Slashed

by Tracy Wolff

  “A photo shoot? Like a model?” Those are pretty much the last two words I ever expected to hear come out of Cam’s mouth. Not because she isn’t gorgeous enough to be a model but because she’s Cam, and she’s just not that girl. Still, a picture of her flashes into my mind—Cam in skimpy little panties and a push-up bra, with thigh-highs on her mile-long legs.

  Okay, yes, I know I’m a total dog and that not every photo shoot is for a Victoria’s Secret catalog, and still I can’t help thinking about her like that. Can’t help thinking about what she would look like dressed in some sheer little nightie as she wrapped her legs around my waist and let me—

  “You don’t have to look so shocked, you know.” The sheepishness is gone, but it’s been replaced by annoyance. “I’m not that ugly, am I?”

  “Of course not! You’re beautiful. Gorgeous. It’s just—” I break off, try to find the right thing to say. Since I’m pretty sure my detailed fantasies about her in a pair of thigh-highs don’t fit that bill—no matter how hot those fantasies are—it takes me a few seconds to come up with something reasonable. “It just never seemed like your vibe, you know?” I finally say. “But I’m sure you’ll rock it. You’re amazing and—”

  She rolls her eyes.

  “No need to go overboard, dude. It just makes you sound more insincere.”

  “But I’m not being insincere. I totally mean it. You’re going to barge the shoot, no doubt.”

  I use my conditioner-free hand to guide her out of the spray and turn her around so she’s facing away from me. Then I rub my hands together until they’re both coated with the stuff and draw them gently through her crazy red curls.

  She stays stiff for a couple seconds, then relaxes with a long, low moan. Her head drops back on her shoulders, rests against my chest, and I know I’ve got her. I know she’s mine, for at least as long as it takes me to finish washing her hair.

  I take my time, massaging her scalp, working the conditioner through every strand of her hair from roots to ends. But I know she’s in a hurry, so I skip the shoulder and back massage I want to give her and reach for the handheld showerhead instead. Making sure the water’s finally warm, I squirt the water over her hair, taking care not to get any in her eyes as I wash the conditioner out.

  “God, that feels good,” she tells me as she sags against me. “And if I didn’t have to be at the shoot in an hour, I would totally talk you into joining me in here.”

  Since just the thought gets me hard—a condition that’s getting to be a 24/7 thing when she’s around—I hang the showerhead back up, and then step away from the shower. It’s not that I don’t trust myself or the decision I made earlier—but I totally don’t trust myself. Especially not when the girl of my dreams is wet and naked and interested in me being the same.

  I grab a towel out of the linen closet, then ask, “So, who’s the shoot for?” as I wait for her to rinse off a final time.

  “American Snowboarder.”

  She turns the shower off, reaches for the towel.

  “Wow. Seriously?” I whistle, long and low, even as I gesture for her to step out of the shower. When she does, I wrap the towel around her and begin rubbing her dry. “Why didn’t you tell us? That’s incredible!”

  American Snowboarder is one of the most prestigious snowboarding magazines in the country—in the world, really—and they only ever put top talent on their cover. Z’s been on it three times, Ash twice. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to us that they’d want Cam, too. She’s the best female snowboarder in North America right now. It’s shocking more magazines haven’t come calling. Then again, maybe they have and she just hasn’t told us.

  The thought doesn’t sit well with me. I don’t like not being in the loop when it comes to her. Not at all.

  “I don’t know. I guess I just figured, in case it doesn’t go well, the less people who know, the better.” She grins up at me. “You know, my hair pretty much needs its own zip code on the best of days. It definitely needs its own towel.”

  “Oh, right.” I grab her one, then hand it to her and watch as she wraps it around her head, turban style. You know you’ve got it bad when just the act of watching a woman wrap her hair in a towel makes you want to fuck her. In my defense, pretty much everything Cam does makes me want to fuck her—with the exception of when she moons over Z.

  “Why wouldn’t the shoot go well?” I demand, forcing myself to focus on the topic at hand and not how hard my dick is.

  “So many reasons.”

  She walks into the bedroom, pulls open the drawer where I keep my sweats. She grabs one of my oldest pairs—I assume because it has a drawstring at the waist she can tie and hopefully keep them from falling off—then opens the next drawer and pulls out a Board Park City T-shirt.

  “These okay for me to borrow?” she asks.

  “I already told you you can take whatever you want.”

  She nods her thanks, then pulls the sweats on, commando style. Considering she doesn’t even flinch at the idea of it, I can’t help wondering how often she goes without underwear. How many times has she been standing next to me with nothing on under her pants or skirt?

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. I’m going to drive myself crazy if I don’t stop thinking about her and how easy it would be to pull those sweats down and shove myself inside her. And if I can’t look away from those long, long, long legs of hers, it’s nobody’s business but mine.

  “You don’t have any reason to be worried,” I say, shoving my hands in my jeans pockets in a last ditch effort to keep from touching her. “You’re going to smash it.”

  “I know.”

  Still, she doesn’t look up from where she’s fumbling with the drawstring on the sweats, a surefire tell that there’s more going on here than she wants me to know—which, of course, only makes me more determined to figure this shit out.

  I wait for her to finish, then grab hold of her shoulders as soon as she reaches for her purse.

  “Hey,” I tell her, as I tilt her face up to mine. “I know things have been kind of fucked up between us lately, but that doesn’t mean you can’t talk to me.”

  “Considering all the things we’ve spent the last twelve hours doing, I think I’m pretty clear on that,” she says with a smirk. “But there’s nothing to talk about. It’s all good.”

  It’s pretty much the worst affirmation in history considering she still won’t even fucking look at me. I want to push it, want to push her. There used to be a time when she told me everything—but that time is obviously long gone. And judging from the look on her face and the set on her shoulders, if I push too hard she’s going to shut down completely.

  Still, I’m not going to stand here and let her lie to me either. I’m so done with that shit. From both of us.

  “If it’s all good, why do you look like you’re going to puke any second?”

  “I don’t.”

  “You do.”

  She glares at me, tries to shrug my hands off her shoulders. I just raise a brow and keep my hands exactly where they are.

  It doesn’t take long for her to figure out that I’m not going to budge. She drops the glare with a sigh, then leans forward and presses her face into my chest.

  “It’s nothing,” she tells me, her words muffled against my shirt. “I’m just nervous. This isn’t exactly my thing, you know?”

  I do know, but it’s not like I’m going to tell her that. “You’ve got this,” I say as I stroke a hand down her back. I can feel the bumps of her spine beneath my hand and it surprises me how fragile she feels against me. She’s so strong, so larger than life, that I forget sometimes that she’s delicate, too. That, in her own way, Cam is as breakable as I am. “You’re going to barge that photo shoot.”

  She laughs a little shakily. “I guess we’ll see, won’t we? If you don’t hear from me in a few hours, assume I screwed it all up and am relocating to somewhere they’ve never even heard of snowboarding in an effort to bury my humiliation.”

&nbs
p; “So, the wilds of the Congo, then?”

  “You laugh, but that just might be far enough. Maybe.” She shudders.

  Shit. She’s really nervous. I think of everything I have to do today, then ask, “you want me to come with you?”

  “You don’t have to do that, Luc.”

  “I know I don’t have to. And I don’t want you to feel like you have to say yes, but if you want me to be there, I’ll totally come.”

  She lifts her head then, and looks at me. Really looks at me. I keep my eyes steady on hers, and hope I’m not revealing too much.

  “Don’t you have something else to do today?”

  About a million things, but none of them are as important as being there for Cam if she needs me. “Not a thing,” I lie blithely even as I mentally rearrange my day.

  Her smile, when it comes, is more than worth the hassle.

  “Then I would love it if you would come.”

  “Okay, then. Give me two minutes to get dressed and we’ll be out of here.”

  “I do have one more request,” she tells me as I pull my SUV into traffic ten minutes later.

  “Sure. What is it?”

  “When we get to Salt Lake City, can we please stop at Target and get me some underwear? Going commando’s not really my thing.”

  Chapter 7

  Cam

  “So, what are you going to do about snowboarding clothes?” Luc asks as we get close to the address our agent, Mitch, gave me for the shoot. “Since we didn’t go back to your place, do you want me to run to REI and pick you something up?”

  “They told me they’d have everything there—I mean, except underwear, obviously,” I say, holding up the Target bag I’m clutching like a lifeline. I really hope I don’t sound as nervous—and as nauseated—as I feel. “I just need to show up by ten o’clock.”

  “Looks like you’re right on time.” He shoots me a grin as he makes one final turn and then we’re cruising up a long, winding driveway that ends in front of a huge, elegant house that would definitely give Z’s a run for its money.

  “Are we sure this is the right address?” I ask, glancing at my phone, and the address in my text messages, for what has to be the millionth time since we left Park City. “I thought I’d be at a photography studio or something.”

  “I think they change it up for everyone,” he tells me with a reassuring smile. “Z did one shoot at a resort in Aspen, then another at his house in Park City. And Ash did his in L.A., I think.”

  “Oh, right.”

  You’d think the fact that two of my best friends have already been on American Snowboarder covers would have made me less nervous—instead, it just makes me freak out a little more. Z and Ash are totally hot—not to mention the most amazing snowboarders I’ve ever seen. I mean, I know I’m good on a snowboard, especially for a girl, but still, I’m not in their class. And I’m definitely nowhere near as good-looking as they are. Girls swoon whenever Luc, Ash, and Z show up anywhere. As for me…well, no one’s ever swooned when they see me. I’m just one of the guys. Always have been, always will be.

  Except I wasn’t one of the guys last night, a little voice whispers in the back of my head as Luc pulls his Range Rover to a stop at the top of the driveway. Last night, Luc treated me like a girl—and not just any girl, but a girl that he totally desired. A girl that totally made him hot.

  I still can’t believe it.

  The first time we slept together everything went to hell. I admit that was mostly my fault, since I’m the one who freaked out about it. But that was because I was still in love with Z at the time, still determined that one day he would wake up and really see me. I gave that hope up a while ago, not long after Ophelia showed up on the scene, and somehow that makes this thing with Luc—whatever it is—a lot easier to handle. I know we’re going to have to talk about it at some point, but I’m in no hurry. Not when things seem to be going okay between us for the first time in a really long time. And if it’s the calm before the storm…I’ll deal with it. After the photo shoot is over.

  Until then, I’m putting it on the back burner. And ignoring the little voice in my head that keeps reminding me that he turned me down when I tried to start something this morning. If I let myself think about that—and worrying about whether he was telling the truth about not having condoms—I’ll end up losing my mind. And since I’m already skating close to that edge, I figure avoidance is totally a valid choice.

  “You okay?” Luc asks, and that’s when I realize I’ve just been sitting here in a parked car, not moving, for God only knows how long.

  “Yeah, of course. Absolutely.”

  “You’ve got this,” he tells me for the second time and his confidence warms me, despite my fears. Because even if I don’t actually have this, for the first time in a long time, Luc has me. And that makes all the difference.

  At least until we get to the house and the front door flies open and a harried-looking woman beckons us inside.

  “I’m so glad you’re here! Mac’s been looking for you!”

  “Mac?” I ask, trying to remember the emails Mitch sent me. Did they mention a Mac?

  “Mac Davis.” She looks at me expectantly but I have no idea who that is. A quick glance at Luc tells me he’s as clueless as I am, so I just smile at her and hope for the best.

  “The photographer?” She’s speaking slowly now, like I’m an idiot. “He shoots a lot of the Vanity Fair and Rolling Stone covers. Plus the SI swimsuit issue.”

  “Oh, wow. That’s—great?”

  “It’s better than great.” She ushers us through the huge foyer and down the hall. “We’ve been after him to shoot a cover for us for ages, but he was never interested. At least not until we told him we wanted you for a cover. Then he couldn’t say yes fast enough.” She winks at me. “You should be flattered.”

  I nod, smiling weakly because I don’t know what else to do.

  “Now,” she continues, as she leads me into a room with two couches, a bunch of standing mirrors, and a few comfortable-looking chairs. There’s a huge rack of clothes lining one wall, and a spinny chair next to one of the mirrors in the corner, like the kind you find at salons.

  I guess Luc is wrong about them changing up locations for each shoot. Z and Ash may have filmed other places, but that must be because of who they are. This place definitely looks like it’s home base for a bunch of shoots.

  “Can I get you some coffee or tea? I can send someone to Starbucks to get whatever you want.” She looks at Luc. “And you too, of course.”

  “Oh, that’s not necessary. I don’t want to bother anyone.”

  “It’s not a bother.” She gives me another strange look. “It’s our job to make you comfortable.”

  I nearly laugh. Yeah, like that’s going to be possible. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so uncomfortable in my life.

  “Actually, I think we’re good with water, if you’ve got it.”

  “Of course. Bottled, filtered, sparkling, or flavored? I believe we have lemon, lime, and orange.”

  “Umm, filtered, I guess? Or bottled. Whatever’s easiest.”

  I look at Luc for confirmation. He just nods. The woman pulls her phone out of a pocket and texts our order to someone.

  “And for lunch?”

  “Lunch?”

  “Where would you like us to order your lunch from? We can get you anything you want.”

  “Oh.” I’m getting frazzled now, though I try not to show it. I guess I thought I’d show up, they’d do my hair and makeup, take a few pictures and I’d be on my way. But lunch makes it sound like we’re going to be here for a while. Which is fine, but now I’m so nervous I can’t imagine actually being able to eat anything.

  Luc must sense my unease because he steps in with a hand on my back and a killer smile for the woman. “You want a burrito?” he asks me. “Or a burger?”

  The woman looks scandalized at his choice of food. I guess she doesn’t know just how many calories I expend on a dail
y basis—even when I’m not boarding, I’m training pretty hard, lifting serious weight and doing a lot of cardio. Still, I figure there’s no reason to send her into a tizzy, so I say, “A salad would be good. With chicken, if possible. And maybe some fruit?”

  It’s Luc’s turn to give me a strange look. But the woman seems happy, so I just send him a subtle shrug. Besides, it’s not like I’m working out today anyway.

  “And for you?” she turns to Luc.

  “I’m good with a burger and fries.”

  “Beef, turkey, or veggie?”

  “Definitely beef.”

  “Sweet potato or regular fries?”

  Luc grins engagingly. “Surprise me.”

  She looks less than impressed when she turns back to me.

  “What about music?”

  Okay, now I’m truly baffled.

  “What about it?”

  “Do you have a playlist you’d like us to put on while you’re getting ready?”

  “Umm, not really? I’m sure anything you’ve got will be fine.”

  “Well, aren’t you charming? And so easy to please.” Something about the way she says it makes me think it’s not a compliment.

  Luc must agree because he says, “I’m sure she could be more difficult, if you’d like.”

  The woman isn’t fazed, though. She just looks at him and says, “Whatever makes her happy. I’m Darla, by the way, and I’ll be around all day, checking on you. If you need something, tell any of the crew and they’ll find me. In the meantime, have a seat and Charlene will be with you in a minute.”

  “Charlene?”

  “She’s your stylist. She’ll help you pick out some clothes for the cover.” She gestures to the rack of clothing running the length of the back wall on her way out of the room.

  For long seconds I just stand in the middle of the room, a little shell-shocked and confused.

  “Luc?”

  “Yeah, baby?”

  “There are no snowboarding clothes on that rack.”

  “Yeah. I noticed that.”

  He wraps an arm around my shoulder and pulls me into his body. For a moment I’m so overwhelmed by the closeness of him—by how hot he is and how good he smells—that I forget how absolutely freaked out I am. But then I make the mistake of turning to look at the rack again and all my anxiety comes back threefold.