What the fuck is going on here!?
The Hunter turns back to me and starts moving.
Target moving. Target moving. Mayday! Mayday! May—
She sits.
I'm still standing.
Brooke has left.
And I'm. Still. Standing.
I look down at The Hunter. She's looking at me from above her glasses.
Did she just sit down?
She just freaking sat down!!!!
I also sit!
I force myself to stop tapping my legs and I push down on my knees with my palms. They feel like they've had ten different moisturizing creams applied onto them. Including an experimental one that produces extra moisture in case the moisture from the earlier moisturizer isn't moist enough.
Right, I'm officially babbling.
She looks at photo one. The mushroom.
Photo two. The food fight, one slice of pizza caught in midair.
She looks at photo three. Red Light District. Thomas looking away while sitting on a bed, looking defeated, Karolin counting her money.
Photo four. Him feeding her the pizza.
Five. The "imperfect" buttock which is nonetheless perfect.
Photo six. The rooftop, Karolin covering her breasts and smiling innocently.
Seven. The female gay couple.
Eight. The businessman drinking coffee.
I know the sequence and position of every photo precisely.
I know which one she looks at more than any other.
Her expression doesn't change.
How many minutes have gone by...?
Then, suddenly, I stop thinking. And the tension in my legs disappears.
This woman is actually looking at my photos. My photos. One of the hottest names in art in Europe is looking at my portfolio!
And, holy mother, she sat down!
Surely this must mean something? A good thing?
I sigh quietly.
I'm OK.
I'm thinking of nothing.
I hit a Zen moment.
OK, baby. Let's roll...
-3-
She goes back to photo one. "This is a mushroom," she says.
I'm a little stunned at first.
She looks at me. Oh, it was a question. "Y—yes."
Doesn't it look like a mushroom?
"It looks like a mushroom."
She lingers on it. Breathes out loudly.
She flips to the Red Light one, inside the room. "You took this in the Red Light District?" She shows me the shot. I don't need to look at it. I know the sequence and shots backwards.
"Yes."
"Inside a brothel?"
"Yes."
"Hmm."
Silence.
"How did you get in there?"
"A friend."
"I thought you had no friends in Germany. That is what Brooke told me."
"I didn't. But I do now."
"Hmm."
She looks at the shot again.
"He is...the prostitute. She...is the client. That is what I see."
"Yes—"
She puts a finger up and looks at me sternly! "Don't tell me. The photo must tell the story..."
I tighten my lips.
"And he is...depressed. Or, maybe, oh what is the English word...despondent. Yes..."
She looks up at me. I don't even nod, for fear of telling the story.
She looks back down. She moves to a shot of Karolin. "Her body is beautiful." She goes back to the mushroom photo. "And these two are in love. At least the photo tells me that."
Abruptly she looks up! She sticks her finger in the air casually. "Where is...?"
"Frau Jaeger," says one of the hotel staff.
"One tonic water," she says. "And you?"
I realize she's offering me a drink!
"Um— Um, the same. The same."
She frowns. "You drink tonic water?"
"Um, no, actually, um... Sprite. Can of Sprite, please."
She goes back to looking at the photos. "And the models—also new friends?"
"Yes."
"You make a lot of friends in a short time."
I don't know how to answer, so I don't.
Our drinks arrive.
I sip on mine. Then sip it again. She's analyzing still. Surely this is a good thing...
I finish my drink.
Brooke appears in the distance, by the restaurant. She starts jumping up and down! She points at her watch and fans out her hands. Two hands. Then another two. What is she saying: Ten? Twenty?
Twenty minutes?
The Hunter puts the shots down and looks at me stolidly. My nipples almost go hard I'm so freaked out!
"How many shots from this particular shoot do you have which are of this quality and of this model?" She shows me the brothel shots. And she's referring to Karolin.
"About three hundred."
I took way more than three hundred, but there are at least three hundred shots I'd stake a sale on. I don't want to give her a higher number than I absolutely can deliver.
"Hmmm. I am a business woman. I need art that sells and makes me money. I like art. When I buy art for myself, I buy what I like. When I sell art, what I like is not important. It is what sells.
"Personally, I would buy your art.
"But I would also sell your art.
"I will buy this one of her alone on the bed for my own personal collection. I want exclusive rights for it. I'm going to frame it up on my wall. My husband might get aroused by it and realize that the bony girls he sees in Hollywood are nowhere near as attractive as this one.
"Who knows, I might get lucky."
She actually smiles!!!
"The rabbit photo is...cute. But it won't sell for much in a gallery. I will put it up for a hundred Euros. There are people who like that subject matter. And the technical aspect is there.
"I will try sell your photos at one to two thousand Euros each—the ones with the models. Except for the ones in the Red Light room. I will sell that one at five thousand, at least. I won't sell it right away. I will sell it when your name is big. And we will use a gimmick: The fact that you got in there as a woman.
"Then I will sell the other three hundred for between a few hundred and a few thousand each. We will do huge prints of them. I need to know, Gen, is it really three hundred of this quality?"
"Absolutely. At least."
"OK, we assume three hundred. I will look at them myself to see if there are any others we could use.
"All of this I do under one condition: You sign a contract and work for me only for the next two years. I am tough. You will complain about the work hours. I will make a lot of money off you. It might even seem unfair. But I will pay you five thousand Euros a month for the first year, travel expenses, clothing expenses and equipment expenses. In the second year, if you are producing up to the standard I need, I will give you an appropriate raise. You shoot for me and I get all your work. You will additionally get twenty-five percent of what I sell of yours. If it sounds lower than the usual fifty, it's because you will incur no costs. And you will have a dedicated gallery run by one of the top names in art in Europe to show your work in, for two years.
"I will guarantee you two shows in the first year of working for me. Another two if I am still happy with you in the second year. This is no favor to you. Shows make you into a big name, and people pay more often for a name than they do for a picture. If that weren't the case I wouldn't be selling half the rubbish I'm selling at the gallery at the moment. But it's true that you also need talent to become a big name. I think you have that. When you are done with me, every name in the field will want you working for them. But we can decide then if you want to go on your own, for the higher commission but where you cover the costs yourself, or if you want to re-sign with me for another two years.
"It is a good deal for you. And a good deal for me. We will both make money.
"The current photos you have would easily sell for ten thousa
nd Euros. But your name is small. And when a name is small, it doesn't matter how good the photo is. It is the sad truth about art. We need to make your name big first. And I believe we will be selling photos at ten or twenty thousand each by your third show.
"I have some models in Prague that I need photos of now. They are waiting for a call. If you agree, I will send you there tomorrow. The shoot will be three days long. There are some very specific things I need... Similar to what you have done here, actually."
She suddenly smiles as she looks at the photo of Karolin alone again. The one she just bought herself! "Yes, very similar, but on the street. I've been looking for an eye. You have that eye.
"Have I spoken too fast for you?"
My mind is reeling. I quickly recap in my head.
She just bought a photo of mine for her own personal collection.
She's gonna hire me for two years.
She's gonna pay for my expenses.
She's gonna pay me five freakin grand a month!
She's gonna put on a show for me—four of them!
She's gonna sell my photos for a few thousand freaking Euros.
She's gonna give me twenty-five percent of each of those few thousand freaking Euros—
"No. No. Um, I get it. I get it all!"
"Good. Genevieve, I've been wanting to get this photography business going for two years. Everything is in place. I just needed someone with...balls to work with. And someone who can work under pressure. The contracts have been gathering dust, waiting for the right photographer. I will need them signed today. Brooke can help translate them if the German is too difficult."
She stands. She puts her hand out.
I stand as well. I shake her hand. I squeeze it too hard but she doesn't complain.
"Your work has heart, and it is also marketable. But it is the heart which I saw first in it. That is the trick with art, it needs to be marketable, but only work with heart is marketable. Here, this is yours." She hands me my portfolio. "The brothel photograph. That one is magic. That one is truly...art. And it is art that will sell."
She gives another delicate smile. Then her hand starts moving up and... She's touching my ear. Caressing it. Huh? Gently. She's feeling the ear cuff on it. "This is very nice. A snowflake. Nice touch."
She turns and walks away. My mouth gapes as I watch her stride off...
"Oh, Frau Jaeger," I hear. It's the concierge. "This man is here to see—"
She puts her hand up to stop him from finishing. She stalks to the disheveled dude standing at reception in jeans and a shirt that looks like it needs a good iron.
He hands her what looks like a small portfolio.
Another photographer?
She looks at one photo, then another, closes the book. "Thank you. I don't like your style. You have the technical skill but you take no risks. Sorry."
She turns and walks away. The dude calls after her. She doesn't even stop for a second.
"Brooke," she says, "please have Genevieve sign the two-year contract. Then arrange to have the rest of her photos sent to me so I can look at them. We should arrange for a grand opening of the gallery near the end of January. For the opening I want to use her current photos, in addition to the new ones she will take for me.
"When she's signed the contract please book her for three days to Prague. I'm sure we can find a few other places for her to shoot as well. I'll let you know as the ideas come to me."
She goes back into the dining area.
Brooke rushes up to me and hugs me and screams and howls with excitement.
I'm still stunned. "Um... Brooke, what the fuck just happened?"
She drags me outside. When we get there, I understand why she did. Because she goes wild!
"YOU'RE WORKING FOR FRAU JAEGER AS HER BITCH! YOU'RE HER FULL-TIME PHOTOGRAPHER! YOU'RE GONNA BE FREAKING HUGE!!!!!"
"Yeah, that's what I thought just happened. Um, I think I need a drink."
"Fuck that, sista, we're gonna get pissed tonight! Woohoo!!! WOOHOO!!!!"
Am I in a fairy tale?
Then I think of falling asleep on the desk. I think of working through the night. I think of how I forgot to eat because I was working so hard to get the shots. I think of how desperate I was and how I pulled up the courage to ask Thomas to model nude for me. I think of how I got the courage to ask him to find a model that wasn't your typical bimbo.
No, this is no fairy tale. Because fairy tales require a fairy godmother. And mine gave up on me round about the same time as the universe did.
This was all me, baby.
Me and my new friends!
Thinking of how much Thomas helped me only makes me even more pissed at how he managed to screw things up with Karolin! What a typical...man!
But he saved my ass.
So did Karolin.
And so did Axle.
Brooke is bouncing away and jabbering and babbling with joy.
"I have to call someone," I say.
"You do? Oh— Right. The guy." Her eyes sparkle.
There's no point in telling her "it's not like that." Because it is.
It so is.
PART III
CHAPTER 36
-1-
A.
Nov. 17, 2013 — Sunday, Past Noon.
My stubborn self managed to get discharged from the hospital despite the doc's good advices. I'm back at my apartment where I can chow on morphine tablets and ponder the meaning of my walls in the greater cosmos of the universe.
Yeah, morphine, great shit.
Actually, it was great shit until it started to wear off. Now I'm just pondering the meaning of my broken ribs in the greater cosmos of the rest of my body.
Then Gen calls. And I forget the pain.
"Hey," I say, "you seen her yet?"
"She bought them! Axle, she bought them! And I'm going to Prague for three days. And the brothel shots were her favorite and if it weren't for them I might not have gotten it. Axle, she hired me! I can get my own place and— Thank you. That's what I wanted to say."
I laugh. And it hurts my ribs. Damn, if only she knew what it cost me. "It was nothing."
"I can't believe it. And it's snowing. It's freaking snowing here. It's so beautiful!"
My heart warms at hearing her speak. "So, you said you need to go to Prague?"
She tells me she's gonna be gone for a few days—maybe longer.
I've had broken ribs before. Three or four more days and I'll be right as raindrops.
"So, what happened, actually?" she says, "I mean, the beating. Were you robbed? There was blood on the floor at your apartment and the floor—"
"Break-in," I lie.
"A break-in?"
I can't tell her the truth. She'll start blaming herself for not coming sooner last night and feeling bad for no reason. Emeryk is a punk. A punk whose teeth I'm gonna knock out. "Yeah, maybe they have a few leads. I don't know. But it all ended up OK. So, will you write me when you're there? I like your letters."
"I can do that. What's your email address?"
"Email?"
"Yeah, email. How should I write you otherwise?"
"Ever heard of the post?"
"Snail mail?"
"Yeah."
"You don't have email?"
"When I signed up for high school online I created one. Damned if I know what the password is."
"Well, a letter then... I can do that."
"You did it this morning."
"That's kind of romantic, you know? Us writing— Oh, sorry, too forward—"
"It's not. Not romantic. Forward. Sorry, let me start again," I say. "It's not too forward. I think it's time you and I face the facts."
"The facts?"
"Yeah. I like you. So it's time to just roll with it, I guess. Say what you wanna say. We're in a likingship." I swallow hard. This is the closest I've been with a girl in a long time.
It stings a little.
And the oddity is that it stings because I'm afraid mor
e for her, than for me. I wasn't so full of shit eight years ago. I didn't have gangsters busting up my door back then.
No one should ever lose someone they love. Gen's already gone through that. She can't go through that again.
"Sorry, you threw me," she says. "What were we talking about?"
"I 'threw' you?"
"Yeah, um..." She clears her throat. "Never mind, girl shit. I'll write."
"Let me see if I can find my email password. I get the feeling you've forgotten how to send a normal letter. I might never receive it."
"Like you've forgotten we live in the twenty-first century?"
"Something like that."
-2-
I go past Frankie's bar and sip on a pain-numbing Sprite.
"Hitting the hard stuff, are ya?"
I roll my eyes at him.
"So, you gonna tell me what happened?" He's got his hands on the counter and a towel around his shoulder.
Someone else orders a beer and that gives me time to consider whether or not I'm gonna lie to him.
"No, I'm not gonna tell you," I decide.
He stands back, folds his arms. Then he smirks.
"What?"
"You're in love with her, aren't you?"
I shift on the barstool. Shrug.
"She likes you, Ax. She likes you big time. She's a good girl this one."
"As I recall, you mentioned that to me before."
"And I'm mentioning it again."
"Why? So I don't screw up?"
"That's exactly why."
"I never screwed up with your sister."
"You weren't such a bastard when you were with Zoey. You were a lion, yes. And she tamed you. Now you're a freaking feral lion with rabies that's tied to a chain while someone hangs meat by its nose."
He has a point. "Nice way of putting it."
"You need to pull out of whatever you're into that gets you beaten up with broken ribs and you also need to—" He leans forward. "And you also need to stop fucking around! Gen's not that kind of girl, Ax. To do that to her would be murder. She doesn't deserve that."
"I don't cheat on women."
He stands back, laughs. "I know that. You screw one, call it a night, then you screw another one the next day. Technically, it's not cheating. But you can't just call it a night with this one, Ax."
Like You (Perfectly Flawed #1) Page 22
