by M. S. Parker
“This is your office.” He pushed open the door and stepped out of the way to let me inside. “Feel free to spend today getting it organized.”
“Is there anything you need me to do today?” I asked.
“Jean’s the one who thinks I need an assistant,” he said, and I could almost feel him roll his eyes. “I just didn’t feel like arguing.”
I watched as he walked away and reminded myself again that artists were often temperamental, and that indifferent was far better than angry. Besides, I’d grown up with six brothers. I could handle one moody man.
Two
Alix
I’d known Jean Holloman all my life. She’d been a friend of my mother’s since they were teenagers, so she was a staple at holidays and birthday parties over the years. When I told my parents I wanted to be a photographer, they’d told me I needed an agent. And then my mom called Jean. She’d been my agent ever since.
I was used to Jean doing whatever she thought was best for me, often without telling me first, and it usually didn’t bother me, but this time, she’d gone too far.
I wasn’t a morning person, never had been, and she knew it, so when I saw her number on my caller ID at seven in the morning, I’d assumed it was something important.
“I hired an assistant.”
I frowned. Not important. Certainly not important enough to wake me up this fucking early. Jean said something that could have been a name, but I didn’t really care. “Good for you. Enjoy.”
“She’ll be at your studio at nine. Don’t be an ass.”
And then she hung up.
What the hell? I mentally cursed her for a couple more minutes, then got up to make myself some coffee since I knew I’d never get back to sleep, not when I was trying to figure out how to politely get out of the mess Jean had gotten me into. I didn’t need an assistant. I didn’t want one.
I’d been having a hard-enough time with my art lately. I didn’t need someone watching me fail.
When I heard the knock at the door at five minutes before nine, I knew it was her. Jean had told me her name, but I hadn’t been awake enough to register it. Not that it mattered. I’d give her a couple days, and then let Jean know that I was fine on my own.
I probably sounded like an ass when I told her to come in, but it wasn’t until she said her name that I really looked at her.
And wondered if my eyes were playing tricks on me, because there was no way Jean had hired a kid, and this girl didn’t look old enough to be out of high school. She was short, first off, barely five feet tall, and she had this mass of orange-red curls that went with her freckles. But then she grinned at me, and I found myself wanting to smile back. Her eyes were impossibly green, and they sparkled.
Like seriously fucking sparkled.
So I talked to her. Only a couple questions, but it was more than I’d planned on asking. There was something about her that piqued my interest. I didn’t let it take over though. Sine could be the best assistant in the world, and it wouldn’t change anything. I didn’t need her help. I liked my privacy as much as possible.
I left her in her office but kept thinking about her as I went back to the main room of my studio. I’d just finished up a series of landscape and nature photos, so they were up on my walls now, but I’d only shot them because I felt the need to take a break from my usual subjects. I’d been feeling burned out and had hoped that the change of pace would get me back on track.
It hadn’t.
I walked to the table where I kept all my equipment. I had a model coming in shortly, and I needed to start preparing, but I couldn’t focus.
I needed to decide on a theme, set up the appropriate props and backlighting...but the only thing I could picture in my mind’s eye was the redhead I could hear moving around a few yards away. She was pretty enough that most men would probably give her a smile if she walked by, but she wasn’t the sort of beautiful that would turn heads.
Still, the lines of her face had fascinated me, and I found myself thinking about the way shadows would play across her cheeks, her lips. How I’d position her so that the light would hit her. The way the sun would shine against her curls.
I frowned.
Sine wasn’t a model. She was too short, for one thing.
She’d dressed nice, but I got the feeling it was just because she wanted to appear proper, not because she was trying to impress me.
Which I found odd.
Women always wanted to impress me. I wasn’t bragging. There were the women who wanted me for my name and my family’s money, and then the women who were into me because of the whole artsy thing. They wanted me to hire them as models. But Sine had smiled without flirting and had showed no interest in anything beyond her tasks.
Okay, she’s only been here less than an hour, but I’d once had a pizza delivery girl give me her phone number after telling me that she’d been trying to break into modeling forever.
I appreciated it though, even if I didn’t understand it. If Sine had come in, hinting around to model or been flirty, I probably would’ve sent her away immediately, and had a firmer word with Jean about not needing an assistant. Since she’d been professional so far, maybe I should at least give Sine a chance before I told Jean I was right.
Sine.
I shook my head. How in the world did S-I-N-E rhyme with Tina?
“Alix, darling, so sorry I’m late.”
I didn’t have to look to know that my model had just walked in. Giselle Lucan had been posing for me for two weeks, but I hadn’t been satisfied with any of the shots. She was gorgeous, of course, with perfect skin and features to go with ebony hair and china blue eyes. She was a woman who didn’t merely turn heads. At twenty-two, she’d already been engaged three times to rich men who’d lavished her with gifts until she’d gotten bored with them. The fact that this was her reputation should have been my warning to steer clear of her, but I was doing a line of erotic photography, and Giselle oozed the sexuality I thought would sell.
If I could find my footing again.
Three
Sine
Mr. Wexler might not have thought he needed an assistant, but one look at the office he said was mine told me that his agent had a clearer view of things than he did.
I put my hands on my hips and tried to figure out where to start. I’d always been an organized person. Da said it came from me needing to prove my capability for independence. Mam said it was because none of the men in our family had an organized bone in their body and needed us women to keep the business from falling apart.
A familiar twinge went through my heart. Seven siblings, and I was the only one who’d chosen to leave. Mam and Aileen took care of the books while the boys and Da did the heavy lifting and the marketing. The whiskey business had been in Da’s family for generations, and all of us kids knew that Mam’s family had encouraged the match because of it. A part of me still wished I’d been able to find happiness there like my siblings had.
I took a deep breath and set my jaw. This wasn’t the time or place to be thinking maudlin thoughts. I had a job to do.
Trash would be the first to go, I decided. Things that were obvious. Then I’d work through each of the numerous piles of papers and letters one by one, throwing away the junk and separating the rest into categories.
I’d need to get a calendar, work on writing down Mr. Wexler’s schedule, but I needed to sort through the important things first so that I could make sure he didn’t miss anything.
I’d worked as a temp for more than one executive who knew the things they wanted to do but forgot bills that needed to be paid, or their mother-in-law’s birthdays. I didn’t know if Mr. Wexler had a mother-in-law, but I knew there were plenty of other things he could be forgetting, and it was my job to make sure that didn’t happen.
I found a trash can next to the desk and got to work.
I had to admit, when I was told my new boss was a photographer, I was a little worried that he’d be the stereotypica
l artist. Back home, my one and only sister had dated an artist for six months her freshman year of college. Aileen was fifteen years older than me, so I didn’t remember the guy, but he’d been enough of a bastard that when I was in high school, my entire family had warned me against ever dating an artist. Fortunately, Aileen met Roger a few months later, and they’d been together ever since.
Still, I’d always been wary of finding another Eugene. Artists were moody, often using drugs and alcohol to self-medicate. They slept around. Fickle. Volatile. All words Mam had used to describe Eugene.
So, as I went around the room looking for trash, I prepared myself to find beer cans, empty bottles of hard liquor, bags of drugs, pills.
Except I didn’t find any of that.
A few fast food wrappers had missed the trashcan – probably because it was overflowing – and there were a couple empty bottles labeled with the name of some energy drink, but most of the junk I found was exactly that. Junk. Advertisements, credit card offers, that sort of thing.
As I made a pile of things that needed to be shredded, the phone on the desk rang. I picked it up and reminded myself to speak slowly. “Good morning. Alix Wexler’s studio. Miss McNiven speaking.”
“You managed to get into the studio and he’s letting you answer the phone. Good work.”
I blinked. I could tell it was a woman, but that was about it. “May I ask who’s calling?”
“It’s Jean Holloman, Miss NcNiven.”
“Oh, good morning, Ms. Holloman.” I’d only spoken to her the once when I’d been hired. “If you’ll hold for a moment, I’ll get Mr. Wexler.”
“I didn’t call to talk to him,” she said. Her tone was brusque, but I had the impression that was simply her way. “I wanted to know how you were doing.”
“I’m well,” I said. “I’ve started organizing the office.”
Ms. Holloman barked a laugh. “Good luck with that. Alix doesn’t know shit about organization.”
“It’s a good thing you hired me then,” I said.
“That part’s needed,” she said. “But there’s something more important that I need you to do. It’s why I called you.”
I glanced toward the door. Something in her voice made me wonder if Alix knew about this conversation.
“Alix is rich.”
All right, that wasn’t exactly what I’d been expecting.
“Not like owning a Mercedes and a home in the Hamptons rich, but the sort of rich that could probably maintain the economy of a small country.”
I leaned back against the desk, suddenly light-headed. I’d already thought I would be out of my depth here, but that revelation made it painfully clear. I hoped Ms. Holloman didn’t think I was going to try to–
“The reason I hired you is because I knew you wouldn’t look at Alix and see a meal ticket,” she continued. “In fact, I need you to protect him from people who’d take advantage of him, try to cheat him out of what’s his.”
I nodded, then remembered she couldn’t see me. “Of course.”
“If you think someone’s going to do that, and you don’t think he’ll listen to you, I want you to call me. Will you do that?”
“I will.”
“Good.”
And then the call was done.
My head spun as I shuffled papers on the desk, my hands needing something to do. I’d need to shred even more of these things than I’d thought. I couldn’t risk anyone finding something they could use to steal his identity. I would be his assistant…and his protector.
I walked over to the door of the office and looked out to where Mr. Wexler was staring at one of his photos.
He seemed...intense.
I didn’t know why that particular photo captured his attention, but whatever the reason, he seemed to be caught up in those thoughts. I turned back to the office, knowing I couldn’t spend the day watching him, trying to figure out the type of man he truly was. I supposed I’d find out soon enough.
If he didn’t fire me first.
Which meant I needed to make sure I was invaluable.
So I went back to work.
I realized Mr. Wexler had a strange sort of order to his things. I’d always had a knack for seeing patterns, which sometimes gave me a different insight, and now, it was showing me that he was more organized than I initially gave him credit for. Not that it would appear that way to someone who couldn’t find the order under the chaos. Since my new job was to keep things in order, I decided to make my own filing system, but first I needed to clear out a few items laying around the office before lunch.
I picked up the various lens and parts, putting them all into a now empty box, then took a deep breath. As I stepped into the studio, the first thing I noticed was the lighting had changed, but it wasn’t because it was now early afternoon.
He was working.
He had an entire set up of lighting equipment with names I didn’t know and was moving around the pile of pillows at their center. His back was to me, but I could read the intensity coming off him in waves. I couldn’t even imagine being the focus of that sort of intensity, that...passion.
I couldn’t imagine having that sort of passion.
If my time at the temp agency had taught me anything, it was that a difference existed between a job I didn’t mind doing and one about which I was passionate. I’d seen that sort of purpose with my brothers for the family business, but I’d yet to have found my own.
As Mr. Wexler stepped to the side, I saw the subject of his focus.
An absolutely gorgeous woman.
Who was wearing very little.
Apparently, landscapes weren’t the only thing in which he was interested.
Four
Alix
Six fucking hours wasted.
It wasn’t Giselle’s fault. She was gorgeous and willing to do whatever I wanted. She’d made that exceptionally clear, even though I always made sure my models knew it when they signed their contracts that I wasn’t part of a benefits package. She’d handled my subtle rejection well, but it hadn’t made any difference to the utter failure of the shoot.
I’d changed the lighting. Arranged and re-arranged the pillows she’d posed on. Gave her different costumes to wear, if those bits of lace and ribbon could be considered costumes. She’d looked amazing in them, each curve and dip of her body perfectly sensuous. But as gorgeous as she’d looked, I couldn’t capture the pure and true essence that made the difference between erotic art and pornography.
Erotic photography had been my bread and butter for years. Well, that wasn’t entirely true, since I had a trust fund so large that the interest alone was enough for me to live off comfortably for decades to come. Add to that my cousin Izett’s knack for wise investments and my eventual inheritance, I could’ve gotten away with never working a day in my life.
Maybe I’d taken my gift as far as it could go. Giselle was a new model for me, but I still felt like the photos were repetitive. Technically, they were perfect, exactly like all the others I’d taken. That was the problem. Like the landscapes hanging on the walls of my studio, they were beautiful, but not inspired. I could probably still get paid decent money for them, but I felt like I’d lost the sense of true art.
I pushed all that aside as I flashed my membership card at the doorman, giving him a polite smile as I stepped past. I wasn’t at Gilded Cage to wallow. I needed stress relief. If I was lucky, it would be enough to help me find my footing again.
I was late, so the others were already here. I made my way through the crowd to our usual table. The oldest of the group, Jace Randell, was already scanning the crowd, looking for a partner for the night. Like me, he wasn’t interested in relationships, but rather a pleasurable encounter without any strings.
My cousin, Erik Sanders, had been like that up until recently when he’d fallen for a sweet girl named Tanya Lacey. I’d never thought I’d see my cousin ready to settle down, but even after only a month, I could see that he was captivated. It’d be
en a rocky start for the two of them, but this past weekend, I heard things had changed. Erik had wanted us to meet tonight to fill us in on what happened.
Erik’s former college roommate, Reb Union, had a girlfriend, but he hadn’t brought her to the club the last few weeks. That, plus his recent increase in alcohol consumption made me think that things might not be going as well as they had been. I hated to see my friend hurting, but I couldn’t say I’d be sorry to see Mitzi go. None of us really liked her.
“Running late?” Erik asked as I took the open seat next to him. “I ordered you a Highland Park.”
I nodded my thanks and turned my attention to my cousin as he filled us in on what’d happened since last time.
Listening to his story, I was half-way through my second glass when I eyed a slim redhead on the dance floor. She reminded me of Sine for some reason. Maybe the hair.
As soon as Erik announced he was leaving – he was expecting a call from Tanya – Jace excused himself to find whoever had caught his eyes. When Reb told me he was about ready to leave, I decided to go after the redhead.
Gilded Cage wasn’t your typical club you would visit to dance and pick up women. It was a BDSM club that catered to those of us in the lifestyle. Not only was this a safe place to express our sexual preferences without fear of judgment, it also offered rooms VIP members, such as myself and my friends, could enjoy without having to arrange a private space ahead of time. All four of us were Doms, though we each had different taste when it came to whom we found attractive as well as the particular aspects of our preferred role.
The redhead had kept her eye on me as she danced, so as soon as I started toward her, she stopped and ducked her head, assuming one of the usual positions a Sub would take when meeting an unknown Dom.
