"I wear it because I want to wear it."
I realize that the reason I almost told her was because maybe I'm getting ready to shed myself of the past.
When did that change in me?
Was it Frankie's talk?
Was it doing someone against a wall in public and getting caught, and knowing I've hit rock bottom?
Was it spending a day with a girl who isn't the same as all the bimbos I meet almost every night at the clubs and bars? Spending a day with Gen?
"So, are you ever going to come by?" she asks.
Axle, you walked her home!? Fucking hell. Have I ever walked a one-nighter home!? No. And this is why. Because they think it means something. "No, I'm not going to come by."
Her face evinces nothing. Then a sad smile forms on it. It barely reaching her eyes.
But she's a big girl. She knows the deal. She picked me up as much as I picked her up. "Well, maybe we'll meet up some time at a bar again, right?"
"Maybe."
"Keep well, schatz."
Schatz, the German word for treasure or sweetheart.
I'm no one's treasure, I think.
She starts closing the door.
"Wait, Natalia."
She peeks out from behind it. "M-hmm?"
"How did you know my name?"
"Baby, you have a reputation in this town. I'd be surprised to a find a girl who doesn't know your name. If only we knew more about you..."
She closes the door.
I was wrong.
Now I've hit rock bottom.
-5-
A guy once told me that no matter how bad things are, they can always get worse.
He was right.
I get home and rip my pants off and realize the umbrella is still covering my Joey.
I consider framing the fucker as a reminder of just how low one can go. It seems they brought out the drills and dug the rock out of rock-bottom especially for me, just so that we could go deeper. I'm in that deeper spot now.
I go to bed.
I decided that tomorrow I will clean my apartment out for the first time in five years. Maybe that's some psychological symbol that I'm cleaning up my life.
Lord knows it needs to be cleaned. So does the apartment.
CHAPTER 14
-1-
G.
Nov. 12, 2013 — Tuesday, Pretty late at night
I look at the shopping street below from Thomas's rooftop. It's like looking at Christmas itself. Lights everywhere.
I have my camera on my tripod and am staring through the viewfinder.
Thomas is awfully close.
He brought wine up with him. I indulge him. No need to complicate things by telling him I'm not interested in anything. Guys will always flirt, so let them.
But then he does something which gets the hair follicles on my back to stand on end: He grazes his finger down my spine while I'm looking through the viewfinder.
I shudder. And my tripod shakes.
I stand away from the camera and look at him. He acts like nothing happened.
He points to the scene below with the hand that's holding his red wine. "Is truly beautiful, no?"
He is also truly beautiful. I'll give him that. But I feel zilch for him. He's a novelty to look at.
Christ, when did I get so old?
I decide it's time to take a break. Time to boost his confidence by letting him think he's getting somewhere with me. I've gotten plenty of shots as it is.
I sit on the low wall. Thomas's black hair flickers from the wind. That same wind cuts through my dress and makes me shiver.
"You are cold?"
Great, an excuse to hug me. "No." I decide to make chit-chat. "So what do you do for a living?"
"I am a model."
Instantly, I laugh. "Sorry."
"What? Is funny?"
Actually, what was funny was the way he said it, as if he were the Queen of England. Although, speaking of queens... I begin to wonder. Because, for all his flirtation, there is something a little unusual about the delicate movements he makes with his hands, his chin, the way he holds his glass. "No, it's not funny. It's— Never mind."
"No, what is?"
I shake my head. Damn, this is dangerous territory. I change gears fast: "Look, thanks for bringing me up here. You didn't have to."
"Oh, I did."
It was a line. I change gears again. "This is nice wine."
"Is OK. Is French, at least. But not the best."
He moves over next to me. He puts a hand on my leg. My own hand instantly snaps to it and I stop him from stroking down. "No," I say. And even though I said it quietly, I know that it came across with the full brunt of fear and apprehension I have for being touched by anyone. "Sorry, I didn't mean to be rude—"
He moves his hand away slowly. Whispers, "Is no problem. No problem at all." His face looks sweet and concerned now.
I look away. I feel like he's looking too deeply into who I am.
"A man must try, you know? But is no problem." The statement is said lightly. He gets up and sashays to behind the camera, ass wiggling like a diva. All he needs is a finger in the air and I'd say we're definitely on the subject of queens.
I'm so confused about him. But maybe that's because he's also confused.
He looks aimlessly through the viewfinder, then stands back up. "What will you do with the photos?"
"I need to put together a portfolio for a gallery. Well, for the owner of a gallery. Something...'modern'...she says. Or risqué. And I have a little less than two weeks to do it in."
"And you choose the skyline?" He's suspicious.
I shrug. "And a few other things... Maybe some people in the street. Candid shots. I saw a few homeless people. Maybe some of that."
"And you hope to get all those shots in two weeks? And go through them, correct any that are not good, then put together a portfolio?"
I bow my head. "I have to."
"I see."
Silence.
"What about a model?" he asks.
"I don't have any."
"You 'ave me." He spreads fanned fingers onto his chest.
I think of his might-as-well-be-a-penthouse apartment. His flatscreen. The surround sound. The luxurious white rug, white couches, silver finishings. "I can't afford you."
"I am free."
I look up, stunned. "What's the catch?"
"No catch."
I frown at him. I'm suspicious. He wants something. "I don't believe you."
"Then you 'ave no model."
Hmmm. "Really?"
"Thomas never lie."
"Why—why would you do that?"
He sips some wine, looks down at me with a frown. "If I tell you, I embarrass you. So I don't tell you."
I think of how Mason swept me off my feet. I think of how charming and convincing he was. I think of how he kept things from me, but always gave me gifts and promises and just told me to "trust him."
I prefer honesty. Brutal honesty.
"I don't care about embarrassment. But I must know." My hand shakes on my glass.
Thomas eyes me down with his piercing green eyes. "Because you look like you need 'elp. Your friend 'elp me when I come to Germany. No question asked. Now I do for you as well. Is like payback. But I pay her back. By help you. You are confused?"
"No, I get it. Brooke helped you...somehow. And you are helping me."
"Yes."
"Is it that obvious?"
"What?"
"My situation."
"That you are up creek without paddle?"
"Yes."
"Yes, is obvious."
"Gee, thanks for the tact."
"I am French. Tact is for the British. Is why we never get along with them. That and their terrible cooking."
"Thanks for being honest."
"I am free these two weeks. Actually, I am free the whole month. But you only 'ave two weeks, you said."
"Yes."
Since Brooke called me I'
ve been racking my brain as to what would knock the socks off a highbrow gallery owner in Frankfurt. What would make her pick me instead of someone else? The stills are dead boring. People. That's what works best in photography.
But there's a step further. There's one more thing that communicates sensuality, fear, love, hate, the entire gamut of human emotions. And which does so with such a force, because of its truthfulness, that you're left thinking about the shot for days, week, years even.
The human form.
In all its purity.
I think of my deadbeat apartment in Brooklyn. I think Mason's lifeless body after he put a bullet in his head in front of me.
I think of how he beat me before that.
I think of the threats that came after. How they continued the nightmare that I thought was over.
I can't go back.
Can't.
I'll certainly lose my mind back in the states. And I might even lose my life. I have to stay as far away from there as possible.
I must make this work.
"What?" asks Thomas.
"What what?"
"You look like the sky has fallen on your head."
"Thomas, would you be willing...to...um...pose nude?"
"Of course." His answer is so fast that I have to think a second whether or not he actually did answer. "I mean, not nude as such. Not frontal nudity, but, of course, to do any other type— Wait. What?"
"Now you say 'what.'"
"Did you say yes? I mean, um, nude. You got that, right?"
"Yes, nude. Nudity is beautiful." He rakes my body up and down with his eyes so that I feel them like hands on my breasts and waist. But he says nothing. "Is no problem. I do before. I do again."
"You've modeled nude before?"
He gestures to his body as if it were a sports car in a display hall. His abs are covered up now but I know what he's referring to. "Of course I 'ave."
"I mean, my idea is to make it stylish, you know, the"—I think of a good word—"derrière, and stuff."
"Hmm, derrière. Is good word. Is French. When do we start?"
My first impulse is to do it tonight. But I want to have time to work out all the shots first. I like preparing. I also want to scope out some locations. But I do want to have a bird in the hand as soon as possible.
"Could we start in the morning? Is this rooftop free? I mean, do people—?"
"No one know 'ow to get onto this rooftop but me. Is not allowed."
"Perfect. In the morning?"
"I am yours."
I decide I'll plan out the locations tonight, work through the night even, if necessary. "What are the laws about public nudity here?"
"Why, you want me to run down Frankfurt street naked?"
It would be a great shot. "Maybe."
"I 'ave no idea."
"I'll need to do some research on it."
"Google knows everything. And if Google not know, teenager writing in online forum knows."
I laugh again, realizing I'm doing a lot of it tonight. How long has it been since I've felt this elated? This hopeful?
I think of that final, terror-stricken night before I left, watching the door, wondering if someone would enter in the middle of the night.
And then I look at Thomas and me, on this rooftop. And I sense how relieved I feel. I might even use the word "happy."
I think of that crazy guy, Axle. What a blast that was. Now there's a body I'd like to take naked shots of.
But I wouldn't ask him. No.
And why wouldn't I?
Because it would be, somehow...different. Seeing him nude. It would be very different than seeing Thomas nude. It would be, I think, complicated.
Why?
I park the question for now.
Abruptly, another idea strikes me. One that I think would clinch it for me. One that would almost guarantee me this contract. Either that or it would send Brooke's boss running so fast that I'll never set foot in Galerie Nouveau again. But I'm in the zone, I'm in the moment. I'm in that creative belt of the mind that spews out ideas faster than the world can accept them.
I think of a black and white on Thomas's satin sheets. High contrast. A black background. Models strongly lit. A breast, white and hard. A male hand on the breast. Two lips, almost touching, but not quite. The sheets just covering the woman's knee. His round butt a perfect contradiction to her soft one.
I remember how the idea had come to me once before. Briefly. It was the idea of poignant, sensual photos of the nearest love two people can share. Mentioned in passing to the man I married.
That's fucking porn! he said about it.
And the idea had been shot down in flames.
Porn. Christ. We might as well call the freaking Renaissance Porn!
Mason had eaten away at my life and dreams without me even realizing it until, before I knew it, they were all gone. All my dreams, all my hopes. It all ended with the violence of that final night. But, before that, all the beatings had been emotional ones. Sly and slow. He never struck a hand to me before that. It was a war fought on the battlegrounds of the mind where the casualties are confidence and self-esteem. Like the day I found out he was cheating on me.
And so it went with my photography. Dead before it had a chance to be fully alive.
Oh, the irony.
I have a life I need to pick up the pieces of. What little pieces I can find of it.
I take the leap: "Thomas, do you know any female models who would be willing to do this same shoot?"
"I know many. But for free?"
Right. That's a problem. And yet I cannot fail. "Yes."
He puts a finger to his chin.
"Maybe not a model as such. But I 'ave friends..." The way he says "friends" makes me think these are really "friends with benefits."
"And..." I clear my throat "...would these friends be willing to, um, be nude...with you?"
The faintest smile dances across his face. He flicks his hand in the air. "It can be arranged." He smirks. I think he's more excited than I am.
"Could she be here tomorrow?"
"Darling, I am good, but I am not God! Maybe the next day."
"Great!"
"Wait." He puts a finger up. He's considering something.
"What?"
"I try arrange for tomorrow. OK?"
"Awesome!"
I push myself up from the low wall and peck him on the cheek. He smiles. "And to think that all I needed to get that, was to tell you I would be naked with another woman in front of you. I cannot imagine what I would have to do to be able to make love to you."
I hug him. "Thank you. I can't believe how helpful you've been."
"Oh, God, stop or else you bring out my feminine side. And she only come out on Fridays."
I finish my wine and bounce home.
On my way, a million images cross my mind. I wonder how far I can push it. I want to make the female alluring, but not an object. I want to make the man—Thomas—strong, caring. Dominant, but not degradedly so.
I think of Axle. White light gleaming off his bulky chest.
Wait, his bulky chest.
Shit.
Thomas is sinewy.
But Axle is pure man, large, strong, hulking. Thomas is, I'd have to say, even slightly effeminate. Sure, we could change that look in a photo. But it's always harder to shoot something that isn't in front of you and try and make it look like something else.
Photos capture what's there. Photos don't lie.
Axle would resonate that jagged manliness in a black and white shot by his mere presence.
Hell, and if I could get him nude...
I bite my lip.
It would be beautiful. Utterly, and magnificently, beautiful.
I open the door to my art-gallery-slash-one-room-apartment. I close the door behind me.
I smile at myself. "Genevieve, you are such a dreamer. Always have been. Always will be."
Then I hear a noise in the kitchen.
CH
APTER 15
-1-
A.
Nov. 13, 2013 — Wednesday, very early morning
I can't sleep.
I call Frankie. "Did I wake you?"
"Yes. What time—?"
"About one A.M."
"You know it's my day off, mate."
"I'm cleaning out my place."
"What?"
"I'm cleaning out my place."
Silence. Then, "You're kidding, right?"
"No."
"You mean cleaning as in throwing junk away. Not cleaning as in scrubbing and cleaning."
"Yes."
"Yes what?"
"The former."
"Mate, you're confusing me."
"I'm cleaning out my place."
He gives a half-laugh. "Well, I see you're determined." Silence. Then, "So I assume you want my help."
"You assume correct."
"Unbelievable."
I say nothing.
"When should I be there?"
"Would you start without me?"
"Yeah, right."
"Didn't think so. I have something I need to take care of in the morning. Then I'll be here. So, say twelve?"
"No sweat."
I click the phone off.
The "something" I need to take care of is something I thought I'd never have to do again in my entire life. I did it once, before Zoey and I slept together. She insisted. I couldn't blame her.
Maybe the number of girls I'd been with before had shocked her. It wasn't that many, actually. Not in comparison. And the "quality" was sure higher than the ones I've been with since. If she only knew how far I've fallen off the railroad tracks since she's passed...
I've been with a lot more women since Zoey died. A lot more... And not one of them ever came close to her quality.
I shake my head of it. Of the possible consequences of it.
I always used a rubber. Well, almost always. There was Blondie after all...
It had never been an issue for me. It's like smoking: You know you're gonna die anyway, so you might as well have fun while you're getting there.
That's what the smokers say. Because they need some bullshit to convince themselves what they're doing is OK. Because the route to dying, fast or slow, isn't fun, no matter how many cute comments you make about it.
Like You (Perfectly Flawed #1) Page 8