Wicked Grind

by J. Kenner

  "Thanks," he said dryly. "I appreciate the uplifting and heartfelt speech."

  "Screw uplifting. I want you on the cover of every art and photography magazine in the country, with your show booked out on loan to at least a dozen museums and galleries for the next five years. I couldn't care less if you're uplifted. I just want you to pull this off."

  "Is that all?" he asked, fighting a smile.

  "Hell no. I also want a promotion. My boss is considering moving to Manhattan. I covet her office."

  "Good to have a goal," JP said, tilting his head toward Wyatt. "I covet his."

  "Go," Wyatt said, waving his thumb toward the dressing room. "Escort the girls out through the gallery," he ordered. The space was divided into his two-story studio that boasted a discreet entrance off the service alley, and a newly remodeled gallery and storefront that opened onto one of Santa Monica's well-trafficked retail areas.

  "So you're really done?" JP pressed. "That's it? Not even a single shot?"

  "I don't need to see anything else," Wyatt said. "Go. Chat them up so they don't feel like they wasted their time. And then I'll see you tomorrow."

  "That's your subtle way of getting rid of me, isn't it?"

  "Don't be ridiculous," Wyatt retorted. "I wasn't being subtle at all."

  JP smirked, but didn't argue. And with a wave to Siobhan, he disappeared into the back hallway.

  "So how can I help?" Siobhan asked once he was gone. "Should I arrange a round of auditions? After all, I know a lot of really hot women."

  That was true enough. In fact, Siobhan's girlfriend, Cassidy, featured prominently in the show. And it had been through Cass that Wyatt had originally met Siobhan, who had both a background in art and a shiny new job as the assistant director of the Stark Center for the Visual Arts in downtown Los Angeles.

  Originally, Wyatt had envisioned a significantly smaller show staged in his studio. The location was good, after all, and he anticipated a lot of foot traffic since folks could walk from the Third Street Promenade. He'd asked Cass to model about eight months ago, not only because she was stunning, but because he knew the flamboyant tattoo artist well enough to know that she wouldn't balk at any pose he came up with, no matter how provocative. Cass didn't have a shy bone in her body, and she was more than happy to shock--so long as the shock was delivered on her terms.

  Siobhan had come with her, and before the shoot, Wyatt had shown both of them three of the pieces he'd already finished so that Cass would have a sense of his vision. It was the first time he'd laid it out in detail, and it had been cathartic talking to Siobhan, who spoke the language, and Cass, who was an artist herself, albeit one whose canvas was skin and whose tools were ink and needles.

  He'd explained how he'd originally just wanted a break from the portraits and other commercial photography jobs that paid the bills. And, yes, he was beginning to make a name for himself artistically with his landscapes and city scenes. That success was gratifying, but ultimately unsatisfying because those subjects weren't his passion. There was beauty in nature, sure, but Wyatt wanted to capture physical, feminine eroticism on film.

  More than that, he wanted to make a statement, to tell a story. Beauty. Innocence. Longing. Ecstasy. He wanted to look at the world through the eyes of these women, and the women through the eyes of the world.

  Ultimately, he wanted to elevate erotic art. To use it to reveal more about the models than even they were aware. Strength and sensuality. Innocence and power. Passion and gentleness. He envisioned using a series of provocative, stunning images to manipulate the audience through the story of the show, sending them on a journey from innocence to debauchery and back again, and then leaving them breathless with desire and wonder.

  That afternoon, Wyatt spoke with Cass and Siobhan for over an hour. Showing them examples. Describing the emotions he wanted to evoke. Listening to their suggestions, and taking satisfaction from the fact that they obviously loved the concept. They'd ended the conversation with Cass posing for another hour as he burned through three rolls of film, certain he was capturing some of his best work yet.

  Then they'd walked to Q, a Santa Monica restaurant and bar known for its martini flights. They'd toasted his project, Cass's pictures, and Siobhan's career, and by the time they ended the evening, he was feeling pretty damn good about his little pet project.

  The next morning, he'd felt even better. That's when Siobhan had come to him with a formal offer from the Stark Center. He'd said yes on the spot, never once thinking that by doing so he was tying another person to his success--or, more to the point, his potential failure.

  "I'm serious," she pressed now, as his silence continued to linger. "Whatever you need."

  "I'll find her," Wyatt said. "I have time."

  "Not much," she countered. "I need the prints ahead of time for the catalog, not to mention installation. Keisha's already getting twitchy," she added, referring to her boss. "We don't usually cut it this close."

  "I know. It's going to be--"

  "Twenty-seven days to the show, Wyatt." He could hear the tension in her voice, and hated himself for being the cause of it. "But about half that before you need to deliver the prints. We're running out of time. If you can't find the girl, then you need to just find a girl. I'm sorry, but--"

  "I said I'll find her. You have to trust me on this."

  Right then, she didn't look like she'd trust him to take care of her goldfish, but to her credit, she nodded. "Fine. In that case, all I need today is to see the latest print so I can think about the promotional image. And you'll email me a file for the catalog?"

  "Sure. This is it," he added, walking to a covered canvas centered on the nearest wall. He pulled down the white drape, revealing a life-size black and white photograph of a woman getting dressed. At first glance, it wasn't the most titillating of his images, but that was because it was such a tease. The woman stood in a dressing room, and hidden among the dresses and coats were at least a dozen men, peering out to watch her.

  The woman, however, was oblivious. She was bending over, one foot on a stool, as she fastened a garter. The view was at an angle, so at first glance the audience saw only her skirt, a hint of garter, and the woman's silk-sheathed leg.

  Then they noticed the mirror behind her. A mirror that revealed that she wasn't wearing panties under the garter belt. And even though absolutely nothing was left to the imagination, it still wasn't a particularly racy or erotic photograph. But then you noticed the reflection in the mirror of another mirror. And another. And another. Each with an image of that same woman, and each slightly more risque, until finally, as the mirror approached infinity, the woman was nude, her head thrown back, one hand between her legs, the other at her throat. And all those men from the closet were out in the open now, their hands stroking and teasing her.

  Most important, the mirror was so deep in the image that you had to stand practically nose-to-print to see it.

  Wyatt couldn't wait to see how many people did exactly that at the showing.

  "This is fabulous," Siobhan said with genuine awe in her voice.

  "It was a hell of a photograph to set up and then develop. Lots of work on the set and in the darkroom."

  "You could have set it up digitally."

  He scoffed. "No. Some of the images, sure. But not this one." He turned his head, regarding it critically. "This one had to be hands-on. It's as much about the process as the product."

  "I get that." She met his eyes, and the respect in hers reminded him of why he didn't just take photos for himself. "I want to take it back with me right now and show Keisha," she added.

  "Soon." Although Siobhan and Keisha had wanted him to deliver each print upon completion, Wyatt had balked, explaining that he needed the art surrounding him in order to ensure the continuity of story in the overall exhibit. And the size of the canvas and the particulars of the way he handled the image in the darkroom were such that duplicates weren't adequate.

  That meant that when Siobhan
needed to see a piece, she came to him. And now that she was not only putting together the official catalog, but also doing promotional pieces from the images, she was coming a lot.

  Wyatt was adamant that the images not be revealed prior to the show, but Siobhan's team had promised him the rapidly expanding catalog mockup would be kept under lock and key. More important, the pre-show promotion wouldn't reveal any of the artwork--while at the same time, teasing the art's sensual and daring nature.

  So far, they'd not only managed to do just that, but the campaign was already a success. The gallery had been releasing one image a month--one of his photographs, yes, but only a sexy snippet shown through a virtual barrier laid over the image. Once, it was yellow caution tape. Another time, it was a keyhole in a hotel room door. Clever, yes, but also effective. Wyatt had already been interviewed and the exhibit pimped out in no less than five local papers and magazines. And he was booked on two morning shows the day the exhibit opened.

  Not bad, all things considered, and he told Siobhan as much.

  "If you really want to see a bump in our publicity," she replied, "we should get your grandmother on board."

  "No." The word came swift and firm.

  "Wyatt . . ."

  "I said no. This exhibit is on my shoulders. I can't hide who I am, but I don't have to advertise it. If we trot my grandmother out, book her on morning shows, make her sing little Wyatt's praises, then everyone is going to come. You know that."

  "Um, yeah. That's the point. To get people to your show."

  "I want them to come for the show. Not because they're hoping to get Anika Segel's autograph."

  "But they'll see your art. They'll fall in love then. Who cares what brings them through the door?"

  "I do," he said and was relieved to see that she didn't seem to have an argument against that.

  She stood still for a moment, possibly trying to come up with something, but soon enough she shook her head and sighed. "You're the artist." She made a face. "And you have the temperament to go with it."

  "See, that's how you wooed me into doing the show with you. That embarrassingly sentimental flattery."

  "You're a laugh a minute, Wyatt." She hitched her purse further onto her shoulder, then pointed a finger at him. "Don't fuck this up."

  "Cross my heart."

  "All right then." She leaned in for an air kiss, but caught him in a hug. "It's going to be great," she whispered, and he was surprised by how much he appreciated those simple words.

  "It will," he agreed. "All I have to do is find the girl." He glanced at his watch. "An agency's sending someone over in about half an hour. Nia. Mia. Something like that. Who knows? Maybe she'll be the one."

  "Fingers crossed." Her grin turned wicked. "But if she's not, just say the word and Cass and I will dive into the search."

  "A few more days like today, and I'll take you up on that."

  "A few days is all you have," she retorted, then tossed up her hands, self-defense style. "I know, I know. I'm leaving."

  She headed for the front door, and he turned back to the print, studying it critically. A moment later he reached for the drapes that covered the prints on either side of the first image, then tugged them off, revealing the full-color photos beneath.

  He took a step back as he continued his inspection, ensuring himself that there were no more refinements to be made. Slowly, he moved farther back, wanting all three in his field of vision, just like a visitor to the exhibition would see. One step, then another and another.

  He stopped when he heard the door open behind him, cursing himself for not locking up as Siobhan was leaving. "Did you forget something?" he asked as he turned.

  But it wasn't Siobhan.

  It was her.

  The girl who'd filled his mind. The girl who'd haunted his nights.

  The woman he needed if he was going to pull this exhibit off the way he wanted to.

  A woman with the kind of wide sensual mouth that could make a man crazy, and a strong, lithe body, with curves in all the right places. Eyes that could see all the way into a man's soul--and an innocent air that suggested she wouldn't approve of what she saw there.

  All of that, topped off with a wicked little tease of a smile and a sexy swing to her hips.

  She was a walking contradiction. Sensual yet demure. Sexy yet sweet.

  A woman who one minute could look like a cover model, and the next like she'd never done anything more glamorous than walk the dog.

  She was hotter than sin, and at the same time she was as cold as ice.

  She was Kelsey Draper, and he hadn't spoken to her since the summer before his senior year, and as far as he was concerned, that was a damn good thing.

  Her eyes widened as she looked at him, and her lips twitched in a tremulous smile. "Oh," was all she said.

  And in that moment, Wyatt knew that he was well and truly screwed.

  2

  Oh.

  The word seems to hang above us inside a cartoon bubble, and I mentally cringe. Ten years at an exclusive girls' school, an undergraduate degree in early education, minors in both dance and English, and the best I can come up with is Oh?

  And, yes, I know I should cut myself a little slack. After all, I was caught off guard. Not by the stunning and sensual art displayed in front of me, but by the man who created it. A man who's the reason my palms are sweaty, my nipples tight, and my pulse beating a staccato rhythm in my neck.

  A man I once knew as Wyatt Segel.

  A man I was completely unprepared to see.

  Which means that Nia has some serious explaining to do. "Just some photographer looking for models. My agent says the pay is awesome, and considering how much cash you need by the end of the month, it's worth a shot. He goes by W. Royce, but I've never heard of the guy. Then again, who cares so long as he pays?"

  Never heard of the guy? Oh, please. Nia's a model; Wyatt's a photographer. She must have known he'd taken a stage name. And then she went and set me up.

  Honestly, I just might have to kill her.

  First, though, I have to get this job. My brother Griffin's a fourth-degree burn survivor, and I have less than a month to come up with fifteen thousand dollars in order to enroll him in trials for an innovative new clinical protocol. Not an easy task on my kindergarten teacher salary, and even the additional dance classes I've added to my summer teaching schedule don't come close to taking up the monetary slack.

  Which is why when my best friend Nia told me about the audition, it seemed worth the shot. Granted, I took some convincing. And I wasn't entirely comfortable with the idea of putting myself on display. But I psyched myself up. Desperate times, and all that.

  "My agent booked me for a lingerie shoot," she'd told me over drinks on the balcony of her beachfront condo yesterday. "A last minute gig. I guess the photographer's pushing up against his deadline. Anyway, I think you should go in my place. His name's W. Royce, and I can text you the address and time."

  My stomach lurched at the thought. "Are you crazy? I can't do that!"

  Nia sighed dramatically. "Why? Because it would be wrong?" She put finger quotes around the last word.

  "Actually, yes," I said adamantly. Nia constantly teases me about what she calls my elevated sense of scruples. She's convinced that I'm too staid and regimented. That I need to deviate from my safe little routine and cut loose sometimes. But she's one hundred percent wrong about that.

  I know better than anyone the price you pay when you break the rules.

  "He'll be expecting a drop-dead gorgeous woman who oozes sensuality," I said pragmatically. "And that's really not me."

  "Oh, honey, please. We both know you're gorgeous. And where else are you going to get that kind of money so quickly? Especially since you're too stubborn to borrow from me."

  "You're assuming I'll get the job." Unlike Nia, who's been modeling since she was seven, I have absolutely zero experience.

  "Did I mention you're gorgeous? Just because you never flaunt i
t, doesn't mean it's not true."

  I crossed my arms to hide an involuntary shudder. She's wrong, of course. Not about me being pretty--I am. And that's a cross I've had to bear my entire life.

  No, she was wrong about the rest of it. Because I did flaunt it. Maybe not much--and only once--but that was enough, and I opened a Pandora's Box of badness that I'm still trying to close.

  I licked my lips, my thoughts turning to my brother. That photographer might be pushing a deadline, but so was I. And if there was even the tiniest chance that this job could get me the cash I needed, then didn't I at least owe it to Griffin to try? Maybe under normal circumstances, lingerie modeling would be too racy for my sensibilities. But these weren't ordinary circumstances.

  "I can't do sexy photos. I wouldn't have a clue how to pose," I said, but my protest lacked oomph, and I saw from the way Nia's eyes lit up that she knew I'd taken the bait, and all she had to do was reel me in.

  "It's just commercial lingerie photos," she shrugged as if to say that was no big deal. "Just pretend you're at the beach in a bikini."

  I considered that, then nodded. It's not like I've never displayed a little skin. And I do own a bikini. I even wear it on the beach. In public. Sometimes.

  And after everything that happened back then, wasn't there some sort of karmic justice in me stripping down to my underwear for a good cause? I didn't know, but it sounded like a solid justification to me.

  "Besides," Nia continued, "a professional photographer's going to have an excellent bedside manner."

  "Nia!"

  "Oh, for fuck's sake, Kels. It's a figure of speech."

  "Language."

  "Fuckety, fuck, fuck, fuck," she retorted. And I couldn't help myself--I burst out laughing. "Love me, love my potty mouth," she said.

  "I do love you," I admitted. "Despite the potty mouth."

  "That's because I'm so damn, fucking lovable." She flashed a wicked grin before taking another sip of wine while I tried hard not to laugh again. Best not to egg her on.

  "Seriously, Kels, it'll be easy. It's a lot like dancing. Form and position and movement. In a lot of ways modeling is like choreography. And I've seen the outfits you rehearse in. Not a lot left to the imagination, right?"