by Vic Tyler
It felt like there wasn’t enough distance between Jorge and me. Between Peter and me. Since the two of them were familiarly acquainted, it was too risky. The more I looked at Peter and questioned our interaction, the more I was tempted to ask Jorge about him, maybe even ask our mutual friend to strike up a conversation that I could slip into.
But that would be unbecoming of me. Men chased me, not the other way around. There was no man whose attention was worth groveling after.
No matter how intriguing I found him.
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Excerpt from
Redeeming You
Allegro agitato. Fortissimo. Accented chords.
My body remembered.
The horse hairs on my bow frayed as I sliced through the angry rumbling of my strings. The deep reverberation of my cello’s wooden body trembled between my knees, shaking me down to my bones. Dies irae playing to the accelerating tempo of my heartbeat.
There was a reason this man was notorious. An irrational force, a self–contained bomb. He inspired geysers to spew and volcanoes to erupt. He would croon to the restless animosity in Pandora’s box, hidden deep in your soul, to coup d’etat your ass.
Asshole Supreme. The Devil Photographer.
And yet, I was desperate for a sliver of his generosity. Maybe ‘generosity’ is too strong of a word for him. I would settle for charity and take what I can get. Here I was, in front of a man who would rather burn his ship than drown with it, offering him the match.
When Brie asked me last night if I could fill in as a photography assistant for a friend, I said sure, why not?
Even though I meant definitely. Yes. Hellz to the yeah. Hallelujah, praise the lord, please let me be able to pay my rent this month.
I’d gotten to the point where I was thinking about finding a sugar daddy to survive. With all the bills, student loan reminders, and the practice eviction notices my petty landlord slipped into my mailbox, my life was a mess.
Sigh.
It’d be nice if I got a piece of mail that didn’t have a dollar sign on it somewhere.
“Benji’s a pretty difficult photographer to work with behind the camera,” Brie said, blowing onto her freshly painted toenails.
(It was The Underestimation of the decade, I’d realize twelve hours later.)
“Which is why two of his assistants quit before the shoot even started.” She scowled. “Such a diva.”
With long golden hair that Rumpelstiltskin would covet, a visage worthy of Aphrodite’s spite, and legs that stretched for days, Brie Hill was too perfect for her own good. She was determined, self–made, and charming, which made her debut into the modeling industry a smooth cruise.
“How hasn’t he been blacklisted already?” I shoved a handful of popcorn in my mouth, watching the one and only, young and fiiine Heath Ledger singing and dancing around in 10 Things I Hate About You. I’d eat that baritone vibrato. Yum.
“He’s not awful to work with,” Brie said, absentmindedly fiddling with her necklace — a gold shell with an inlaid pearl that she never took off except for work. “Unless you’re assisting. Benji doesn’t want any assistants, and he makes sure that none of them stick around. Totally Type A. But people let him do it ‘cause he’s that good. They’re already calling him a once–in–a–lifetime visionary.”
This dude already sounded like a pain in the ass. But Grant — Brie’s childhood friend and photographer–man’s investor — seemed pretty desperate. And for Grant, desperate was a rare occurrence. So Brie begrudgingly said she’d ask me.
I started working as a photography assistant a year ago. Brie knew a couple of small studios that mostly did family portraits and smaller assignments. But that didn’t bring in much money since the studios didn’t have enough work for me to work full–time.
“I’ll kind of, sort of vouch for him,” Brie said, scrunching her nose and sighing. “He really does have some crazy ideas that get your adrenaline pumping, and the prints are top–notch. My agency is trying to book him all the time.”
Apparently, she and Benji helped each other early on in both their careers when they worked TFP — a model and a photographer exchanging Time For Prints as currency. It didn’t take long before either of them were firmly established in their industries with their reputations skyrocketing in no time, at least judging from my own observations of Brie’s career and hearing about Benji’s similar rise to fame and notoriety. In hindsight, it was practically a match made in heaven.
“It’ll be great experience, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Brie wiggled her shiny flamingo pink toes.
“Alright,” I said, shrugging. I was used to divas, and this one would be paying me to deal with his shit. “How bad can it be?”
***
Real bad.
Time travel should be invented just so I could rewind twelve hours and smack myself in the head.
BAYRE Studio.
Brie sent me the address last night and told me to be there at 8:00 AM. Whoops.
It was now 8:10 in the godforsaken morning, and I blame it on my hand for accidentally snoozing the alarm a few too many times. I texted Brie as soon as I saw the studio from around the corner and rushed in.
The small lobby was sleek, clean, and modern. Long, elegant, black leather couches adorned the walls on each side, the kinds that were definitely not from IKEA. And the huge flourished sign that demanded your attention as soon as you entered the studio was intimidatingly avant–garde, with the morning sun glaring off the glossy black ink.
My phone pinged.
Brie
Studio’s in the back! Finishing face prep. Be right thereeee
Now stamp this on past–me’s forehead in huge red letters: ABORT.
But alas, that’s not what happened.
I eyed the two hallways on either side, skittering from one to the other and peeking through each. They both seemed to lead to the same dark room in the back, dimly lit by some studio lights. I tiptoed through one, each of the rooms dauntingly closed with metallic plaques shining ominously:
OFFICE, CONFERENCE ROOM, DO NOT ENTER
And geez.
Believe it or not, there were barrels everywhere. Wooden barrels. Everywhere.
A table fifteen feet ahead of me was practically bending under the weight of various wine glasses and enough bottles of wine to intoxicate the entire neighborhood. The air was heavy with the smell of fermented grapes seeped into oak, chestnut, and cherry.
A man stood behind all the equipment, examining the set distastefully. I approached slowly, and when he turned to look at me, my breath caught in my throat.
He was easily the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen, with messy auburn hair and emerald eyes that glimmered brightly from the few lights in the room. There was no doubt in my mind that he was one of the models that Brie was working with. But surprisingly, I didn’t recognize his face. I mean, I collected all the magazines and pieces that Brie ever featured in and worked with a number of good–looking people in the studios that were pretty much made to be photographed. But even with my experience, he was on a whole other level. Maybe he was an exclusive high–fashion model that rarely graced the sights of regular people like me.
The man was wearing a loosely buttoned white shirt, his sleeves rolled up, revealing strong, toned arms crossed in front of his broad chest. His face was sharp with high cheekbones and a strong square jaw clenched in a dissatisfied look.
Yikes. Maybe he came late like me, but at least I didn’t have to get all dolled up.
“Hey, didn’t mean to startle you. But you should head to the dressing room,” I told him, looking at a clock on the wall and inching nervously towards the wine table. “All the other models have already started hair and makeup.”
His piercing emerald eyes narrowed as he slowly sized me up. Wow, the intensity of that stare. I laughed uncomfortably, picking up a bottle of wine. Beringer Cabernet Sauvignon. Huh, seemed a little cheap f
or the set–up.
“Damn,” I said, looking around and nudging a nearby barrel with my foot. He continued to stare in silence, and the urge to fill it overcame me. “ I heard the photographer is a nut. Totally weird set, am I right?”
“Maria!”
Brie strode in, slivers of her smooth, honey tan legs peeking through her robe. Her face brightened as she looked from me to the man in front of me.
“Oh, have you already met Benji?”
Oh, crap.
I actually heard my first impression cracking and shattering into sand. I eyed the barrel next to me. It suddenly looked like a very comfortable place to crawl into.
“Pets aren’t allowed in here, Cheddar,” Benji said in a deathly calm voice, turning to face her.
I was startled by the low sound reverberating through the air. Whoa, his voice was so deep. I could definitely be All About That Bass.
“Benjamin,” Brie warned in an I–dare–you–to–keep–talking tone, glaring at him. “This is Maria, your assistant for the day.”
“No.”
Brie rolled her eyes. “You don’t get to say ‘no.’”
“Do I look like a bitchsitter? What the hell do you think this is, a kennel?”
“I’m here to work,” I shot at him, hearing the percussion of my heart angrily drum against my ribcage. “Not to be babysat.”
“Work,” Benji scoffed, his head tilting back in disbelief. This snooty jerk hadn’t looked at me again since Brie came in. “We’re not making cookies here. Go back to your little Keebler frat house. I’m not using you.”
This. Condescending. Asshole. It didn’t matter how good looking he was if he was sauntering around with that attitude.
“No, you won’t be using me. I’ll be assisting you,” I reminded him. “Do you need a dictionary to differentiate the two?”
His sharp green eyes flashed over to me as he sneered, “On second thought, sticking a puppy in a barrel and tossing it into the Hudson doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”
“Wait, what’s with all the barrels anyway?” Brie asked, looking around with an expression half–amused and half–horrified. “This is still the ‘Ripe Aging’ concept for that housewife journal, right?”
“Cooper,” Benji spat, disdainfully. “This is the shit he sent instead of the French furniture set we discussed. I already talked to Grant about it.”
He ran a hand through his unkempt curls and grunted.
“I should’ve known when we said ‘wine–red’ for the color scheme, he’d only pick up on the ‘wine’ bit,” Benji said, grimacing. “That Harvey Weinstein piece of shit likes his alcohol aged inversely to his women. Why the hell anyone put him on this project is beyond me. I guess we should be thanking him for not sending underage prostitutes at least.”
“Oh,” Brie said, mirroring his displeasure. “He really hates you, doesn’t he?”
“Believe me, the sentiment is mutual. And meanwhile, you two are wasting my time while I’m trying to figure out what the fuck I’m going to do,” Benji snarled.
I glanced around. With so many stained barrels piled up and littering the studio floor, it looked like a jungle gym in here.
“‘Female empowerment’ angle?” I asked. I put my fingers together in a rectangular frame and squinted through it. “Wine night’s a classic.”
“Juvenile and unoriginal,” Benji grumbled.
I rolled my eyes. “How about an extra “fuck you, go drown in your cheap wine’ idea? Embody youth. Wine, pool, music, party.”
Brie clapped her hands in delight as she turned to me and said, “Hey, we should do that.”
Benji raised his hand.
Shut up. The message was obvious as it radiated threateningly from him. His eyes flitted over the set from wall to wall like he was considering a Slip–N–Slide installation.
There was absolute silence for a few long minutes.
It was almost unnerving after the whole spectacle the moody photographer put on to piss all over his territory. I swallowed a scoff. Who was the bitch now?
An excessively drawn out, exasperated groan broke the silence. Benji tousled his already mussed hair with both his hands. Then he whipped around to look at me, his green gaze seizing mine, making my heart skip a beat.
“Go buy enough tarps to cover a sixty–inch by seventy–two–inch space and ten boxes of boxed wine,” he said, pulling a credit card out of his wallet and tossing it at me.
The card frisbeed towards me, and I scrambled to catch it in the air, staring at it in disbelief.
Holy crap, gold American Express. Benjamin Reed. Wait, what?
Benji already walked away, grabbing things from his desk and making his way back, speaking the whole time. “Also, various cheeses, grapes, crackers — anything you’d find on a cheeseboard. Buy generously. Take an Uber, and while you’re twiddling your thumbs in the car, take a look at these.”
He shoved a thick binder into my hands — ow, papercut — full of pictures, notes, blurbs about the shoot, and meticulously cut pages from previous volumes of the magazine.
“Forget the moodboard — Cooper shit all over it — and memorize these lighting sets. Familiarize yourself with the magazine’s style in their previous features — we won’t be straying too far from it. Some people are terribly unimaginative. When you get back, set aside a good wine for everyone here and start setting up the fixtures.”
Benji’s phone pinged, and he took it out, briefly glancing down at it.
“Grant said he got the art director’s approval for the changes, so it’s a go,” he said, snapping on his heels and briskly walking away. “Cheddar, we’re going to talk with the stylists to change the look with what we have available.”
“W–wait,” I stammered, awash with confusion. I struggled to keep the binder under one arm as I sucked at my papercut. “You just gave me a credit card. And binder. What —”
“Well, if you try stealing the credit card, I can guarantee you won't make it very far. And I'll make you pay back every single cent,” Benji said in a bored tone.
His gaze moved down to my mouth, where my thumb was firmly pressed. And then down to the rest of me, smirking. I felt heat blazing in a trail wherever he looked.
“You’re getting one chance, so prove you deserve it.” He stalked off without looking back again.
Brie gave me two ecstatic thumbs–up before running after Benji and following him to the dressing room.
What the hell? The bastard refused to work with me, and now here he was, ordering me around. What did I get myself into?
***
A lot of cheap labor, apparently. I was starting to think the pay wasn’t high enough.
Even though I don’t consider myself weak — years of carrying a cello around was like being perpetually suspended in the middle of a set during a workout — carrying all the materials he asked for was no easy feat.
I had to ask the Uber driver for help, and he enthusiastically engaged me in a conversation about really shitty bosses. I tipped him very, very generously, which made the Uber ride the most costly expense. But for some reason, I doubted Benji would care. A man who’d bankrupt himself for his art seemed like a pretty apt description.
But that was foreplay to the torture that ensued.
Benji had changed the shockingly white backdrop to a sky blue screen and set some tall, shoddily constructed wooden corners on the ground. He left a note on all of them with obnoxiously large ‘X’es drawn on them. The one closest to me said “STAPLE TARP HERE, KEEBLER”. It was the most disappointing treasure map I’d ever seen.
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.<
br />
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.
