them to have fun. If they’re having fun and enjoying themselves, the pictures turn out better.
To put his mind at ease, I give him a glimpse of several pictures before he leaves. I’m grinning proudly when he looks at one with awe and asks, “That’s really me?”
It was a raw photo. Not doctored in the least. He’s stretched out on the bed with only a sheet covering his crotch, and while the pose looks natural, Prince is stretched in such a way that it masks the parts he’s most insecure about.
In addition, he’s not actually naked. When I explained how we trick the camera into creating art that tricks the viewer without him actually taking his clothes off, it lifted twenty pounds from his shoulders.
“Happy client,” Lawrence reports. “Made even happier when Kyanne handed him an official-looking terms of service form with his list, on which she’s marked off why several were not allowed. Yet, I think his partner is going to be excited when they get the photos back.”
“I think Prince will love them just as much,” I say, taking the memory card out and sticking it into the viewer screen to have a quick peek at them. “Look at his first and his last.” I put them on the screen side-by-side. “Look at how much happier he looks.”
“There’s a lot to be said about these sexy shoots that people don’t understand,” Lawrence says. “It’s not about sex appeal. It’s about finding comfort in your own body and gaining confidence in that.”
“Exactly why I chose to get into this profession,” I agree.
Lawrence smiles. “You want your sandwich now?”
I shake my head, ejecting the card from the reader to bring it to my desk and add it to the back of the queue for editing. “I think that’s our last shoot for the day, so if you want to clean up the studio, I’m going to work on some editing.”
“Sure.”
I’m barely in my seat, just focusing on Larson’s pictures in front of me again, when I hear, “Dylan?”
I look up from where I’m focused on the lighting of one of Larson’s images. Kyanne stands in the doorway with her hand on her hip.
“That man right there.” She points at the screen. “He’s in the waiting room. You had an opening, and he asked for a solo walk-in appointment. He’s ready when you are.”
My heart nearly stops. Oh… holy fuck-my-life shit.