A Clean Slate

by Laura Caldwell

  “All right, now, Corey,” Cole said from behind his camera. “Turn a little toward Mel. A little more. That’s it. And Mel, lift your head toward the sky. Right. Right. Corey, I want you to tilt your head down.”

  From my vantage point in front of them, I could start to see what Cole was going for: two gorgeous women on a beach standing very close together, yet not touching. Mella’s head was thrown back, Corrine bending toward the graceful, angular line of Mella’s collarbone. When Cole instructed Corrine to open her mouth ever so slightly, it became perfectly clear, and undoubtedly erotic, for it seemed as if Corrine might kiss the hollow of Mella’s neck. The crew was silent and frozen now, even me with my sweaty tank top, my knees crushed into the sand. The only sounds were the whish, whish of the lapping water, the quick tic, tic, tic of the camera and Cole’s now-quiet directions: more, Corey; lean closer; Mella, eyes closed please; tilt your head to the right; that’s it, that’s it, that’s it.

  After another ten minutes, Cole asked for a wardrobe change. “The bright bikinis, please. Those splashy, trashy ones.”

  Mella and Corrine went through cosmetic touch-ups and hair changes and returned with minuscule string bikinis in psychedelic sixties prints, their hair in high ponytails.

  “Right,” Cole said. “Kelly Kelly is going to start off this one.”

  I was standing over to the side at that point, digging through Cole’s bag for a lens, and this was news to me. I stood up abruptly. The crew all looked at me. I noticed Sam with an odd expression I couldn’t interpret.

  I walked over to where Cole’s tripod waited. “What are you talking about?” I whispered to him.

  “I want you to take a few shots to start.” His voice matched my lowered tone.

  “Why?”

  “Because I think you can do it, and I want a different perspective. I want to see what you would do here.”

  “But this is your big break.”

  “Then don’t muck it up for me. Take a few shots.”

  I glanced around at the crew. Robbie stood with brushes in his hands, waiting to run onto the set if needed, same with Francie with her apron of makeup. Mella and Corrine had their feet in the water, both seeming a bit impatient. Only Sam wore an expression that I could now read as concerned. A panicky feeling clawed inside my chest. What was I supposed to do? I might fail miserably. I might be awful. I was too hungover to do this.

  But then I reminded myself that this might be my last chance to do something so extraordinary. I planned to quit when I got back to Chicago. I gave Cole a nod, and he smiled.

  “Mella, Corrine,” I said, “can you move to your right about ten feet so I can get the palm trees in the background?”

  Both of them moved obediently, and I thought, Well, that’s something else I’ll never get to do again—order around a pair of supermodels.

  Once they were standing in front of three sky-high palms, I had to decide how to pose them. Cole had already gone for the sexy, these-girls-are-about-to-make-out angle. We needed something completely different.

  I looked over and saw a group of six guys, probably fifteen or sixteen, standing on the side of the road, gaping at the girls. They had bare, deeply tanned chests and wore low-slung surfer shorts.

  “Can you guys come here?” I called to them.

  They glanced behind, thinking I was talking to someone else.

  “Yeah, you guys,” I yelled.

  Laughing and punching each other, they made their way toward us. I stole a glance at Sam, whose expression had darkened, but Cole gave me a thumbs-up.

  I introduced myself to the guys and asked if they’d help me take a picture. They could barely speak because of their proximity to stunning, barely dressed women, but they all nodded, shooting sidelong glances at Mella and Corrine.

  “Okay, I want you to make a circle around them.”

  They did as they were told, but stood a good two feet away from the models.

  “Closer, closer,” I said.

  When they were finally right next to them, I thought for a moment.

  “Now, you and you—” I pointed to the two best-looking guys, both of whom had dark hair, smooth brown skin and dimples “—I want you to pick up Mella and Corrine and put them on your shoulder.”

  Corrine sent me an I’m-gonna-kill-you look at this point, but Mella just gave a laugh and started climbing onto her partner’s shoulder.

  “It’s all right, Corrine,” I said in my most authoritative voice.

  She sent an imploring glance to Cole, who nodded at her. She huffed and did the same as Mella until they were each perched on the shoulder of one guy, the other boys surrounding them.

  “Okay, now I want the rest of you to look up at them and cheer.”

  The guys stared at me stupidly.

  “Pretend you just won a soccer game, okay? You’re celebrating.”

  They nodded at this, apparently understanding perfectly, and started to hoot and holler.

  “Mella, Corrine, raise your arms like you just got an award.”

  The guys yelled louder. The two who were holding the models gazed up at them, bouncing them a little. Mella laughed and laughed, holding up one hand in a peace sign. Cole began yelling, too, and soon I heard Robbie, Francie and Chad join in. As the shouts rang around the beach, I looked in the viewfinder. It was perfect: the blue skies and palm trees behind the tight knot of bodies, the guys all staring adoringly at the models, lifting their arms in victory salutes, their mouths open in mid-yell. As soon as Corrine cracked a smile despite herself, I clicked off a round of shots. And suddenly I felt like cheering, too.

  The shoot had drained away my headache and given me reason to celebrate, so I agreed to a drink with Cole when we got back to the hotel.

  “You were brilliant,” he said, raising his beer to me. “Bloody brilliant.”

  “Really?” I knew it had gone well, but I wanted him to tell me.

  “It was absolutely fantastic! The girls up high and the guys, the way they were all cheering. You put it all together, and that’s what a good photographer does.”

  “I hope they turn out.”

  “Ah, they will!” He tipped his glass and clinked it against mine.

  “Well, the ones you took in the black and white suits, they were stunning.”

  Cole and I went on like this, wrapped up in our little mutual admiration society, until we were joined by Sam, showered and looking very gorgeous in tan shorts and a thin, light blue sweater, yet wearing a dour expression on his face.

  “I’m glad you two are here,” he said, slipping onto a bar stool next to us, not bothering with any other greeting. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Have a beer, mate,” Cole said. “Relax.”

  Sam shook his head. “Look, I think the shoot went great today. All of it.” He nodded at me, and I decided to take that as an indirect compliment. “But there are two problems. One, we hired you, Cole, not Kelly, and for you to just unilaterally ask her to take shots is not acceptable.”

  “Bugger off,” Cole said. “She was brilliant.”

  Sam held his hand up. “I agree. I think the shots with the guys are going to be great, but you didn’t know that, and you could have wasted some very expensive time if your gamble didn’t pay off.”

  “This is bloody bullshit. You never used to put these parameters on me. You never used to give a crap what I did.”

  “Coley, I don’t have to remind you that this is a different time now. This is not five years ago.” Sam said these words quietly.

  Cole put his glass down and hunched over, his elbows on the bar. The elation from this afternoon ebbed away, and for the first time I noticed the tinkle of glasses from other tables, the recorded steel drum music in the background.

  “The other problem,” Sam said, turning to me, “is the way you asked those guys to pick up the models.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but felt like a schoolkid being reprimanded, so I closed it again, waiting to see what the principal h
ad to say.

  “Do you know how much it would have cost us if Mella or Corrine had fallen on her ass and broken an arm or something?”

  I shook my head. It had honestly never occurred to me, but now that I thought about it, each of Mella’s limbs was probably insured for a bazillion dollars by Lloyd’s of London.

  “And now, technically, we have to pay those guys. Of course, we don’t know who they are, and they probably don’t even realize it, but since you didn’t have them sign a waiver or anything…” He lifted his hands and shoulders in an elaborate shrug.

  I felt even more like a fourth-grader now, one who thinks she can run with the big kids, only to get shoved down on the playground.

  “Leave her the hell alone,” Cole said in a grumbly voice. I liked him more and more all the time.

  “I’m sorry,” Sam said. “But you know I’m right.”

  “Doesn’t make you any more interesting. I’m going to use the phone.” Cole pushed his glass away and left the bar, leaving me sitting in an awkward silence with Sam.

  I wondered for a second if I should run after Cole. I knew that this shoot was instrumental for the resurrection of his career, but our friendship was too new. I didn’t truly know what he was like yet, whether he needed space, whether he needed hand-holding.

  Sam looked utterly miserable now that he’d effectively chased his friend away.

  “I want to apologize,” I said. “I really didn’t know we’d have to pay the guys, and I guess I just didn’t think that they would drop them.”

  “It all worked out, and I hate to play the heavy like this, but it’s my job. I have to represent the magazine, you know?”

  “Sure.”

  I had drained my beer out of nervousness sometime during Sam’s slap on the wrist, and now I was left thirsty, with nothing to occupy my hands.

  As if he sensed it, Sam signaled the bartender. “What are you drinking?” he said to me.

  “Carib,” I said, naming the Caribbean beer. It was probably made solely for the tourists, but I liked its light, almost lemony taste. Besides, I’d sworn off piña coladas and vodka forever, and I couldn’t bring myself to drink margaritas without Laney.

  “So, anyway,” Sam said, probably seeing me drifting off, “I really do think you did a great job, overall. Let’s just not talk about this anymore, okay?” He took a swig of the Stoli and soda he’d ordered.

  “Great.” I wondered what we would talk about now that we’d removed the subject of my mess-up. Maybe I should excuse myself, go back to my room and change for the night. There was nothing planned, though. Mella and Corrine had already said they were staying in for the evening, and I didn’t even know if Cole would show up again.

  “How long have you been doing this?” Sam said, gesturing with an arm. “The whole photography thing.”

  “Oh, I really don’t even…I’m not…I’m actually a financial analyst.”

  His green eyes went wide. “Really?”

  “Yeah, I was at Bartley Brothers for eight years.”

  “Wow.”

  I nodded. People were always impressed when they heard that.

  “So, how did you switch to photography?”

  “I just needed a break.” I supposed that was true enough. I hadn’t left Bartley Brothers willingly, but I had needed a break for a long time. “And I’d always loved photography. I saw Cole’s ad at the school where I took photography classes, and the rest is history.”

  “He was having problems for a long time getting an assistant.”

  “Imagine that.”

  We both laughed, like two people talking about a friend they both hold dear, which, I supposed, was the case.

  “He’s been through a lot,” Sam said. “You have to give him slack if he’s tough sometimes. A lot of things have happened….” He trailed off, clearly referring to New York.

  “I know about it,” I said. I felt a vague twinge of pride, as if I was saying the secret password at a clubhouse door.

  “Really?” He ran a hand through his damp blond hair, a gesture that seemed sexy to me. I saw those few silvery strands in the blond, giving him an appealing, worldly look, so different from the guys I usually met or hung out with. The pink scar along his jaw was intriguing, too, making me want to run my finger along its slightly jagged line.

  I dragged my eyes off him and studied my beer. “He told me the other night.”

  “Well, that’s great. I just hope you understand that for him to tell you is a really big deal. He never tells anyone. Never. And I hope you know that it’s got to be kept in complete confidence.”

  “Give me a little credit.” My voice was prickly with indignation, but at the same time I appreciated his loyalty to his friend, his instinct to protect Cole.

  “Sorry. If Cole trusts you, then I trust you.”

  “Thanks.”

  From there it became easier to chat, and Sam and I ran the gamut of topics from schools we’d attended to books we’d read to funny Cole stories. Sam was great to talk to, that booming laugh of his putting me back in a happy mood, and the minutes slipped by until we’d been talking for at least an hour. By that time, I was in desperate need of a shower and a monumental nap. I wondered how I could excuse myself and yet figure out some way to meet up with him later.

  “This has been fun,” I said, swinging around on my bar stool so that I was facing him.

  “Yeah, I’m glad we got to talk.” Sam turned toward me as well, and our knees were almost touching now.

  There was a pause, during which something shifted between us. We looked at each other, both of us seeming to try and figure out what was happening. In my mind, I was thinking of Laney’s words about one-night stands, how they’re designed to be shared with men who are entirely inappropriate but who you’re entirely attracted to nonetheless. Sam certainly fit the bill. Nearly a decade older than me, married already, kids already, going through a bitter divorce and living more than a thousand miles away. And yet those green eyes with the faint web of lines at their corners, the tanned, scarred jaw, the blond untamed hair—I wanted it all. This was my self-proclaimed last hurrah, after all, the time when I should get any such instincts out of my system before I settled back down into a normal routine, a normal life, a quest for a family of my own.

  And so I did something I rarely did. I made the first move.

  I slid the fingers of my left hand down my leg, jumping the slight distance between us, and placed them lightly on his golden-brown knee. I could feel heat below his skin, the faint, soft tickle of his hair. We were frozen there for a moment, and my mind began to scream at me to pull away, make an excuse, laugh it off, because his complete lack of response made it clear that we weren’t on the same wavelength. But then he shifted his glass to the other hand, reached down and placed his hand over mine. His fingers were a little cool from the icy drink, but I could feel a pulse beat in his fingers, sending a warmth through them, through me.

  My own pulse ricocheted in my throat, constricting it. Was I supposed to talk now? Say something sexy? I racked the recesses of my brain, but found only a few cheesy phrases—Interesting development, hmm? So, do you do this often? I decided to keep my mouth shut.

  “Do you miss your job at Bartley?” Sam said, breaking the heavy silence.

  I blinked a few times, startled. What was he doing? But then I realized that Sam was just making conversation, that he wanted to flirt, to keep talking, to play with words. He was, most likely, being an utter gentleman. But I wasn’t in the mood for a gentleman. I wanted a one-night stand. Suddenly, I knew this with a fierce clarity. I wanted to obliterate everything else. I wanted something so intense and raw and sensory that it would make me forget what I couldn’t remember.

  Ignoring his question, I gripped his hand tighter. “Any chance you’d want to have a drink on my balcony? We could watch the sunset.” My boldness shocked and pleased me. My heart pinged faster inside my chest.

  Sam studied my face for a moment. It occurred to m
e then that I hadn’t showered since that morning, that I must look a sweaty mess after working in the sun all day. But then I reminded myself that this, too, was supposed to be the beauty of a one-night stand—the grimy realness of sex instead of the powdered, pretty version I usually put forward for men who might lead to something in my life.

  “Yeah,” Sam said, his voice low, a little hoarse. “I’ll get a few beers for the road.”

  I shook my head. “Don’t.”

  And then I took his hand and led him out of the bar and down the flagstone path, past the clear, powder-blue water of the pool, past the stone wall that kept the beach at bay and finally up the peach-painted steps to my room. A golden light seeped through the slats in the louvered doors that led onto the deck, but I didn’t even bother to open them. The rest of the room was dim now that the sun was setting. The maids had made my bed, leaving the rust-red coverlet smooth.

  I sat down on the edge of the bed and waited. Sam stood just inside the door, looking at me. I started to chew the inside of my bottom lip, wondering if I’d gone too far too fast, if maybe he was going to turn me down. But then he walked the few steps toward me, took one of my hands in his again and leaned forward, finally pressing his lips against mine.

  23

  I woke up, immediately sensing that something was off but unable to detect exactly what. I blinked rapidly, seeing the bright white of the sun trying to push its way through the slats in the deck doors, hearing the slap of waves against the supports below my room. That’s what it was—I was in the Caribbean. But no, something else was awry. I heard the low, heavy sound of someone breathing, and I remembered. I rolled over to find Sam on his back, one arm stretched overhead. His tanned chest was bare, the rust-colored sheet pulled up to his hips.