Captivate, book I of the Love & Lust

by Miles, Amy

  Ashlyn shakes her head, amazed by Tamsin’s unending love for male eye candy. She would have thought after posing with nearly two hundred men, Tamsin would be physically and mentally spent, but apparently, there is no limit to her more carnal cravings.

  Of course, considering the woman is a pro at bar top dancing and has her own stripper pole in her house, that’s not really that big of a surprise.

  Closing her eyes, Ashlyn allows herself a moment of rest as Tamsin struts back over to speak with the photographer and the model. Their voices in the background fade away as the throbbing in Ashlyn’s head increases. She presses her head into her forearm, praying that the extra pressure will help alleviate some of the pain.

  “Hello?”

  Ashlyn jerks upright, wincing as shooting pains rip through her head. Her stomach lurches as she slowly opens her eyes and sees a guy standing in front of her. Not just some random guy, but the guy.

  “Sorry to disturb you.” He flashes a warm smile down at her.

  She resists the urge to look behind her to see if he’s speaking to someone else. “No. It’s totally fine. I uh…” She scrunches up her nose as she tries to think around the blinding pain. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  Why is he here? Did he come back to apologize? She wonders as he gives her a queer look.

  “I’m here for the ad.” He looks around him at the sparsely furnished ballroom. Other than her table and Sophie’s empty chair, there isn’t anything to see apart from the camera crew standing just beyond the screen about thirty feet away. She can hear Tamsin’s high-pitch giggle echoing from the other side.

  Ashlyn refocuses on him and realizes there is a bead of sweat along his brow. His grip on his satchel strap is so strong his fingers look white. She tries not to notice how nice his chest looks up close as she watches his rapid breathing. Is he really that nervous?

  “Um… are you sure you’re in the right place?” She searches his face for any sign of recognition as she lifts her hair back away from her face, trying to appear casual as she does it, but there is none. He doesn’t even know it’s me!

  The man looks down at the paper in his hand, his brow furrowing. “This is the photo shoot for Enders Betrayal, right?”

  “Yes.” She nods and lets her hair fall back down over her cheeks. In all of her years of trying to blend in, she has never felt so invisible. The guy staring down at her doesn’t even recognize her voice.

  Am I really that forgettable? This thought makes her stomach clench.

  “But this isn’t a shoot for an ad. It’s for the cover of Tamsin Archer’s new book, actually.”

  “Huh, that was a nice little detail my friend failed to mention.” He shifts his weight to his right side and rubs the back of his neck. “So, um… how does all of this work?”

  Ashlyn brushes off her feelings of inadequacy and easily settles into the role that she prefers most: work. “Basically, I take your pertinent details. Height, weight, and whatnot. Then you head on over there to the camera and pose with Tamsin. They snap a few shots and you’re done.”

  “That’s it?”

  She manages to smile and almost pulls it off convincingly. “That’s it.”

  “So then how do I know if I got the part?”

  Hell has to freeze over first, buddy! She thinks, knowing there is no way she will agree to hiring him. Perfect or not, Ashlyn is way too unsettled around him to be able to manage an appropriate working relationship.

  “You will receive a call or a visit from Tamsin’s agent, Sophie Turner. If that happens, then all of the details will be laid out for you in the contract.”

  “Contract?” The guy pales. She notices a small tic at the corner of his right eye. “Do I need to get a lawyer or something?”

  For the first time since meeting him, Ashlyn almost feels sorry for him. Almost. “Is this your first time?”

  “That obvious, huh?” He winces and turns to look at the camera crew lounging against the wall. His fingers tap rapidly against his chest as he bounces lightly on his toes. “My mate saw the ad. Thought I’d be a shoo-in. Bloody tosser is what he is!”

  Ashlyn laughs and is awarded with a smile. Not the “wanna meet me in the coat closet” sort of smile or the “I’m a ten and you’re hardly a four,” but a genuine smile. A smile friends would share.

  Her frustration with him begins to ebb in the face of his obvious discomfort. She nods with understanding and chooses a kinder response. “I’m sure you’ll do great. You’ve got a great smile.”

  “Really?”

  “Can I have your paperwork?” she asks before she lets her mind wander to what it would be like to actually be pulled into a coat closet by him. Although she knows she would hate herself in the morning, she has no doubt this guy could make it a night to remember.

  His paperwork is slightly wrinkled and bent on one corner. She can see where he scribbled out a few words but can’t tell if he was correcting a typo or attempting to make his resume look more impressive than it really is.

  “So you have zero experience, then,” she states as she sets his paper aside. “I’m really not sure this is your thing, Mr… Collins?”

  “That was my dad.” He holds out his hand and waits for her to grasp it. “I’m just Slade.”

  “All right, Slade. Let me be honest with you for a moment.” She leans forward and does her best to be polite but firm. “This industry is ruthless. It’s not somewhere a guy like you wants to be.”

  “Actually, it’s exactly where I want to be,” he argues, leaning onto his knuckles as he hovers over her. Up close, she can see the flecks of gold around his irises as he stares back at her. She breathes in deep the rich scent of his cologne and feels warmth pool in her chest. “I need this job, so I’ll do whatever it takes to get it.”

  She leans back and pulls his headshot toward her. She’s heard this sob story a hundred times and yet for some reason, Slade sounds convincing. Glancing over his shoulders, she notices Tamsin is waiting next to the screen, motioning for her to hurry up. “Well, it looks like you’re up. Good luck.”

  “Thanks.” He turns and saunters toward the screen but looks back when she calls out to him.

  “You’re supposed to leave your shirt with me.” She can feel the heat creeping up her neck as she holds out her hand, waiting.

  Please don’t turn into a tomato, she silently prays as he walks back to her table.

  “Oh.” He chuckles as he slips his satchel off his shoulder and places it on the floor beside her. Then he grabs the bottom of his shirt and lifts it over his head. Her breath catches as she notices his skin is the color of warm caramel, a natural look, unlike the fake spray-on tan that she’s seen more times than she cares to count today.

  His forearms are corded with muscle, but his veins don’t protrude from his arms, which is a huge plus in her books. His chest has a light coating of dark hair, enough to keep him from looking shaved but not so much that she feels like she’d be petting a rug if she ran her fingers over it. A line of hair trails down from his belly button and into the low hem of his pants. She can’t help but stare at his cut abs as he holds his shirt out to her.

  Stop right there! She silently scolds herself. Don’t even go down that road! It will only end you up in Heartbreak City, right next door to Cry Me a River Motel and Love Sucks Diner.

  The man is gorgeous, no doubt about that. Ashlyn takes a small steadying breath. “Yeah, um… that should work.”

  “Yeah?” Slade laughs and crosses his arms over his chest. “So where do you want me?”

  Boy, isn’t that a loaded question? She thinks before she points to where Tamsin stands, chatting with the photographer. Tamsin is a touchy-feely kind of person so it’s no surprise that she’s got her hand placed high on the man’s bicep while she leans in to laugh at something he said.

  “Tamsin’s over there. Don’t worry, she will tell you exactly what to do.”

  “Thanks.” He tosses her a wink before turning to wa
lk toward the photographer’s screen.

  Ashlyn rises awkwardly from her chair, the warmth of his shirt still clinging to the palm of her hand as Tamsin eagerly pounces.

  Now that is a guy that should be written about, she muses as she clears her throat and turns to drape Slade’s shirt over a hanger and places it on the wall hook behind her. She sinks back into her chair, desperately trying not to watch Slade as he shifts into the varying poses requested by the photographer. She knows the idea is to focus on his torso, and although that is far from a bad idea, she almost wishes the camera could grasp the depth of his eyes.

  Although the warm chocolate color isn’t the most intriguing color she has ever seen, it is by far the most appealing. It makes her want to sink into his arms and never let go, and that is what Tamsin’s readers need to feel.

  She blows out a breath and shifts a clump of hair so it falls over her cheek, concealing the activities from sight. As she pours over the images from this morning’s shoot, shredding some and adding others to a consideration pile, Ashlyn can’t quite bring herself to ignore the richness of Slade’s tone as he laughs when Tamsin pretends to dig her nails into his abs when she presses intimately against his back. Ashlyn feels her heart rate kick up a notch and frowns.

  “He is not that cute,” she chants softly to herself for the remainder of the shoot.

  “Who’s not?”

  Ashlyn squeals as Sophie drops into the chair beside her. Shaken, she presses her hand to her heart and glares at her friend. “You could have warned me, you know?”

  “And miss that look? Not a chance!” Sophie places a plate of food in front of her and leans over the table to watch the shoot. “Oh, he’s hot! What’s his name?”

  “Slade Collins,” Ashlyn manages to squeak out. She turns away her face to hide her telling blush, but it’s not enough.

  Sophie’s perfectly groomed eyebrow arcs high. “Something’s up and I want to know details, now.”

  Ashlyn turns to look at Slade and feels heat flood into her cheeks. “That’s the coffee guy.”

  “No way.” Sophie whistles and leans back in her chair. “Well, you were right. He is a perfect match for Ender James.”

  Four

  Slade snatches a black T-shirt from his closet and gives it a quick onceover. It has a few wrinkles but nothing bad enough to warrant lugging out the iron. He tugs the shirt down over his head and runs his fingers through his hair. After a spray of cologne and a dash of aftershave, Slade looks himself over in the mirror. A day’s growth gives him a rugged appeal, which has worked well for him in the past.

  “Not too shabby.”

  His faded jeans hang low on his hips, just the way he likes it. A black leather belt loops through his pants, giving him just enough security not to worry about losing his modesty in public. Not that he would really mind all that much.

  Grabbing his canvas satchel, Slade shoves his iPhone, earbuds, and wallet inside and then heads for the stairs. The hardwood floor creaks underfoot as he takes the steps two at a time.

  “You sound like a herd of elephants coming down those stairs,” his mother calls from the dining room below. The steam from her iron billows around her as she shakes out one of his shirts.

  Sunday is supposed to be ironing day, but his mum had a guy friend over for a roast and that sent her into a flutter. It’s been years since Slade’s father went out for a paper and never came back. He thought she would have hooked up with some random guy years back, but she wasn’t the type, or maybe it was just because she was always working.

  Her hands are red and raw from her work at the pub down the road. What started out as a waitress gig soon turned into a position in the kitchen when she scolded the chef for messing up a mince pie. That was the day Ronnie McPhearson quit and Slade’s mum took over as head chef. She never had any real training, but the woman could cook up a feast fit for a king when given the chance.

  Slade always knew she was meant for more than waiting tables or washing dishes when the punks in the kitchen decided to bugger off for the weekend. Even though she’s never come right out and said it, Slade thinks she’s happy now.

  She is a woman who loves routine at home and moderate experimentation in the kitchen. That would explain the thin set of her lips as she stands beside three laundry baskets still full on Friday afternoon.

  “You could have at least folded these for me when you woke up,” she scolds.

  “You’re always so beautiful when you’re angry.”

  His mum has always been a tough lady. Her hands may be curling with age, and her hair may have begun to show signs of encroaching gray, but she looks as beautiful as she did when he was five years old.

  Their life hasn’t been the easiest. Growing up on the outskirts of London meant high flat rates and too few jobs for uneducated women, but his mum did her best by him. Slade can’t complain.

  “You should take the day off. Go get your hair done or something.” He leans in and presses his lips against her cheek. It is moist with sweat, but he waits until she turns away to wipe his lips clean.

  “Are you going to take care of this mess?” she asks, arching an eyebrow as she returns to her work.

  Slade chuckles and snatches his keys out of the basket by the front door. “You know I love you!”

  “Um-hmm.”

  “I’m off to work now, Mum. Let me know if anyone calls for me.”

  “Why?” She sets down the iron. “Are you expecting someone important?”

  Slade laughs. “I’m waiting to hear if I won the lottery. Big pot last night.”

  “Oh.” She nods, changing the setting on her steamer. “In that case, I don’t think I’ll be calling you at all.”

  He waves and shuts the door behind him, stepping out into the late afternoon light. The sun has hidden behind a low bank of clouds, amplifying the chill on the air. The winds aren’t quite as strong as they were over the weekend, which should make his trek into the city more agreeable.

  Three blocks from his flat, Slade hangs a right and heads toward the train station. After winding his way through the line, he scans his annual train card and files onto the narrow platform to fight for optimum position.

  He has this spot memorized perfectly by the fading lime-green gum that has become embedded in the concrete floor. It’s where he stands every day, well, at least the days he goes to work. Perhaps, in his own small way, he is a creature of habit too.

  His satchel begins to vibrate at his side and Slade digs to the depths of his bag for his mobile phone. “Hello?”

  “Oy, Slade. You coming out tonight or what?”

  A slow grin stretches along his face as he recognizes his friend, Sean McConnel’s, voice on the other end of the line. “Can’t, mate. I’ve gotta work.”

  “You closing down the place?”

  “Nah. I’m off at ten tonight.” Slade glares back at the middle-aged woman standing in front of him as she turns to roll her eyes at him. Some people can be so rude. “Why don’t you bring the guys down and have a pint on the house?”

  “Won’t Brady throw a wobbly over it?”

  “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt ‘em, will it?” Slade’s hair blows off his forehead as the hiss precedes the train around the bend. “Look, I’ve gotta go. Ten p.m. at the White Horse. Just be there.”

  Thankfully, the evening goes quickly for Slade. Friday night in the heart of London is always manic. A few American tourists decided to get a bit rowdy around 8:00 p.m. and had to be escorted out, but the locals all know the rules. Drink, laugh, and have a good time, but never start a fight inside the pub. And always tip the barman. That is one that Slade holds to religiously.

  When his mates arrive thirty minutes late, Slade is glad to see them. “I’m off, Rob.”

  The rotund cook grunts from the kitchen as he growls for Slade’s replacement to take over at the bar. Slade grins as he hands a pint glass to Thomas Finley, the new kid who started a couple weeks back. His face still holds traces of linge
ring baby fat in his cheeks, which Slade makes sure to give a good smack on his way out. Thomas is still learning the ropes, but he should do just fine. And if he doesn’t… well, Slade is sure Rob will set him straight real quick.

  It’s not the classiest of joints. The polished wood is dark, the music is entirely too loud, and the scent of newly fried food always seems to hang in the air, but it feels like home. Maybe that is because he’s been coming here ever since he was fifteen. Old William Abney, with his wild patch of white whiskers and a tongue that would make a sailor blush, would let him and his mates hang out near the back of the room with a pint between them. It wasn’t exactly legal, but William Abney never really cared much for the police, or laws in general for that matter.

  “Where have you guys been? I’ve been waiting for you.” He punches his friend Sean on the shoulder as they weave through the crowd. Most of the tourists are already well into their cup. They hoot and holler at the birds that walk past on their way to the loo. Bloody foreigners can’t hold their alcohol to save their life!

  “We got hung up. You know what Covent Garden is like at this time of night!” Sean jerks his thumb at a couple of teenagers to clear the booth for him and his mates to sit down. The kids’ chests puff up and for a second Slade wonders if they are stupid enough to take try to take them on. He hasn’t been in a fight in a few years now, but that doesn’t mean he forgot how to land a good punch when necessary.

  “Just move on, will ya?” he says.

  The teens notice the White Horse emblem on his T-shirt and back down immediately. Slade smiles and jerks his thumb toward the door, sure that if he were to card them, they’d most likely try to produce fake IDs.

  Sean slouches into the vacant booth and throws his arm over the back. His T-shirt clings to his narrow waist and his jeans look faded and worn, but the natural way, not the designer stuff you find at NEXT or H&M. The wooden seat is less than comfortable, but Slade feels good to be off his feet. He follows his friend Liam around the bend of the table. Their stocky friend, Bennet Davis, arrives with four foaming pints and passes them around.