Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
DYLAN
Larson went to the gym for a few hours this morning, so I decided I’d head into the studio to do some editing. I’m the only one here, which gives me the freedom to crank the music and focus on the computer for a while.
I have my images from last night. The ones I took of Larson on my roof as the fireworks went off. I’m hoping I managed to capture a very specific shot. I push the disk into the slot and pull them up, slowly flicking through, and looking for the absolutely perfect image.
“Ha!” I shout in triumph. There it is. The money shot. Larson stretched out on his back, arched slightly, his expression illuminated by the fireworks and clearly aroused.
But what I was looking for was his dick standing up, looking like he’s the one spewing fireworks. Angle perfect. Timing perfect. I captured the exact right one.
I get up and do a little dance. Fuck yes. That’s hot. Hot, hot, hot.
For the next hour, I go through the pictures from Larson’s three photoshoots and clean them all up before uploading them to the server, attaching them to their appointments, which allows the Memory Department—yes, that’s a thing—to access them upon request. Because these are boudoir, they’re coded in such a way that they can’t be used for advertisements.
Then I choose my fifty favorites and add them to a photo album before picking up my phone and making a call. I’m calling in so many favors lately. Who even am I?
“I thought you were closed today,” Dennis says when he answers.
“I am. No appointments. It’s only me here, and I’m editing. Listen, I need a favor.”
“Of course you do. That’s the only time you call.”
“You sound like a jilted one-night stand,” I point out.
“Aren’t I?”
Ah. One drunk night flashes into my mind. “Yes. Feel special because I’m still talking to you and ignoring the fact that it might be awkward.”
Dennis snorts. “What do you want?”
“A photo book ASAP. You can randomize the images if you want, though they’re clustered in themes, so that’s preferable. If I had your book templates, I’d do it myself.”
“ASAP. You mean tomorrow?”
“No, I mean in a few hours.”
“Dylan.”
“Please,” I beg. “He leaves tomorrow. I want to give it to him tonight.”
“Asking your previous hookup to help you with a gift for your present hookup. That’s ballsy,” he deadpans.
“You’re such a drama queen. We were drunk, and it was one night. Do you honestly think you could handle me for more than one night?” We both know I’m not referring to sex, though that should be thrown in too.
“You can pick it up at three,” he says. “Anything else, diva queen?”
“Yes, spread that name around. I like it.”
He snorts. “Later.”
Grinning. I close out of all of Larson’s pictures, though I’m tempted to make the fireworks one my background. I’m obsessed. I wonder if he’d allow me to use it as my phone background. No one else will see it there.
I spend a few hours going through the backlog of shoots, beginning with the set I’ve had the longest. Before I came to Kala and my clientele shifted from primarily women to a majority of men, I used to think having men in the studio was a novelty.
It was a treat, especially because those on Kala weren’t so concerned with masculinity and shit.
We still get fragile masculinity sometimes, but I know how to deal with that here. Considering the fact that they’re here on Kala—a gay resort—I know that their toxicity comes from the pressures of society and trying to fit into a very specific mold to avoid confrontation and just live.
It’s easy to break down their walls most of the time, and by the end, I not only have them feeling hot, confident, and happy, but they’re also far more comfortable showing a softer side and redefining what masculinity means. At least for a short period.
There’s a loud knock on the door that I barely hear. I nearly ignore it, but then realize it might be Larson. It’s dangerous bringing him in here because I’ll be tempted to take more hot pictures of him. He’s so willing. Open to any suggestions.
Still, I’m not going to make him hang around outside. That’s just weird.
My heart jumps when I see him smiling at me from the other side of the door. How in the world is he here for me?
I pull the lock back and push the door open. He steps inside, his arms immediately wrapping around my waist and pulling me up his body so he can kiss me. Fuck, a man can get used to this kind of greeting.
“Had a good workout?” I ask when he sets me back down. I’m not breathless, you are.
“Yep. You have a good gym here.”
“Were there other people in it?” I ask.
Larson laughs. “Lots.”
“Really?” I ask, surprised.
He laughs further. “Yes. Some people enjoy working out, you know.”
“That just can’t be true. Maybe they’re all like you and need to get back in shape for their sport.”
It’s clear that he finds me highly amusing. That’s okay. I don’t mind. However, I’m only reminded further that he’s leaving Kala tomorrow. It makes my stomach roll with dread.
“I’m almost finished with this set. Want to come in?”
“Yep. Am I allowed to see your back room?”
I lock the door and give him an amused look over my shoulder. Maybe it’s a little sexy. “You can see my back room anytime, Larson.”
His loud laughter makes me grin. Maybe I sashay my hips a bit as I lead him through the waiting room, beyond the studio, and into my office.
“Whoa,” he says and stands in front of my four-monitor setup.
“Are you commenting on the couple or the computer?” I wonder.
He snorts. “I mean, those women are hot as hell. Look at that. There are so few men who can pull off that level of sensuality. And seriously, women’s skin is just… divine. But I’m referring to the massive screens. Why so many?”
“Usually I have three different shoots open, and the fourth is for the resort system where I upload them.”
“Why three?”
“I need a break from looking at the same subjects often, or my brain stops seeing them objectively. Have you ever seen those memes going around where it says ‘read this’ and it’s a couple sentences where every word is scrambled, but with key letters in each word in a strategic position?
Magically, your mind knows exactly what it says, even though it’s written in gibberish?
Because your mind is programmed to recognize patterns. Following?”
Larson nods, a big grin on his face.
“That’s me with photos. Once I see this couple for too many pictures in a row, I see patterns.
So the edits I made on the previous picture—highlights, lighting, contrast, whatever—carry over here in my head, and I’m seeing what I expect to see, even if I haven’t made it happen yet.
Because I’ve learned the pattern of this couple. ”
“That’s… fascinating.”
“Is it?” I ask, looking at him over my shoulder. “Or are you humoring me?”
He grins. “It is. I see patterns on the ice and sometimes, it helps me anticipate where the puck will be so I can intercept it or be there to make a shot, pass it to a teammate, etc. I get it.”
I smile. “Yeah. Like that.”
“Then why do you only have one shoot up right now?”
“Because I thought you’d be here soon, so I didn’t open any new ones. There are three left in this set, then I’m finished.”
“All right. I’ll sit right here and watch you work.” He takes a seat in the chair that no one usually sits in.
“It might be boring,” I tell him. “But I promise it won’t take long.”
Larson waves me off. “Not in a hurry. I’m happy just to be in your presence.”
Fucking hell. When he says things like that, my heart threatens to simply stop.
None of these needs a lot of work, but it’s not easy to get through them knowing he’s there. Watching me. It’s not that I’m self-conscious about my work or myself, in general, but our time is limited, and he’s watching me edit photos!
It takes a monumental amount of discipline to convince myself to finish these images instead of leaving them for tomorrow. I turn to the monitor with the resort system open and navigate to my appointment list from last week.
“Can I see?” Larson asks.
I nod, and he wheels his chair toward me.
“This is my schedule. That color means I’ve already finished that set, and the appointment is effectively closed.
This one is the couple I was just working on.
” I click the name, Dianna, and her appointment opens.
“This right here is always checked, but I still make sure it’s checked every time.
It tells the system that these images are not allowed to be used for marketing.
They’re entirely private unless the client asks to see them.
The only thing I do is hit this upload box and select everything in the file. ”
“Does that say eighty-one items?” Larson asks.
“Yep. I don’t edit all of them. I edit between thirty and forty. I delete the shit ones where I cut something off or hit the capture button without meaning to. But I promise them all the photos. This right here means they’ve been edited.” I show him the file type tag.
“That’s really cool. I keep saying that, but seriously.”
I grin. Once it’s uploaded, I hit the save button and then ‘finish.’ The appointment slot changes color. I shut down all the programs and close them out. A glance at the clock tells me we still have time before I can pick up the photo book.
“What do you want to do now?” I ask.
Dennis’ eyes widen when we step into the Memories building. He stares at Larson for a second, telling me that yes, he finished the photo book.
“Hey,” I greet. “Thanks for this.”
He meets my eye and nods as he slides the book to me. It’s concealed in a black envelope with a metallic blue ribbon. “Sure.”
I take Larson’s hand. He smiles at Dennis, and I try not to smirk when I see the way Dennis flushes. Yeah, he’s that hot, man. I know.
We head back to my house. I’ve been trying all day to ignore the fact that Larson leaves tomorrow. I keep wishing the time would slow down, but if anything, it feels like it’s speeding up.
Once we’re inside my house, I push him onto the couch and climb into his lap before handing him his book. Without comment, he pulls it out of the envelope, and ohhh, look at that photo on the front. Dennis chose the perfect image. Not too risqué but as fucking hot as a pair of sweaty balls.
Larson flips through and, yep, Dennis is good at his job. They’re arranged in themes, and the progression from PG-17 to XXX is beautiful.
“Wow,” Larson says. “I’ve never been turned on by my own pictures before.”
I laugh and close my eyes. “You’ve been an amazing subject to work with. I wanted you to have a souvenir of… this.”
Larson continues to examine each page.
“I hate that this was so short,” I whisper. I hate that you’re leaving.
He doesn’t answer until he flips the book shut. I watch the book as he sets it aside. I’m afraid he’ll see the tears in my eyes, so I stare at the book until he gently guides my face to his.
“Come with me,” Larson says, and, holy hell, it feels as if my soul was just shoved from my body. For a split second, I’m looking at us from above before my soul slams back into my body and my breath comes whooshing out.
“What?”
“Come with me, Dylan. Come home with me. Be with me. Be mine.”
“I—you mean that?”
He smiles and presses his lips to mine. “Every word. I have to go back to hockey tomorrow. I can’t stay.
I know you have a job, and it’s just as important to you as hockey is to me.
I know that. I’m asking a lot of you, and I know that this isn’t a decision you can make lightly.
I just… don’t want to say goodbye. I don’t want to live without you. ”
If I could catch my breath, I’d probably cry. He’s serious. Can I really leave? Can I really spend my life with him?