Hard Focus (BAE Book 1)

by Vic Tyler

  Maria’s back stiffened, and she sat straight, looking down incredulously. I didn’t look directly at her, suddenly afraid to see the look in her eyes. Would it be pity? Disgust? Would she see me as dirty now? Damaged? Defiled?

  “And then she kept coming back, and she said it would be our little secret. But a couple years later, she felt like ‘rewarding’ me when I turned fourteen. And that’s when her husband found us.”

  The reel flipped in my head, and my voice flatly narrated it all. The fear, anger, disgust, confusion unleashed, replaying the emotions I struggled with at the time.

  “And then he started getting violent. I was beat, tied down, starved, kicked around, and whatever his tiny imagination was capable of. He did it more to hurt her than to hurt me, and he left the bruises and scars where they couldn’t be easily seen most of the time.”

  My stomach twisted, and I suddenly felt hot and nauseous. I sat up, firmly moving Maria off of me.

  “But after the days he drank, I’d go to school with a black eye or a broken wrist or something. Martin was a random teacher who came up and started talking to me like we knew each other. I ignored him for a while, but he was persistent. Eventually, he convinced me to take his photography class and lent me a camera to use since I couldn’t afford one. After a while, I confided in him about what happened at home, and he was the one who told me that wasn’t normal.”

  It was like I could see it all happening in front of me. I shut my eyes tightly, covering them with my hands as though that would block it all out.

  “I told him I didn’t want him to talk to my foster dad or the authorities since I was close to graduating. By that time, my foster dad stopped hitting me since I was growing bigger and stronger than him. And then on my seventeenth birthday, Martin gifted me my first DSLR. It was the first time I got a present. I was so excited.”

  It was the first time I felt happiness, like my birthday was something worth celebrating. Dashed.

  “Later that night, my foster dad started ripping my room apart. He found the camera and destroyed it, yelling about how some teacher called him and told him I was interested in photography and I should be allowed to pursue it. He tried hitting me, and I fought back. I was so angry I couldn’t control myself.”

  Maria pulled on my hands, and I was startled to see Maria’s eyes full of tears. She got on her knees and pulled my head into her chest, embracing me tightly. I breathed in deeply, her scent bringing me back to her.

  “I ran away. I didn’t have anything on me. I heard later that he was hospitalized and in pretty bad condition. Haven’t seen him since. But a trucker took pity on me and said he was heading up to Michigan, and he had a friend who worked up there who could give me work to keep afloat. It was hard work but decent pay, and the guys I worked with accepted me into their circle. That’s where Grant found me a year later. I’d seen him around school, but we were on opposite ends of the spectrum in every way. So when he told me to partner with him, I thought he was crazy — barely out of school with too much of daddy’s money.”

  I remembered walking into the office. That bright golden hair, like a walking beacon, on a younger Grant. Dressed like he was attending a Christmas charity at the White House, beaming that disgustingly fake smile, standing around burly lumberjacks in a dingy little office.

  “Grant handed me a camera and said it was from Martin, saying he was worried and asking me to call him. But Martin sold me out, turned my life upside down, so I told Grant to fuck off and leave me alone. But he was Grant. Relentless to a fault. He stuck around for six months until I finally agreed to give it a try on the condition he’d never mention Martin again.”

  That out-of-place rich bastard showing up everyday, following me around after paying the manager off to leave him be. But we ended up sitting and talking, and some of Grant’s facade faded, making me reconsider his proposition. The smile he gave me when I told him I’d try working with him — it was the most genuine I’d ever seen on his face, even now.

  “But as is Grant’s fashion, he made me sign some bullshit contract that I realized was crazy way too late. He made me get my GED, paid for me to go to college, and got his connections to help get me first-hand experience. And because of the contract I couldn’t quit or leave under an absurdly high penalty.”

  I scowled. Yet here I was, still letting the same asshole push me around. Maria nuzzled her head into my hair, and I wrapped my arms around her.

  “It was a couple years later when Grant broke his promise — on my birthday — and told me that Martin was dying. He didn’t have long to live, and he asked to see me one last time. So I went, still bitter but not angry. And that’s when he told me that he called my foster dad to ask about adopting me but that things went bad before he could talk to me about it. That’s when I took the picture you have — the one Grant gave you. He didn’t have much, but he left me some of his possessions, including all his cameras and equipment. I regret not seeing him earlier. I regret not being able to thank him earlier.”

  My voice was hoarse, my throat parched, my eyes threatening to moisten. It was the most I’d ever talked. It was the first time I talked about all this.

  God, I needed a cigarette, but I intentionally left them behind in New York.

  Maria threaded her hand in my hair, and my breathing calmed. Strangely, my chest felt lighter, like the burden of my past was set free.

  “I don’t know what to say,” Maria whispered, her voice terribly pained.

  “You don’t have to say anything.” Being here, with me, was more than enough.

  “Thank you for telling me.”

  “Thanks for listening. Made a great campfire story.”

  Maria chuckled.

  “I want to give you something,” she said, pulling away. I pulled her back in.

  “I don’t want anything.”

  “It’s nothing expensive. It’s not even that cool,” she scoffed. “But I want you to have it.”

  I let go, and she grabbed her backpack, pulling something small out of it. She held up a ukulele that looked tiny against her. It had a light maple body with a teardrop soundhole and a lily on the neck, well worn and played often.

  “That’s definitely not something you’d pick up at a tourist shop,” I said, raising a brow.

  “It was my dad’s.” Her eyes had a soft fondness as she looked at it.

  “No.” There was no fucking way I was going to take it.

  “Have it,” Maria insisted, shoving it in my hands. “I don’t play it, and I think you’d like it.”

  “It’s your dad’s.”

  “It’s not his last possession or anything,” she said, rolling her eyes. “But he loved this ukulele, and I want to be able to share that with you.”

  “I don’t even know how to play.” I was starting to feel panicky. I never even touched an instrument with any intention to play it.

  “I’ll teach you,” she laughed. “Free music lessons. That’s actually my real present.”

  “Can you even play that thing? I thought you played the cello.”

  “Only a couple of songs,” she beamed proudly.

  “Play something for me,” I said. “I’m not going to learn anything if my teacher sucks.”

  Maria slowly took it back and looked up thoughtfully. She brought it up, cradling it familiarly in her arms.

  The ukulele had a small but rich sound, deeper than I thought it would be. And then Maria started singing, her voice soft but clear.

  “I walked across an empty land. I knew the pathway like the back of my hand,” she sang. “I felt the earth beneath my feet, sat by the river, and it made me complete —”

  My hand was on my camera before I thought about it. Goddammit, this one didn’t couldn’t record. Not that it’d properly do this scene justice. She glanced up and smiled but didn’t stop.

  “Oh, simple thing, where have you gone? I'm getting old, and I need something to rely on. So tell me when you're gonna let me in. I'm getting tired, and
I need somewhere to begin —”

  Where had she been all my life? The thought slammed into me like a sledgehammer. The whole image in front of me felt foreign, like I was sucked back into a womb and spit back out to re-experience the same thing.

  I never thought I’d meet someone who accepted me so wholeheartedly and continued to give, someone who inspired me, someone I wanted to give the world to.

  “And if you have a minute, why don't we go talk about it somewhere only we know? This could be the end of everything. So why don't we go somewhere only we know?”

  The crackling fire gave an orange hue to Maria’s brown eyes, framed by her dark long lashes. The light flickered gently across her face, as though they too were caressing her. Her high and round cheekbones making her look timelessly youthful.

  She was the most beautiful person I’d ever met. Physically, she was attractive, but her sweetness and her curiosity and eagerness had made its mark on her face over the years — the way her face embraced her curving lips and hugged her eyes when she smiled.

  I couldn’t deny it anymore. All the stubborn resolve I had disappeared. I was willingly resigning myself to it. I love her. Goddammit, I love her.

  But a darkness loomed behind it all, casting doubt and fear. Did she even feel the same way? Could I make her happy? What did she see in me? What made me think I deserved her?

  But we were on the same wavelength. It was undeniable.

  Maria set aside the ukulele as I put down my camera. We collided somewhere in the middle, locked in a frantic kiss. These lips were the last ones I ever wanted on mine. These curves, this small body that fit perfectly into mine. I thought I memorized it, but it felt new and thrilling every time I touched it. She excited every part of me. We could be skin to skin, and I still didn’t feel like I could get enough of her.

  “I hope you can remember this birthday as a good one,” she whispered.

  “You can try again tomorrow when it’s actually my birthday,” I whispered back.

  She smiled into our kiss, and I melted into her smile.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Unsteady - X Ambassadors

  Coming back to work from the amazing weekend Benji and I had was a bummer, but my spirits were so high I doubted anything could bring me down. We spent the entire weekend hiking, swimming, fishing, and sexing.

  Especially after he told me about his past, Benji was so serene and carefree, like a burden was lifted off of his shoulders. The thought crossed my mind that maybe his rigidity in the city was because of his discomfort there. He was so excited about pointing out the different birds nesting in the trees or explaining the various plants and mushrooms we came across. He looked like he was at home in the mountains, and I could understand why he chose to spend that special weekend the way he did.

  The experience was new and sometimes uncomfortable overall, but I loved the space and freedom. The tall brown trunks with their green ceiling and lush terrain were a welcome change in scenery from the gray geometric jungle that I grew up in. I was already looking into other places I could go camping.

  My mind was full of the memories from the past few days, and Benji and I got a good start into the week, full of energy and pep, so dealing with the new administrative changes hardly bothered me.

  We even got a new photographer — Sam — to pick up and divert some of the workload. Benji was mostly busy with the paperwork and other transitional duties, so he entrusted the task of showing Sam around to me.

  Sam came in a few days to gradually ease into his new job and familiarize himself with the studio. He was young and enthusiastic, chatty and easy to talk to. Apparently Benji showed Grant some of Sam’s work from a small photography magazine he subscribed to, and they offered him the opportunity. I was surprised to hear they had been looking for new employees, but if Benji and Grant gave their approval, I had no doubt Sam was talented.

  A couple of days later, Benji called me into his office.

  “Good job on wrapping up the Vogue assignment,” Benji said smiling.

  Ah, this wasn’t pressing news. Did that mean I could get down on my knees now and give him a congratulatory blowjob? I was itching to hear his ragged pants and moans, especially that unrestrained guttural sound he couldn’t contain when he was cumming.

  “There’s going to be a wrap-up party with everyone who worked on it next weekend. Ad agency people, Vogue reps, models, stylists. Grant and Cheddar will be there too. We’ve been invited, and I have to make an appearance but you don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

  “I’ll go,” I said, slowly making my way towards him. “We can bail early if it’s boring.”

  Benji nodded. “By the way, there was an email the other day asking for us to schedule an on-location shoot for portraits and shots. You didn’t put it in the agenda, but I took care of it already.”

  I frowned. “How did I miss that?”

  Benji shrugged. “I’m going later if you want to come with.” He glanced at the appointment on the screen. “For the New York Philharmonic at David Geffen Hall at 9:00 AM.”

  My heart plunged through my stomach. All my other thoughts dissipated in the presence of my disbelief and horror.

  “What?”

  Benji raised a brow. I tried to restrain the surprise that showed on my face.

  “Something wrong?”

  “No,” I said, dazed. “Nothing wrong.”

  Benji frowned, looking at me if he wasn’t sure whether he should continue talking.

  “If you don’t want to go, it’s fine,” he said after a few seconds. “It’ll be a few portraits for the New York Philharmonic players and some snapshots of their open rehearsal. I was going to ask Sam, but he isn’t coming in today. It shouldn’t take long.”

  “No,” I said hurriedly. “Really, nothing’s wrong. I’ll get ready.”

  I turned around quickly and then stumbled out the door, scrambling over to my work laptop, panic rising in my chest. How did I miss that email?

  I found the conversation thread in the Trash and remembered I filtered all the relevant keywords related to the New York Philharmonic to redirect to Trash. I never expected that they would ask Benji for their photographs.

  It had been two years since I was last at David Geffen Hall. Before, just the thought of going to Lincoln Center made me want to vomit. Even now, my stomach lurched queasily, but Benji was going to be there. That made me feel a little more at ease.

  I didn’t know if I wanted to see any of my old acquaintances — the people I used to sit next to, the people I shared the stage with, the people I was supposed to make music with. But I guess I didn’t have much of a choice now.

  It’s weird how there aren’t a lot of things that change over two years.

  A wave of nostalgia washed over me as I gazed at the tall, pillared buildings. Back then, I was walking here across the patterned courtyard, past the fountain, dragging my large black cello case behind me.

  It was exactly like rewinding two years back to when I had been so excited to join the orchestra, except now the excitement was replaced with dread and nausea. Benji was walking ahead of me, and I counted the tiles, pushing the bubbling regret in my chest back down.

  We set up the camera equipment on stage at David Geffen Hall with relative ease, and I was relieved to find new faces greet us initially. Most of the orchestral members who came up to get their portraits taken, even the ones I recognized, were flustered by the few minutes they were in front of Benji.

  And I couldn’t blame them. When he was in work mode, his eyes became intensely focused, and he was confident and passionate. He was beautiful to watch and mesmerizing to listen to. I still loved watching him, even though I was used to it. I could only imagine what it felt like to have Adonis appear suddenly to take their photos.

  Once all the portraits were done, the entire orchestra filled the stage, preparing to open their rehearsal. There was the initial bustle and chatter as people found their seats, and I faced away, my back to th
em, as I huddled with Benji and the lighting technician as he talked about how he wanted the lights arranged. The hushed chatters and giggles tickled the background as people looked over and pointed towards Benji.

  “Michele?” an incredulous voice sounded from the stage.

  Ah, there it was. My hands twitched, suddenly cold and clammy. I turned around slowly, giving a meek smile and a small wave. A few squeals and clatters came from across the orchestra as some people set their instruments down and clambered down the stage steps to run over to me. I recognized them as fellow Juilliard alumni or people I befriended when I joined the orchestra.