by Vic Tyler
I had just started putting the tarp together to form some makeshift pool when Benji came back and barked at least ten more orders that he expected done on the spot.
For the rest of the day, there wasn’t a single minute I wasn’t on my feet. Whether it was holding up a reflector or changing the lights or bringing a different lens — no, the other one — to Benji or even picking up supplies he casually flung in my general direction.
He was harsh when he was instructing and even harsher when he reprimanded. When it came to working with Benji, I quickly found out that no news was indeed good news — his preferred choice of showing approval was to ignore me.
Although I admit I might have incurred this next level of assholery when he barked at me to turn on some upbeat mood music, and I turned on Lily Allen’s “Hard Out Here.”
You’ll find me in the studio and not in the kitchen. It’s hard out here for a bitch.
Benji scowled and didn’t say anything.
But the short time I was working here was definitely an experience, like Brie mentioned. It gave me the chance to see the devil in action. He was a consummate professional, above all else. Everything he did was hands–on, and despite all the work he demanded of me, he kept just as busy, constantly moving and adjusting.
Then there were the times I didn’t know if he actually needed help or if he was intentionally aggravating me. Like telling me to stand on a barrel and dangle a glitter–fied grape mobile over a model for half an hour. Despite the fact that I was pretty sure the mobile wouldn’t be in any of the photographs, I bit my words back and did it anyway.
Benji’s voice was confident and commanding, the deep timbre of his voice sending shivers down my spine. And his sharp green eyes seeing anything and everything and then some more. It was as though he was always picturing the next pose, the next set, the next shot. He moved like an artist, shifting through the midst of creative chaos.
The intense, impassioned look on his face was one that I recognized among the musicians I admired. The glittering eyes like when my mom found the perfect balance to modernize classical songs, incorporating unprecedented styles into her singing. Or the iron concentration that dad had as he scanned through his music scores, keying in to a million minor adjustments in the orchestral arrangements that would birth a new interpretation that he’d bring to life as the conductor on stage.
And as I watched Benji, I found that I couldn’t help wondering… What would it feel like to be on the other side of that gaze?
Geez. I mentally slapped myself for even considering it.
Because even though he was a perfect gentleman to the models, albeit brisk with no room for argument, that didn’t stop him from bullying me throughout the shoot. The worst was when he decided he wanted to capture “the movement of wine.” He left his smirk on full display while I miserably got knee–deep in the poured–out boxed wine on the makeshift tarp pool.
And then finally.
“That’s a wrap.”
I collapsed on my marinated hands and knees, exhausted.
No more. I didn’t want to see or be near anything wet, red, and fermented for at least a year.
As everyone else started bustling out, Brie called out my name, beckoning me into one of the offices.
Looking down at my juice soaked pants, I sighed. I trudged and squelched a trail of wine to the room, feeling like Gretel with an alcoholic father.
Brie and Benji stood in the conference room, staring at a huge monitor with the pictures taken from the shoot.
The images flipped through quickly, the solo and group pictures moving like a stop motion film.
The models were all different ages and portrayed in a different appeal. Brie was the youngest, looking shyly and innocently flushed like she was experiencing her first love. An older model with a confident self–assuredness, another with relaxed enjoyment, and the last woman, well into her retired years, eyed the camera with an expression of sly mirth with the air of refined flirtatiousness.
The last photo was of all of the women together, splashing around in the wine pool or sitting on the shorter barrels, carefree and enjoying each other’s company. It was a mesmerizing progression, and I was so absorbed that I almost forgot that my knees were jello.
“I think it turned out for the better,” Brie exclaimed, turning to look at us excitedly. “What do you think?”
I slowly nodded, but Benji didn’t say anything. A few minutes passed with Brie lightly chattering about the photos, and I struggled to pay attention through my exhaustion to little avail.
Benji’s voice suddenly cut through, “How familiar are you with Photoshop and Lightroom?”
Silence. This seemed like it was going to be a recurring theme for the three of us.
Brie looked at me.
Oh, oh, oh, of course, me. “Err, I’ve used Photoshop at the other studio I worked at.”
Benji grunted, and even without looking at his face, I could tell he was scowling.
Brie looked at Benji, a small smile playing at her lips. She leaned over to look directly into his face, as she said something I couldn’t hear. Her face beamed in a way that I recognized when she was feeling genuinely delighted. Benji turned away from her, lightly pushing her face away, almost playfully, and Brie laughed.
It was like watching a movie — two incredibly beautiful people sharing something intangibly familiar and intimate as you sit across the room, feeling destitutely alone in another reality.
Brie was like my other half. I’d always been proud of Brie, and there was never a time I envied her. We often felt like we complemented each other like sisters.
But for the first time, I felt a heavy tug of jealousy and desire in my heart, each thud heavy and tympanic. To be able to look into his face. To be on the other end of his vividly emerald gaze. To share secrets and smile, laugh together, touch each other. Like two chords that play in balanced harmony, softly basking in their short perfect union before the next notes pulled the song forward.
I breathed in sharply, feeling baffled by the sudden turmoil in my chest.
What the hell was I thinking?
I slipped out of the room and dug around the supply closet to look for a mop.
It had been a long fucking day. I was going to go home, treat myself to a bath and a screwdriver. God knows I deserved it.
But of course, the devil had other plans.
The studio was empty. When everyone was leaving, I hid in a corner, ashamed, confused, and afraid that Brie would suspect something. I was too tired to breathe, let alone sort my feelings out.
Benji stood against the far wall, watching as I rolled up the wet tarp, the boxes of refilled wine next to me.
“You know,” he said, slightly muffled by the cigarette in his mouth. “I was going to call someone to clean that up. I’m sending a full invoice to Cooper.”
This self–absorbed, petty bastard.
Whatever I questionably felt for him before was immediately washed out by a wave of irritation. How could I forget the verbal abuse he dealt me at our first meeting this morning?
“You could’ve told me that before,” I gritted through my teeth.
“I know,” he said.
Even after this hellishly long day, Benji was dazzling. Even with that arrogant upturn of his mouth, smooth and pink lips framing his straight, white teeth.
Ugh, I need to stop thinking about his mouth. That perma–smirk with the cancer stick in his mouth. Cancer stick, cancer stick. Cancer stick.
Benji walked over, and I instinctively took a step back when he came too close. He handed me a folder that was under his arm.
“Contract for a full–time position,” he said, peering at the tarp at our feet. “I would’ve made it a probationary period, but Grant vetoed it. Said it was all or nothing.”
He grimaced and continued, “It’s still employment at will, so I’ll drop your ass when you stop being useful.”
“Why?”
He looked blankly at me like
I asked the stupidest thing he had ever heard.
“No,” I rushed to say. “Why are you offering me a full–time position?”
From what I’d heard from Brie and after working with his torturous demands today, I knew this was a big deal.
He paused, watching me carefully as he considered his next words.
“Well,” he said slowly, drawing a breath through the cigarette. “You see it, don’t you?”
He tapped his temple.
Silence.
Then he rolled his eyes, sighing, as I looked blankly at him.
“Maybe I’m overestimating you,” he muttered.
Benji took another drag, the glowing ember inching closer to his mouth. He blew the smoke out and promptly walked over to the only door in the studio space. He opened it, revealing a black iron staircase. It looked like a fire escape, but there were no signs indicating that it was an escape exit. He looked back and jerked his head towards the door, motioning for me to follow him.
I hesitated. Because that was normal. Why the hell would I go up a random staircase with someone I didn’t know? Especially one with a mouth like that… with eyes like that… a body like that… This was turning out to be a horror movie or a porno, and I didn’t know which option I preferred.
“Well, if you want to leave looking like that, you’re welcome to,” he said, disappearing up the stairs.
I looked down and said a string of very bad words when I realized my clothes were irreparably stained red. I was too busy running around earlier and didn’t think about what I was wearing before I jumped into that pond of wine. I was absolutely, probably, definitely going to get stopped on the way home and interrogated or tackled as a suspicious person.
But would it be worth whatever was waiting at the top of those stairs? I was doubtful, but I found myself following after Benji.
I went up the stairs and through the open door into a large room above the studio. It was a bedroom with a desk in the corner and a large computer on it. A bit sparse on the 3–D side, but there was hardly any bare floor or wall space from the photos scattering every surface.
“You can take a shower in here,” Benji said, emerging from a side room. He nodded towards the door behind him and handed me a towel and a pile of clothes. “I don’t know if any of those will fit you, but you can pick out whatever you want and keep it.”
Women’s clothes. All women’s clothes. I looked dubiously at him.
“Clothes that people have left here,” he said while he opened the window to let out the cigarette smoke.
I dropped the pile in disgust, the tug in my heart twisting painfully.
“I don’t want to wear the clothes your girlfriends or whoever left here.”
Benji burst out laughing.
And kept laughing.
When he didn’t stop anytime soon, I thought about turning around and going back downstairs.
“They’re work clothes,” he finally said, rubbing his hard abs. “From past shoots that the models or stylists left behind and didn’t pick up or want. They’ve been washed too. I’m not barbaric.”
Oh.
“Oh,” I said, staring down at the pile.
I bent down and shoved my hand into the middle of it. Oh, my god. How humiliating. What did I just say? I grabbed a couple of things before heading to the bathroom. I heard him snickering as I closed the door.
So embarrassing. But seriously, it wasn’t a far–fetched assumption to make… when you saw the bed and women’s clothes and… and him.
I crouched down, hugging my knees as the stream of hot water drizzled on my head and back. Any anxieties about being murdered or otherwise were replaced by a reflexive, thankful moan. The steaming hot water washed away the sticky wine and sweat, soothing my burning muscles. I closed my eyes, resting my cheek on my knee. So warm and comforting. It had been one hell of a long day…
My eyes flashed open.
Popcorn ceiling?
Shit.
Geez, there were even photos up there.
I flew up and whipped my head around. Benji was at his desk with his back to me, the screen looming with an edit in progress of a photo taken earlier today. His shoulders were sharp and broad, and his shirt did nothing to hide those defined back muscles flexing and rippling with every click and move.
The sudden urge to run my hands up and down his back hit me. I wanted to trace the crevice of his spine, lay my hands on those firm shoulder blades, and slide them all the way down to his deliciously toned ass. His messy copper hair ruffled halfway down his long neck and glinted amber from the sunshine pouring through the window. It was a color I often saw in my rosin, but I never imagined it could glisten in long, soft waves.
As though my ogling drilled into his back, Benji jumped and jerked his head to look at me, slightly rattled. My heart sprang up and down. I forgot how beautiful his eyes were, shining with a sparkling lime color in the sunlight, like gems embedded in a bust of Cupid. They were no less mesmerizing even after I slept and regained my sanity.
And now, they were looking at me. Staring. Scanning. Sliding down.
My cheeks instantly warmed. Now that my body was fully awake and functional, my body was super responsive. Too responsive. Especially my lower body. The heat reached between my legs, and I felt my thighs getting moist and wet. Wait. What the —
I was wearing an unfamiliar, large white t–shirt that was riding up my body, revealing nothing underneath. Even worse, my nipples were poking through the thin fabric, clearly hard and aroused. My arms flew across my chest, and I scooted back until my back slammed against the wall, flailing while trying to yank the shirt down to cover my legs.
“Wha—” My tongue fumbled for what felt like forever before managing to say something remotely intelligible. “Why am I wearing this? Did you dress me? What happened? Why am I here?”
My mouth motored on, asking every question that came to mind.
Meanwhile, Benji pulled out his box of cigarettes, tapped one out, and slid it between his amused upturned lips. He just sat and watched, lighting the cigarette, until I stopped babbling. The little flame of his match looked pale next to his glowing hair in the light.
“It’s almost 6 in the evening. Jesus, you can sleep. You were in the shower for so fucking long I thought you died. Talk about bad publicity. What a pain that would be,” he said, chuckling. “I even broke down my door, and what do you know? Found you dead alright. Dead asleep. And I couldn’t very well leave you naked so I put you in one of my shirts.”
Benji’s smirk grew as he took a drag of his little death stick.
The motion of his supple lips wrapping around the cigarettes was mesmerizing, and my mind intrusively chimed in with other suggestions about where he can put them. Namely, me. On me, against me, in me.
The thought of it made my sex leak so much I was practically peeing. Onto his bed.
‘Oh, god, please no,’ I prayed. I shifted my legs under my butt, fidgeting uncomfortably.
But Benji didn’t seem to notice, and he continued talking.
“Sorry if it’s not to your taste.” He was fully beaming now. It would’ve been a charming sight if he wasn’t making fun of me. “But if you still want to wear that outfit, you’re welcome to it.”
He tilted his head towards a couple pieces of clothes laid out on the ground. I vaguely recognized them as the ones I grabbed from the pile earlier. The image of me wearing an incredibly short schoolgirl skirt with suspenders and a fishnet sweater flashed through my head. Now would be a good time to hide in that barrel downstairs.
“Oh, my god,” I groaned as I put my face in my hands, silently screaming in my head.
What a colossal mess. I was flustered. He made me flustered. Flustered earlier and still flustered now. Being near him clouded my sanity, my judgment, my everything. And the fact that I was so obvious made me cringe until I felt like I’d implode.
“By the way, you should call Cheddar,” Benji said, the butt of his cigarette twitching fro
m a flick of his tongue.
Even though his gaze was still pinned me, I avoided directly meeting his eyes, instead dipping down to his nose, his lips, any other part of his face. I felt like I was stripped bare under his eyes. My sigh wandered, dropping from his lips and down the length of his sturdy torso, lingering on his pants. It was fascinated how tightly they pulled back in the middle as he leaned back into his chair. The fabric stretched against something large and thick, and I looked for a second too long, curious and much too sexually aroused. Eep. Too long. I mean, I was looking for too long.
But when I looked back up, his expression was all I needed to know that he saw me.
I was really good at making this whole situation worse.
“She was waiting for you outside after the shoot, but she left to go to work since you took so goddamn long,” he was saying.
Benji paused, the cigarette flicking in his mouth, and my idiot brain demanded to look at the place where the cigarette met his lips.
“Don’t worry, she told me she’d kill me if I did anything to you, and I don’t feel like getting murdered by cheese. Although,” he paused, grinning mischievously. “I think it’d be safe if you decide to jump me.”
“Like hell that’ll happen,” I shot at him, my voice weak and desperate for it to be true.
We both knew I was grasping for straws. Badly.
We stared at each other, and Benji took another long drag of his cigarette, smirking, before crushing it into an ashtray on his desk.
“Now, there are a couple things I’d say I’m well versed in.” He stood slowly and approached the bed. “One being photography.”
This time his pants weren’t being pulled back by anything, but the fabric looked even tighter than I remembered it from a second ago. His crotch was just below my line of sight, and I gulped before forcing myself to look back up.
“The second is knowing when women want me.”
His lips pulled up on one side. But a hard glint flashed in his eyes, humorlessly.
“However, those are subjective things. We’ll call them ‘fine arts,’” he said, his knee penetrating into my safe little bubble.