“Oh, my God, you really mean it!” Delia uncovered her mouth and waved her left hand frantically.
Still holding the ring, Nick crooked one brow. “Baby, is that a yes?”
Delia might have been reeling from the shock and the sex, but she’d never been so sure of anything in her life. “Yes!” she shrieked. “Oh, Nick, a thousand times yes. Put it on. Please.”
Nick slid the ring down her finger, a perfect fit.
“Oh, Nick, I love you.”
“Well, that’s good to know, Doc,” he said, one of his sexy smiles slowly curving his lips. “’Cause I wouldn’t want you to marry me just for the sex. Besides, I’m holding two tickets to Barbados for a Valentine’s Day honeymoon.”
“Aah, Barbados!” Delia nestled close against him and held out her hand, watching the firelight wink in the diamond’s facets.
Nick wrapped her tight with one arm and settled the opposite hand on her stomach. “Delia,” he said quietly. “I have to ask you something else.”
She looked up at him anxiously and let her hand drop.
He winced a little. “It’s, um…well, it’s kind of about that condom I forgot to use tonight.”
Mentally she calculated. “It’s okay, Nick. I really think it’s okay.”
Nick’s smile went sideways. “Depends on your definition of okay, darlin’,” he said. “See, Daddy wants R.J.N.Woodruff IV pretty damn bad. I guess I do, too. If that’s not your thing, I’m man enough to live with it. I know your career is important. But I just need to know what to tell Daddy so he’ll quit ringing my damned cell phone.”
Delia considered it only a moment. Yes, her career was important. And she wouldn’t give it up. But Nick, and a family! Oh, there was nothing more important than that. So Delia smiled and ran a finger up his strong, square chin. “Well, I’ll tell you what, Nick,” she said. “You can inform dear Daddy that you’re marrying a woman who just bought four hundred dollars’ worth of fancy French underwear, and she just can’t seem to get enough of you. Besides, I think my biological clock is about to explode off its springs.”
Nick cocked one brow. “Is that right, darlin’?”
“Absolutely,” she answered. “And if you do your job right, with a little luck and a nice, long honeymoon, we’ll be putting little R.J.N.Woodruff IV in Grandpa’s stocking next Christmas.”
Nick burst into laughter and rolled onto his back, dragging Delia down with him. They landed, nose-to-nose, with Delia sprawled awkwardly over him. “Kiss me, you fool,” he whispered. “ ’Cause we’ve got a lot of lost time to make up for, and that sounded like one hell of a challenge.”
The Nekkid
Truth
Nicole Camden
For my mom
I couldn’t have done this without my sister, who read every draft.
And I want to thank the fabulous Lauren McKenna and Amy Pierpont for being the best editors and friends a girl could have. And to everyone else at Pocket, thank you for your support and friendship.
San Diego residents, please forgive the liberties I took with police procedures and landmarks.
Chapter One
My cell phone rang just as my date for the evening leaned over to kiss me. I was tempted to ignore it (the phone, not the lips). I hadn’t gotten kissed in a while and felt like grabbing the first handsome man I saw and engaging in a serious lip-lock. But since the police had an uncanny knack of calling me when it was most inconvenient, I figured it had to be them.
I was right.
“Debbie here,” I answered.
“Debbie, it’s Jakes. Detective Scott needs you to come down and shoot a crime scene for us.”
“Oh, he does, huh? What happened to your regular guy?”
“He’s at the doctor getting his ingrown toenails operated on.”
“A little too much information there, Jakes.” I sighed. “Okay. Where is it?”
“Over by Buena Vista Lagoon.”
“Great,” I muttered, and asked him where exactly. The lagoon wasn’t exactly small. “Okay. I’ll be there in ten,” I said when he finished, and hung up.
John, my date, whom I privately call “Freckle Dick,” was none too happy about calling off the party for the evening. He was a college basketball student, tall, milk-pale, gorgeous. He’d been a model for a photo shoot of mine a few weeks ago, and I’d been seeing him off and on since then. He probably thought tonight was his chance to score.
“They’re front-row tickets, Debbie. Can’t they get somebody else?”
I pushed his hand off my thigh. “Trust me, John, if the detective in charge could get someone else, he would have. Besides, I’m sure there are plenty of girls back at the dorm who would love to go out with you.”
“Nobody like you,” he murmured, leaning over to nibble my ear. Ah, younger men.
“Just take me to the lagoon.”
He complied sullenly, as boys are wont to do. The drive from John’s driveway in Oceanside to the backstreets where homes gave way to the lagoon didn’t take long, though I got lost trying to find the crime scene after he dropped me off. I had no idea what kind of waterfowl refuge the smelly, muddy, bug-infested bog was supposed to be, but it pretty much proved my theory that I would’ve been a lousy wildlife photographer.
With my camera heavy around my neck and my three-inch heels sinking four inches deep with every step, it was little wonder I was cursing as I limped toward a group of people knotted together near the edge of the water. Most of them looked like cops, but there were a few civilians thrown in for color.
“Over here, Miss Valley,” said a voice in the deep Southern drawl that always made me think of hot, sweaty sex. Detective Scott, of course. He had a habit of calling out to me when I showed up so that I’d know who he was right away. I appreciated the courtesy. I know it’s tough to believe, but even though I had been working with him for four years, and lusting after him almost as long, I was rarely able to pick him out of a crowd.
It had nothing to do with him. He was six three, wide across the chest, with thick brown hair and arms that looked strong enough to lift small cars. Most women met him once and made a point of seeking him out in bars, at the station, in the men’s room at the station. I’d seen it happen. Not on purpose, mind you, I was just walking by.
I, on the other hand, would always have trouble recognizing him. Him and everyone else.
I suppose I was lucky. Five years ago, when his previous partner, Bruce Johnson, lost control of their patrol car and knocked me headfirst into the pavement on Coast Highway, the doctors said that by rights I should’ve been dead or at least brain damaged. Instead, I just lost the ability to recognize faces.
No one ever really understands what I mean by that, even most of my doctors, but after several months of tests they finally came to the conclusion that whatever spark or synapse that allows humans to recognize other humans was busted in me. It’s not like I look at someone and see those fuzzy blotches they put in front of people on TV. It’s more complex than that. The way they explain it in psychology books is to show someone two upside-down pictures. One is of someone famous like Madonna, the other is a hugely distorted picture of someone with similar coloring. Nine times out of ten a normal person can’t distinguish one from the other while the photo is upside down. Well, I’m like that all the time. I can see someone’s features and even mark them if they have a really beaky nose or a strange birthmark, but it’s like I’m looking out into a sea of strangers. Not even people I’ve known my whole life stand out in any way. Cops understand better than most people. They see something similar whenever they ask a white witness to ID a nonwhite suspect.
It’s a stupid disability and for a while it really fucked me up, but all it takes is one look at something like the crime scene laid out before me to realize that while I may not have been handed the best deal on the planet, it could’ve been a helluva lot worse.
The man’s naked body was lying half in, half out of the algae-covered water. I lifted my cam
era and took a shot automatically, using a low flash and high-speed film since the haze had never quite managed to burn off that day. He lay on his back, skin marble pale, face missing from what I guessed was a gunshot. I didn’t even blink.
A field evidence technician was standing near the body. He pointed glove-covered fingers at a couple things he wanted me to shoot: the position of the body relative to the water, grooves in the soft muck where the body had been dragged. Then he left me alone to photograph the body as I’d been trained.
I’d been taking photographs of crime scenes for the police since I’d recovered from my little accident. Detective Scott had gotten me the job (out of guilt, I think); Lord knew I wasn’t a great photographer back then. I am now. My current photography is celebrated, some might say worshiped, though if you ask me, it’s the subject matter and not the pictures that inspire devotion.
I keep working for the police, partly because I like them, partly because I feel strangely that my surviving the accident means that I should repay the cosmos in some way, and taking pictures of crime scenes is one way to do that.
“Miss Valley, you might want to watch that skirt. You’re giving the boys a show,” Detective Scott said from somewhere above me.
“Let her be, Marshall. This is the better than Playboy!” one of the men shouted. Have I mentioned that I love cops?
I had just squatted down—awkwardly, I admit (a crime scene is not the place for a miniskirt and high heels)—to place a quarter next to a strangely familiar tattoo high on the victim’s inner thigh. I didn’t have my ruler and I needed a scale comparison. “Then tell the boys not to look. I have to squat if I’m going to get this shot, and there’s no ladylike way to do that.” I hadn’t looked away from the viewfinder to reply, but at his muttered curse I turned my head. I was eye-level with the crotch of his jeans, and wonder of all wonders, the little detective looked happy about something.
Since he wasn’t gay or a necrophiliac (as far as I knew) and the only things for him to look at were (a) a dead body, (b) a bunch of birds and water, (c) other cops, and (d) my Lycra-covered ass, I naturally assumed that the good detective liked me more than he let on. Of course, I was probably wrong. I mean, if the man wanted me, he could’ve had me anytime in the past five years, and don’t doubt that caused me more than a little irritation.
Just to annoy him, I made sure to plant my feet and bend from the waist on the next shot. A wolf whistle came from somewhere behind me, and I sensed Scott moving around to block the view of my butt from the rest of the men. A chorus of boos erupted from my fans, and Scott conceded defeat, walking off to interrogate the old woman who’d found the body. I went back to shooting the scene. If they won’t be seduced, they can be annoyed. That’s my motto.
He was still talking to the woman when I finally finished up. It was going to take forever to develop and print the film, and I wanted to get home and get started. I usually used my digital camera for the police photos, but I’d been shooting with my old Nikon FE2 earlier that day and had taken the digital out to make room in my bag.
I rooted around in said bag for more film, pulling out a canister of black-and-white. I loaded it quickly, wondering what the hell was taking Scott so long; he was usually Mr. Efficient, which I mocked but secretly admired. I had noticed over the years that when he set out to do something, it got done, no whining, no hemming and hawing, no “what do you think we should do?” I’ve dated enough since the accident to say unequivocally that if a man isn’t willing to say what he wants for dinner, then he’s not the man for me. I’d rather argue about it than second-guess him all night long.
It didn’t take long to figure out what the delay was all about. Scott’s back was to me, so I didn’t notice what he was doing, but it turned out that the woman was deaf, and Scott was speaking to her in sign language. I was shocked. I mean, who would’ve guessed the man knew sign language?
I found myself staring at his hands as he moved them in the graceful, almost magical gestures that communicated thought without sound. Not consciously thinking about it, I began taking pictures, zooming in on his hands. They were long fingered, wide palmed, callused, and scarred. If the Lady of the Swamp had suddenly appeared and offered to grant me one wish, it would’ve been to have that man’s hands on my body.
I got my wish a few minutes later, when those fingers clamped onto my elbow and steered me in the direction of his shiny gray truck. “I’ll take you home now,” he said loudly, for the benefit of our audience.
“Why, thank you, Detective,” I said in my best breathy Marilyn Monroe imitation, which made the guys laugh, but only garnered a frown from the repressive detective. He hustled me to his truck, holding my door open while I climbed inside.
Now, I’m not the best at reading faces (for obvious reasons), but I can watch the direction of a man’s eyes, and his ran the length of my legs before he closed the door.
We didn’t say much on the way to my house. I asked him where Stevens, his partner, was, and he muttered that he’d had a dentist appointment. He refused to talk about the case, and only grunted in response to small talk, but I was still very cheerful as I waved goodbye to him from the steps of my house. You see, having seen the earlier evidence of his desire, I took the liberty of inspecting his lap as he got into the truck.
A leg and ass man. Not what I expected, but then, he’s never failed to surprise me.
Chapter Two
I usually get one of three reactions when people see my studio for the first time: shock, disgust, or rapture. I converted two bedrooms and a bathroom on one side of my house into a work area, darkroom, and studio less than a year ago. Before that I worked out of the darkroom at the local high school, but my rise in fame allowed me to purchase a three-bedroom house a couple blocks from the beach in Encinitas.
It wasn’t fancy; a one-story white stucco with a wrought-iron gate and plenty of bougainvillea. There were tons of gracefully arching windows, high ceilings, and hardwood floors. I’d loved it on sight and had decorated most of the house with antiques that I found at flea markets and thrift stores as well as in the high-end shops. I went with simple and comfortable rather than flashy, and the result was a restful, charming space that exhibited my love of life and beauty.
The studio, on the other hand, could be seen as a reflection of my dark side. There wasn’t a lot of furniture: a few stools, lighting equipment, some backdrops. What really stood out were the photographs. There were hundreds of them hung on the walls, some framed, some matted, but most were just held up by pushpins. Color and black-and-white prints vied for attention against the stark white paint, and more than one person had commented that they didn’t know where to look. Half the time they played it safe and just looked at their shoes. I didn’t really blame them. Some people had a problem with nudity, and my walls were covered with lots and lots of naked people.
The first thing everyone asks is: “Why do you always take pictures of naked people?” To which I usually say that I just happened upon it, and it turned out I was good at it. I rarely mention the accident, or my subsequent fascination with bodies rather than faces. I think that for a while I thought that if I couldn’t recognize people by their faces, then I would recognize them by something else.
In the case of men, it was dicks. Some of my first subjects were the men I dated. And since I had lost about thirty pounds after the accident, I dated a lot. Most of them were all too willing to pose for me. I kept pictures of their dicks in the file folder in my office, all neatly labeled on the back with their real name, height, weight, relevant birthmarks, tattoos, etc. Their nickname was written in the white space below the image. Some of my favorites were: Pencil Dick, Sumu Wrestler, Little Turtle Head, Knob Job, EWF (Every Woman’s Fantasy), EGMF (Every Gay Man’s Fantasy), Corn Pone, Listing Aft (he was a sailor), and Vienna Sausage.
I got so good at it that I was approached by the friend of one of my subjects to shoot some photos for their gay porn magazine. I was barely scraping by at the
time, so I took the job. Needless to say, it was only the beginning, though now my work is considered “art” rather than porn.
My grandmother was horrified when she found out what I do. I think my mom was, too, but since I freaked out a little every time she came over and I didn’t recognize her, she refrained from lecturing. But at twenty-seven, I’m the only one of my brothers and sisters who owns her own home, and I’m often the only one with a job.
I wouldn’t know what else to do now anyway. I love photographing the body, the lines and curves, shadows and planes. I can’t help but feel that if it’s my destiny to live life without ever again knowing the relief and joy of seeing a familiar face, then at the very least I can enjoy what I do without shame and sometimes with a great deal of pleasure.
THE NEXT MORNING I started work developing the black-and-white prints from the crime scene. The color film I took to a friend of mine who owned a photo-processing and framing shop next to the old theater in Oceanside. He was a lean black man named Burtis Ewell, and one of my most enthusiastic supporters.
“Hey, there, Miss Debbie.”
I always identified him right away. It was easy: he had a distinct voice, a sort of wobbly tenor, and he always smiled at me like I was sunshine after weeks of rain. “Hey, Burtis.”
“Whatcha got for me today?”
“Nothing fun,” I said, setting the two canisters neatly on his countertop. He swiped them up with one big hand and deposited them in the special envelopes he kept on hand for my work. “Just crime-scene photos. You know the rules.” Burtis had been cleared through the department as well, and knew most of the cops better than I did.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You going to The Man’s birthday party tonight?” I asked, deliberately casual.
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