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But Sammy was fucking late, after promptly missing his five alarm reminders in the morning. When he had finally risen, he had immediately descended in panic mode, scrambling frantically to get ready in his tiny studio apartment. He had legged it to the subway station and then to the Fashion District in Manhattan, New York.
Sammy was sweaty, beneath his carefully put together outfit, and his hair was a mess of tussled thick black waves. He didn’t look nearly as stylish as he had hoped to when he had left his home in a rush. He had been running through the cold windy streets of the Big Apple - the city that had been his on-and-off home for the past seven years, and that certainly had messed up his attempt to show up like he had casually rolled of the pages of a fashion magazine.
When he made it to the location, where the team had set up shop already, he said a nice long prayer of gratitude to all the gods that would listen. Sammy may have been late, but not as late as the model that was supposed to be leading the campaign. They apparently were yet to wake up and show up to begin the photoshoot.
His friend James gave him a sour look. He was the main camera man on this project. His own assistant had gone ill, or to a concert. James would most likely find out later what had really befallen him from his socials. His assistant had texted him he was sick the night before, and then had promptly let all his calls go to voice mail, leaving James just enough desperate to have someone from his agency contact Sammy and book him for this project on extremely short notice.
That had been a serendipitous development, as Sammy needed the job. Desperately. He kindly failed to remind James he had sworn never ever to hire Sammy again after his last stint on the set of a very expensive campaign, where he had been way too flirtatious with one of the leading models. So much so, they had to look for them for a good hour before Sammy and said nameless male model emerged from a dressing room, makeup all smeared, sated faces and red swollen lips. That had not been the problem. Shit like that went down on set all the time. The problem was all the hickeys and love bites Sammy had decorated the model with. The whole shoot had to be rescheduled. He grinned at the memory – James’s splotchy angry red face in comparison to maybe Mark’s or Marcus’s delighted and relaxed cum drunk face.
Even though they had been friends for years, James normally avoided getting Sammy on board for any high-end jobs, specifically because of stunts like that. Sammy was a notorious airhead and hardly ever could comply with a set schedule. They were both photographers, and although they technically worked in the same field, their projects were vastly different.
James had established himself early on by doing provocative and edgy advertising campaigns. Sammy often teased him that the reason he was so successful was because in his images there was always the possibility that a breast or a ball sack might slip out and make things real memorable.“That shampoo, you know, the one with the lady with the nipple in the commercial. Yeah, that one.”
James tolerated his mocking jokes because they were friends, and because Sammy was one of the few people who was still honest with him about his work. He had no problem selling out as long as he did a good job and didn’t just sit around, sniffing his own farts, stewing in fake praise.
He was already lucky enough to be coming from a well-off family. Both of his parents had been infamous brokers on Wallstreet and had amassed their fortune long before James had been adopted and crowned the sole heir of the Wilder-Hermosa empire. He had been on the right path of becoming an obnoxious trust fund princeling, that is until his dads retired from the busy New York lifestyle and had moved to the town of Mystic of all places, where he and Sammy met in school and became instant friends. It took a couple of summers in the small town and a lot of humble pie to get him to shake some of the snobby attitude he had rolled into town with.
Sammy had been the only person who hadn’t given him shit, for the fact that he came from a family that couldn’t be any less traditional – two dads David and Blake, with two pronounced and vastly different family heritages. David came from a long line of Hamptons snobs, and Blake was the rags-to-riches classic story, with humble beginnings from Queens, where his large Cuban family still lived to this day.
James had come into their life, as both his dads joked, in a neat package from Russia, you know, because ofFromRussia with Love,the movie. It was a film, his dad, David, loved very much, and he never missed a chance to repeat this weird little sentiment, wiggling his brows, as was his habit when he was doing his terrible dad jokes.
Sammy had not given two shits about that, nor about the fact that James was practically relearning how to be self-sufficient and a bit more self-reliant as his dads wanted him to be. He wasn’t interested in the family fortune or the business connections his parents had.
Living a very pampered lifestyle in New York had done some damage to his attitude toward money, and the whole move had been a desperate, albeit very successful, attempt to turn things around for James. Sammy had been the calm presence in his life back then, reminding him that they were still just kids, and it was okay to chase impossible dreams. And wasn’t that ironic, as these days Sammy was the one testing the strength of James’s nerves and patience.
Even picking up photography was simply something James got into out of boredom and because Sammy had been in one of those extra curriculum clubs at their high school. Photography had been Sammy’s only indulgence, as the rest of the shit he was studying was boring and tedious in preparation for his career as a doctor.
His passion quickly infected James, and here they were, ten years later, still chasing the perfect image. James got into fashion and advertising because it made more sense from a business standpoint to use his family connections to start his own advertising agency. All the rich kids he had grown up with in New York were now hitting him up to cover their new business ventures. He often did shoots for commercials – cosmetics, fashion, modeling gigs, you name it – James was all over it.
Sammy, on the other hand, loved to do art and travel, big social and pop culture events. After college, when James had been in the thick of starting his own company, Sammy had drifted for a few years, traveling the world, and working as a freelance photographer. He wasn’t famous, but his images sold well enough to keep him funded so he could travel as much as he wanted, even if sometimes he had to crash on couches and make fast friends in a new country.
He had been playing with the idea of a photographic novel for a while now and was looking for the right scene to inspire him. He had a dozen other projects he was “working” on, but really this had been his latest, woke-up-from-a-dream and wrote-it-down-in-my-journal idea, and he had to follow the vibe. That’s just how he rolled. But he needed money to complete his idea, and he certainly needed a car to travel to his chosen locations. Hence, James’s offer couldn’t have come at a better time.
Getting money from James would be a lot easier than getting him to agree to loan him his shiny new black SUV. Sure, James had five other cars, but he was a principal man and Sammy may need to play dirty to get what he wanted. Especially after wrecking the last car he had borrowed from his friend.
When he finally got his heavy breathing under control, James gave him a quick pat on the shoulder and grinned. Then, of course, he had to be a dick and greet him with the choice words, “You look like shit!”
“I look like hot fuckable shit, thank you very much,” he deadpanned to James. He hadn’t had time to waste on makeup today, but a quick eyeliner and barely there lip-gloss were a must and something he had now mastered doing on the go. He wasn’t going for an overly feminine look but enjoyed experimenting with his appearance and playing with fashion trends. It wasn’t his fault he looked exceptionally sexy as the Japanese version of a young Johnny Depp fromPirates of the Caribbean, sans the dreadlocks.
James snickered, and gave him a once-over, then just straight up laughed to his face, leaving little doubt as to how he felt about his statement, the messy state of his attire and how clearly winded and out of shape he was from simply making it on time.
Sammy ignored him, and settled on the portable chair on set, waving a PA for a coffee, already bossing around the staff like the diva that he was. James sighed and took a seat next to him. Unless this model showed up, it was going to be just a day to hang out with his best friend in the park on a cold winter morning, freezing their balls off.
After sipping on his coffee for a while, marinating on how to broach the subject, James gave him a light shove, giving him a slightly suspicious look. “Why are you so quiet? You’re never quiet. What are you planning in there?” He gently tapped his right temple, and Sammy chuckled. Busted.
“Can I have your car?” he blurted, then batted his lashes sweetly. James’s mouth gaped in a perfect “O”, so he hastily added, “Please! I promise I will be super careful this time!”
“No! Better yet, fuck no!” James waved a finger in his face, trying to emulate a sassy Sammy. He was failing miserably, but it was still funny, so Sammy did laugh, rewarding his effort.
“Come on, man! I swear I have no idea where that flower stand came rushing from. One minute I was all alone on the road, and the next buckets of roses were flying all over the place.”
“Oh no, why didn’t you just say so?” James was still mocking him. “Uh…No, a million timesno!”
“Fine!” Sammy wanted to cross his arms and sulk, but it was still fucking cold and clutching the lukewarm coffee was a small comfort he wasn’t ready to abandon just yet.
But then James didn’t ask him what he had needed the car for and that really was not part of the scenario he had prepared for. He had to go off script.
“Aren’t you going to ask me what I need it for?”
