by Vic Tyler
Cluttering the periphery of the room were most of the barrels, haphazardly lined as though they’d been unceremoniously tossed from the middle of the room. In the center of the set were a few barrels, varying in sizes and colors, carefully and gingerly poised.
I had just started putting the tarp together to form some makeshift pool when Benji came back and barked at least ten more orders that he expected done on the spot.
For the rest of the day, there wasn’t a single minute I wasn’t on my feet. Whether it was holding up a reflector or changing the lights or bringing a different lens — no, the other one — to Benji or even picking up supplies he casually flung in my general direction.
He was harsh when he was instructing and even harsher when he reprimanded. When it came to working with Benji, I quickly found out that no news was indeed good news — his preferred choice of showing approval was to ignore me.
Although I admit I might have incurred this next level of assholery when he barked at me to turn on some upbeat mood music, and I turned on Lily Allen’s “Hard Out Here.”
You’ll find me in the studio and not in the kitchen. It’s hard out here for a bitch.
Benji scowled and didn’t say anything.
But the short time I was working here was definitely an experience, like Brie mentioned. It gave me the chance to see the devil in action. He was a consummate professional, above all else. Everything he did was hands–on, and despite all the work he demanded of me, he kept just as busy, constantly moving and adjusting.
Then there were the times I didn’t know if he actually needed help or if he was intentionally aggravating me. Like telling me to stand on a barrel and dangle a glitter–fied grape mobile over a model for half an hour. Despite the fact that I was pretty sure the mobile wouldn’t be in any of the photographs, I bit my words back and did it anyway.
Benji’s voice was confident and commanding, the deep timbre of his voice sending shivers down my spine. And his sharp green eyes seeing anything and everything and then some more. It was as though he was always picturing the next pose, the next set, the next shot. He moved like an artist, shifting through the midst of creative chaos.
The intense, impassioned look on his face was one that I recognized among the musicians I admired. The glittering eyes like when my mom found the perfect balance to modernize classical songs, incorporating unprecedented styles into her singing. Or the iron concentration that dad had as he scanned through his music scores, keying in to a million minor adjustments in the orchestral arrangements that would birth a new interpretation that he’d bring to life as the conductor on stage.
And as I watched Benji, I found that I couldn’t help wondering… What would it feel like to be on the other side of that gaze?
Geez. I mentally slapped myself for even considering it.
Because even though he was a perfect gentleman to the models, albeit brisk with no room for argument, that didn’t stop him from bullying me throughout the shoot. The worst was when he decided he wanted to capture “the movement of wine.” He left his smirk on full display while I miserably got knee–deep in the poured–out boxed wine on the makeshift tarp pool.
And then finally.
“That’s a wrap.”
I collapsed on my marinated hands and knees, exhausted.
No more. I didn’t want to see or be near anything wet, red, and fermented for at least a year.
As everyone else started bustling out, Brie called out my name, beckoning me into one of the offices.
Looking down at my juice soaked pants, I sighed. I trudged and squelched a trail of wine to the room, feeling like Gretel with an alcoholic father.
Brie and Benji stood in the conference room, staring at a huge monitor with the pictures taken from the shoot.
The images flipped through quickly, the solo and group pictures moving like a stop motion film.
The models were all different ages and portrayed in a different appeal. Brie was the youngest, looking shyly and innocently flushed like she was experiencing her first love. An older model with a confident self–assuredness, another with relaxed enjoyment, and the last woman, well into her retired years, eyed the camera with an expression of sly mirth with the air of refined flirtatiousness.
The last photo was of all of the women together, splashing around in the wine pool or sitting on the shorter barrels, carefree and enjoying each other’s company. It was a mesmerizing progression, and I was so absorbed that I almost forgot that my knees were jello.
“I think it turned out for the better,” Brie exclaimed, turning to look at us excitedly. “What do you think?”
I slowly nodded, but Benji didn’t say anything. A few minutes passed with Brie lightly chattering about the photos, and I struggled to pay attention through my exhaustion to little avail.
Benji’s voice suddenly cut through, “How familiar are you with Photoshop and Lightroom?”
Silence. This seemed like it was going to be a recurring theme for the three of us.
Brie looked at me.
Oh, oh, oh, of course, me. “Err, I’ve used Photoshop at the other studio I worked at.”
Benji grunted, and even without looking at his face, I could tell he was scowling.
Brie looked at Benji, a small smile playing at her lips. She leaned over to look directly into his face, as she said something I couldn’t hear. Her face beamed in a way that I recognized when she was feeling genuinely delighted. Benji turned away from her, lightly pushing her face away, almost playfully, and Brie laughed.
It was like watching a movie — two incredibly beautiful people sharing something intangibly familiar and intimate as you sit across the room, feeling destitutely alone in another reality.
Brie was like my other half. I’d always been proud of Brie, and there was never a time I envied her. We often felt like we complemented each other like sisters.
But for the first time, I felt a heavy tug of jealousy and desire in my heart, each thud heavy and tympanic. To be able to look into his face. To be on the other end of his vividly emerald gaze. To share secrets and smile, laugh together, touch each other. Like two chords that play in balanced harmony, softly basking in their short perfect union before the next notes pulled the song forward.
I breathed in sharply, feeling baffled by the sudden turmoil in my chest.
What the hell was I thinking?
I slipped out of the room and dug around the supply closet to look for a mop.
It had been a long fucking day. I was going to go home, treat myself to a bath and a screwdriver. God knows I deserved it.
***
But of course, the devil had other plans.
The studio was empty. When everyone was leaving, I hid in a corner, ashamed, confused, and afraid that Brie would suspect something. I was too tired to breathe, let alone sort my feelings out.
Benji stood against the far wall, watching as I rolled up the wet tarp, the boxes of refilled wine next to me.
“You know,” he said, slightly muffled by the cigarette in his mouth. “I was going to call someone to clean that up. I’m sending a full invoice to Cooper.”
This self–absorbed, petty bastard.
Whatever I questionably felt for him before was immediately washed out by a wave of irritation. How could I forget the verbal abuse he dealt me at our first meeting this morning?
“You could’ve told me that before,” I gritted through my teeth.
“I know,” he said.
Even after this hellishly long day, Benji was dazzling. Even with that arrogant upturn of his mouth, smooth and pink lips framing his straight, white teeth.
Ugh, I need to stop thinking about his mouth. That perma–smirk with the cancer stick in his mouth. Cancer stick, cancer stick. Cancer stick.
Benji walked over, and I instinctively took a step back when he came too close. He handed me a folder that was under his arm.
“Contract for a full–time position,” he said, peering at the tarp at our feet. “I woul
d’ve made it a probationary period, but Grant vetoed it. Said it was all or nothing.”
He grimaced and continued, “It’s still employment at will, so I’ll drop your ass when you stop being useful.”
“Why?”
He looked blankly at me like I asked the stupidest thing he had ever heard.
“No,” I rushed to say. “Why are you offering me a full–time position?”
From what I’d heard from Brie and after working with his torturous demands today, I knew this was a big deal.
He paused, watching me carefully as he considered his next words.
“Well,” he said slowly, drawing a breath through the cigarette. “You see it, don’t you?”
He tapped his temple.
Silence.
Then he rolled his eyes, sighing, as I looked blankly at him.
“Maybe I’m overestimating you,” he muttered.
Benji took another drag, the glowing ember inching closer to his mouth. He blew the smoke out and promptly walked over to the only door in the studio space. He opened it, revealing a black iron staircase. It looked like a fire escape, but there were no signs indicating that it was an escape exit. He looked back and jerked his head towards the door, motioning for me to follow him.
I hesitated. Because that was normal. Why the hell would I go up a random staircase with someone I didn’t know? Especially one with a mouth like that… with eyes like that… a body like that… This was turning out to be a horror movie or a porno, and I didn’t know which option I preferred.
“Well, if you want to leave looking like that, you’re welcome to,” he said, disappearing up the stairs.
I looked down and said a string of very bad words when I realized my clothes were irreparably stained red. I was too busy running around earlier and didn’t think about what I was wearing before I jumped into that pond of wine. I was absolutely, probably, definitely going to get stopped on the way home and interrogated or tackled as a suspicious person.
But would it be worth whatever was waiting at the top of those stairs? I was doubtful, but I found myself following after Benji.
I went up the stairs and through the open door into a large room above the studio. It was a bedroom with a desk in the corner and a large computer on it. A bit sparse on the 3–D side, but there was hardly any bare floor or wall space from the photos scattering every surface.
“You can take a shower in here,” Benji said, emerging from a side room. He nodded towards the door behind him and handed me a towel and a pile of clothes. “I don’t know if any of those will fit you, but you can pick out whatever you want and keep it.”
Women’s clothes. All women’s clothes. I looked dubiously at him.
“Clothes that people have left here,” he said while he opened the window to let out the cigarette smoke.
I dropped the pile in disgust, the tug in my heart twisting painfully.
“I don’t want to wear the clothes your girlfriends or whoever left here.”
Benji burst out laughing.
And kept laughing.
When he didn’t stop anytime soon, I thought about turning around and going back downstairs.
“They’re work clothes,” he finally said, rubbing his hard abs. “From past shoots that the models or stylists left behind and didn’t pick up or want. They’ve been washed too. I’m not barbaric.”
Oh.
“Oh,” I said, staring down at the pile.
I bent down and shoved my hand into the middle of it. Oh, my god. How humiliating. What did I just say? I grabbed a couple of things before heading to the bathroom. I heard him snickering as I closed the door.
So embarrassing. But seriously, it wasn’t a far–fetched assumption to make… when you saw the bed and women’s clothes and… and him.
I crouched down, hugging my knees as the stream of hot water drizzled on my head and back. Any anxieties about being murdered or otherwise were replaced by a reflexive, thankful moan. The steaming hot water washed away the sticky wine and sweat, soothing my burning muscles. I closed my eyes, resting my cheek on my knee. So warm and comforting. It had been one hell of a long day…
Enjoyed the preview?
Continue reading…
EXCERPT FROM
UNCHAINING YOU
A slow, synth beat starts to thump, muted, from the speakers all around the dim room. I was hoping for something a little more upbeat since I’m running on three hours of sleep, and the velvety couches lining the walls of the VIP Room are starting to look like plush black clouds at this point of the night. If I strain my ears, I can hear the enthused and muffled whomp–whomp–whomp in the main room where everyone’s hunting — for money or attention.
The VIP Room is just quiet enough for the patrons sparsely spread throughout the area to converse with the dancers whose time they’re procuring hourly. Of course, some of them aren’t really looking for conversation.
Like Bill.
The pudgy, leering man sitting in front of me looks up hungrily as I lean forward to fill his vision with my heavy breasts. Even though they’re taped down securely, I’m still paranoid that the thin, elastic straps of my black, lacy bikini are going to snap, leaving me with no more than black, lacy pasties with sad, dangly tentacles.
I say ‘bikini,’ but it’s the kind you’d never wear in public unless you want to scandalize parents at the public pool and become a budding teenage boy’s first wet dream. The kind that would never survive a cannonball, and the one that makes your nightmare of seeing your bikini pieces floating up right next to you come true. More like a skinny dip–kini.
“Destiny.”
Bill holds out a few Andrew Jacksons, and I push my hip toward him so he can slip it into the side string of my thong. He takes his time, his dry fingers grazing roughly against my skin, taking advantage of the one opportunity during our time together that I let him touch me. After all, he’s more generous with his tips when I let him brush a feel or two during our hour.
Lowering my voice to a sultry hum, I purr, “Stay for a little longer, Bill.”
He chuckles in that not smooth way — the sound gutturally choked by his bubbling lust.
“Can’t tonight, baby.” He lowers his voice, trying to sound seductive. “Unless you want to come home with me.”
He arches his brow with a cheesy smile as his fingers touch his wallet.
It makes me feel dirty. Very, very dirty. And not in the sexy way.
For eight hours a night, a few nights a week, my sensitive bitties of skin are slapped on with cash like I’m a papier–mâché project. I’m basically rolling around in money, and if you mix in a little paste, you can make a cash cast out of me. But let me tell you, the whole ‘rolling in dough’ thing is an idea that’s only appealing to be entertained theoretically.
I mean, money’s pretty gross if you think about it. You never know where it’s been. Stuffed in wallets, forgotten in pockets, hidden in shoes or bras, dropped in gasoline–laden puddles on the street, handled by greasy, pizza–oiled hands, rolled to snort coke, slid into a stripper’s asscrack.
The first time I went home with a huge stack of tips, I did it. I spread out a bed of green and laid down on it. It’s really not that exciting. But go ahead and try. And if you’re more like me than you are Ebenezer Scrooge, you’ll find out that carpeting your floor with money doesn’t make it any softer.
It’s still cold, hard cash. In a cold, hard world.
I fight the urge to scrunch my nose, instead lowering them to watch my manicured fingers walk up his white dress shirt, his suit jacket lying forgotten next to him to minimize the layers between us. “You know I can’t go home with customers.”
Can’t, won’t, don’t want to. What’s the difference? In the end, it’s not going to happen.
Some of my clients are sweethearts. Just lonely ones. But some men, like Bill, wave around their money using the carrot–and–stick approach. The cash being the carrot, and the stick being… well, their stick. When I
say I don’t provide those services, they don’t back down.
They raise their offer.
Bill’s eyes travel over me as he continues fingering his bulge. The wallet, of course. It’s not the only thing bulging in his pants, but at least he knows which of the two I’m interested in, period.
The lines in his shoulders relax as he gives up for the night and leans back against the couch. His doughy cheeks pull back into a smile.
“Shame,” he drawls pointedly, hinting at how much I’m missing out.
Considering that chipmunk sized tent he’s pitching, I’m pretty confident I’m not missing out on much.
But I hood my eyes seductively and pout a little bit. “You can always stick around for a little longer. You know how much I love spending time with you.”
Ten months ago, I would’ve never imagined I could make a man empty his wallet just by changing where and how I look at him.
I still remember my first day at Starlette when Sage, the strip club’s house mom, pulled me back from making my awkward rounds waddling around the floor. It was my first wearing six–inch fuck–me heels when I’ve only ever worn two–inch–high Mary Janes for church.
She pursed her lips and said, “Honey, if these men wanted to look at a woman who looks as miserable as you do out there, they’d go home to their wives.”
She made a science out of flirtation and laughed when I whipped out my trusty pen and paper. Gave me a big “mhm, you do that” when I said I’d go research all about ‘the art of seduction.’
Even now, Sage likes to joke that her greatest accomplishment to date is turning “Sunday School Skye” turn into “Devilishly Dazzling Destiny.”
Flashing a toothy, hopeful smile, Bill changes tactic. “Then how about dinner? Tomorrow night?”
I’m obviously not going to get him to stay another hour tonight. Lowering my voice huskily, I brush back his hair with the lightest of touches. “Dating is against the rules. But you’ll be the first to know if that ever changes.”
