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“Yes, but they’re busy, and besides, I’ve seen your work. You’re so good with pushing buttons and pressing on things. Thanks so much!”
Yep. He’s taunting me. This entire thing is a pathetic A-list power play, because the fact that he holds every card, the box they came in, and the plant that manufactures them isn’t enough, apparently.
“We really need to move this along,” the photographer snaps at me. At me, as if I’m the reason for any of this. I’m still trying to understand what this is.
Either way, with a dozen witnesses and multiple careers in the balance (including my own), I have no choice but to take his phone as he tucks himself beside Larinda again. Her perplexed expression turns apologetic as it lands on me. The rock in my throat lodges in my stomach.
“Oh my goodness. Congratulations!” the new fan says as she’s positioned between them. “You two are, like, the perfect couple. You can totally tell you’re meant for each other.”
“Thanks, sweetie,” Jarvis says with an oily smile. Larinda’s is more of a stiff lip-twist.
“So nice of you to say,” she manages.
“This would be a great shot, Valerie. You mind?” Jarvis says. “Be sure to get her ring. It’s so lovely. Did you see the twig?”
I’m burning from the inside out when Larinda’s pained gaze brushes mine. Her stage façade is slipping. As much as I want to scream right now, I have to pull it together to keep her from losing it, which could lead to losing a lot more.
I laser a cold stare at Jarvis and force down the ache in my chest.
He wants photos? Fine. He’s fucking getting photos.
Jarvis looks damn proud of himself for his clever game as he resumes his role and poses for the real photographer. I snap a picture of his shoe.
Next, I get a close-up of the pole supporting the right side of the backdrop. Actually, the rivet halfway up would be so beautiful juxtaposed against the fabric beside it. Strength and softness, you know? He’s right. I’m so friggin’ good at this.
I crouch down to get an artistic view of the stunning bolt and take eighteen shots of it from the same angle. Shifting slightly to the right, I get another twenty or so. The lighting is better from here. Bet it would be amazing about six inches higher. I straighten a little to get twelve more. Maybe he’ll frame one of these masterpieces.
Jarvis shoots me a silent critique, but since he wouldn’t know what I’m photographing, his ire must be from the fact that I’m smiling.
Yes, that’s right. Two can play at this game.
And that’s when it hits me. It’s not the power that fuels him. He already has more of that than he can ever play with. His sadistic game is extracting it. He loves watching people fall into his traps and accept his reign over them.
So what’s the best way to strip away that fun? Give it freely.
“Lovely,” I say, lining up beside the photographer. “Larinda, can you turn your hand a fraction to the right? Other hand. Yes! Perfect, don’t move.”
I feel the real photographer’s aggravation at my interference, but Jarvis unwittingly gave me a license to do whatever I want right now.
He’s pissed as I snap a few more shots with exaggerated “photographer” posturing. On one knee, then the other. Tilting forward, leaning back. I’ve never conducted a photoshoot in my life, but I’ve witnessed plenty. I can play the part all day if he wants.
Now this is a skit. Where’s Chad when you need him? God, I’d love to have an octopus right now.
“Beautiful! I need more from you, Jarvis,” I instruct. “Stop asking if you’re a rockstar and tell me.”
Jarvis returns a look that’s telling me something very different, and I bite back a grin.
“What’s your name?” I ask the new fan that rounds the corner for their turn.
“Me? Um, R-Reece?”
I nod and motion toward Jarvis and Larinda. “Great. Just stand between them. Give us your best smile, Reece. This is going on Jarvis’ social media pages.”
“Really?” the person asks, eyes wide.
Jarvis fires a furious look at me, but what’s he supposed to do? He literally told us that’s the reason for this charade.
I pretend to be oblivious as I snap a few more photos, this time careful to stay out of the real photographer’s way. I’m only interested in annoying one very specific individual.
