Exposed and hidden.
Fuck, I'm flushed everywhere. I stop fighting it. I grab the remote for my camera and I snap a photo.
The long line of my back.
The curve of my neck.
My messy ends of my hair.
I turn my face to the camera, like the woman in the photograph.
Then all of me.
A full body shot. I've taken plenty, but I've never posted one publicly.
Never with my face.
Click, click.
My chest flames as I take a photo. Then another. Another.
It's dangerous. Illicit. Thrilling.
I close my eyes. Let my thoughts drift to Adam.
Does he know about my website? Is that why he hired me? It shouldn't thrill me, but the thought of him fucking himself to one of my pictures sets me on fire.
I slip my hand between my legs.
Like he's here, on the other side of the camera, watching me with those intense blue eyes.
I come fast.
Too fast.
I'm dizzy.
And I'm standing here, naked, my camera filled with proof I fucked myself in my living room.
What would Adam say if he saw this photo?
Would he break, admit he knows my alter ego?
Or would he stand strong and silent?
Something tells me it's the latter.
I started posting self-portraits on Instagram a few years ago. At first they were camera phone selfies. Clothed, but moody and artistic.
Then I found the money for a camera, lights, reflectors, tripods. I was at home one day, trying to recreate one of Dana Delaney's photos. An artistic nude.
I was trying to figure out how to make the light fall over my torso just so, but it didn't look right with my shirt in the way.
And it didn't work with my bra either.
So I tried it. Lost the clothes. Took the photo.
Just to see if I could nail the composition.
I did.
I was so proud I had to show it off.
My social media was connected to my name, my face, my job at the gallery. So I made a new account.
Broken Beauty.
I posted a PG-13 crop. Woke to dozens of likes and comments.
Then I did it again.
Again.
I couldn't afford a model, so I kept shooting self-portraits.
After a dozen photos, I was ready to show more. Full-size. Explicit.
So I bought a domain, started posting a few photos a week.
My audience grew, bit by bit.
I haven't tried to sell anything. Not yet.
I'm not ready to let go of anonymity. There's something about revealing myself without revealing my face.
My art, my body, my work, on display for anyone who wants to see.
Only I'm completely in control.
This is the only place I feel in control.
I can't give that up. Not for Adam. Not for money. Not even for Remy.
I need the outlet. I won't survive without my pictures. This is the only place where I get to make noise and take up space.
It's mine.
This is risky. Stupid maybe.
But I always follow my instincts here. And they're screaming yes.
I crop the photo. Add a caption.
Is it better to stay strangers?
Or show our scars?
A little obvious, I know, but I want a reaction.
If this is why Adam chose me, I want to know.
I fall asleep before Remy gets home. Dream of thick wool coats, creamy lattes, overflowing glasses of wine.
All the space and time to perfect my photography.
Money to hire models.
Adam, agreeing to pose for me. Doing away with his suit jacket. Then his tie. Shirt. Slacks.
I wake up flushed and nervous.
And… hearing my brother talking to someone?
Someone familiar.
"She works hard, but she sleeps like a rock. It might be another hour," Remy says. "Are you sure you want to wait here?"
"If it isn't a problem," the familiar voice says. "I have the car."
"You could bring more coffee."
"One wasn't enough?"
"Enough coffee?"
The voice laughs.
No. Not a voice. Louis.
Shit.
I throw on a dress and move into the main room. Find my brother chatting with Louis.
No. Not chatting. Flirting.
"Danny." He brandishes a takeout coffee cup. "You didn't tell me you had a boyfriend."
Is that a plausible explanation? "Hey, Louis."
He nods hello.
Remy smiles. "Already friends with Louis. You've been busy."
"Yes. Busy working."
"Uh-huh." Remy smiles. "Doing some very hard jobs I imagine."
Oh god.
"What kind of car did you say you drive?" Remy asks Louis.
"Not one with that much privacy," Louis says.
"Really?" Remy deflates. "Never? 'Cause it would be pretty hot to engage in that kind of action. Or is that weird for you?"
"I used to drive a limo," Louis says. "I'm used to it."
Remy motions see.
"Oh my god, please ignore my brother. He's a depraved pervert," I say.
He motions oh stop.
"Thank you for the coffee." I take it from Remy.
He raises his brows oh my god, you better explain.
Mmm. It's good. Sweet and creamy. Just the right mix of espresso, almond milk, and honey.
"Is Mr. Bellamy accompanying us today?" Louis asks.
"Today?" I ask.
"Yes. We have to sign the papers for your… agreement," he says.
Remy's eyes go wide.
"Mr. Pierce asked me to help you pick out a few things. Since you'll need to feel comfortable," he says.