by Harlow Cole
“What is this?” I asked, tentatively taking hold of the letter.
“A job offer.”
“I don’t need another job, Brayden. I have one too many as it is,” I said, unfolding the paper.
Another contract. More fine print. I shook my head involuntarily. There was a comma and zeroes.
I glanced back up at him. “What . . . what is this?” My voice faltered.
“That magazine has been after me for months. They want to do a piece on my rehab. Pick me apart a little. Figure out if I’m washed-up or not. Micky wants me to do it. And my publicist. They’re both hot to keep my face out there. Put a spin on this shitshow. Make-believe we know for certain I’ll be back at the top of my game.” He absentmindedly rubbed his elbow, doubt and worry clouding his face. “I told them I’d do it on one condition. I get to pick the photographer and the cover shot. They agreed.” He slowly licked his bottom lip. “And I picked you.”
I looked back down at the page.
“Twenty grand is a lot of money, Ash. They want some test shots to start. That’s all you have to commit to for now. If they like what they see, which they will, you’ll get an all-expenses-paid trip to New York to host a full-blown shoot in their studio. Carte blanche. Anything you want.”
Like the man standing before me, tears filled my eyes with no regard for my wishes. I turned my back to him again, shielding my reaction.
“Oh, and Joey told me you sold all your equipment. I’d obviously resupply you with new stuff. All you have to do is say yes. Like I said, it’s simple.”
My finger rubbed across the figure on the paper.
So much money.
The cashier’s check was already burning in my back pocket. I’d come here, ready to tear it up in his face. To tell him he had two days to find another place to park his ostentatious new toy. But that check and this contract might buy me more time. More time until my father rode in on a white horse, ready to come back home and save us.
I pictured old words scratched inside a notebook. Dreams that had died and shriveled up. He’d caught one in a trap. Had it there for the taking, taped right down to his silver freaking platter.
Joey had rules about accepting gifts with strings.
These strings came attached to a strange fluttering in my belly. Something I hadn’t experienced in quite some time. Excitement. That pull toward something more. I’d learned to squelch that feeling down. I didn’t deserve more than I already had. The blame didn’t all rest at Brayden’s feet, so he couldn’t take on all the punishment.
“I can’t.”
The words left my mouth before my brain caught up to them. I turned to face him and held the paper out, passing back my dream. Blinking rapidly, I shut off the hint of emotion I’d temporarily let through.
“I’m not right for this. They need a professional photographer. I’m a small-town girl who once had a hobby.”
“Ashley . . .” He started forward again, his cockiness suddenly edged with alarm.
“No.” I held up a hand as if my palm possessed superhero powers that could propel him back. “I told you, I can’t take your charity, and that’s all this is.”
I walked past him, dropping the letter back onto the table.
“What can I say to change your mind?” he called out to me.
I paused with my hand on the door. “Nothing. I won’t change my mind about any of it, Brayden. Your job offer. Your hands. Or letting you see my brother. Nothing will ever be simple for me again.”
7
Spilled Dignity
Ashley
A mother with a screaming child sat in the waiting area. Full-out, red-faced wailing. The kid had dropped his sippy cup, spilling the last of his apple juice all over the floor. His world had ended. That upturned bit of happiness had fostered an epic meltdown. Little fists beat against the floor, tugged against his mother’s leg, and then thrust wildly toward the sky, as if to say, Why, God? Why me?
I understood him completely.
Two decades spread between us, but at that moment, I had more in common with him than anyone else in the room.
“Ashley, you don’t know how badly I wish I could help. Back in the old days, they let branch managers have a say in these things. We knew our customers and could bend the rules to help them. These days, it all comes down from corporate. To them, you’re just a number on a page. There’s just not enough there for them to give you better terms right now.”
The kid wailed again. A real ear-piercer. I turned to look over my shoulder to where he now lies on the floor beside his mother’s feet. Obviously embarrassed, she kept trying to sop up the mess while offering him something else.
A better deal.
Different terms.
I wanted to scoot out of my chair, lie down beside him, and thrust my hands up at God to ask the very same question.
Why me?
“I don’t foresee them moving further with an eviction as long as you continue to make the good-faith payments. And you still have some time to exercise the redemption if you come up with the rest of the balance. Are you owed any more from your mother’s life insurance? Maybe your dad will find a way . . .” The bank manager’s voice trailed off, tamped down by dying hope and pity.
My father hadn’t called in four and a half weeks—the longest he’d ever gone without contact. Things weren’t getting better. He was still lost at sea, impaled by his own misery.
“I’m not sure about the life insurance. I’ve never found the paperwork. My parents’ files aren’t exactly well organized. They come in as direct deposits into my folks’ savings. He just randomly forwards them to the business account. I don’t know how all that works.”
That was a lie. I did know how it worked.
I’d just given up on asking for more details.
The last time I’d mentioned it, my father started crying. I wouldn’t do it again. Wouldn’t ask a grief-stricken man about his dead wife’s price tag.
My father didn’t cry easy. He used his whole body. This gutted sound from deep in his chest, unfiltered by the unknown miles between us, or the liquor I felt certain coated his breath. Alcohol laced through most of our conversations. Sometimes to the point he didn’t make sense.
When I’d asked about the policy, he’d broken down and then mumbled a slurred string of, I’m sorrys, before hanging up the phone.
I wouldn’t live through that again.
My father had checked out. And I had no reassurance he was any closer to checking back in. I just believed in my heart that he eventually would.
I needed to find a way to hold on, a way to keep everything afloat until he found his way home. I would. I had to. Taking care of this was my penance for ruining my brother’s life.
I could feel the guilty paper lying in my back pocket. It seared right through the denim, leaving a heated scar.
Choices.
So few and far between.
I wanted to stand on my own two feet and boot Brayden’s ass back into the harbor. To tell him where he could shove his money and his happiness.
He wouldn’t even know if I cashed the damn thing. He probably had no clue how much money sat fat and lazy in his checking account. The withdrawal wouldn’t even register against his easy fortune.
He’d be happy I took it though. I could see the little half-smirk. I knew the way he craved victory. In all things. He needed it. I didn’t want to give him this one. Small victories were the only kind I had a shot with these days.
“I have some money I can pay today. I was hoping maybe making another payment would buy me some more time.”
I slipped it from my pocket, unfolding the pressed creases against the desktop. Pyxis International Trust. At least I didn’t have to stare at his signature while I handed over my dignity.
Banks don’t deal in the currency of pride. Lenders want their money, or they want to take your land. They don’t care if that includes the business your mother created from the backs of half-torn envelopes.
After we lost her, we’d planted vines of bougainvillea next to the office door, along with a little plaque that had a picture of her and words of memorial. Technically, the bank owned those now, too. They could tear it all down, scuttle the whole place, and have it rezoned for luxury townhomes or condos. My only prayer was to buy it out of hock before they did.
“Wow. This is great,” Mr. Garrett said, reaching his hand out toward the paper. His eyes grew wide when he saw the amount. “This will help, Ashley. How wonderful.”
Our fingers were almost touching—his keen to accept the money, mine still suffering the forfeit.
The kid finally stopped crying. My gaze collided briefly with his mother’s as I turned to find out what settled him.
She’d picked him up. He sat, safely tucked against her chest, his puffy, wet cheek nestled into the side of her neck while he greedily sucked his thumb. Happiness restored. He was soothed by the protection only his mother could provide. I smiled sadly. Their connection brought me one more reminder of loss.
My fingers slipped from the paper.
“I’ll call up to the division VP myself, make sure he sees the updated balance.” He ran his hand down the gray beard that covered his double chin. “Another payment like this, and I might be able to talk them into renegotiating those terms.”
Mr. Garrett had run this bank for the last fifty years. He’d probably dealt with lots of sob stories, seen lots of people lose it all. I was determined not to cry all over him. I balled up my fists to hold it in.
“Let me print a new statement that will show you exactly where you’re at after this payment.” As he stood, he pushed his glasses higher on his nose. The overhead lights glistened against his bald head as he cracked a genuinely pleased smile. “You just keep up the hard work, young lady. Eventually, luck has to fall on your side.”
I held back my snicker.
Luck. A frivolous idea held by those with the luxury of time. I wished like hell I could sit around and wait for it.
I had to make this happen on my own.
With good old-fashioned pain and sweat.
8
Tractor Beam
Ashley
The space wasn’t perfect.
The dark walls and tall ceilings soaked up all my light.
I’d obsessed about that all afternoon, second-guessing the placement of homemade soft boxes I quickly DIY’ed from coat hangers and old white T-shirts. It took me over an hour to set up the long, white backdrop I borrowed from a local wedding photographer. I’d done some moonlighting for him, back before I pawned all my camera equipment online. Using the yoga studio had been Joey’s latest brainchild. I wanted neutral ground. Somewhere quarantined from shared history. This place couldn’t possibly trigger memories or flames. It used to be a scummy, old tackle shop. A few years ago, a local woman named Toni, bought, gutted, and revamped it into a place where folks could get in touch with mind and body.
Those were the two things I now had to keep separated. My mind needed to stay far, far away from Brayden’s half-naked physique.
When I’d finally caved in, telling him I would agree to the test shoot, I’d known full and well what it meant. I had already surfed the magazine’s covers back dozens of years.
The models were always shirtless. Ripped abs and oiled arms. Steely gazes and blistering smiles. Hollywood celebs, star athletes, and rock stars, looking like the millions they got paid. The cover shots hocked those perfect bodies. To dudes who passed newsstands, sporting a couple bucks, and the hope that deadlifting glossy pages would turn a beer belly into a six-pack.
I really needed to not fuck this up.
Keep it professional, clinical.
Get in, and get out.
I inwardly groaned as my mind immediately scattered to a different kind of in and out.
“You sure there’s nothing else I can get you before I leave?” Toni asked, poking her head into the room as she prepared to call it a night.
“No, I’m great. Everything is all set. Joey should be here anytime now. She’s coming to give me a set of extra hands. So, I should be all good.” I didn’t add, She’s coming here to supervise ’cause, after last time, no way in hell I’ll be alone with him again. “I promise, I’ll lock up and drop the keys off to you as soon as we’re done. Thanks again for letting us use the place.”
“Glad to help, babe. You know how happy we all are to see you doing this. This is your calling.” Her smile was half-bittersweet. “Wish I could stay and watch, but the last time I got home after bath time, Rodger had washed Addie’s hair with Head and Shoulders instead of Johnson and Johnson. We were lucky all her hair didn’t fall out.” She pointed a finger at me. “But you better let me see all the shots you take. You know a man with a strong core does special things to me.”
I wandered out to the main reception area to watch Toni leave and double-check the street for any signs of Joey. She’d promised an early arrival and a pep talk.
“Please don’t be thirty minutes late for once in your life,” I murmured, turning the sign in the window to Closed. I sighed and retreated to the studio to recheck everything one more time.
Ten minutes of paranoid fluttering and pacing passed by before the little bell on the front door rang out. Footsteps tracked me down the hall.
“Well, it’s about time. I was getting worried you weren’t gonna get here until after he . . .” My head turned toward the door.
“Joey isn’t coming.”
“You’re early.”
We spoke at the same time and then stood there, silent and frozen, staring at one another through the diffused light. He looked way too damn good. Black jeans molded to his thighs, and other parts I wasn’t supposed to be noticing. A tight white V-neck highlighted muscles covered in a deep golden tan.
“What do you mean, Joey isn’t coming? How do you know?”
“Check your texts. She sent us both a message.”
I broke his gaze and poked in my bag to locate my phone. A long string of blue bubbles greeted me. Joey never sent just one.
Don’t kill me.
Can’t come.
Martha Dingle tried one of those store kits again. Her hair is avocado green. Have to stay and fix it, or I’ll hear it from Kathy.
You kids don’t need me anyway.
Assden, you’ve had your picture taken a million times. Just smile and act pretty. Don’t piss her off. Use that pomade I gave you. Wet your hair first.
Ash, you’ve got this. Stop picking at your nails and cursing me under your breath.
A string of colorful emojis with praying hands and hearts followed her words. I indeed cursed every one of them.
Kathy was Conner’s mother. She hated Joey with a brutal passion. Thought she wasn’t Catholic enough for her son. She wanted him to reunite with an old high school girlfriend who had a blue-blooded pedigree and a diploma from Notre Dame. She didn’t want her precious chicken heir dating a small-town hairdresser with a penchant for leather skirts, colorful hair, and kinky sex in the barn. Getting caught in the hayloft hadn’t been one of my bestie’s grandest plans.
Joey just kept beating her head against a wall, convinced she could still win Kathy over by working miracles with her friends’ bad perms and dye jobs. Martha was a repeat offender from Kathy’s inner circle.
“Did you put her up to this?” I asked, scowling at him.
Brayden’s hand flew to his chest in a gesture of claimed innocence. “I promise you, I didn’t ask that old lady to dye her hair green.”
I blew out a breath and eyed the duffel he had hefted over one shoulder. “Did you bring the stuff I asked about?”
His hand patted the bag. “It’s all here. Just tell me where you want me. I’m all yours.”
It sounded benign at first. Then, he slowly licked his bottom lip while eyeing me from the tips of my toes all the way up to my hairline. He lingered too long in taboo places.
I’d worn a navy-blue maxi dress on purpose. The empire wai
st gathered beneath my breasts and hung all the way to the floor. I figured, if he couldn’t see most of my body, maybe he’d keep his hands to himself. But, now, under his assessment, the thin cotton felt too clingy against my hips and belly.
I attempted to ignore him, pulling my tripod out farther and pretending to check settings on the back screen.
The thing was an orgasm with a motor drive.
When the UPS man asked me to sign for it, I’d acted surprised, but I should’ve known Brayden would go overboard. It was the Cadillac of Canons. When a second box arrived, full of lenses and filters, I’d almost wept. They were things I’d been eyeing in magazines and catalogs for years. Things I’d dog-eared but never thought I’d own.
Not that I could keep them.
When we were done here, I’d give them all back. Every single piece. Keeping them wouldn’t be right. I wouldn’t allow myself such nice things.
I’d done nothing to earn them.
But my inner masochist wasn’t going to ruin the fun of using the hell out of them for the next hour. I was ready to shut out the world and let my senses take over. Ready for the fast heartbeat and the rush that came as soon as my face pressed against the black metal.
“I made a call sheet. This details the shots I plan to take and the wardrobe changes. There’s a changing room at the end of the hallway. Joey was going to help style you, but . . .”
He studied the piece of paper I handed him, smirking at my businesslike tone. “I think I can handle it.” Eyes twinkled as they sought my own. “Be right back.”
I thought I was prepared. I honestly did. I’d erected a wall and preplanned every detail. But I forgot one simple weakness. My ultimate downfall.
Sweet mother of God.
Brayden Ross in baseball pants was a fucking work of art.
He returned in the tight, form-fitting white pants that clung to his hips and cupped his assets. They showcased every single inch of him. Inches I wanted to run my eyes over, back and forth, until I soaked in every naughty detail.
Put a man in baseball pants or ballet tights, and every woman on the planet is gonna look one place first. It’s human nature. Nothing to be ashamed of.
