Changing Teams
Page 11
“You wouldn’t love me if I was short?” she asked.
“I’d love you if you were a midget,” I replied, then I kissed her to stop all that crazy talk. As if Britt was going to shrink or something. When we parted, I said, “You didn’t answer me. You working today?”
“Yeah, I have to finish up that catalog shoot. You?”
“I’m scheduled to be at the studio at twelve.” I glanced at the clock, and saw that it was just past nine. “Up and at ’em, darlin’, I’d best be getting you home.”
We got ourselves together, and somehow Britt made catching a cab before ten in the morning in a party dress casually elegant rather than a walk of shame. It didn’t hurt that she looked fantastic.
When the cab pulled up in front of Britt’s building, I squeezed her hand. I hadn’t let go of her since we’d gotten in the cab. “I’ll call you when we finish up tonight,” I promised.
“Same here,” Britt said, then she kissed me on the mouth. “Promise me you’ll miss me today.”
“Miss you already, baby.”
Britt smiled and exited the cab. As I watched her enter her building, I realized that after we’d gone to bed the second time, I hadn’t had the nightmares. Maybe Britt really was an angel. Scratch that, she was my angel. I just needed to figure out how to keep her.
***
I stopped for some coffee, which didn’t taste half as good as Britt’s, and an egg sandwich, and got to Nash’s studio with thirty minutes to spare. I found the genius himself sitting behind his desk, going over some shots from the last session.
“Morning,” I greeted. I sat at my own desk and pulled out my laptop. “What’s the good word, Nash?”
“Many good words, my friend, many indeed,” he replied. “Have you heard back from the Sullivan girl about those test shots for the harem series?”
“You know, I haven’t,” I said, thinking about the nude images of Britt sitting in my camera at home. I drank some more coffee, all the while hoping the cup camouflaged my grin.
“That so,” Nash said. “Have you checked out If The Shoe Fits yet today?”
“You know I don’t follow that trash,” I said. If The Shoe Fits was a website that purported to follow the fashion and arts community, but really served as a who’s dating whom site and to pick apart people’s wardrobe choices. I had so many better things to do with my time than worry about who wore what designer to which event.
“When you have a second, have a look at today’s headlines,” Nash said. “I think you’ll find them interesting.”
“Will do,” I said, calling up The New York Times instead. I skimmed the actual news, my gaze catching on a picture of two sisters who had been missing for almost a week. They’d been found in a motel room, high out of their minds on so many different drugs it was a miracle they hadn’t overdosed themselves. When questioned as to their whereabouts for the past few days, the girls had rambled on about a man who’d spirited them away, fed them all kinds of candy, and transformed them into princesses.
“I’ll have what they’re having,” I muttered. I studied the image of the rescued girls for a moment; they seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place them. After deciding that I recognized them from other news reports, I checked Saturday’s weather forecast; looked like Britt’s cousin would have sunshine and rainbows for her wedding, which was what every bride deserved.
I checked my email, then I got to wondering what Nash had found so all fired interesting on that lame gossip site. Figuring that it might be a piece about Michael’s opening, I called up If The Shoe Fits. Then I swore.
“Great angle, huh?” Nash called over.
“Yeah.” There sure was a piece about Michael’s opening, and the top picture was of me punching Ben square in the nose, and Britt standing behind us looking horrified. The headline was even worse:
Man Gets Nose Re-Sculpted At Sculpture Showing.
“Who writes this crap?” I mumbled, skimming through the article. It went so far as to mention Britt and I by name, information probably gleaned from the creep from Soho Arts Weekly who’d asked us for quotes. Basically, the article said that Ben had been attempting to have a polite conversation with Britt, and that I flew into a jealous rage and decked him. At least they were right about the rage and decking parts.
“Did you see the last picture?” Nash asked.
“It can’t be any worse than the first,” I muttered. I scrolled down past the article, and saw an image of me kissing Britt in the back of the gallery, our profiles in full view so there was no doubt about our identities. Her hands were thrust into my hair, and my hand was on her butt, pushing up her dress and exposing those little white shorts she’d worn underneath it.
I leaned back in my chair, scrubbing my face with my hands. “Britt is going to fucking shit when she sees this.”
“Probably,” Nash said unhelpfully. “I always thought you were straight up gay, Sam. Although, if you’re going to sample the ladies, Britt’s a good one to start with.”
“She is pretty amazing,” I said, taking another look at the image of us kissing.
“You never asked her about the harem shoot, did you?”
I glanced at Nash. “No, I didn’t.”
Nash clapped my shoulder. “I wouldn’t share her either.”
I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding, relieved he wasn’t angry with me. “I guess there is something to the opposite sex, after all.”
Nash laughed. “There certainly is,” he said, then he looked at the images of myself and Britt again. “You two look pretty good together. Now, let’s get working.”
“Yes, sir.” I nodded, scrolling over the images of Britt and I one final time before closing my laptop. We did look good together, dammit, and I was going to do everything in my power to keep us together. Britannica Lynn was my angel, and I wasn’t going to give her up for any reason. I only hoped she felt the same way about me.
***
Due to a series of catastrophes ranging from late models to missing wardrobe items, we didn’t wrap up the shoot until after ten. Did I say we? I meant I; Nash took off at five sharp, leaving me to clean up the messes he’d made. Owning my own studio couldn’t come fast enough.
I sent Britt a few texts during the evening, letting her know we were running late. She assured me she was fine, and so beat after her own shoot that she was just going to curl up in her apartment for some shut eye. That didn’t stop me from calling her the moment I entered my own place.
“Hey cowboy,” she greeted. “How did everything work out?”
“It worked out damn exhausting,” I replied. “How was your day?”
“The same,” she yawned.
I looked at the garment bag hanging off the back of my door, and said, “Got some good news, baby. Your dress was delivered today.”
Britt squealed, then she fired off, “Did you open it? What does it look like? Do you think it will fit?”
“No, I’m sure it’s beautiful, and everything Jorge makes is a perfect fit,” I replied in order. “It’s really not hard to dress a beautiful girl well. You’ll look great.”
She was silent for a moment, and I imagined I’d made her blush. “We’ll need to leave early on Saturday,” she said. “The wedding’s in Westchester, so if we take the train—”
“I can drive us.”
“You have a car?”
“Be hard to drive us without one.” I smirked.
“Then why are you always taking cabs everywhere?”
“I usually leave the car in the garage beneath my building. For getting around the city, cabs are easier than finding parking. And most often cheaper,” I added, remembering that ticket I’d gotten in Queens and had forgotten to pay. With late fees that astronomical, it’s a wonder meter maids weren’t writing tickets on gilded pads.
“Okay, then let me see how long it will take to drive there.” I heard her typing away on her laptop, then she announced, “It’s about two hours from my place.”
“But all my stuff is here, at my apartment.”
“Pack a bag and haul your stuff on over,” I said. “We can have a sleepover.”
Britt giggled. “I like sleepovers.”
“Me too. You working tomorrow?”
“I just need to stop by the endless catalog shoot, and hopefully finish up all that nonsense.”
Britt’s beauty was wasted on something as banal as a mere catalog shoot, but I didn’t bother pointing that out. I knew she was only doing them to pay the bills. “Can you meet me at Nash’s by five?”
“I can do that.”
“Wonderful.” I unbuttoned my jeans and asked, “What are you wearing?”
“Panties.”
“And?” My phone beeped, indicating that I had a message.
“You should check that,” Britt said, her voice husky.
“All right.” I checked my messages, and found a picture of Britt that captured her from her shoulders to her knees, clad in nothing but a scrap of blue lace that could hardly be called a garment of any sort.
“You are never going to believe this,” I said, resuming our conversation. “Some woman just sent me a picture of her lady bits. She must have had the wrong number.”
“Sam!”
“Nice panties, though.” Teasing aside, I said, “I wish I was there with you.”
“Me too,” Britt said, then she yawned.
“I should let you rest,” I said. “See you at five?”
“At five,” she affirmed. “Sam, wait.”
“I’m right here, darlin’.”
“What you said.” She paused, and I waited for her to speak again. “You said you’d still love me even if I was a midget.”
“I do recall that.”
“Did you mean that?”
“I absolutely did,” I replied, “but don’t you go shrinking on me. I love those legs of yours too.”
She laughed. “I promise I won’t shrink.”
“Good. Get some rest.”
“I will. Night, cowboy.”
“Night, darlin’.”
Chapter Thirteen
Britt
I hardly slept on Thursday night, and my tossing and turning was all Sam’s fault. If I wasn’t lying awake pining for him, I was having these incredibly vivid dreams about him making a surprise visit to my apartment and crawling into bed with me. Around seven I declared sleep a lost cause and took a cold shower.
After the shower, I made a bowl of oatmeal and sat at my drawing table. My sketch of naked Sam was lying on top of the heap of supplies, and I found myself wondering if he’d like it. I also wondered if he’d pose for me sometime; given that I’d posed for him—it would only be fair. Since he liked Central Park so much, maybe we could pick a sunny afternoon and set up on the Sheep Meadow, him with a camera and me with some pencils and a sketchpad.
My phone trilled, and I saw three unread text messages. Fearing they were from Ben, I opened them, then breathed a sigh of relief since two were from Astrid, and one was from my mother. The two from Astrid read:
Astrid: Holy shit, you are a hottie!
Astrid: Damn girl, was that for real or just for the camera?
Since I had no idea what Astrid was talking about, I opened the message from my mother.
Mom: He’s furious. Did you have to do this the day before Melody’s wedding?
The ‘he’ in question was probably my stepfather, and I honestly had no idea what I’d done to infuriate him this time. In the past, my transgressions had ranged from coming home a minute past curfew—what eighteen-year-old has to be home by nine, anyway?—to my overall disdain of corporate America, to my mere existence. Complicating the situation was the fact that stepdaddy was infertile or impotent or something, which meant that he’d never have children of his own to carry on his legacy of evil. Mind you, he hadn’t told my mom about his little condition until after they’d gotten married, but she got him back but good. Thanks to yours truly, Patrick was saddled with an unruly stepdaughter that preferred art over law as his only heir. As if I’d ever wanted to be an heiress.
I called my mom and she picked up on the first ring. “There you are.”
“What have I done to upset Patrick this time?”
Mom sighed. “It’s Melody that’s really upset.”
“Oh, well, who cares about her?”
“Britt,” Mom admonished. “You know how Patrick cares for her.”
I sure did, being that Patrick had doted on Melody for as long as I could remember, going so far as to pay for the monstrosity that was her wedding. Maybe he could adopt Melody and set me loose. I’d much preferred being Britt Cavanaugh, anyway. “Okay. Why is Melody upset?”
Mom sighed again. “It seems that there are pictures of you on a website.”
“Mom, I’m a model. There are pictures of me all over the place.”
“These aren’t modeling shots. They are of you and a man, and the man is hitting another man, and then you kiss him.”
“Omigod.” I powered up my laptop, and asked, “Have you seen them?”
“Yes. Melody emailed them to Patrick this morning.”
“What website are they on?”
“Something about a shoe.”
I banged my head against the table; she meant If The Shoe Fits—she had to. Of all the places for pictures of me and Sam to wind up on…
“What was that noise?” Mom asked.
“Oh, just knocking some sense into myself. Hang on, I’m bringing up the website.”
One by one the images populated, and yes, they were exactly as Mom described. Sam hitting Ben, me trying to pull Sam away, and…
“Oh, crap.”
“Saw the kissing one?”
“Yeah.” Not only did the image feature what was perhaps one of the most passionate kisses I’d ever experienced, thanks to Sam’s hands pushing up my skirt to get at my butt, the world was treated to an unobstructed view of my undergarments. Thank God I’d worn those hot pants.
“So,” I drawled, “damage control?”
“Honestly, sweetie, she’s really on the warpath,” Mom said.
“Does that mean I get to skip the wedding?” I asked brightly.
“Not hardly. We’ve put the word out not to mention the pictures during the rehearsal dinner, and you can lay low during the reception. While Melody’s in the midst of her princess fantasy she probably won’t notice you.”
“We can only hope.” I wiggled my mouse, moving the picture of Sam and me kissing up and down the screen.
“What’s his name?” Mom asked.
“Sam. Sam MacKellar.”
Mom sighed, or maybe her brain was developing a slow leak. I sure felt like mine was. “At least he’s Irish.”
“He’s my date for Melody’s wedding.”
Mom laughed, a bit hysterically if you asked me. “Well, this will certainly be interesting.”
***
After I got myself dressed and sent Astrid a text telling her I’d explain everything later, I packed my overnight bag and headed over to the catalog shoot’s location. Since Sam wasn’t footing the bill, and I needed the exercise anyway, I opted to walk over instead of cabbing it. Really, walking around the city was the only exercise I got; I’d never been a runner like Sam, and I couldn’t afford a gym membership.
Maybe I’d ask Sam if we could go running together. Well, it would have to be just walking at first; at my current level of fitness, I doubted I could run a block without collapsing.
As I daydreamed about Sam in exercise gear, I got a text from the man himself:
Sam: Ever hear of that trash site If The Shoe Fits?
Britt: I saw them.
Sam: Sorry, baby, meant to tell you last night but I forgot. Your ass looks great, tho.
Britt: Play your cards right, maybe we can try that again.
Sam: LOL. See you at the studio at five?
Britt: You bet, cowboy.
Once I got to the catalog shoot’s studio, I signed in and made my way over to the set manager. “Hey, Bill,” I greeted.
“Britt,” he said, his gaze sweeping from my head to my feet. “Looking good, hottie. You here for the final shots?”
“Yeah,” I said, taking a step back. “Is the stuff in my usual room?”
“No, you were upgraded to B2.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
I entered the dressing room and put on the clothes I’d be modeling for the session. Since we were shooting a winter catalog for a national department store chain, my outfit consisted of elegant fawn tweed pants topped with a cream colored sweater. Since I had legs for miles, as Sam had so eloquently put it, all the pants for the shoot had been too short for me, and these were no exception. Today, however, knee high chocolate brown leather boots completed the look, and hid my bare ankles.
When I stepped onto the sound stage, Bill descended upon me again. “So, Britt, we were wondering if you’re available for more work.”
“Um, sure,” I said. “Will it be more catalog work?”
“This will be a Valentine’s Day spread,” Bill replied. “You’re cool with partial nudity, right?” he asked with a wink.
I was cool with nudity, but not his creepy wink. “Is it a lingerie catalog?” My phone trilled; I glanced at the display, and saw it was a call from my agent. “Excuse me.”
I stepped away from Bill, and answered, “Hey, Marlys.”
“Hey, hottie,” Marlys replied. She was the third person to call me that before noon. “My inbox is exploding with jobs for you.”
“Really? Awesome.” For a moment I imagined making enough money to get a larger apartment, maybe invest in some new art supplies. “But why now? I’ve been doing hardly anything but catalog work for months.”