“I got an email with this link. I’d guess it was a concerned parent, but who knows how they found these? You’d better hope, as I do, they don’t forward them to the PTA president.”
My chest heaves and I feel the first sobs build. Keep it together, Violet. I force my gaze away from the haunting photos on Mr. Dash’s screen and meet his stern, disapproving look. There’s nothing to say. Nothing to make this right.
“Stop by your classroom and pick up anything personal. You’re dismissed.”
***
I wish I’d had the courage to get the link to my photos from Mr. Dash, but the shock of them left me horrified and just … empty. I feel like I’m rushing to the scene of a terrible accident, not knowing how bad it will be, but desperate to find out.
I perch my laptop on my knees in my living room, unsure where to begin. A porn site? There are thousands. I try searching “naked redhead hands tied” and get dozens of pictures with varying degrees of bondage, from playful neckties to intricate shibari knots.
None of them are me.
Then I type the words I’m most afraid will yield a result—my own name, Violet Chase. I pray for boring Facebook profile photos and my student art projects.
The first page of results is clean—nothing more scandalous than my fine art photography. My portfolio includes plenty of backlit nudes, all of them tasteful and none of them me.
I click to the second page of results and hear Neil’s key in the door. I turn to him and he smiles hello, but then his face drops with a glance at the screen behind me. “What the hell is that?”
I turn and immediately zero in on the photos Mr. Dash showed me.
It’s me. Tied up. Ready. Willing.
My stomach lurches and a sick wash of sweat prickles on my back. I don’t even bother answering Neil; I just click on the picture as he hovers over my shoulder. The site is called Sexy Bitches and I scroll down through three pictures of me in bondage.
“Jesus, Violet.” Neil’s voice rises with alarm. “When did this happen? How?”
“Brady,” I whisper. That’s the only answer that makes sense. “He got revenge.”
My hand freezes over the trackpad.
There’s my name.
And my phone number.
And my address.
And the name of my school.
“He did this? He took these pictures and posted them?”
My head bows in shame. “He must have,” I choke out. “I mean, he grabbed my camera when we were, you know … it wasn’t like I could untie myself and grab it back.”
“But that’s your name.” Neil’s voice rises. “Any creep looking at this could find you, they’d know our address—”
His voice halts and I know he’s just drawn the connection I made on the train ride home from the school. “They’re sending the texts, aren’t they?”
I nod, believing it must be true. For the fifth or fiftieth time today, I bow my head in shame and let the tears fall.
Neil pulls me against his chest in a hug and his soft hand strokes my arm. To most people, he’s a jerk—abrasive, self-centered, hypercritical and very, very gay. To me, though, he’s my slightly slobby roommate and a caring guy.
If he likes you enough to let you in.
When my sobs abate into a cottony, snot-clogged voice, I tell him the rest. “My principal found out. He called me down to the school this morning. He fired me.”
“God, Violet, I’m sorry.” Neil tucks a curled finger under my chin and forces me to meet his hazel eyes. “But you’re stronger than this. This won’t end you. I already gave your resume to my editor to try to get you some freelance photo gigs during summer break.”
Neil’s hopeful note is too weak a ray of light to shine into the darkness I feel. But I appreciate the gesture, and I gather the strength to go to my room.
The nudes on my wall—what used to be my favorite kind of photography—stare back at me and accuse.
CHAPTER 4: JAYCE
Even with my shirt off and the windows open, Tyler’s loft is a sauna without air conditioning. It makes playing that much more intense.
I dig into our latest song, adding depth to Gavin’s melody, cuing Tyler for a chord with a nod to his bass. Dave’s pounding out our rhythm on drums and for a minute it’s like we’re back in Tyler’s mom’s garage, just playing loud, playing for fun, playing like we’re gonna be somebody someday.
God, I miss that.
For months, our band’s been treading water, a little too high on the success of our first two albums with a major label. But when Gavin took off, maybe that scared us a little. It forced us to get tighter so we wouldn’t lose what we’ve built.
I see a movement from the far end of the loft and the door opens. That tiny girl Stella leads a tall redhead to the couches and I almost miss the transition to the bridge as I follow the redhead’s movements.
She bends over a fat, square bag and assembles camera parts. Her long, pale legs end in a pair of dark blue shorts and her flame-red hair falls across her face in wild waves.
I play and watch her, the pieces falling into place. Stella’s writing a story on us for her newspaper, The Indie Voice, and this is the freelance photographer who will shoot our practice.
She moves with a dancer’s grace, her sleeveless white shirt revealing freckled arms and slender hands. She makes me want to keep looking.
No. I need to watch this girl, who is the polar opposite of every groupie and fangirl I know.
It’s weird. In high school, Tyler and I were always trying to see boobs—he’d nudge me whenever Emma Jackson’s bra strap was showing. But now boobs are everywhere. It’s not a show if some girl in the front row doesn’t take off her top or flash me her tits.
I can’t see this girl’s tits at all, and it bugs me the same way Emma Jackson’s never-to-be-revealed boobs kept me preoccupied in algebra.
I keep playing, but my mind’s not on the song. I’m staring—willing her to look up and let that curtain of red hair fall away from her face.
I get nothing.
We switch to a new song and I back Gavin on vocals. I sing the first line of the chorus, and nearly trip over the next lyrics when the redhead finally raises her chin.
She’s looking at me. Through me. Her eyes are clear and bright and knowing. This girl is a witch, a sorceress, a fairy princess.
I’m fucked.
***
Dave calls for a break and like a coward, I hit the head. I plunge my hands into the icy tap and splash my face and neck. Since when do I get nervous about a girl? There’s nothing overtly sexual about her—no tits on a plate, no dress cut up to here and down to there.
I shake off the weirdness. It’s rare that anyone watches us practice, so maybe that’s what’s thrown me.
In the living room, Tyler entertains the redhead with a goofy description of his loft. I want to introduce myself but Dave cuts in on Tyler’s monologue, his bossy manager mode back in force. I didn’t mind when he was our actual manager, but now that we have Chief as our full-time manager, Dave’s back-seat driving grates on me.
Dave and the girl apparently make a plan, because suddenly Gavin’s ditching his T-shirt, I’m told to leave mine off as well, and Dave’s repositioning his drums based on how the light’s coming through the warehouse windows.
Thank God there’s no posing. Even though I work out hard and I know I look good, I always look kind of angry in pictures. Most people don’t notice the scars at first.
We dive into another song and the redhead circles us with her camera. When we break between songs, the only thing she says to me is, “Try not to look at the camera. I want these to feel candid.”
She has no clue. I’m not looking at her fucking camera. I’m looking at how her red hair brushes her bare shoulders, how her cheeks are flushed with the heat in Tyler’s loft, and how a slim silver bracelet glides down her wrist.
I’m looking at every single detail of her.
I’m restless, so I
try to get focused back on the music, calling a halt mid-song to work through a chord progression that Gavin has going major, but I think works better in minor.
Dave disagrees, but Tyler backs me up. He always does.
Just when I think we’re going to wrap up and I can talk to the redhead, my giggling blonde entourage shows up, followed by Gavin’s new girl, Beryl. Teal sits on my lap and winds her arm around my sweat-slicked neck. I feel disgusting after two hours of sweaty practice, so I pinch her ass to get her off me but she just squeals and snuggles closer.
Great. A Klingon.
I stand up just as Stella’s leading the redhead out the door before I’ve had a chance to talk to her. Even before I found out her name.
And just like Emma Jackson’s bra strap, I know without a doubt that this girl is going to fuel my frustrated dreams.
CHAPTER 5: VIOLET
I’m nervous about showing Stella my shots of Tattoo Thief.
Maybe hiring me for my first freelance gig is her way of paying me back for letting her stay in my room. We both have Neil to thank for making the connection.
“Tell me what you think, if it matches your story.” I fidget with my coffee cup while she stares at my laptop screen. I hope the candid style and natural light catch the mood of her piece for The Indie Voice.
“If I hadn’t been there when you took this…” Stella’s open-mouthed¸ so I’m pretty sure I hit the mark.
I smile. We’re at a cozy restaurant several blocks from my apartment, amid a Sunday brunch crowd full of noise and laughter. “Do you think it will work?”
“Oh, hell yes. This is ferociously sexy, especially because it doesn’t look like they’re trying to be sexy. It looks like you got a sneak peek without them even realizing you were there.”
“Awesome. That’s what I wanted—something candid that didn’t look like another posed rock-god photo.”
Stella giggles. “But you’ve got to admit, those abs—”
“Yeah. I know. Some girls go for abs and some go for butts and legs, but I’m obsessed with shoulders. And biceps.” Yikes. Too much information. I gulp my coffee and hope my blush isn’t too obvious.
“Anyone’s biceps in particular?” Stella’s brows arch.
“No. Stella, cut it out.” I close my eyes to block out the image of the band, of one band member in particular. Jayce, the lead guitarist. All through the photo session, his eyes followed me until I had to ask him to stop looking. It was messing up the candids I was going for.
It was also messing up my concentration. I’ve never been so completely devoured by someone’s eyes, like he was calculating exactly what it would take to own me.
“Sorry.” She watches me carefully, and I’m afraid I’m telegraphing my interest in Jayce all over my face. “Violet, seriously, I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d…”
I close my laptop and stuff it in my backpack. “Let’s not go there, OK? I’ll send that picture and a couple more over to your editor tonight. And I brought your stuff.” I hand her a bulky cloth bag with things Neil failed to pack for her from my room.
“Thanks for schlepping that over here.” Stella peeks inside the bag. “So how do you know Neil?”
“Friend of a friend. I got a job teaching last September and had to move really quick, and his ex-boyfriend had just split.” I don’t tell her that my last-minute assignment was also thanks to a few well-placed calls from my father.
“You’re a teacher?”
“Was.” I bite the inside of my cheek, not wanting to reveal more. Getting fired has left me feeling raw and vulnerable, and I doubt I’ll be able to get enough freelance work to cover my meager teacher’s salary. My savings might get me through summer. Might.
“What did you teach?”
“I wanted to do art education, but there’s not a lot of funding for that, and nothing full-time. So I also taught sex ed.”
Stella laughs. “That sounds like a blast. Did you have to show horny eighth graders how to roll a condom over a banana?”
I can’t resist giving her my favorite weird detail from last year. “My favorite question was, ‘What if you can’t find the hole?’”
Stella cracks up and I promise her, “True story, true story.”
“Wait. You said you were a teacher? What happened?”
“I got fired.” My face blazes with embarrassment, even though she’s still laughing about the hole question.
“For what? Explaining how to find the hole?”
No. The school doesn’t want someone as filthy as me teaching their children. I swipe away tears.
“Oh, God, Violet. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—I wasn’t trying to make fun of you. That sucks. I’m sorry you got fired. You don’t have to—”
“Unprofessional conduct,” I whisper, praying she won’t probe further.
“So, are you going to get a different teaching job or freelance more? Because you’re really good.”
Stella gives me an encouraging smile, but I snort. Fat chance I’d ever get hired by a school district. The pictures made my teaching certificate worthless.
“I doubt I can get a teaching job again. But I’ve always been into photography, so I’m giving this a shot. I was really grateful when Neil recommended me to your editor and you took a chance on me.”
“The nudes in your room are impressive,” Stella says. “Do you sell those?”
“I don’t do nudes anymore.” No way. Never again. Even though I always took care to make sure the nudes I shot were artful and not pornographic, I never want to be in a studio with a naked subject again. It hits too close to home. “I’m working on a different kind of project now. It’s a secret.”
***
On Tuesday, I get confirmation from Stella’s editor that the pictures I submitted will be accepted for publication. I do a little dance, right there in my apartment.
The texts keep coming, and they vary from sweet pleas for a date to straight-up filthy propositions. I don’t respond to any of the handful of numbers texting me. I’m becoming numb to them.
I work up the courage to go online to figure out how to take down my pictures from the Sexy Bitches website. There’s no straightforward way to do it, but I learn that what’s happened to my photos is called “revenge porn.”
I didn’t even imagine this had a name.
On Wednesday, I recognize Stella’s number on my phone and pick up, expecting more questions about my Tattoo Thief pictures. What I’m not prepared for is a thoroughly drunk Stella slurring into the phone, telling me to come get wasted with her.
It’s ten-thirty in the morning.
I’m stuck—there’s a new tweet from the graffiti artist I’ve been following and I want to go track down his latest street art. But I also want to help my new friend, who says she’s having a bad day.
By the sound of it, her buddies Jack Daniels and Jim Beam are cheering her up. When I find her at the bar, it’s worse than I thought. I drag her to a diner and fill her with carbs and coffee to try to work some of the alcohol out of her system.
Once she’s sober enough to walk a straight line, I take her along in search of the artwork. Bingo. We find the piece behind a Dumpster, a little girl bending over a daisy, which is painted like it grows from a real crack in the building’s wall. Stenciled words say, “Find your moment.”
I carefully document the work before we roll the Dumpster back into position to partially cover it, then we’re heading home and I spot the exact same daisy in a tattoo shop window.
I’m floored. We go in and when the big, burly guy who’s doing tattoos won’t talk to me, Stella decides to get a wrist tattoo on the spot. I beg her to wait but she digs in her heels. She’s crazy. She’s brave—braver than me, anyway.
She’s awesome.
And the daisies are the same. By the time we leave, I might even have enough of a toehold to convince whoever’s doing the graffiti art to talk to me. No promises, the burly guy says. But it’s just enough that I see a ray of light.
***
Neil’s gone out and I’m settling into a night of photo editing, a gin martini, and some quiet classical music when my phone trills. I feel my gut clench as I grab it. Please don’t let it be a porn lurker.
Relief floods me. It’s Stella again, but her voice is breathy and rushed. “Hi, Violet. I’m sorry to call you so late, but I need another favor.”
“Stella.” I sigh, but I’m still glad to hear from her. Isolation eats at me; I can’t bring myself to contact the teachers I used to call friends, ashamed that I’ll have to explain why we’re no longer coworkers. And beyond them? Other than my sister, I don’t have anyone.
“For the record, I’m not drunk, I don’t need pancakes, but I would gladly do anything for you if you could come to Roosevelt Hospital and take some pictures. Like, right now.”
The urgency in Stella’s voice reaches through the phone and shakes me out of my haze of self-pity and gin. I clear my throat and stand, shoving my feet into sandals. “What’s going on?”
Stella explains that Tyler’s had a seizure, he’s at the hospital, and the media are swarming with speculation. There’s a press conference in less than an hour.
“What can I do to help?”
“Get your camera. Come here and take pictures—we need proof that it’s not some drug overdose.” Stella’s voice trembles with emotion and I grab my camera bag and keys, heading for the door. “They’ll pay you. I trust you and that’s what we need right now more than anything—someone we can trust.”
“Tell me the name of the hospital again?”
“You’ll do it?” she squeaks.
“Stella, I’m already halfway down my apartment stairs. I’ll see you in ten minutes.”
I enter the emergency room waiting area and scan the room for Stella, but the first person I recognize is a wall of muscle: thick biceps stretching his faded blue shirt, rumpled shorts and flip-flops. Maybe he’s wearing whatever was on his bedroom floor when he got the call.
Bedroom shoots my mind to some R-rated thoughts I toyed with while editing Tattoo Thief’s pictures—specifically, Jayce’s chiseled, shirtless body. I drop my chin to avoid his gaze.
Revenge Bound Page 2
