by Wendy Owens
A business degree … I could do a lot with that. That’s what I told myself, but now that college is over, I still can’t seem to figure out where I fit into the world of business. I understand marketing, but it doesn’t excite me. The problem is, I have no idea what excites me.
At least Ben knew what he wanted to be. He had enrolled as a freshman in the engineering program and used to tell me how one day when he was designing cars, he would make so much money that he could give me the life I deserved. Knowing what you want to do apparently doesn’t matter in the end either. He graduated and the only job available was an unpaid internship. Fast forward and here we both are, miserable in every sense of the word, even if he can’t recognize it. Ben was a dreamer. It’s what attracted me to him in the first place. The Ben in his parents’ basement that I walked away from tonight doesn’t dream anymore.
Four years Ago …
“WHO’S THAT?” I ASK, NUDGING Amos in the arm. Amos wasn’t going to win any scholar awards, but he did have an unusual ability to meet and catalog in his empty skull every available campus hottie.
“Oh her, Annabelle Hart,” he answers.
I run my fingers through my hair before giving myself a quick breath check.
“Oh, watch out ladies,” Amos boasts. “The Italian Stallion is about to work his magic.”
I glare at him, “you’re not helping.”
The first thing I notice about her is her flaming red hair and her flawless skin. She’s beautiful. She demands to be looked at. The next thing I notice is how she’s dressed; oversized shirt unbuttoned and tied up on her trim yet shapely waist, just below her bra line along with a pleated mini skirt playing off unlaced boots that reach mid-calf. She wants guys to look at her. And it’s working, because I want her.
I glide across the room and approach her as if I belong there. “Annabelle?” I ask, acting as if I recognize her. This technique actually works more often than one would think.
I’m greeted by a scowl on not only her face but her friends as well. They’re obviously annoyed I’ve interrupted. “Do I know you?” The girl next to her asks.
I bite my lip. Annabelle isn’t the fiery redhead. No, she’s the raven-haired friend, and I can tell she already hates me.
I decide to go with it. “We have history together, right?” I inquire, my face bright red, fighting every impulse to go and slug Amos in the head. I should have known he was talking about the wrong girl. Annabelle is exactly his type.
“I doubt that,” she replies, rolling her eyes. “And thanks, we already have drinks.”
“I didn’t ask,” I remind her. Before I can fish for her friend’s name, an Ivy League-looking douchebag rolls up next to Annabelle, wrapping his arm around her waist. Clearly claiming his ownership.
“Is this townie bothering you ladies?” he asks.
I watch as Annabelle’s cold disposition melts, and she leans her head against his shoulder. Something this guy has is working for her.
“I’m not a townie,” I snap, more determined than ever to get Red’s name.
“Oh, well, excuse us,” the prick says, laughing. I tighten my fists into two tight balls, trying with everything in me to fight the urge to connect my right hook with his perfectly chiseled jaw.
“I came over here because I was hoping to get your name,” I confess, my eyes connecting with Red’s. She’s sexy—the kind of sexy that lingers in your mind long after she’s gone. She smiles, but not directly connecting her gaze with me.
“Why don’t you take off?” Ivy League suggests, pushing a hand into my shoulder.
Instinctively I react, grabbing his wrist firmly and twisting it. I sigh, “Look, I don’t have a problem with you, but I will if you keep it up.”
He pulls his arm away, nursing his wrist like a wounded animal. “Asshole. You know, I should press assault charges.”
I laugh. “What, are you pre-law or something?”
“Actually, yes,” he bounces back. I laugh louder.
“What’s so funny?” he demands.
I say nothing, and take a step back.
“That’s what I thought,” he barks. Jesus, this guy doesn’t know when to quit. “Just a punk.”
I lunge forward, a hand presses into my chest, stopping me. It’s hers. I freeze and look at her.
“Kenzie,” she says, a concerned look glinting up at me. I realize I’ve scared her.
I want to sweep her up in my arms, hold her, and let her know if she were my girl she would never have to be scared of anything ever again. Least of all me.
“Kenzie,” I repeat, just wanting to see how her name feels on my lips. It feels right. Righter than anything has ever felt. “I’m Ben.”
Her smile deepens to one of those that make you feel warm all the way to your toes. Reflecting in her jade-colored eyes, I can see the most genuine and sincere woman I’ve ever met.
“Hi Ben,” she replies, and the softness of her deep rasp makes the hair on my arms stand up. Damn, even her voice is sexy.
“Please don’t tell me you have one of these yacht boy Ken dolls around here somewhere,” I joke.
“Screw you pal.” Jack shoves me in the shoulder, I assume purposefully light so as not to agitate me too much. I clench my jaw. I don’t want to scare her again. I want to kiss her. God, do I ever want to kiss her.
She lifts her eyebrows, fluttering her long lashes for a moment, “if you’re asking if I have a boyfriend—no, I don’t.”
“Do you want one?” I flirt.
“Oh God,” Jack groans.
“Kenzie can take care of herself,” Annabelle interjects, pushing her boyfriend toward the bar, finally leaving us alone.
“Well?” I ask again.
She laughs. “How about we start with my phone number?”
“I’m patient,” I answer as she pulls a pen out of her small shoulder bag and scrolls her number across my flesh. “I’ll never wash it.”
“If you want a date with me, you better,” she taunts.
“What are you doing right now?” I ask, hoping the night won’t end.
“I’m hanging out with my friends.”
“They’re not your friends are they?” I ask, tilting my head, not shielding my dislike of Jack.
She pulls her lips tight and nods her head slowly, narrowing her eyes at me.
“Did I say something wrong?” I inquire, sensing her disapproval.
“I’d stop while you’re ahead, Ben.” Her smile fades, and I wish I could erase the last thirty seconds. It was perfect until I put my foot in my mouth. I make a mental note— she’s fiercely loyal and protective of her friends.
I don’t take my eyes off of her. I worry if I breathe I could ruin any chance I have with the most intriguing creature I’ve ever met. I can’t quit wondering what she looks like naked. I can’t stop thinking about every other guy in this bar, and that they are thinking the same thing as me.
Damn it.
“If it means a date with you, hell, I’ll even kiss that Jack guy,” I flash her my crooked smile, hoping my humor melts her.
She grins, and I’m curious if she smiles in her sleep, “while that would be entertaining, I know Jack’s an ass, but that’s my girl.”
“Okay, then would it help if I kiss her?” I offer, shrugging innocently.
She laughs. Not one of those small controlled laughs. No, this is a thunderous roar that you would never believe came from her body. It doesn’t embarrass her and it’s the most perfect laugh I’ve ever heard.
“How about you just call me later?” she suggests.
“Like in ten minutes?”
She laughs again. God it’s intoxicating to listen to. I want to make her laugh every day for the rest of her life.
“Tomorrow?” she suggests.
“What time do you wake up?” I ask, grinning.
Tilting her face toward the floor, she whispers, “early.” She winks before walking away from me to rejoin her friend.
My heart is racing
as I approach Amos. I’m nearly vibrating with excitement across the floor.
“Went well?” he asks.
“Take a good look. I’m going to marry that girl,” I inform him confidently.
STARTING OVER ISN’T EASY. STARTING over means you’ve quit. It means that officially you have failed. A lifetime of people telling you to keep going and power through echoes in your ears, never letting you forget that you have lost.
I stare at the circled ads on the page in front of me, desperate to find something, anything that would tell all those doubting voices in my head that they’re wrong.
Pet Groomer.
I read one of the titles that I’ve circled. I love animals. It could be a natural fit … or I could end up getting stitches from a dog bite on my first day.
Day Care Teacher.
I laugh. I’m not even sure why I circled the ad in the first place. With the exception of children that are related to me by people I care about, I’m not a huge fan of the tiny, over-salivating creatures. None of the jobs I’m considering are exactly what I would call appealing. I longed for change, for excitement; these jobs promise none of that.
The door opens behind me. I can hear the rain still falling. I stare at the page, hoping I missed something. Buried in the black and white print there has to be an answer. I feel someone over my shoulder and tilt my head up to look at who it might be. His eyes are blue, or maybe gray. No, they’re blue for sure—a stormy blue. And those eyes are staring directly at me. He uses a free hand, running it through his dark, thick hair. When he does, a mess of wet and tangled curls fall to the side of his face. He’s still staring at me.
Instinct takes over as I bark in an irritated tone, “Um, can I help you?”
His eyes move to the want ads, then back to my face before he shakes his head and moves to the vacant counter area. I watch him, trying my best to make it look like I’m not. He places a black backpack on the bar stool next to him and sits on the other, glancing briefly at me. I don’t react. When he looks at the waitress, I glance down at the bag. Based on the labels and shape, I realize it’s a camera bag, and we’re not talking amateur stuff. This guy’s a professional.
Now there’s a job. I think. A photographer, maybe I could shoot runway shows. Then reality sinks in. I’m not one of those people. Not one of those people that live the exciting lives. I don’t have the money or skill set to do anything that amazing.
What have I done? The doubt settles completely over me as I think about Ben. He loves you. Ben wasn’t moving on the timeline I wanted. He seemed to lack all ambition lately, but he was mine. Who am I, if not Ben’s Kenzie?
I crumple up the papers and shove them back on the seat in the booth where I found them. I need to talk to Ben, the doubt-laced voice in my head tells me. I rummage through my pockets, searching for the cash to pay the check, preparing myself to grovel at Ben’s feet and to try and learn to be content with my life.
Placing the money on the table, I swivel and shift my weight to the end of the booth. My breath catches in my throat when I see mysterious photographer boy in front of me, not allowing me to stand. I lean back and loudly ask, “What’s your damage?”
His expression reveals my reaction has amused him. He delivers a long blink, and lowering his head, he slides into the seat across from me. He smiles at me for several seconds, saying nothing.
“Am I missing something?” I ask, frustrated.
“Apparently employment,” he answers.
“Excuse me?” I sound surprised even to myself.
His tone stays even. “You need a job, right?”
I shift back to the center of the booth seat, eager and curious to hear what he has to say. I don’t respond at first. Instead, I look at him. He does the same thing, assessing me up and down. I wonder what he’s thinking. I wonder if my mascara’s running. I wonder why I care.
“That’s creepy,” I say at last.
“What is?” he asks, his strong jaw line twitching slightly.
“Watching me like some kind of stalker.”
“It’s called being perceptive,” his tone is direct and confident. He shrugs, then moves as though he’s going to stand up. “But hey, I guess I was wrong.”
I reach out and grab his arm, and sounding desperate I yelp, “Wait!”
His eyes dart to my hand then back to my face. My touch has made him uncomfortable. I quickly pull my hand away. “I’m sorry,” I mutter. “There are a lot of creepers out there. A girl can’t be too careful.”
He nods, turning back to face me.
“Do you know about a job?” I ask, wondering if I might be losing my mind.
“I may,” he answers apprehensively.
I lift my hands in the air, “Hey, you’re the one who sat down at my table.”
He bites his bottom lip as if he’s trying to stop himself from saying something.
“What?” I demand.
“I’m just not sure you’re worth the hassle.”
“Wow,” my eyes are wide. “You’re a real douchebag, aren’t you?”
He swallows hard, “I’m sorry, I’m not very good at this type of thing.”
“What? Talking to humans? Yeah, that much is obvious.”
He sighs, his head dropping. “I’m a photographer, and I lost my assistant today.”
“Are we talking lost as in they found other employment or found their way into a shallow grave?”
He busts out laughing, and I like the way his laughter lights up his eyes. “I promise, I’m about as far from a psycho killer as you can get.”
“Isn’t that exactly what you would say if you were a psycho killer?” I ask.
“I suppose that’s true, but I’m not, and I need an assistant.”
“I’ve never done anything like that. I doubt I’m what you’re looking for.” I explain reluctantly.
“It’s not rocket science. I give you a run down of the equipment, and you make sure I have exactly what I need the moment I need it. Switch out my memory card, load my hard drives up for editing, lighting—”
“Why would you want to hire me? You don’t even know me.”
“Honestly?” he asks.
I roll my eyes. “Yes.”
“I’m desperate. I have a shoot Wednesday at 10 AM. I don’t even have time to run an ad.”
I nod. “Fair enough. Tell me more.”
He leans to one side, pulls a card from his back pocket, and slides it across the table to me. “All you have to do is be at this address thirty minutes before the shoot. A few hours of work and I’ll pay you a couple hundred.”
“Dollars?” I question, skeptically.
He nods, “Cash. Sound good?”
“Too good,” I answer, then press my lips together in suspicion.
He reaches to take the card back, “I can offer the job to someone else.”
I swipe it and hold it against my chest. “No, I didn’t say I wasn’t interested. And I’m not sure who you’re going to find in this neighborhood at this time of night.”
“I found you,” his smile is disarming.
“I guess you did,” I answer. “What kind of pictures do you take?”
He furrows his brow, “Does it matter?”
“Damn straight it matters!” I exclaim. “I’m not standing around all day helping you get some great dick pics.”
He laughs, and it’s the most likable he has seemed so far. “I promise, I’m not looking for a fluffer.”
“I’m not sure what that is, but I am pretty sure I don’t want to know,” I retort.
He laughs briefly and with a mischievous glare suggests, “Google it at your own risk.”
“Noted,” I respond, smiling. “So what would I be doing?”
“I promise, it’s nothing too hard. Keep my equipment functioning, adjust some lighting, but mostly you’re in charge of keeping the shoot running smoothly by keeping the subjects moving.”
“Like models?”
He shrugs. “Yeah, something lik
e that.” He glances over his shoulder to see his burger has arrived at the counter. “So, see you Wednesday?”
The hair on the back of my neck stands up. My gut is screaming for me to tell him absolutely not, but my neck muscles apparently are not listening as I answer with a nod of my head. He’s up, and just as stealthily as he had moved into my booth, he is back on his stool at the counter. When I’m sure he’s not looking at me, I pull the card he’d given me away from my chest and look more closely at it.
Aiden Calloway
Photographer
I don’t recognize the address below his name—it’s in some commercial area. In fact, I’m not familiar with it at all except that I know it isn’t an area to go after dark. Everything about the well-designed dark gray card, from his name, all the way down to the letter-pressed font, tells me he is a professional. He knows how to project quality and a minimalist element of class. Thanks to a business degree I earned and have not yet found a job to use said skills, I know both these things are great components to have in marketing. It seemed like he exuded success from the way he carried himself, to his business cards, and the confident way he spoke.
Luckily for him, even though my stranger danger alarm bells were sounding, I was just desperate enough, and he had just the right amount of mystery to get a yes out of me.
Now, to brace myself for the eight-block walk in the rain to my parents. Technically, I could tell my mom I have a job, at least for a day. I get up to leave, surprised Aiden doesn’t even look at me as I exit. If it weren’t for the card wrapped in my hand I would wonder if our exchange even happened.
“HAS SHE CALLED?” MOM ASKS, squishing the meatball mixture between her fingers. Her oversized, dark brown eyes can’t help but reveal her concern.
I walk over, locking my arm around her shoulder, and press my lips into the back of her head. I let go. “We’ll be fine mom, we always are,” I reassure her.
She sighs, then scrapes the mixture into the loaf pan. “I don’t think you should be so sure, sweetie.” She glides to the sink, taking care to thoroughly wash the bits of raw meat off her hands.
I lean back against the counter, popping another grape into my mouth. “Why don’t you let me worry about my love life, okay?”
