She curls up her lips in a snarl. “Desperate times, desperate measures.”
I laugh at her feistiness. “Well, I sincerely hope the best for Rose and your granddaughter…what’s her name?”
“Arielle.”
“Pretty name,” I say. “And I do like children, but I’m taking a break from dating at the moment.”
“Why’s that?”
I pull my eyes from my camera settings to blink at Mrs. Mattley. “Well, isn’t someone a nosey little bird, today?”
She shrugs. “I’m seventy-four, Finny. I’m allowed to be nosey.”
Much to my annoyance, Lennox jumps in on my behalf to explain. “Finn had a psycho ex—super controlling, jealous, and”—she glances at my irritated expression—“I’m just going to say it—rageful. Anyway, they had an extremely toxic, volatile relationship for a long time and when he finally broke it off about eight months ago, he went a little buck wild.”
“Buck wild?” Mrs. Mattley asks as I flush in embarrassment.
Lennox, ignoring my red cheeks, continues, “One morning he was late for a shoot and when I checked on him, I found not one, but two naked women in his bed.”
“Oh my.” Mrs. Mattley covers her mouth.
Lennox’s smile grows wider if it’s even possible. “Oh, but he wasn’t in bed, Mrs. Mattley. He was in the shower…with the third woman who spent the night.”
“Lennox!” I snap in irritation. I hold up one palm in a what-the-fuck motion. “For the love of God.”
“What?” She shrugs innocently. “She asked.”
Lennox is my assistant, but she’s also my cousin and best friend since childhood, so basically, she lives to give me shit.
“What she’s trying to say,” I explain, still glaring at Lennox, “is that I felt a little lost after my breakup and admittedly had a little too much fun, so I’m taking a break. Like a palate cleanser if you will.”
It’s the absolute most tame way to explain myself. After Nora and I broke up, I’d lose myself for days at a time. All the things she accused me of while we were together, that I never did—I dove right into out of spite. I live just off the Las Vegas Strip and I took full advantage. I went on benders for days straight. I partied, binge-drank, and fucked. I fucked so much, I stopped feeling my orgasms. The only real evidence of my climax was the mess I’d leave behind. I was numb…my heart was completely numb.
It had to stop. After months of pressing the self-destruct button, I needed to stop.
“Finn, honey,” Mrs. Mattley says, pressing her palm against my cheek. “May I give you some advice, dear? From your elder.”
I nod into her hand. “Of course you can.”
“You are young, dashingly handsome, and have a body fit enough to captain a ship.”
I glance at Lennox from the corner of my eyes. Her perplexed expression tells me I’m not the only one who finds that compliment odd.
Mrs. Mattley continues, “You’re going to blink and be an old, withered mess like me. So, while you have the stamina that you do”—she flashes me a devilish smile—“stick your thing in everything you want. I mean, use a condom for goodness’ sake, but have fun, Finny.”
Lennox bursts out laughing. She wraps her arms around her ribs to try to control her heaving.
My dry mouth falls open. “Mrs. Mattley—”
“I’m serious, Finn. As long as you’re safe, what’s wrong with making as many connections as you can? You only get one life.”
Nothing, I suppose. But what happens when sex no longer feels like connecting?
“You know, I think I’ve learned more about you in this one session than I’ve learned in months of knowing you.”
Mrs. Mattley flicks her hair with sass, causing Lennox to fall into a fit of laughter, tears beginning to form at the corner of her eyes. “I…love…her…” she says between gasping chuckles.
“This is what happens when you put me in skin-tight leather,” she explains. “You get the devil.”
“All right, you randy little minx, save some of that energy, would you?” Rising, I tap my camera gently. This camera is worth half a year of car payments. I squint at the LCD display to confirm we still have the perfect lighting pouring in from the large windowpanes to the right of the studio. Then I get bossy. “All right, tilt your chin like I showed you—ah! No, stop that.”
“Stop what?” Mrs. Mattley freezes in place, startled, like I told her there was a giant spider on her head.
“What are you doing with your mouth?” I ask, watching her try to pucker her thin lips awkwardly.
“I’m told it’s called duckface. It’s supposed to be flattering.”
Palming my forehead, I shake my head adamantly. “It is not and stop that. Natural,” I remind her. “That’s what looks best. Don’t try so hard.”
“Well, are you going to fix these pictures with all your Photoshop magic when I look like a wilted, decrepit, old widow?”
Groaning, I abandon my perfect positioning and squat down so I’m level with her eyes. Without looking, I jut my thumb over my shoulder at the giant sign on the back of the studio wall. “Read it.”
Mrs. Mattley blinks at me, unimpressed.
“Out loud,” I demand. The sign is an eight-by-four-foot white canvas, with simple words scrawled in black calligraphy. It’s mounted to the back of the studio wall so that no matter where you are on the set, the client can read it clear as day. A constant reminder…
“You’re beautiful. You’re worthy,” she mumbles.
“Mhm,” I say, looking into her blue eyes. “Nowhere on that sign does it say ‘wilted’ and I’m certain I’ve never uttered the word ‘decrepit’ in here.” I brush my thumb against her cheek that’s tinted with a perfect blush, thanks to the makeup artist who was here not two hours ago. “You are beautiful. You are worthy. So act like it, Mrs. Mattley.” Standing again, I back away a few paces and raise my camera once more. “Just stare over my shoulder at that sign and give me a simple smile.”
Once her shoulder relaxes and she’s mastering the flattering poses without distorting her body, the camera becomes obsessed. I click away furiously, capturing her energy that’s growing bolder by the minute.
This is the reason I work so hard at my job. The reward is seeing a woman believe in her own magic. This certainly isn’t sex…
But it’s most definitely connecting.
3
Avery
“Oh, babe, this is not a good look.” My best friend, Palmer, bursts through the front door of her apartment, mercilessly flicking on the overhead light of my bedroom. And by “my bedroom,” I mean her living room couch, which has been my primary domain for the past few days since the night of my birthday.
Palmer drops a large cardboard box on her living room coffee table, which has become my desk, my dresser, and my dining table. I eye the slinky black dress lying at the top of the box.
Sitting up, I give Palmer my most unamused side glance. “I said pick up some comfy clothes. My little”—well, technically medium—“black dress is not comfortable.”