Chapter 2 #2
He tosses the thong back with the others. “To be honest, I’m with you. I’ve tried one on. I don’t know how women stand it. Thing feels like the world’s worst wedgie.” He glances at the thongs, and then me. “Then again, it does great things for a tight ass.”
I don’t know if he’s hitting on me or not. Something in his eyes tells me he wouldn’t object if I offered to model one for
him. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had a guy try to flirt with me. Probably not the last, either. Athletes and sex go
hand in hand.
“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 it matters. 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 cut and solid—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 somehow more undressed. 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?
“The hair is too tidy,” I tell James. “I can see the comb tracks in it. Can you fix that, please?”
“The man attached to the hair can fix it himself,” Mannus says, glaring in clear irritation.
“I’m sure you can,” I tell him. “However, James is the stylist, so let’s let him do his job.”
Mannus doesn’t look away from me. “Do you like busting balls in general, or just mine?”
“Since you’re about to be standing balls out in front of me, I’d be careful, Mr. Mannus.”
The corner of his mouth quirks, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. When he speaks, his voice is strained. “Thinking about
them already, are we, Ms. Copper?”
“Not really. I’ve seen three other sets today, so my mind is a bit full at the moment.”
The smug expression falls from his face.
At his side, James snickers. “I think she just said her mind is full of balls,” he says in sotto voce to Mannus. “Not that
I blame her. Let’s get you ready, and you can give her another eyeful, eh?”
Mannus pales. “Already?”
He sounds surprised, which is odd, given that he’s wearing nothing more than a towel.
“Er . . . that’s the idea.” James makes a move to muss Mannus’s honey brown locks, and the quarterback rears like a skittish
horse. James freezes, glancing at me with wide, “what the fuck” eyes.
I am thinking the same. “Do we have a problem, Mr. Mannus?”
He flinches, his gaze snapping between James and me, and his jaw goes tighter.
Anger swells hot in my chest. “Do you have an issue with James touching you?”
As soon as I say it, I’m sorry. I never throw James under the bus. And it is absolutely shitty of me to do it now. But, damn
if this guy isn’t messing with my head.
Mannus frowns so hard, his brows almost touch. “What? My masseuse touches me all the time, and he’s a guy. Why the hell should I care, as long as he does his job?” He glances at James. “Why is she asking me that?”
James clearly fights a smile. “I’m thinking it’s because you’re flinching like you’re about to fly out of your skin.”
Mannus’s cheeks flush. “What?”
He looks so genuinely distracted and flustered, I pause and really study him. Sweat beads at his temples, and his pulse beats
a fast tattoo at the base of his strong throat.
Hands low on his slim hips, his knuckles are white where he’s digging his fingers into the towel.
My heart gives a guilty lurch and then promptly goes soft along its hardened walls. He might have been an asshole with that
One-Eyed Willie comment earlier, but he’s still my client, and I’m not doing my job well if he’s this unsettled.
I catch James’s eye. “Can you get me a coffee?” I don’t need one; it’s our agreed upon signal for James to clear out whenever
we’re dealing with a panicky client.
“Sure,” he says easily. “You want anything, Mr. Mannus?”
Finn shakes his head once. “No, thanks.”
James quietly leaves, and he won’t return until I call him.
Alone with Finn, the studio space becomes unnaturally quiet. I can hear the conversations ebbing and flowing in the kitchen.
I need to put the client at ease. Usually, I can do it without any problem, but that hasn’t been the case here. Finn Mannus
is surprisingly hard to read.
Setting my camera down, I move to the iPad that has my music setup.
Finn watches me with a guarded expression. “Please, not the music. I will lose it if you expect me to go all Zoolander.”
He sounds weary to the core, and I give him a small smile. “I’m not expecting Blue Steel from you, don’t worry. And no fast
beats, I promise.”
I glance toward the kitchen and then incline my head as if I’m confessing a secret. “It’s just, I have a headache.” Which is true; it’s been building all day and is finally here to fuck with me. “Playing some low, easy music helps to drown out all the background noise.”
Also true. But it will hopefully relax Finn as well. I select a slow song by Lana Del Ray.
The hard set of those broad shoulders eases a touch, and he nods shortly. “Half my life is fighting headaches. You have my
full sympathy.”
Looking at Mannus, it’s easy to forget that he’s more than a pretty face, that he uses his body as a tool, battering and stretching
it to the limit for a living. I wouldn’t be able to handle that kind of pain. But he does. They all do. It’s that strength
and vulnerability that I want to capture.
He turns more my way. “Is it bad? I have some ibuprofen in my bag.”
Of course he does. I don’t know how to deal with nice Finn. But I try. “I took something before you came in. But, thanks.”