The Hot Shot Page 3

  I glance at the partition, and shift my weight, the urge to turn tail and run creeping up the backs of my thighs. “The team agreed, so I agreed.”

  “Woodson isn’t participating,” Rolondo points out. “Wife put her foot down.”

  “Woodson is a kicker. I’m the quarterback. I say no, fans get disappointed. Besides, I already committed. Backing out wouldn’t be right.”

  It’s too late, anyway. James strolls out from behind the partition. “Mr. Mannus,” he says, all business now. “Let’s get you ready.”

  “Great,” I mutter.

  I follow him to the changing area, and he gestures to a table covered with lumps of fabric, ranging from pale beige to dark brown. “If it makes you more comfortable, you can wear one of these.”

  I frown down at the lumps. “These?”

  James picks up a light brown cloth and shows me.

  To my utter, fucking horror, it’s a thong. A man thong. “Oh, hell no.”

  “Why do you all say that exact thing?”

  “Two guesses.” I can’t even imagine the shit the guys would dole out to any poor fuck caught wearing that nightmare.

  “We’d edit it out,” he assures, his lips twitching.

  “And you think that’s why I’m objecting?” I glare at the thong in his hand.

  He tosses the thong back with the others. “To be honest, I’m with you. I’ve tried one on. I don’t know how women stand it. Thing feels like the world’s worst wedgie.” He glances at the thongs, and then me. “Then again, it does great things for a tight ass.”

  I don’t know if he’s hitting on me or not. Something in his eyes tells me he wouldn’t object if I offered to model one for him. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had a guy try to flirt with me. Probably not the last either. Athletes and sex go hand in hand.

  “As long as it isn’t my ass in one,” I tell him with a shrug.

  He gives me a wry smile. “Right then. There’s robes or towels you can use after you strip down. When you’re ready, just head for the studio space.”

  He leaves me to undress. The silence in the little space presses in on me. The laughter of the guys rings out, but it only serves to put more distance between them and me. I tug off my shirt, and try to shake the sensation of being exposed.

  This is bullshit. Rolondo is right, I’ve never had a problem with people seeing me in the buff. I’m proud of my body. I’ve worked hard to perfect it and it works hard for me. But right now, I’m not asking it to perform a task. Right now, I’m expected to put it on display.

  A year ago, I would have fine with that. Hell, I’d probably have preened like the fucking cock of the walk. Fame and adulation can swallow a person whole, until it’s all you think about. Until you believe its bullshit.

  Funny how personal tragedy can strip the veil away so fast, it will make your head spin. I’m no longer blind to the bullshit, and, frankly, part of me would have preferred maintaining my ignorance. Because now I feel empty, and that yawing space inside me keeps growing.

  “Jesus,” I mutter under my breath. “Just buck the fuck up and do your job.”

  I undo the button of my jeans and tell myself that none of this matters. Then James shows up to oil my skin, “So that the camera can pick up every swell and dip.”

  I really hate this day.

  * * *

  Chess

  * * *

  There’s an old saying: the camera never lies.

  Photographers know this isn’t true. The camera—and by extension, a photo— lies all the time. We make it lie through manipulation. What looks one way in real life can appear completely different in a photo. Light and dark, negative space and angles, so many things come into play.

  The concept of beauty changes with a camera. Some ordinary people come alive behind the lens. Something about the way the light hits them, and suddenly they are utterly beautiful. Haggard, craggy lines can be wondrous. And utterly breathtaking faces can fall oddly flat.

  It is my job to find the story in a face, in a body.

  I remind myself of this as James leads a sullen Finn Mannus into the studio.

  From under my lashes, I watch Mannus move. There is no doubt about it; the man is put together well. So very well. Perfectly proportioned, bold features: a high-bridged, straight nose, a precise jawline, and sculpted lips.

  That mouth. It’s the kind of mouth that makes you think about kissing. Lazy, languid, deep kissing. Frantic, tongue-fucking kissing.

  That mouth annoys the hell out of me; quirking like he’s on the verge of a smug smile, or about to say something snarky. Except for right now.

  Right now, his lips are pressed together so tightly, they nearly disappear. He glances my way, and our gazes clash. It is totally unnerving the way my heart kicks in response. And unwelcome. This guy is a jerk. I’m not supposed to get breathless when I look him in the freaking eyes.

  I can tell myself that it’s because Mannus has beautiful eyes. He does. Deep-set, shockingly sky blue eyes, surrounded by long, dark lashes. The color is so intense, it’s almost unworldly.

  But I’ve seen pretty eyes before.

  No, it’s something else. Something about the way he focuses on a person. The power behind his stare is immense. Given that, when he opens his mouth, it’s all smug teasing and easy charm, his direct, serious gaze doesn’t seem to fit.

  I look away first. He’s too pretty for my taste. I like quirky. Faces with strange lines. Glossy perfection doesn’t interest me. But I’ll have to find something in Finn Mannus’s face that tells a story.

  Or maybe I just go with focusing on the body.

  Wearing a white towel low around his trim hips, his skin slicked up baby oil to catch the light, most of that impressive body is on display.

  Mannus doesn’t have the super lean physique of a model. He is built in bold, tough lines. Somehow both cut but solid, defined in places, with big slabs of muscular bulk in others. At six foot four, he towers over both James and myself, his shoulders wide enough to blot out the sun.

  His pecs twitch as if wanting my attention. They have it. Unlike most models I work with, he has an intriguing smattering hair over his chest and abs. After seeing so many smooth chests in my profession, it feels almost illicit to look upon him, as if he’s somehow more undressed. My hands itch to glide over his torso to feel his textures.

  I give myself a mental slap. Objectivity is needed here. View him as art—just as you would any other client, you hussy.

  There’s a tattoo down his right side. But he’s facing me and the angle is wrong to fully view it. His right elbow is scraped and a few bruises pepper his forearm.

  He walks farther into the room with a stiff and halting gait. By the scowl on his face, I’m thinking this is due to him not wanting to be here rather than from pain. But who knows?

  Getting back to business, I outright study him, and his eyes narrow in irritation.

  “The hair is too tidy,” I tell James. “I can see the comb tracks in it. Can you fix that, please?”

  “The man attached to the hair can fix it himself,” Mannus says tightly.

  “I’m sure you can,” I tell him. “However, James is the stylist, so let’s let him do his job.”

  Mannus doesn’t look away from me. “You like busting balls in general, or just mine?”

  “Since you’re about to be standing balls out in front of me, I’d be careful, Mr. Mannus.”

  The corner of his mouth quirks, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. And, when he speaks, his voice is strained. “Thinking about them already, are we, Ms. Copper?”

  “Not really. I’ve seen three other sets today, so my mind is a bit full at the moment.”

  The smug expression falls from his face.

  At his side, James snickers. “I think she just said her mind is full of balls,” he says in a sotto whisper to Mannus. “Not that I blame her. Let’s get you ready and you can give her another eye-full, eh?”

  Mannus pales. “Alread
y?”

  He sounds surprised, which is odd, given that he’s wearing nothing more than a towel.

  “Er… That’s the idea.” James makes a move to muss Mannus’s honey brown locks, and the quarterback rears like a skittish horse. James freezes, glancing at me with wide, “what the fuck” eyes.

  I am thinking the same. “Do we have a problem, Mr. Mannus?”

  He flinches, his gaze snapping between me and James, and his jaw goes tighter.

  Anger swells hot in my chest. And when he doesn’t answer, I push harder. “Do you have an issue with James touching you?”

  As soon as I say it, I’m sorry. I never throw James under the bus. And it is absolute shitty of me to do it now. But, damn if this guy isn’t messing with my head.

  Mannus frowns so hard, his brows almost touch. “What? My masseuse touches me all the time and he’s a guy. Why the hell should I care as long as he does his job?” He glances at James. “Why is she asking me that?”

  James clearly fights a smile. “I’m thinking it’s because you’re flinching like you’re about to fly out of your skin.”

  Mannus’s cheeks flush. “What?”

  He looks so genuinely distracted and flustered, I pause and really study him. Sweat beads at his temples, and his pulse beats a fast tattoo at the base of his strong throat. Hands low on his slim hips, his knuckles are white along the edges where he’s digging his fingers into the towel.

  My heart gives a guilty lurch and then promptly goes soft along its hardened walls. He might have been an asshole with that One-Eyed Willie comment earlier, but he’s still my client, and I’m not doing my job well if he’s this unsettled.

  I catch James’s eye. “Can you get me a coffee?” I don’t need one; it’s our agreed upon signal for James to clear out whenever we’re dealing with a panicky client.

  “Sure,” he says, easily. “You want anything, Mr. Mannus?”

  Finn shakes his head once. “No, thanks.”

  “Help me out, will you, Maeve?” James says. Maeve knows the drill as well, and they both quietly leave.

  Alone with Finn, the studio space becomes unnaturally quiet, and I can hear the conversations ebbing and flowing in the kitchen. I need to put the client at ease. Usually, I can do this without any problem. But that hasn’t been the case here. Finn Mannus is surprisingly hard to read.

  Setting my camera down, I move to the iPad that has my music setup.

  Finn watches me with a guarded expression. “Please, not the music. I will lose it if you expect me to go all Zoolander.”

  He sounds weary to the core, and I give him a small smile. “I’m not expecting Blue Steel from you, don’t worry. And no fast beats, I promise.” I glance toward the kitchen and then incline my head as if I’m confessing a secret. “It’s just, I have a headache.” Which is true; it’s been building all day and is finally here to fuck with me. “Playing some low, easy music helps to drown out all the background noise.”

  Also true. But it will hopefully relax Finn as well. I select a slow song by Lana Del Ray.

  The hard set of those broad shoulders eases a touch, and he nods shortly. “Half my life is fighting headaches. You have my full sympathy.”

  Looking at Mannus, it’s easy to forget that he’s more than a pretty face, that he uses his body as a tool, battering it and stretching it to the limit for a living. I wouldn’t be able to handle that kind of pain. But he does. They all do. It’s that strength and vulnerability that I want to capture.

  He turns more my way. “Is it bad? I have some ibuprofen in my bag.”

  Of course he does. I don’t know how to deal with nice Finn. But I try. “I took something before you came in. But thanks.”

  He nods again, still uneasy, but focused on me, at least. “Should we reschedule this?”

  So hopeful.

  It’s like kicking a puppy to have to say no. “I think it would be best for both of us if we just get through this, don’t you?”

  His deep blue gaze darts over my face, every muscle in his body going so tense, they stand out in perfect, glorious relief. Then he sighs and his hard stance sags in defeat. “Yeah. It would.”

  But he doesn’t move.

  “You can keep the towel on,” I say in the awkward silence. “We can do a torso shot.”

  That gets his attention. His brows snap together, and I’m treated to a focus that is laser sharp. This guy, I can see leading a team down field. This guy is intimidating without even trying. “It isn’t that,” he says, deeper now. More in charge.

  “Look, I know we got off on a bad foot, but—”

  “I hate photoshoots,” he cuts, color flooding the high crests of his cheeks. “All right? I don’t know why. I just do. I know it’s a part of my job, but it never gets easier. There’s something about them that makes me feel…” His shoulders lift in a helpless gesture.

  But his gaze is defiant, as if daring me to tease. Okay, I guess I earned that. I haven’t hidden my disdain very well. But that’s not what I’m feeling now. “I hate having my picture taken too,” I tell him truthfully.

  His quirks a brow at me, and I lift my camera with a faint smile. “Why do you think I’m on the other side of this thing?”

  “Wanna trade places,” he asks with a little brow waggle.

  I am not going to find that cute. No way. I have to focus. “I’m fairly certain sure no one is going to mistake me for you.”

  A slow smile lifts the corner of his mouth and those pretty eyes warm. “Absolutely no possibility of that, Chester.”

  And there’s the flirt I knew was lurking below the surface. My stomach flutters, and I kind of want to kick myself.

  He runs his hand over his face so hard that I can hear the scratch of his palm over his stubble. “Fuck it. Let’s do this.”

  “Excellent. Do you want to wait for James to get back? Or start now?”

  I’m guessing the latter. And he doesn’t disappoint.

  “No, I’m good.” He clears his throat. Almost as if he’s moving in slow motion, his hand goes to the knot of the towel and tugs.

  And even though I’ve put on music, I swear it’s so silent just then that I hear that towel slither to the floor.

  Jesus.

  Like that, my heart pounds against my tight ribs, and I want to sit down, find my breath, because it has fled. Heat swamps between my legs and down the backs of my thighs.

  Professional. You are a pro-freaking-fessional.

  The voice in my head is tiny and faint, drowned out by the rushing in my ears.

  Mouth dry, I stare at the man before me, our eyes locked, the silence so thick I can taste it on my tongue. I see the whole of him, utterly exposed, vulnerable yet so powerful that I can’t think straight.

  His skin is smooth and golden, but holds a tinge of rose to it, like a man who’s been out in the sun a bit too long, or one who might be blushing.

  He’s the third nude man I’ve seen today, and yet I’m the one who feels like blushing just now, as if he’s the first naked man I’ve ever seen.

  There’s just so much of him.

  Sculpted chest, strong thighs, tight calves, and elegant feet; I take all of it in with a glance. But that’s not where I really want to look. Unable to help myself, my gaze glides down.

  I’ve been trained not to stare at a man’s penis while working. It’s rude, objectifying, unprofessional.

  And here I am, staring.

  My cheeks burn, my heart thumping out of control. I grip my camera tighter than necessary.

  He’s beautiful. From a nicely trimmed nest of dark brown hair, his penis hangs thick, long, and dusky rose, over a pair of weighty balls.

  And that’s enough, missy. No more gawking.

  I take a deep breath, look away from the illicit view before I start imagining his cock getting thicker, harder, plumping up with heat and want…

  A shiver goes over my skin, and I meet Finn’s eyes. Guilt swamps me, because he doesn’t seem to have noticed I’ve been pe
rving on him. He’s expression is intense, but pained.

  “Talk to me.” It’s almost a whisper, husky and desperate.

  It does things to my insides. Swoony, throbby inconvenient things. I stare at him, my limbs unmoving and heavy, my stomach clenched with anticipation and indecision. He needs distraction, and I can’t think of a thing to say. His eyes widen, a plea. I swallow hard.

  “What’s your best football moment?” I ask. It’s a standard question. Get the client to talk about what they love. But I truly want to hear his answer.

  He takes a breath, and his gaze turns inward. “Freshman year of high school I made the varsity team. It was just after our first practice.”

  I take a picture. But he doesn’t seem to notice that. He’s not looking at the camera, but past it, as if he sees only me.

  “Coach had us doing ladder sprints over and over. I was exhausted. My legs felt like jelly. My thighs burned like hell fire.”

  His thighs—those massive, beautifully muscled thighs—clench as if remembering that pain.

  “So there I was,” he goes on in a soft, fond voice, “limping off the field with my teammates, the sun so low it lined the tree tops. And I just kind of stopped there at the edge of the field, listening to the guys joke and laugh, and I got this feeling.” He pauses and smiles. “That this was it, you know? I knew right there and then that football was where I belonged. It just clicked.”

  He stands in the light, his feet planted wide, utterly naked. He should look ridiculous. But he doesn’t. He looks like a warrior, a man completely at home with his body.

  “And here you are,” I rasp before clearing my throat. “You’ve attained the highest possible position in football.”

  A slow smile unfurls. “Yes, I have.”

  Pride fills his voice, makes it stronger. But there is also joy. I feel it reverberate in my heart. “That moment,” I tell him. “Is what I want to capture.”

  He blinks, his body twitching. And then he’s somehow standing taller. “You want the joy?”

  I take another shot, not breaking eye contact with him. “I want you to remember that joy. It will shine through.” Another shot. “Despite what you may think, that is what people respond to. That gorgeous body of yours is an expression of what you do, who you are.”