“Bend your elbows a bit, the arc of your torso is alluring and I don’t want you to hide it.” He bites out the instructions as if angry with me for concealing it in the first place.
I didn’t think he was going to touch me. I thought he’d walk away, which is why I couldn’t have prevented the soft moan from escaping my lips when his hands wrapped around the side of my torso. His warm palms ignite my skin, just under my shoulder blades. The tips of his long fingers hit the very sides of my br**sts. His touch sets my skin on fire, and I close my eyes, wanting to block out every other sense. I’m not at a photo shoot. I’m not in a Dior gown posing for my photographer. I’m hardly sentient. His touch turns me into a pile of tingling sensations, throbbing need laced with adrenaline and lust. His touch is the only thing that matters. I love the difference in texture. My skin is soft and smooth against his strong, calloused hands. Hands that practically wrap around my entire body.
“Do you feel that, Charley?”
I feel nothing. Not the floor beneath my feet or the studio lighting against my skin. Only his touch.
When I don’t respond, his hands slide slowly down the length of my torso, sending delicious shivers down my spine.
“Yes,” I whisper so gently that I’m sure he didn’t hear.
I clear my throat, trying to tamper the lust building within me. His hand gently squeezes my waist, demanding a reply.
“Yes,” I murmur a little louder this time.
“Show the camera what you feel, Charley,” he commands in my ear before dropping his hands and walking away. The moment he cuts off his touch, my surroundings rush back in like a crashing wave. My body cries out in protest as my eyes flash open and a deep inhale floods my lungs. Was I holding my breath that whole time?
CHAPTER FOUR
Charley
My apartment is eerily quiet this morning. Normally the sounds from the corner bakery next door drift up to my room, but I’m awake earlier than usual. I doubt the bakery has even unlocked its friendly-yellow doors yet.
I’ve lived in Greenwich Village for the past two years. It feels more like home than anywhere I’ve lived before, including the sprawling town house on the Upper West Side that I shared with my parents for eighteen years. That place can’t be considered a home. Not anymore.
My apartment, or rather tiny room, combines a bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen into one open area. There’s no space for a real painting area, but I make do. The apartment is inside of an old townhouse that my landlord, Mrs. Jenkins, remodeled after her husband passed away. There are four separate apartments on the bottom floor.
Mrs. Jenkins kept the second story for herself. She’s a sweet woman and there would be many nights where I’d go hungry if she wasn’t there tapping on my door with extra pasta or a casserole in tow.
It’s not that I purposely forget to eat. I lost my appetite four years ago and most of the time I have to remind myself that I need to nourish my body. I should take better care of myself. Usually I’m lost in a painting and can’t be bothered, especially when I never feel hungry.
The strange thing is, no matter how little I eat, my body still has the energy to run. It craves it. Every morning I get up and traverse my neighborhood streets. I have a strict route and I adhere to it like my life depends on it.
Except on Saturday mornings.
Every Saturday I drag Naomi to Central Park and we bask in the beautiful landscape as we do our weekly run together. I’ll admit, I usually have to persuade her to go, but she doesn’t fight much once we start.
In an hour or two I’ll meet her outside her apartment and we’ll take the subway up to Sixtieth Street. We’ll hop out at the bottom edge of the sprawling green space, stretch out, and start our run.
The only problem is, I’m not sure what to do to occupy my time until then.
I have two hours to glance numbly around my empty apartment.
I don’t like these gaps of time in my life. I keep my schedule filled to the brim with activities, carefully planning each hour of my day. These unforeseen quiet moments are when my thoughts drift toward the blackness I’ve fought so hard to leave behind. The phrase “an idle mind is the devil’s playground” repeats in my head as I glance down at my phone to see it’s only a quarter after five in the morning.
I know I woke up early today because of him. Because of Jude. I could barely get to sleep last night. Every memory of the day replayed behind my closed eyes last night, keeping my senses tingling and my mind racing.
After the gown ‘incident’, he practically ignored me. Mrs. Hart directed most of the remaining shoot, which ended up wrapping earlier than I was expecting. She loved the first shots so much that the next few outfits only took a few minutes to shoot. By the time I’d returned from scrubbing off my makeup and changing back into my clothes, the set had turned into a desert town. Jude’s assistants were meandering around, breaking down lights and packing up the diffusers – Jude was nowhere to be found.
I guess his work was done.
With a sigh, I roll onto my side to examine the early morning light casting shadows across my room. I would try to forget about him completely, but our photo shoot recommences on Monday after Mrs. Hart and her team finalize the Fall Fashion pieces they want to feature. Will he be there Monday?
I was actually sad when I realized he was gone.
But what was I expecting? He works with models all day, every day. It’s clear that any attraction felt was strictly one sided. I tug a hand through my hair to jar me from the embarrassing realization. Enough.
Before my brain can protest, I jump up and throw on my black capri leggings and my blue Lululemon Runners pullover and lace up my sneakers. I’ve got to get out of here. I’ll check my mail and then see if Mrs. Jenkins is awake. She’s always eager to chit-chat, especially when I agree to eat some coffee cake with her.
…
The red line is empty when we board at the Greenwich Village stop. Naomi and I plop down next to each other on a pair of orange, plastic chairs. She always lets me have the window seat so that I can stare out and watch the dark tunnel whip by.
“I hate you, did I mention that already?”
Breaking my trance, I smile over at her and pretend to look up toward the subway’s worn metal roof in recollection.
“Umm, once when I dragged your ass out of bed. Then again when I literally had to tie your sneakers for you. And a third time when a tiny tear rolled down your cheek as you realized that today we have to run an extra mile to make up for last week.”
Naomi has quite the flare for the dramatic. I secretly think she has to act so normal at her accounting job that she bottles up all of her craziness and unloads it all at once as soon as we’re together.
My sassy list makes her crack a smile though, and she wraps an arm around my shoulders, bringing me toward her for a side hug.
“I think that should suffice then,” she quips happily, apparently done with her pity party for now.
“I should just let you get fat,” I tease, leaving my head against her shoulder.
“Impossible. My mother’s English and my father’s Swiss and Nigerian. Due to my lack of fatass American genes, I will have this killer bod until the day I die.”
I shake my head because sadly, I know she’s right. Naomi is sickeningly gorgeous. Her lightly tanned skin and warm, brown eyes are the kind that every girl covets.
“Leave it up to the Swiss to produce a baby as cute as you,” I tease, pinching her cheek.
She shoots me a playful glare and I sigh, happy to be in this element with her. Naomi makes me feel light, like nothing bad has every happened or will ever happen. I soak up her happiness like a sponge, hoping it’ll fuel me long after we’ve separated for the day.
We sit in silence for a few minutes as she checks her phone and twists a finger through her glossy ponytail. As we get closer to Central Park, the subway steadily fills and once again, I find myself daydreaming out of the square window. The memory of Mrs. Jenkins’ cinnamon swirl cake from earlier almost puts a smile on my face, but then I remember what was waiting for me in my mail this morning. On the very top of the stack of bills and junk, lay a thick, eggshell white envelope engraved with my mother’s initials in swirly calligraphy.
I guess I’d lost track of time. Usually I expect her “quarterly check-ins” a few days in advance, but her letter had caught me off guard this morning. Her notes wouldn’t come at all, except for the fact that I caved two years ago and told her my address. She wouldn’t stop hounding me and even threatened to call the police and place a missing persons report, so I thought it’d be easier just to cave. However, each time one of her monogrammed letters arrives, I regret that decision all over again.
The cops would have been a nice change of pace to be honest.
With unsteady hands I tore the envelope open and peeked in to see her standard stationery tucked in front of a check made out to my name. I didn’t even glance at the amount. I walked back into my apartment, pulled the battered memory box from my closet, and placed the letter and check behind all of the others.
Nice talking to you mother, do visit again soon.
“So, do you want to tell me more about Photographer Boy?” Naomi asks, breaking me out of my mother-filled reverie.
My heart instantly leaps at the memory of Jude. I don’t look at her right away for fear that she’ll see my emotions written across my face. The memory of his touch makes my body instantly feel warm and I know Naomi will see the flush on my cheeks. My eyes stay glued to the tunnel walls as they whip by my window.
“Not really, no,” I mutter, barely loud enough for her to hear me over the rumbling of the subways tracks.
She knows better than to push me, but she’s still probably upset that I’ve closed the subject off so suddenly. I’d texted her yesterday, during a break in the shoot, to give her quick details about Jude, but when he left abruptly I changed my mind about discussing him with her.
“Alright. But for the record, he sounded seriously hot.”
I don’t respond because there’s nothing to say other than you have no idea.
The subway screeches to a stop and more New Yorkers file into the confined space. An elderly Latino woman sinks into the seat in front of us, clutching her oversized purse on top of her feeble lap. I focus on her, studying the colorful pattern on her bag and the beautiful mix of charcoal and ashen tones in her hair. She’s a nice distraction from Naomi’s prudent stare that I feel burning a hole into the side of my face.
When I’m silent for another minute, Naomi finally nudges my shoulder. “I forgot to tell you that my friend from work is playing a soccer game in Central Park today. I told him we’d run by and say hello if we got the chance.”
I don’t really feel like meeting her friends. It doesn’t matter though. I already closed up the option of discussing Jude and saying no to chatting with her friend would hurt her feelings.
So I plaster on a simple smile and turn toward her.
“Sounds good. Have I met him before?”
“Nope. He works in a different department and we only met last week during one of our company-wide meetings. His name’s Bennett.”