Picture Perfect

by Jade C. Jamison

  But because I relied on my intelligence—in fact, my future career was grounded in that asset—I knew I had to use my brains to figure out my dilemma. In the long silence, I determined that I needed to talk to Greg once more. Maybe I could work out a deal of free modeling for a year—underwear on—in exchange for his taking down the pictures. There had to be something that would make him budge—and if that meant I was modeling for free for two days a week for a year or something else equally ridiculous, I’d do it.

  I could also hear my mom’s voice in my head, repeating age-old wisdom: A man’s heart is through his stomach. I’d ask Greg out to dinner, my treat, and pitch my proposition. Surely, we could reach an agreement—and I could take my life back.

  That matter settled, I drifted into a deep sleep, relishing the feel of Shane’s arms around me, warm and comforting and something I’d needed more than I’d ever known.

  * * *

  I could get used to this.

  Yes, I could get used to Shane and coffee while I whipped up pancakes, in spite of the fact that I wasn’t much of a cook. At his insistence, I was wearing his blue button-down shirt. That was a double score, because I also got to admire his lovely bare torso while I slaved over the stove.

  I was staring at the two cakes in the skillet, watching the bubbles form in the batter, remembering how my mom had taught me to make those damned things. Wait for most of the bubbles to pop—and the edges need to be dry. The final test was lifting just the edge of one and taking a peek—and it was browned to perfection. So I slid the spatula underneath before flipping the first one over.

  “Hey, I’ve been thinking.”

  I smiled, turning the other pancake. “That’s my job.”

  He chuckled as I turned. “Don’t get all sassy, just ‘cause you’re wearing my shirt.” I smiled, wanting to dash over and take his face in my hands. I felt giddy. I couldn’t remember the last time a man had spent the night with me and I had to admit it wasn’t an unwelcome feeling.

  I was still grinning when I said, “Fine. Spit it out.”

  There was something in his eyes then, something soft and mushy, but I couldn’t quite figure it out. “My mom’s having a big family dinner tonight—my brother and his wife, my aunt and uncle, my grandma—and I thought it might be nice if you came, too.” He looked down at his coffee cup. “Unless you have something else to do.” Then he lifted the cup and took a swig before making eye contact with me again.

  That sweetness melted my entire heart. Maybe he was feeling a little mushy, too, just like I’d been. Either that or I was ascribing my own emotions and thoughts to him when I was clearly mistaken. There would be no way for me to know, but I had to stop reading into his behavior and simply take it at face value. That alone was good enough.

  “I would love that.” And knowing I had something like this in my near future would give me the strength and courage I’d need to be bold with Greg…because I had a feeling I would be venturing into a dark place…

  * * *

  I’d called Greg right after Shane left my place—but not before he gave me the kiss of a lifetime. So I was riding a bit of a high when I phoned the photographer, and I used that floaty feeling to keep my voice light and calm. Fortunately, he agreed to meet for lunch, saying it fit perfectly in his schedule.

  He seemed to be on the fence about it until I told him it was my treat.

  I was starting to loathe this man, but letting those emotions show would not help me negotiate or plead my case. For the second or third time today, I could hear my mother’s voice in my head: You get more flies with honey than with vinegar.

  Today, I would test that theory.

  While I’d been upset and tense the first time I’d asked Greg to consider taking the pictures down, I hadn’t been sweet—and I also hadn’t tried negotiating. Maybe we could barter and come up with a value of all the photos I wanted him to take down; then maybe if I only chose the ones I thought would be indefensible—and perhaps if I could get him to chop our heads out of more of the risqué ones…I might have a chance of convincing him.

  It was worth a shot.

  The problem was, from the moment I said hi to Greg at the restaurant all the way through to the ordering of the food, he’d had a smug smirk on his face. What that meant I had no clue, but I suspected I’d find out soon enough. I wanted to grill him about it, instead choosing to keep the cool friendly demeanor I’d been wearing like chainmail. It was my only hope.

  After the waiter whisked our menus away, Greg asked, “So how did I score lunch with a lovely model? What’s up with that, Ivy?”

  I smiled then, reminded that Greg was no dummy. Of course, he wasn’t. He was running a business, so he had to have something going on upstairs. I had to remind myself over and over that sometimes the most brilliant—and, yes, shrewd—people would not be found on my campus. So, chainmail intact, I gave him the answer I’d been practicing all morning. “I’ve been thinking about my problem—the one I’d talked with you about recently.”

  “The photos that have you nervous.”

  He wasn’t going to play dumb. That was good, because it would serve no purpose. I didn’t want to beat around the bush anyway. I wanted to get it over with—like finally throwing up after feeling nauseated for hours. “Yes. I’ve been trying to come up with a mutually satisfying solution.”

  “I’ve been thinking about it too, Ivy, because I know how upset you’ve been about it.” He grabbed his glass of soda and drew on the straw for a moment before continuing. I realized in that pause that my stomach muscles were tight and, underneath them, the butterflies were dancing away. “But you first. Tell me your ideas.”

  Feeling a little more relaxed with the realization that Greg wasn’t some monster, I went through several scenarios, presented multiple options, including one where I’d pay him every month, just like a bill, or I’d model every month for free until the value of the photos had been reimbursed. I went through every idea I had, pitching them much like I thought a screenwriter might, hoping the producers would find one promising enough to pursue.

  Throughout my “presentation” and long past the point where our food had arrived, I’d been trying to gauge Greg’s interest through his facial expressions, but he wasn’t giving anything away. I couldn’t tell if he was intrigued by my ideas or merely humoring me.

  I found out soon enough when I asked, “Do any of those proposals sound appealing?” I thought about taking a bite of my sandwich now that I was giving up the floor, but I had no appetite. I was too tense by this point.

  “Ivy, I love that you’re trying to problem solve. It tells me that you’re willing to listen to my ideas as well.” Why the hell did that sound so ominous?

  I swallowed, trying to keep those damned butterflies at bay. “Sure.”

  “I have a proposal for you that I think will be beneficial for both of us. Now, you realize first that I cannot ask my customers to remove the book covers already created with those photos. You and Shane had already signed consent and my customers purchased those images in good faith. This also includes images that have, as of today, been purchased but not used as yet. Those are things I have no control over.”

  My stomach went from fluttery to sour, but I had to know. “How many images have you sold that haven’t been used yet?” I needed to know just how bad this was.

  “Well, you know my site is automated. If someone buys a non-exclusive photo, I have nothing to do with the exchange. Only when someone wants exclusive rights do I become involved.” I swallowed another pool of saliva in my mouth but let him continue. “That said, I checked before our meeting and there are still plenty of views of those particular photos, but no exclusive shots purchased over the past few days.” I nodded, feeling some of the tension in my muscles ease up a little bit.

  “But the proposal. Tell me again why you’re so desperate to get rid of these photos after modeling for so long—and being so good at it. You’re a natural, Ivy. You could be making a lot mor
e money working with an agency.”

  I sighed. I was pretty sure I’d told Greg this story before, but one more time wouldn’t hurt. Maybe it would be that appeal to decency, to his human side, that would win him over after all. I explained to him that the degree I’d been working so hard to earn for years now was just within reach, that all my efforts would soon pay off, but that I didn’t know that I could pursue my career—that of being a tenure-track professor—with those damned topless photos looming over my head.

  As much as I’d considered myself an actor when in front of the camera, I had no idea what an expert Greg was. During my plea, he seemed attentive—and even caring. I was certain he understood my plight and empathized.

  I’d been wrong. All that had done was help him realize just how desperate I’d become. Instead of bringing out the caring man in Greg, I’d helped him reveal his vileness. “This is important to you.” I nodded. “As I said, I have a proposal for you that I think will benefit us both.” As if to drag out the moment—almost as if he was feeding on my queasy emotions—he took another drink of his tea before continuing. “What if I took down all the photos where you’re topless?” After a second, he added, “All the unpurchased ones, of course, but also including the non-exclusive ones.”

  I raised my eyebrows. That had been more than I would have hoped for. I’d been willing to settle for just the most suggestive and revealing—and, perhaps, the ones where my face was easy to identify. But all of them? This was too good to be true—and my widening smile might have said that plainly. I nodded, though, unable to speak.

  My gesture was enough to communicate to Greg that I was game.

  “Now I know from our first conversation that my monetary price is out of your range.”

  I managed to squeak out, “One hundred thousand.”

  He gave a small nod. “Honestly, those photos are worth more to me but I would sell them to you for that price.” Oh, how generous. I bit my tongue. Math wasn’t my strong suit, but I knew that, even without interest, I would have to model for Greg for free on a weekly basis for years to pay off that amount. And, honestly, I imagined people would get sick of seeing my face on cover after cover after cover. I knew I would.

  But my brain was still on the offers I’d made Greg. He had something else in mind—and I needed to pay attention. He took a deep breath as a serious expression covered his face, shrouding his thoughts. “But you have something I desire more than money, Ivy.”

  I couldn’t help it. I felt my eyes widen at his words. So much for being a poker player—and that alone likely amplified the fear and desperation I felt deep down, reminding Greg that he most certainly had the upper hand. I’d given him that power by not controlling my emotions. I swallowed, blinking, silently praying that Greg wasn’t the vile creature I suspected he was revealing himself to be.

  His hand covered mine in an intimate gesture and I looked down. My mind was reeling and I was screaming inside for him to just get it over with. When I forced my eyes to make contact with his, I thought I saw a glint in them—but that could have been my imagination playing tricks on me. “They say that sex is the oldest profession.”

  Why my voice chose to make itself known at that point, I would never know. “Actually, it’s prostitution.”

  “Well, if you want to be so crass, okay. We can call it that. And, I suppose, given your intellect, I don’t have to mince words or be delicate, do I?” Was he making a subtle dig at me? With my emotions heightened and my nerves taut, I couldn’t tell—and I didn’t trust myself to be a decent judge of intent at this moment. “If you’re not willing—or able—to pay me my asking price, I’m willing to take payment in other ways.”

  “Illegal ways.”

  Greg sighed and started sliding out of the booth. “Obviously, you’re not willing to have this conversation, despite your pleas to the contrary.”

  Desperation once more reared her ugly head and I grabbed Greg’s arm. “No, I am.” I closed my eyes and sucked down a breath, ready to swallow my pride and any morals I thought I had, along with my belief in the innate goodness of man. This particular person was playing as dirty as he could, and I needed to just get over it and agree to whatever he proposed. “Please continue.” Now I merely needed to shut my mouth, let him talk, and agree when he was done.

  “Don’t worry, Ivy. We’ll start slow. I want it—” He placed a finger on my hand once more and began tracing a pattern over the skin. Considering the position I was now in, it took everything in my power to leave my hand still to allow him to do that. But I was beginning to revile him now—and he hadn’t even gotten to the good part yet. He looked in my eyes to emphasize his words. “I want it to feel as natural as possible.” I swallowed once more, fighting a feeling of nausea brewing in my gut. “So we’ll start with a little strip tease in my studio—a private show, if you will, just for me. But we won’t stop there. I’m going to take you in ways you never imagined and I’m going to do it again and again and again until I’m sick of you. And then your debt will be paid.” I could barely breathe. “I’ll even release those photographs to you in writing.”

  In spite of the fact that my emotions were now in utter turmoil, the rational side of my brain kicked in. “You didn’t specifically say how long. I need to know that.”

  His lip twitched. “I said until I get sick of you.” My stomach sloshed as a feeling of vertigo washed over me. Was this even real? But I knew it was. What I needed at this point—if I were to agree to selling my soul to this disgusting man—was to know how long. I could endure it if I could see the end.

  And he knew that. He could see it in my eyes. “Well, you and I both have obligations we must tend to. I imagine you have things you need to do for your school and your other job.” I wasn’t even going to let him know I was at the point where I had to decide where I wanted to begin my career in earnest—and it might not be the university I was earning my degree from. Ideally, this bullshit would be done by summer so I could freely go where I needed—but I couldn’t give him more leverage by letting on. “Why don’t we say that I have access every night after, say, seven o’clock until two in the morning—can you agree to that?” I could if I knew it wasn’t going to be five years, but I kept my mouth shut and gave half a nod. Right now, I couldn’t wrap my mind around the fact that it meant I’d have no freedom—and only heaven knew what kind of kink this man was into. But I couldn’t think about that. Not at this moment. Seeing my assent, he continued. “Then…let’s say a year. By Christmas of next year, you’ll be done.” My eyes grew wide again but I knew a year was better than what it could have been. “Ivy, one hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money. Basically, I’m telling you you’re worth thousands of dollars a month.” His voice grew deep and sinister then, even though his eyes seemed calm. “I’m giving you a bargain.”

  It might have felt that way to him, but I knew I really was selling to him everything I believed in. I’d have to get over it, of course, but he was ruining my life. My brain scrambled, and I knew I’d have to figure out how to put off finding another job—maybe teaching for the university here for a year if I could—but those were details I’d have to iron out on my own.

  I had to seem amenable, because I had to agree to it. Heaven knew what he’d do at this point if I reneged, now that he knew how much this meant to me. So I nodded. “Okay.”

  “How about we start on New Year’s Day—and we go the entire year? That should be easy for us both to remember. And, in the spirit of generosity, I’ll give you holidays off. After all, I’m sure you’ll want to spend time with family and such.”

  I wasn’t going to tell him I didn’t do holidays much. Sometimes I’d visit a cousin out of state or something like that but mostly it meant I had some time off. That was it. Still, if it meant I could have a brief vacation from whatever hell this man was going to put me through, so be it. I forced my jaw to relax and extended my hand, almost ready to shake on it…but I just couldn’t. I wasn’t ready. “Can I have so
me time to think about it?”

  Greg considered me like an item on the buffet table, finally answering, “Twenty-four hours. After that, I withdraw my offer.” I nodded, letting him know I understood, pursing my lips so I’d say no more.

  If ever I’d felt like I’d been bargaining with the devil…this was it.

  * * *

  I didn’t know who I’d been kidding—Greg or myself—when I’d asked for time to think. My mind had already been made up before we’d walked out the door of the restaurant. I was going to do this.

  I just had to get my head in the game.

  Once home, I rifled through my closet, looking for something appropriate to wear to meet Shane’s parents for the first—and probably last—time. I felt like Scarlett O’Hara going to Ashley’s birthday party in the revealing burgundy dress, that I wasn’t allowed to wear anything “modest,” as Rhett would have said. No—I needed to wear something that would reveal my inner nature. Hester Prynne had to wear a red A for adultery. Perhaps I could wear a W…because I already felt like a whore, even though I hadn’t engaged in the act yet.

  I would need to tell Shane. I knew that…but I didn’t want to ruin the evening. Meeting his family? That was a huge deal—I understood that—but I hadn’t felt a sense of family in eons and I was looking forward to that interaction. If Shane’s family was anything like he was, then I knew I’d love them.

  The doorbell rang while I was still staring into my closet, wearing nothing but my lacy white matching underwear. Stupid. Choosing shouldn’t be that difficult. I knew I wanted to wear a dress, so I had to simply grab one and throw it on. How hard could that be?

  But my strange emotions made me confused, indecisive, and distracted. I snatched my short pink robe off the bedpost, darting through my apartment to the front door. When I let Shane in, I said, “Sorry. I just need to get dressed and then I’ll be ready.”

  Damn. He looked delicious. The hair he sometimes spiked for his gigs or slicked back tonight looked soft and touchable, perfect for running my fingers through—or grabbing and pulling. Immediately, my mind had to go there. And why not? My relationship with him was based first on sex, no matter how mushy I wanted to make it.