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Stop thinking about the damned kid.
Damn you, Lex, for bringing him up.
With extra aggression, I take inventory of all the possible gear I can use from my storage closet, reminding myself which colors and sizes I’ve got in leather tops, matching pants, and sports uniforms.
That’s when I find the blue-and-white wrestling singlet dangling from a smooth, wooden hanger.
I stop in place.
I probably subconsciously meant to find this.
And of course I’m thinking of him again.
How my photography so deeply moved him. How it made him dream for an experience only my work could plant in his young, curious mind.
How it made him hunger for something more.
And then how I sent him away, despite all of that.
Mercifully, I hear firm and confident knocking on the front door of my apartment, snapping me out of it. The new client’s on-time. Good sign.
I ditch the gear closet and walk across the wide open space of my apartment, then round the corner of my front entryway. Behind the front door, I take a breath, ready to make a bold first impression.
My heart’s on fire tonight, and I am ready to snap another masterpiece—with total creative liberty. I put on my signature smirk, tighten my jaw with determination, and pull open the door.
The kid stands there.
The kid.
The sight of his fierce blue eyes, shaved head, and tight bod—in a white tank top, black jeans, and military boots—knocks the smirk right off my face.
I stare at him for five long, numb seconds.
He stares back that long, too, by the way.
Then, as if coming out of a dream, a lightning bolt of inexplicable confidence courses through his body. After straightening his posture, he clears his throat and says: “Hello, Dante. I’m—”
“I’m expecting a client,” I cut him off.
“I know.” He puts a hand to his chest. “It’s me. Tye. Tye Jenson, your new client.”
9
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
Tye Jenson. That’s his name.
“You’re—?” I can’t even speak right. Is this kid fucking with me now? Does he take me for a fool?
“Well, you seemed so … perturbed last time when I showed up uninvited,” he points out, “and then accused me of …” He loses his confidence for a second. “… of whatever it was you were accusing me of. So I booked myself a real, legitimate session. Like a real, legitimate client.”
I stare at him.
Like a real, legitimate client, he says.
“And, as your new client, I have decided to … revise what it is I’m here for.”
I cross my arms and wait.
Tye flashes his bright blue eyes at me. “I want you to … take normal photos of me.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Normal photos …?”
“I know you specialize in fetish photography. I know it’s your … thing. Obviously, as I’m a fan of your work. But …” His tone changes suddenly. “Is this really how you treat your clients? Leaving me standing here at your door and not inviting me in?”
My jaw tightens.
This kid—Tye, apparently—sure has a lip on him when he wants one.
I step aside, feeling much like I did that first night he came here. Tye gives me one piercing look as he passes by me, entering my humble abode.
His clean, perfect scent catches in my nostrils.
My eyes rock back as I growl deep in my chest.
I’m losing my fucking mind.
He stops at the foot of my studio, his eyes on the large hanging sling. After a moment, he glances back at me. “Where do we do it? In here?”
My lighting splashes over his back, casting his shadow across the studio and making the boy look twelve feet tall. “That depends on the shots you’re looking for … which you weren’t too specific about in the emails. You’ve got me for an hour—”
“Just an hour?”
I lift an eyebrow. “Did you read anything at all when you booked this session? That’s what you booked. An hour.”
He opens his mouth, then snaps it shut as his eyes drop to the floor. “I guess I sped through most of the fine print.”
Fine print, he calls it. “Do you even know how much an hour session costs?”
That gorgeous, indignant look clouds his pretty blue eyes, making them look like tiny storms. “You think I can’t afford you?”
“You don’t even know how much, do you?”
“I …” He swallows hard, then starts strolling around the studio, feigning confidence. “It doesn’t matter. I booked this hour. I’m paying for this hour. And the longer we talk about it, the less I have of it to do what I …” He stops at the shelf of daunting butt plugs, dildos, and props yet again, as if seeing it all for the first time. He pretends not to be fazed. “… what I want.” Then he faces me again. “We’re not going to use any of this stuff.”
I lean against a nearby wall and fold my arms. “You said you want ‘normal’ photos. So let’s take a minute here to define ‘normal’. What are we doing, exactly?” I give him an amused onceover. “High school senior portraits …?”
