I suppress the internal sigh, realizing she’s going to be one of those types, and greet her with a professional smile.
Suck it up, Vanessa, she could be the next Alexa Chung.
“I’m soo sorry I’m late,” she gushes in that bubbly Californian voice. “This city is crazy busy. Chloe actually wanted to take the subway here, can you believe it? Eww!”
She turns to the friend on her left with a frown of disapproval. Chloe looks appropriately abashed. Kaylee looks back at me with a smile of incredulity. “I mean, did you ever see Carrie Bradshaw taking the subway? Did you ever see Blair Waldorf taking the subway? I don’t think so. I want to be a real New Yorker, just like on TV.”
If Kaylee Charleston is the next It Girl, kill me now.
“Why don’t we get started?” I suggest.
“Yes!” she says, clasping her hands together with excitement. She looks over at her other friend, who pulls out her phone, pointing it our way. “I hope you don’t mind Liz recording this, it’s kind of a behind the scenes thing for my Instagram stories.”
I’m not enthused about being part of the experience in that way, but I’m certainly not going to risk losing a job over it, so I shrug and smile.
“Great! So, as I said during our phone call, I want this to be my homage to New York, my new home.”
“Sounds perfect,” I say perfunctorily.
“Do you think this outfit is typical New York?” she asks, suddenly worried as she pulls out the sides of her yellow, off the shoulder dress.
“Well, New York is a city of millions. There’s no one real style.”
“But I don’t want to look like just any old New Yorker off the street, or worse a tourist,” she says, now laying that frown of disapproval on me as though I don’t get it.
My smile tightens. “It’s important to have your own style, Kaylee. Don’t follow the crowd, just…be yourself.” Hopefully, it doesn’t sound too patronizing.
Her lips purse as she tilts her head to consider that.
“Hmm, you have a point. It could be like California meets New York!” she says excitedly, as though she’s just discovered the cure for cancer. “What do you think, guys?”
“Perfect!”
“Absolutely!”
God, they really are minions.
“Sounds good,” I say brightly. “So, I think the Oculus here at the PATH station is a good place to start. It’s visually—”
“Oh, no,” she interjects. “I want to start with the fountains outside.”
I blink in surprise. “The 9/11 Memorial? Isn’t that a bit…somber for a fashion shoot?”
“I want to be taken seriously as an influencer.”
“As a fashion influencer,” I remind her.
“Who lives in New York,” she says condescendingly. “I think it would be the perfect backdrop to announce my professional arrival in the city.”
No way am I wasting my photographic skills on this silly little girl, prancing around the memorial with faux solemnity. I’m not a native New Yorker, but I’ve lived here long enough to know people who were living here, some even working downtown at the time, to be appalled at the idea.
On the other hand, there is my rent to think about.
“You know, there’s a time and a place for that kind of shoot. Usually, people wait until closer to the date of the anniversary. It’s April, I think a spring shoot would be more in order, don’t you?”
She’s pouting now. “Yes, but it’s my shoot, and I get to say—”
“No real New York blogger would do it,” I quickly interject with the first excuse that comes to mind.
That’s enough to give her pause.
“I have an idea. Bowling Green isn’t too far from here. This time of year there are lots of flowers. It’s gorgeous and a perfect spot to shoot.”
“Isn’t that where that massacre took place?” she asks suspiciously.
I blink in surprise yet again, until I realize what she’s referring to. “That never happened. And it was in reference to another Bowling Green, not this one.”
“Are you sure because I heard about it on—”
“It never happened here,” I say dryly. Please, can this session get started and done with.
“Well…I suppose,” she says slowly, then nods firmly. “Yes, it’s a good idea. Flowers. Of course! It’s so obvious!”
“Brilliant idea, Kaylee,” Chloe says.
“Yeah, your dress is perfect for it,” the other one adds.
“It is, isn’t it?” Kaylee replies, smiling mostly to herself.
“Well, we should get going while the light is still in our favor,” I urge.
I lead the way out of the station, lugging my camera bag with me. Kaylee hurries to catch up with me, entangling her arm in mine as though we’re bosom buddies. Her friends are not far behind her, Liz still with the cameraphone recording.
“So, I saw on your website that you were the photographer from that Sexton party. What was it like? Is he as sexy in person as he is on TV? Was Ginny Lawson really—”
“I can’t talk about it,” I say tersely, disentangling my arm from hers.
“But you were the only photographer, right? It’s the main reason I hired you after all.”
No point in lying about it. “Yes, I was the main photographer for the Sexton Spring Fling.”
Kaylee smiles with satisfaction. “I thought so, even though you deleted it from your client list page on your website. Was it because of the thing with Ginny Lawson?”
This is beginning to sound a little too much like the third degree.
“You want the truth? Okay, fine,” I begin before realizing Liz is still recording. Good grief, I swear everything these days has to be documented for public consumption. I give both her and the phone a hard look. “Camera off.”
She frowns and looks to Kaylee for approval before hitting the button to stop recording and lowering it.
“Kaylee,” I say, somehow finding enough patience in me to say it sweetly, “would you really want me blabbing about you to other people I photograph?”
“No, but that’s different. Ginny is famous.”
“And one day you may be as well.” The thought has me suddenly sympathetic toward her. I imagine a world where she isn’t surrounded by the yes-girls and coddling parents she’s no doubt become accustomed to. A world of bona fide mean girls tearing her apart online like vultures picking at the last bit of flesh left on the bones of her ego. A world where she wonders if the fame and admiration are worth it after all.
A world I’m quite familiar with.
But Kaylee’s face just brightens at the prospect. “Do you think so? Like, as famous as Kendall Jenner?”
“Who knows?” I say. I can almost feel the pity in my smile. “But, again, would you want me divulging everything to other people?”
She straightens up with indignation, but I can read on her face that she’s going to drop the topic.
“If you want to cancel this session, just let me know. Minus the appearance fee, of course,” I add.
Please don’t.
God, I hate myself.
“I suppose not,” she says with a heavy sigh, making sure to let me know how disappointed she is.
An hour later, we finally finish. The shoot was good. Once I’m behind the camera, I shine. Let the Kaylees of the world deal with the other side of the lens, collecting ‘likes,’ and hearts, and heart-eyed emojis, and tallying up followers. Or face the opposite, as I’ve seen happen all too often.
Once I’ve seen the trio off, I pull out my phone, which I’ve turned off for the shoot. I turn it on again and see there’s another message from Dylan Sexton.
“I should have known you’d be the play hard to get type. Aren’t you at least curious? What if I threw in dinner? No strings attached, just hear me out. Trust me, it’ll be worth it.”
I delete the message and sigh. I may sell my soul to the Kaylees of the world, but my morals haven’t sunk low enough to ent
ertain any offers from someone as abhorrent as Dylan Sexton.
Chapter Ten
Vanessa
“Excuse me miss, would you mind taking a quick photo of me?”
I’ve just stepped outside of my apartment to head to the store. As a New Yorker, I’ve been randomly called upon to snap a photo of a tourist here and there, a request I always happily oblige. But who the hell wants a photo taken of them on this residential street in the middle of East Flatbush in Brooklyn?
My expression must convey as much because as soon as I turn, the man who asked, obviously masking his real voice, begins to laugh.
Dylan Sexton.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask in surprise, for some reason looking up and down the street, hoping no one notices us. He’s relatively well disguised in a baseball cap and sunglasses, so even if anyone was looking, it’s unlikely they’d recognize him unless they were looking closely. It even took me a moment to see past the flimsy facade. I can almost sense the gleam in his green eyes hidden by those dark frames. The cocky grin almost brings a smile to my own face…before I realize who he is and what he’s done.
The tiny scar on his chin, which I only noticed that first night in the elevator is the final give away. I wonder why it doesn’t show up in photos of him. It gives his handsome face a ruggedly flawed allure that transforms the attraction from hot to wickedly hot.
Even in disguise, he’s still a magnetic presence. At 5’7”, I’m hardly petite, but he’s still well over six feet, and the black bomber jacket does nothing but outline the hard muscles of his shoulders and arms.
“Well, you won’t answer or return my phone calls, so I thought I’d show up in person.”
“How did you find out where I live?” I ask, before realizing how stupid the question is.
“I am the man who signs the checks,” he says, then tilts his head to the side. “Well, not literally, but I do have a say in how much someone gets. For example, how does one hundred thousand dollars sound?”
“I would ask what’s involved, but I’m afraid you might actually tell me,” I say as I turn to continue on to the store. I sense him following me. I’m not entirely displeased with it, but make sure to hide the hint of a smile when he finally catches up to me.
“I do love a woman who keeps her head firmly in the gutter.”
This stops me, and I spin on him, now with his shades off. “God, do you ever turn off?”
“Never,” he responds as he tucks his glasses in the front of his shirt. There’s a joking undertone to his voice as he says it, but something in his eyes attaches a deeper, more serious meaning to his response. It’s the same look I saw back at the party when he suggested something “longterm.”
I sigh and look off to the side. Curiosity has me standing in place, my animosity toward him has me making him work for it.
“So, what is involved?”
“How about we talk about it over dinner?”
“No.”
“Drinks?” he presses, tilting his head over to try and catch my eye.
I don’t respond to that, nor will I afford him the honor of looking at him.
He keeps at it. “Street tacos? Bodega sandwiches? Food cart gyros? Corner store candy?”
I feel the smile itching to come to my face. I tighten my lips to keep it from showing up. “I’m headed to the grocery store. You have until then to make your pitch. No dinner. No drinks. Just this ten-minute walk.”
I turn and continue down the block before he has a chance to try and talk me into something else. Or maybe talk some sense into me. One hundred thousand dollars is nothing to scoff at. I should be groveling in acceptance, blindly jumping on board for whatever it is he’s offering. But what he did to Ginny was beyond the pale, and to make matters worse, he tainted my good name as he did it.
Dylan just nods and walks with me. “I can work with that. I haven’t had to make the elevator sales pitch in a while, but I think I’ll manage.”
“You’ve already wasted thirty seconds,” I point out, walking faster.
With his longer legs, he doesn’t even need to work to keep up with me. “Listen, I know you despise me because you think I did a despicable thing to Ginny Lawson.”
“I know you did a despicable thing to her.”
“Fair enough. I won’t try to convince you otherwise on that particular issue. But I do at least get to make it up to you? You shouldn’t have to suffer because of something I did.”
I feel my jaw tighten at that, and I stop and turn to face him. “Whatever it is you’re about to propose, let me make one thing clear, I don’t want your pity.”
“How about an apology?”
“It isn’t just me you owe an apology to.”
“All the same, I’m sorry,” Dylan says. When I don’t give him a response, he continues on. “Mea culpa. Lo siento. I beg thee for thy forgiveness.”
I suck in my lips to avoid smiling. How the hell does he so easily bring it about in me, despite my contempt for the man?
“Eight more minutes,” I point out.
“Okay,” He says, then makes a show of taking a deep breath before diving into his spiel. “I need you. Basically, I have to clean up my image.”
I cough out a laugh. “No kidding.”
He chuckles before continuing on. “I want you to help with that.”
“That sounds daunting,” I say, continuing on with my walk.
“I need a more ‘family-friendly’ public facade. The notorious Dylan Sexton is finally settling down. I’m going to need someone to document it all, starting with a well-publicized photo shoot. I want you to be the photographer.”
That’s enough to get me to stop and face him. “The fact that you call it a facade means that this is nothing more than you pulling another publicity stunt.”
“Of course it is!” he laughs. “Everything about me is a show, perfectly branded, because that’s what the public demands. Which, by the way, makes me no different than any other celebrity. I, for one, have long since accepted it, and I can’t say I haven’t been enjoying it. It’s been quite fun being Dylan Sexton, the face of Sexton Enterprises.”
“Have you ever even tried just being yourself?”
“Oh come on, Vanessa, I know you aren’t that naïve,” he chides. “No one wants the ‘real’ me. Only idealists think being yourself actually works. ‘Just be yourself, and you’ll get that girl.’ ‘Just be yourself, and you’ll nail that interview.’ Maybe that works in movies, but not in real life. In real life, it’s the guy who fronts that gets the girl. In real life, it’s the guy who fudges his resume that gets the job.”
“And how long would either of those relationships last?” I reply. “Eventually, you’ll be found out, and then what?”
“Then you work on a new act. Which is exactly what I’m doing.” He shoots me a self-satisfied smile as though he’s made his case perfectly.
“And you want me to play into this little act you’re putting on for the public?”
“Yes, it’s a couple’s shoot with…a woman, documenting my newfound longterm relationship status.”
Something in my stomach drops. Dylan, with another woman? In a “longterm relationship?” I’m surprised at how…hurt? Disappointed? Jealous I am? Either way, it’s something I most certainly shouldn’t be feeling, especially considering my views regarding the man. Even though it will obviously be a fake relationship, I can’t help but feel like it’s a slap in the face to be chosen as nothing more than the photographer for the whole act.
Then again, there’s no reason on Earth he should even consider me for the role of fake girlfriend. Even if I wasn’t a nobody as far as the public is concerned, I don’t think I could maintain the facade of being in love with the man. No matter how good-looking, or charming, or humorous, or…
“What is it that you want out of your career?” Dylan asks, misinterpreting my simmering silence. His smile has disappeared, and his eyes bore into me with authentic interest. “Serio
usly.”
“Seriously? I want to be a photojournalist, documenting real people in real life. Kind of like the stuff you’d see in Life Magazine.”
“Life Magazine went out of circulation almost two decades ago.”
I close my eyes and exhale in exasperation, then turn around and continue walking. “That’s not the point.”
“Don’t hate the messenger, Vanessa,” he says, laughing as he catches up with me. “It just proves my point. No one wants reality. Scandal sells. Sex sells. Drama sells.”
I hate it that Dylan’s right. Everything but the truth sells. Unless that truth is something scandalous, sexy, or filled with drama.
“Those pictures you take for bloggers and Instagrammers, that sells because social media is one big lie.”
I stop and turn to look at him in surprise. “You’ve seen my photos?”
“Of course I have,” he says in complete earnestness. “I didn’t just pick you because I wanted to make it up to you. I picked you because you’re good at what you do.”
I feel my face get warm with that bit of honest flattery. Even the smile that creeps to his face when he realizes he’s finally managed to hook me doesn’t bother me. Still, I plan on making him work for it to actually reel me in.
“One week. One hundred thousand dollars. A spread in Ideal Gentlemen magazine with your name right there in the credits. Don’t tell me that alone isn’t tempting. You could go anywhere you wanted with that in your portfolio.”
Oh, God, but it’s tempting. I should be champing at the bit for this opportunity. Then, I think about Ginny Lawson. Working for a man who did what he did would violate the one tenet I hold dear: no cyberbullying of any form. Granted, he didn’t actually bully the poor woman, but he is certainly responsible for opening the door to it. Social media hasn’t been especially kind to her in the aftermath.
I tell myself that this is the only reason. However, I know part of it is being sidelined in favor of some gorgeous starlet or model, who’s already an expert at putting on an act. Though, it shouldn’t be too hard with someone like Dylan Sexton.
Dylan: Ex-Bad Boy: An Ex-Club Romance Page 5