Picture Perfect

by Jade C. Jamison

  But the news wasn’t on at the moment. Instead, it was an advertisement for a chain store, and they were letting shoppers know about their upcoming Black Friday sale where all clothing prices would be slashed. But there was a young guy there, a man dressed like a business professional during a holiday, meaning he was wearing a cheesy bone-colored sweater and a fake smile, and he was smiling at his fellow model, a woman designed to look like his girlfriend, wearing her own garish cranberry-colored sweater. It was just a flash, but that was Shane, all right. For the duration of my shift, I kept an eye on the television, hoping to get another glimpse, because those ads are often repeated ad nauseum, but no such luck.

  Retrieving my coat and purse from the tiny room that held personal belongings before walking through the kitchen and shouting out my goodbyes to my coworkers, I pulled my phone out and found the department store’s website. Scrolling through their front page, I had confirmation. Yes, Shane had landed what I imagined was a lucrative modeling gig, because this store was huge. I wondered what kind of compensation he’d earned for the shoot. More than that, he was building a portfolio, one his agent no doubt leveraged to get them both higher rates. A recognizable face meant higher pay. And Shane’s face would become familiar to people—that I knew. It wouldn’t be long before he’d be snatched up. He had one of those faces that seemed friendly and approachable, in spite of the fact that he was drop-dead gorgeous.

  Good for him, I thought. He’d set out to do something to make his life more meaningful, and, by God, he’d done it.

  But that ache in my heart…how could I ever dampen it if I started seeing him everywhere?

  Well, I knew how. My dissertation was almost fully written, and I merely needed to go back through it and make sure it worked. I wouldn’t be defending it until spring, but my advisor wanted a good month or so to look it over, and she would give me advice on how to improve it, whether that meant more research or simply refining areas that she felt needed more attention. Whatever the case, I wouldn’t be confirmed until I finished that damn thing up, and I was ready to begin a new chapter of my life.

  It started with leaving school behind. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. I’d merely be switching roles. Instead of being a perpetual student, I would now be a professor of English. I’d been teaching undergrad classes for years now, but this time, I would be able to do so as, I hoped, an associate professor, one with a full-time job.

  I hadn’t modeled with Greg since my shoot with Shane months earlier. It hadn’t stopped him from asking, but I just couldn’t. There was the problem my aching heart presented, but there was another practical reason.

  I was going to be a professor soon. I’d never worried about most of the photos out there. The ones where I was fully dressed, for example, or even most of the ones in my underwear that honestly covered more than a bikini would didn’t concern me. Instead, it was the nude ones. I’d been on Amazon one day looking for a Christmas gift for my advisor and there was a book on one of the pages I browsed—a hot bestselling romance title—and what did you know? It was Shane standing behind me, his hands cupped over my full breasts, both of our faces on the cover looking lusty and primed for passion—and if I could see this damned cover without even looking for it—who else could find it?

  Could this threaten my career before it had even started?

  In that moment, I saw the foolishness of my agreeing to the compromising poses all those months ago. Never mind what happened afterward and never mind that there was no actual nudity (like nipples or bush); I appeared in dozens of risqué photographs and that could be my undoing. No matter what a person thought about America, the truth is our roots are puritanical, and even centuries haven’t been able to undo our fascination with sex that we deny, coupled equally with repulsion of the naked body. And, whether one thinks that is foolish or not, that is the country I grew up in—and I considered myself an intelligent, analytical, rational person.

  In other words, I should have thought of the consequences before.

  So it was stupid. I knew there was probably no way I could get rid of the photos already purchased but maybe I could stop any more from getting out. I’d considered going straight to my advisor and throwing myself on my sword, telling her my story, about how I’d begun modeling for a little extra cash and, before I knew it, I was posing in compromising positions while making double what I’d earned before. Earning in two hours the same amount I’d earn at the coffee shop in a month or two—earning my rent and then some—kind of shut down my thought process. And it wasn’t like I was selling drugs or killing people.

  But talking to my advisor about the breakdown of my nonfunctioning brain might prove difficult, because intertwined in all that was something I did not want to talk about, and it boiled down to one word…one person.

  Shane.

  The man continued to consume my brainwaves, no matter how I tried to prevent it. As irrational as it seemed, I cared about him and pondered what might have happened had he stayed behind. We might have moved from dalliance to dating.

  I’d never know, though, and now my entire future hung in the balance. I had to do something. I couldn’t just sit back and watch all my years of hard work be destroyed for a few moments of thoughtlessness in front of the camera.

  And I somehow knew that was going to happen if I didn’t control what I could now.

  Talking to anyone at the university would be a mistake. I knew there was a sliver of hope that my advisor or someone up the ladder might be cool about it all, but the odds were that my past activities would at best be frowned upon, at worst be reason for them to deny me my degree. And even if not, it could affect all my chances for future employment in my dream job.

  I couldn’t let that happen.

  The first thing I had to do was research and do a little damage control, so I went to Greg’s website. I found that he offered two ways of buying his photos there. A person could purchase an exclusive photo and, once the transaction had been completed, that shot was no longer for sale. But the photos could also be purchased at a lower price, and if one was, that particular shot would no longer be exclusive. It would then be more affordable for another person—say an indie author—to buy it, but that author might see that picture on the cover of a dozen other books. Either way, Greg could make crazy money on a single photo shoot. In fact, when I saw the prices he charged for exclusive shots, I knew why he could easily afford to pay Shane and me more than the usual rate. Two exclusive photos took care of the usual fee and three or four took care of the extra he’d paid us this last time.

  I couldn’t figure out what I’d hoped to by scoping out his website. I’d been hoping I could puzzle out how many photos were already out there, but I couldn’t. I had no way of knowing how many exclusive images had been scooped up. All I could tell was that at least ten images had been purchased for non-exclusive rights.

  That alone scared me. The only relief I felt was that most of those were bra-on images. Only a couple of them had my bra off, and they weren’t the nastiest of the bunch. I imagined most of the authors wanted pictures that were titillating but tasteful. They didn’t want to turn their readers off.

  I had to talk to Greg.

  Of course, the first question out of his mouth when I called was to ask if I was wanting another photo shoot soon. “No, I need to talk to you about another matter.”

  I could hear the curiosity in his voice, and I was sure that was why he agreed to meet with me so soon. The very next afternoon, I was in his office just as another couple left his studio. Based on the look of their faces, they hadn’t been getting as hot and bothered as I and my photo partner had.

  I shook my head as I walked into Greg’s office, willing myself to forget about the guy who got away. I had bigger problems to attend to.

  “What can I do for you, Ivy?” He sat in the rolling chair close to the door, offering me one of two uncomfortable stationary chairs on the other side. His desk was piled with ridiculous amounts of paperwork an
d file folders, a flat desktop calendar partially uncovered on the side closest to him.

  What a photographer would need with paperwork, I hadn’t a clue.

  “You know I’m a grad student, right?”

  Although he didn’t shrug, I could sense that blasé attitude in his voice. “You might have told me at one time. What about it?”

  I swallowed. This shouldn’t be hard, should it? After all, I was only going to ask him to pull down dozens of photos that he said were hot sellers. But surely Greg would understand—and if he was worried about the money he’d lose, I could offer to pose in less compromising positions—underwear on—for free. I held onto that thought as I moved forward. “Well, I’m getting ready to move from the student role to one of professor, and seeing my nude body on the cover of a book the other day got me to thinking.” Greg raised his eyebrows but said nothing. “The shots I did with you early on…you know, the Christmas ones last year and the ones in the party dress—and even the ones in the bustier—those were photos that I wouldn’t mind anyone seeing of me, even the ones where I was holding the riding crop.”

  Greg’s eyelids had lowered halfway by the time he said, “Half of those cut your face off. Is that why you’re comfortable with them?”

  I was going to tell him no without giving it any thought at all, but instead I pondered it. While that might have been part of my subconscious reasoning, I knew rationally that I didn’t object to them anyway. They were still tasteful while provocative. They didn’t scream sex; they merely suggested it. In the back of my mind, I knew I’d be comfortable defending those photos. “No.”

  “So is it just the topless ones?”

  I’d come in Greg’s studio wanting to ask him to pull all of the pictures from every single photo shoot I’d done with Shane, but thinking it over, I knew that wouldn’t be fair to Greg—or Shane, even—and most of those were all right. The ones we’d taken on the sidewalk were standard romance fare and even the ones in my underwear weren’t bad. So, when push came to shove, “Yes. Yeah, I think so. The rest…the rest, I think, are defensible.”

  Greg’s face changed to that of thoughtful artist. I’d seen this look on his face many a time before. His brows tightened over scrutinizing brown eyes as he considered my words. He cupped his chin, rubbing the whiskers with his index finger and thumb as if contemplating life’s mysteries. Finally, he leaned forward on his desk and his piercing eyes almost pained me, and maybe that was because I’d known what to expect. “Ivy…I appreciate your predicament. I do. I can’t even imagine what must be going through your mind, especially when you would even consider coming to me, a professional, and asking me to disregard our contract.”

  His voice was cold, emotionless, and I wondered how I could even begin to appeal to him—but I had to try. “Greg, I get that. I’ve never asked for anything like this before. It’s just—this is my future we’re talking about.”

  More ice. “Mine, too, Ivy. This is my livelihood.”

  Okay, so emotions were worth shit with him. I needed to appeal to him another way. “You talk about honoring contracts. Part of a contract is the intent behind it. When I signed it, it was under the belief that I would be participating in a normal session, like all the ones I’d done with you before. You know as well as I do that asking me to take off my bra was out of the ordinary.”

  I saw a twinkle in his eye then but had no idea what that meant. With a cocked eyebrow, he said, “For you, perhaps. I ask other models to do it all the time. Some say yes. I don’t know till I ask.” I had no argument for that. My mind was racing, looking for another avenue when he said, “You seemed to be more than accommodating at that time.”

  That little sentence brought all that old shame flooding to the surface. Had Greg seen how aroused I’d been feeling during that session? And how could I argue logically when my emotions were threatening to overtake me?

  I had to appeal to his sense of decency. It was all I had left. “It was the heat of the moment, Greg. We all do thoughtless things sometimes when we don’t have a few quiet moments to ponder.” I took a deep breath. “I’ve been going to school for my entire adult life, and it has all been leading up to this big moment of employment. I don’t want all my work to be in vain. Modeling has been a great way to pay the bills, but my passion is for teaching…and if someone in charge of hiring me saw those pictures, I might be done before I’ve even started.”

  Greg blinked and, for a second, I thought he was going to acquiesce. Why I allowed my heart to grab onto that little ray of hope, I’ll never know. “Ivy, don’t get me wrong. I don’t want to ruin your life. I don’t want to ruin your chances of getting your dream job…but you have to understand that I’m running a business. A profitable one. And one of the ways I make the most money is by giving my customers what they want. The custom shoots? Yes, I make money on those, but my bread and butter actually comes from the uncommissioned photos—the ones I create during the spur of the moment when I have just the right models and things go perfectly. But it’s not just the models—it’s my eye for lighting, for setting the mood, for the effects I perform upon the photographs after the models are long gone. It’s getting the right angles and pulling out of the models the right expressions. And when I get it right, I’m rewarded. People buy those pictures when I nail all those things.

  “So where do you fit into all that? Well…much as I’d like to say it’s all me, it’s not. Like I said, it’s also a matter of the right pieces falling into the right places. You’re a beautiful woman, Ivy. But a good many of my customers are buying for the male in the pictures, not the female, and my buyers have fallen in love with Shane. You and Shane together? A winning combination.”

  How could I argue with that?

  “Here’s the thing, Ivy. My business has been steadily growing over the last two years, one dollar, one photo, one customer at a time. But when I posted the photos of you and Shane? My business fucking exploded. It grew by leaps and bounds, and I’m getting more hits on my website in a day than I used to get in a week last year. The photos of you and Shane? I’ve sold a couple of exclusive ones, but most of them are nonexclusive, and you know what that means. I continue to make money off those photographs, over and over and over. I’d be an idiot to yank them now.”

  My heart felt like it had dropped to the floor—but one more appeal. “I get that. But what about just the topless ones?”

  Greg pursed his lips, furrowing his brow once more, giving me the impression that he was genuinely considering my question. It turned out he was doing calculations in his head. “Tell you what. One hundred thousand dollars.”

  My brain was fuzzy—and worn out. “What?”

  “One hundred thousand dollars. If you want to pay me that much, I’ll take down any and all of the photos you want.”

  One hundred thousand? He knew that would be impossible—or close to it. I didn’t have that kind of money. If I had, I wouldn’t have been modeling for him in the first place. I had no response and didn’t know how long I’d been sitting there wordless.

  He pulled me out of my stupor. “I’m anticipating the lifetime of those photos and how much I expect to make over time. I think that’s a fair price.” I blinked, still struggling to speak. “But you don’t have it, do you?”

  I found my voice. “You know I don’t.”

  “Then I guess I’ll leave them up…unless you have another proposal.”

  What—like modeling for him again?

  I’d been stupid…but that wasn’t going to happen again. I told him good day and left to ponder my future—and pray that no one important saw those damn pictures.

  * * *

  What kid didn’t love Christmas? I always had. I remembered as a little one being excited to get up early Christmas morning to find what Jolly Old Saint Nick had thoughtfully left for me under the tree. But some little jerk spoiled it all for me in the third grade and the holidays had since lost their hold on me. Now Yuletide merely meant a respite from intense learning
and studying—and grading as well, considering I still taught a couple of undergrad classes as part of my studies.

  Christmas also meant congested department stores and idiots on the street who seemed to have forgotten since the last year that ice on the road requires a different pace. We also had our fair share of shoppers come into the coffee shop for a little break in between sessions of blowing money on stupid shit that no one really wanted.

  Yeah, I hated Christmas. Having no family didn’t help. I had no siblings and I’d lost my mother a couple of years earlier. My dad had left her before that, right after I’d gone to college. I’d decided then that he was dead to me, especially since mom was already showing signs of her illness and dad wasn’t just leaving, he was running to someone else.

  Asshole.

  So the holidays were nothing but rest for me. The snow and flashes of red and green everywhere were reminders of the holiday, but I tried not to focus on it. Fortunately, this year, I needed to spend my break going through my dissertation one last time before shipping it off to my advisor in its entirety. The rest of my break would be spent relaxing…as much as I could, considering I still had the worry of those damned pictures.

  But a few days before Christmas, I had a new customer walk into the coffee shop. The guy was tall and gorgeous.

  What the hell was Shane Sanders doing in my coffee shop?

  When he noticed me as he walked to the counter, he grinned, showing off that winning model smile. God, this guy did it for me every single time. “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”

  I couldn’t help but smile back. “I could ask you the same thing. What are you doing here?”