Naked

by Megan Hart

  So did my mouth.

  “What…? No. Oh…no, you shouldn’t have! You didn’t? You did. Oh, my God!”

  He’d bought me the camera I’d shown him in Mr. Cullen’s shop. A five-thousand-dollar camera, the one I’d been lusting after for years. Alex had given me a dream.

  “Hey…don’t cry.” He wiped a tear from my cheek but could do no more because I was squeezing the breath from him.

  “I love you,” I said.

  We both froze, cheek to cheek, the camera box between us. I hadn’t meant to say it, at least not like that. I’d meant I loved him for buying me the camera, the way you love vanilla ice cream, or horror movies. Not love the way you love a person.

  “I love you, too,” he said quietly and directly into my ear, so there was no way I could pretend I didn’t hear him.

  I pulled away. “Alex…”

  “Olivia,” he said with a slow and easy smile.

  “Thank you for the camera.”

  Kisses lingered and I had to lean back to catch my breath again. “It’s…amazing. It’s too much.”

  “It’s not too much.”

  “It’s very expensive,” I amended. “I wasn’t expecting it.”

  “Duh,” Alex said, surfer-boy style. “That’s totally why I bought it for you.”

  I cupped his cheek. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Eager, like a kid, he bent over it to show me the other things in the box. A camera bag, neck strap. Cleaning cloth.

  “Alex,” I said quietly so he’d look at me. “I have some things to talk about.”

  Chapter

  13

  “I have to tell you something I never mentioned before.” I set the camera aside and took both his hands.

  His brow creased. “Okay.”

  I drew in a breath, thinking of the words and how to say them. Then I knew. I got up and went to the drawer in the cabinet along the wall. I pulled out a sheaf of photos and came back to the couch. I faced him, our knees touching. I gave him the pictures.

  They weren’t in order, but as he sifted through them Alex set the ones that were alike together. He looked at the ones of the infant on a blanket, then the shot I’d taken just a few weeks before. He glanced up at me.

  “She looks like you.”

  “Yeah. She does.”

  He blinked and gazed back at the photos. “You and Devon?”

  I shook my head. “No. I met Pippa’s dad in a bar after I broke up with Patrick. He claimed to be shipping out the next day, and even though I knew that was probably a crock of shit, I wanted to believe him for a few hours. It was…a bad time in my life. I found Devon and his partner through an adoption agency. They wanted a baby, and I wanted to help them.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” He put the pictures all together in a pile but didn’t hand them back to me.

  My stomach sank and twisted, dinner sitting in it like a stone. “I wanted you to know.”

  “She’s beautiful.”

  I turned my head to look at the picture on top of the pile, the one of her spinning with her dress out around her. “She is. But she’s not my daughter, Alex. I’m not her mother.”

  He shifted on the couch and I dared a look at him. “But you’ve got pictures of her.”

  “Devon and Steven wanted Pippa to know me. They want me to know her. But I’m not her parent.” I swallowed against dryness, waiting for judgment.

  He nodded. “That’s quite a gift you gave them. I only gave you a camera.”

  The laugh startled out of me. “Yeah, well, believe me, that was a better choice for me.”

  He smiled and kissed me. “Thanks for telling me.”

  “I had to. I didn’t want you to find out later, because you would. She’s not a secret in my life or anything. And if ever…well, I mean, it would come out, eventually. That she was my first.”

  Something softened in his gaze, and his mouth. His kiss this time was longer. Different. And when he pulled away, his expression was more open than I’d ever seen it.

  “I’m glad you told me.”

  I took another deep breath. “My family took it hard. My dad and his wife won’t talk about it. One of my brothers pretends he doesn’t know, but the other one had fertility problems with his wife, so they’re actually pretty cool with it. But my mother…”

  He waited for me without pushing.

  “She hates what I did. Hates.”

  “Because you gave the baby away?”

  “You’d think a woman who adopted a kid would be more understanding, huh?” I shook my head, bad memories still tasting bitter.

  “So what happened?”

  A lot had happened, but it would take longer than a few minutes to share the story, and I didn’t really want to get into all the details. “She disowned me for a while. Now she just refuses to talk about it. But we’re not close. We used to be.”

  “I’m sorry, Olivia.”

  “It’s not just that. It’s her whole Orthodox thing. Since she became observant, there’s not much room in her life for me.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Yeah. It does.”

  “I’m glad you told me.” He paused. “Does it matter to you?”

  “What?”

  “That I’m not Jewish.”

  I laughed, hard and long. “God, no. Why would you think so?”

  He touched my necklace with a fingertip. “It suits you. And I thought the candles, the pepperoni…”

  “Those are my things.” I thought of my mom, hair covered, insisting I stand beside her to pray. Throwing away the plastic dish that had been mine since infancy because there was no way to make it kosher, and she had no room in her kitchen or her life for anything that couldn’t be made kosher. “I don’t expect you to go by what I believe. If I believe anything, which I’m not sure I do.”

  “I just wondered if it mattered if I was different, that’s all.”

  I took his hand, our fingers linked. I touched them, his, mine, his, mine. “We’ll always be different.”

  He kissed our fingers. “That doesn’t matter to me, either.”

  We kissed, not passionately, though of course it was all still so new that every time we kissed I thought about fucking him. I rested my head on his shoulder. “I wish…”

  “What?”

  “That I could be just one thing. One way or another.”

  His hand stroked over my hair, toying with the locks. “Nobody’s ever just one thing, Olivia.”

  I snorted softly. “Right.”

  “I mean it.”

  I toyed with the snaps on the front of his shirt. Cowboy chic had never impressed me, so why did Alex’s snap-front Western shirt so enamor me? I pictured him with a cowboy hat pulled low over his eyes, a pair of boots, a swagger. I could picture him as a lot of things. That didn’t make them true any more than picturing myself as Catholic did, or Jewish, or white. Or black.

  Alex looked uncomfortable for a moment, took a breath, looked as if he meant to speak, and thought better of it. I gave him the time he’d given me. When he did speak, his voice was low and guarded, but he looked me in the eyes. “I have something to tell you, too.”

  I braced myself. I took his hand. Palm to palm, our fingers linked. “Okay.”

  “Is the reason Patrick’s so pissed off at you because of me?”

  “Part of it.” My thumb stroked the back of his hand.

  He let out the breath he must’ve been holding. “So…you know.”

  I nodded and went for broke. “I saw you the night of Patrick’s Chrismukkah party. With that guy Evan.”

  Alex groaned. His head dropped back against the couch. “Fuck.”

  It had been easier than I thought, but then so far, everything with him had been. “And Patrick told me about you.”

  Now he looked at me, a brow raised. “He did?”

  “He said you…were together,” I said delicately. “Just once. And that Teddy didn’t know.”

  Alex frowned. �
��Did he say we fucked?”

  I nodded. He sighed. Ran a hand over his hair.

  “We didn’t. He wanted to. I let him blow me, that’s all.”

  Unlike Clinton, Patrick didn’t always differentiate. It made sense. It didn’t make it any easier to know, but at least I believed it wasn’t a lie.

  “I wish he hadn’t told you,” Alex said.

  My fingers tightened in his. “Why? Because you didn’t want me to know?”

  “No, because I should’ve been the one to tell you.” He didn’t try to kiss me, maybe afraid I’d pull away. “I should’ve known he’d spill it. He told me to stay away from you.”

  “He told me to stay away from you, too.”

  “But neither of us listened.” His eye gleamed again. “Must be fate.”

  “I have a lot of…issues…about what happened with Patrick. I didn’t want to get into another relationship with a guy who might create those same issues.”

  “Fuck, I’m surprised you ever agreed to be with me in the first place.”

  I kissed him then, just as slowly and easily as he always managed to with me. “You aren’t Patrick.”

  “No, I sure as hell am not.”

  I looked into his eyes. “All I want to know is that you’ll be honest with me. That’s it. Fat ass in jeans, kinky secrets, whatever it is.”

  “I won’t lie to you, Olivia. Okay?”

  I believed him.

  I’d fallen, hard.

  I waited to hit the ground, but every day I spent with Alex was just as wonderful as the one before had been. Not that we existed solely in a glitter-covered cloud of rainbows or anything. He annoyed me sometimes with his smart-ass answers, and my perpetual lateness made Alex snap in irritation. But those were normal things. Couple-type things, and I welcomed even the small arguments because they didn’t derail us. We could survive them. What had grown between us wasn’t going to melt away or dissolve. What we had was real.

  I took dozens of pictures of him. Hundreds. He was good at posing, comfortable with his body, completely in touch with his sexuality. I’d won the photography basket we’d bid on at Chocolate Fest, and it included admission to one of Scott Church’s workshops, this one held in Philadelphia. I could take one model. Of course I took Alex.

  I had a copy of Church’s last book for him to sign, and Alex flipped through it on the drive from Annville to Philadelphia. The Pennsylvania Turnpike is long and straight and mostly smooth, the view along it fields and neighborhoods. Pretty.

  “Am I going to have to get naked for this shoot?”

  I flicked him a glance. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

  He laughed more self-consciously than I was used to hearing from him. “I guess it wouldn’t be the first time I was bare-assed in a crowd. Just not used to having my picture taken that way, that’s all.”

  Alex and I talked about everything. Life, the universe and everything, to quote Douglas Adams. We’d covered families and lovers, his list quite a bit longer than mine. I wanted to know about that, him being naked in a crowd, but decided against asking. He would tell me the truth the way I always believed he had, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know it.

  “I’ve taken your picture lots of times,” I pointed out instead.

  “Totally different.”

  “You think so?” I shot him another look as I eased into the right lane, getting ready to exit. “Why?”

  “I don’t care if I get a hard-on when you’re taking my picture. And I usually do. What if I’m programmed for that?” He sounded serious, but his smile gave him away. “What if I’m like one of those dogs with the bell, but instead of drooling, my cock gets hard when the flash goes off?”

  I laughed. “Oh, Alex.”

  “Olivia. I’m serious. What if I’m the only dude there with a flagpole between his legs?”

  “There will be lots of naked chicks there. I’ve no doubt you won’t be the only dude with a chubby.”

  “Fuck, I’m doomed.”

  With my eyes on the road to make sure I didn’t take a wrong turn, I couldn’t see his expression. I didn’t need to. I could read his voice. This realization put a smile on my face.

  “You’re mocking me, Olivia. Why mock?” He sounded sad, but I could hear his smile, too. “That’s not nice.”

  “Baby, if I thought you were really worried about showing off your cock to the world, I’d never have asked you to come with me today. But,” I said as I took a side street, then pulled into the lot of an old warehouse, “I happen to know you have nothing to be ashamed of. Or embarrassed about. An erection to these people will be just another day’s work. I promise.”

  He ran his fingers down the length of his striped scarf, worn for fashion and not warmth, since March had gone out like a lamb this year. “It wouldn’t bother you? Really?”

  “If you get hard because you get off on being naked in front of other people, or because there are hot naked chicks with flat bellies, no stretch marks and big tits there?”

  “Either. All.”

  I took his hand. Stroked each finger. Held it to my lips and kissed each fingertip. “Should I?”

  “I don’t think you should. No.”

  We hadn’t talked about monogamy. I had no time for another lover, but I guessed it was possible that during my long hours of work Alex had found someone else to fuck. It didn’t feel that way, but I wasn’t stupid enough to assume I’d be able to tell.

  “Fool me twice,” I murmured.

  “Huh?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing.”

  His mouth thinned. “I’m not Patrick, Olivia.”

  “I love that you’re so scary smart you get me even when I’m being vague.”

  His mouth twisted, not quite a smile but no longer a frown. “Maybe I want to know you’d be a little jealous, that’s all.”

  I studied him, our fingers linked. More cars pulled into the lot. Women, some of them barely dressed, got out. I squeezed his hand. “You just said—”

  He squeezed, too. “I know what I said. And you have nothing to be jealous about. But it would be nice to know…you might be.”

  I sat back in my seat to parse this. Work it through. “You want me to be angry about you doing something I asked you to do?”

  “No. Yes. Fuck,” he said. “Not angry.”

  This conversation had taken some strange twists I wasn’t sure I could follow. “I asked you to be my model because you’re good at it, and because you’re so fucking sexy, Alex Kennedy, I wanted to show you off a little.”

  “Share me?”

  I was getting so much better at reading his eyes. “You don’t want me to share you?”

  “I want you,” Alex said in a low, hoarse voice, “not to want to share me.”

  Everything with us was still so new, explosive, supernova, that even this could turn us on. This, our first real discomfort. I leaned across the gearshift and took his face in my hands.

  “I don’t want to share you, ever. I want you all for myself. I am greedy and selfish for you, Alex. I want you to be all mine.”

  His smile teased my lips. His tongue stroked mine and our kiss softened. He pulled away.

  “Okay,” he said.

  “Is that jealous enough for you?” I stroked a thumb over his eyebrows.

  “Yes. Will you kick a bitch’s ass over me?”

  I laughed then. “Oh, seriously.”

  His smile widened. “Good.”

  I raised a brow. “Do you not want to be my model today? For real? We can leave.”

  “Nah.” He looked out the window, toward the warehouse. “It’s okay. I want you to take this class. It’s all you’ve been talking about for the past couple weeks.”

  “Not all I’ve been talking about. We talked about Star Trek the other day.”

  He kissed me again. “But you want to do this.”

  I held him close when he would’ve pulled away. “But you don’t have to. I can take this class without a model.
”

  “But that means you’ll be taking pictures of someone else.”

  “Yes,” I said slowly, thinking of the last workshop I’d taken. Naked women, naked men, all posed in a puppy pile of bare flesh, tangled limbs, faces obscured. It had been sensual, but not erotic. I’d learned a lot that day I could use in my own work, which aside from the pictures I’d taken of Alex was rarely sexual. “But that doesn’t mean—”

  “It means,” Alex said firmly. “Because, Olivia, didn’t it ever occur to you, I might be a little jealous, too?”

  There were only about forty people in the room, photographers with one model each. Some hadn’t brought any. We sipped sodas and nibbled snacks while Church set up the first shot using his assistant, Sarene. He talked the whole time, explaining F-stops and shutter speeds and lighting and shadow. Cameras clicked in front of serious faces. Some people took notes.

  “Fuck, it’s like a morgue in here,” Church said suddenly. “This is supposed to be fun!”

  We all laughed. He talked some more, showing us simple techniques to get the best angles. He added models to the tableau. Alex wasn’t the only guy there, but he was one of the first pulled up to take part.

  Camera to my eye, I watched him put his hands on the hips of a pale-skinned girl with no ass but huge breasts. She wore only a pair of platform pumps and a black thong, though he was still clothed. They posed. My finger pressed the button and took the picture. Through the camera lens, it wasn’t real.

  “Fuck me if I’m wrong, but don’t I know you?”

  I took the camera from my eye to look toward the voice. “Oh, hi. We’ve met, yes. Olivia Mackey.”

  Scott Church, who was always Scott Church in my head, sometimes just Church but never only Scott, gave me a hug. “You’ve modeled for me, right?”

  “I’ve been to your class before.”

  “Kick ass.” He gestured for me to show him the picture I’d just taken. “Show me.”

  Most creative people are the same. We do what we do for love and sometimes money, but mostly we thrive on praise. We can’t help loving our own work even if we sometimes hate it, but having someone else love it often means so much more. Church looked at what I’d done and nodded, then shifted a setting on my camera, pointed it at the group of models still posing.