Page 6 of Feathers From the Sky

“I’m telling you, you’re barking up the wrong tree. Gwyn Parsons isn’t going to give you answers.”

“Not without getting closer to her, no.”

“Well, then I guess it’s a good thing that photographer emailed you back,” Margot retorts, annoyed.

“What?”

“Jesus, Roman. That photographer who went viral with those pictures of her? The sexy ones?”

“Shit,” I mutter.

“Sounds like you need to find a suit. Maybe some Calvin Klein underwear?”

I sigh, hanging up on Margot as I look up at the night sky. My mother is dead at the hand of Bill Parsons and probably my brother too. I’m not eager to bring down misplaced revenge, but with him dead, Gwyn will have to do.

And it seems like the stars have aligned and forced my hand.

3

GWYN

Puttingthe Chevelle in park and pulling the handbrake, I touch up my mascara in the rearview, marveling over what Hale did to me. I manage my normal makeup routine just fine, but I can’t do winged eyeliner to save my life. Hale’s extensive cosplay experience came in clutch. His special effects skills are where he shines, but he’s not bad at this either. I chose a sparkly dark purple eyeshadow which transitions into black, and my long lashes didn’t even require extensions to complete the look. Deciding on a dark red lip, I wear my favorite shade. I feel great; it’s amazing what a full body wax and instant tan will do for one’s confidence. I look at the two story industrial building and wonder what company will move into the space beside Clarke. It has been a law office until recently, but now it sits vacant. Unmarked, the studio has tinted windows, and Clarke only opens it for clients. I catch sight of them walking to the front door, so I finish my nervous nitpicking and climb out of the car.

"Stop right there!” Clarke shouts from across the parking lot. “You actually did what I asked you to?” they call out incredulously, beaming as they take in my shiny car.

“It needed a cleaning, anyway. Dad would be appalled I let it get as bad as it did.”

“I’ll pretend you only did it for me, and it has nothing to do with your dead daddy issues,” they say, their boots crunching the gravel beneath their feet, and I snort. I’ve known Clarke since college, and we have that sort of relationship. Their dad bailed when they were little, so we’ve always joked about their daddy issues. I suppose it’s my turn now. “Drop the bag, take off your coat, and stand in front of the hood.”

“Now?” I ask, surprised they want to shoot without Roman. The nerves which had dissipated while I sat in the car come back in force. I am anxious for a few reasons, and I try to mask my physical tells. I refuse to ruin the nails I’d just painted by chewing on them, and I forcefully keep my hands away from my nose piercing.

“Yes, now. We don’t need to wait on him,” they say before barking orders at me. “Sit on the driver’s side and face me. Legs crossed, hand on the door,” they instruct, and I do as I’m told, adjusting my dress to the best of my ability. Not only is it a plunging neckline, tape securely holding my boobs in place, but it has twin slits on either side, nearly going up to my hips. When I’d ordered it, I thought it had some sort of body suit bottom beneath it, but it didn’t. I do my best not to flash Clarke as we settle into a rhythm.

They’ve been taking photographs of me for years, and I am their oldest model. Half the time, I expect what Clarke is asking of me and do it before they tell me. I’m leaning against my hands on the hood, my foot on the bumper and my head tipped back, when I hear the loud rumble of a motorcycle. Wondering if it’s him, my stomach flips over, and I have instant regret.

“What am I fucking doing?” I mumble. This feels so reckless, but I try to reassure myself that I can do it, and it will be worth it in the end.

“Alright,” Clarke says, putting their camera back in their bag. I sit up, looking over at the man who just arrived on his motorcycle. He is just as big as I imagined—tall and beefy is the only way I can describe him—but that’s not what I’m hung up on. I didn’t expect him to climb off such a large motorcycle looking like he stepped out of a GQ magazine. He’s wearing a dark grey suit, dressed surprisingly well. When he dismounts and pulls his helmet off his head, I am pleased to see he has facial hair even though his most recent images were clean-shaven. His hair tumbles free, loose curls reaching the tops of his shoulders, and it’s like something out of a fucking movie. I know my heart is racing, and I try to relax. Thankfully, Clarke sweeps in and gives me something to focus on.

“Roman, thanks for coming,” they say, striding to the next parking spot with their hand outstretched.

“You must be Clarke,” he says, voice a low rumble I should have expected but takes me off guard nevertheless. Jesus Christ, he has no right to tick so many boxes on my list this quickly. It’s not often I feel as if a man is towering over me since I’m pretty tall, but seeing just how large he is, I am surprised. His gaze turns on me, and I am greeted by brown eyes with a bit of a red tint to them. I hadn’t been able to tell in the pictures. The color is pleasant and warm, but there is a slight coldness in his gaze. “And you must be Gwyn.”

He doesn’t smile, and I don’t know why I expected him to. Roman doesn’t strike me as a person who would give smiles freely. He dips his head, and I wonder if his eyebrows are naturally that perfect or if maybe I can talk him into giving me his threader’s phone number. They’re thick, though they accentuate his features perfectly. He is a collection of complementary opposites. His clothing is crisp, and his beard is tidy, while his hair flows with motion as it frames his roughly hewn face. He’s breathtaking.

“Yep,” I say, immediately embarrassed at my inability to sound like a normal fucking person because of how nervous I am. “I’m Gwyn, and I guess we’re about to see each other naked.”It doesn’t earn me a smile; his brow quirks at least, and I wonder what the hell is wrong with me.

“I was under the impression we were going to keep some of our clothes on?” he asks Clarke in a clipped manner, the faintest hint of an accent I can’t quite place, and I realize then that Roman Sauveterre is definitely self-employed, the CEO of Serious Business.

“Yes, you’ll keep your underwear on,” Clarke chuckles. “For the shoot,” they add, and I am blushing furiously. My skin has always been a traitor to my will.

“Good,” Roman replies, and he clasps his hand together in front of him. “Otherwise I’d be pretty upset I bought special underwear just to take them off.” And then he’s smiling, but there’s something about it which gives me pause. It is not a smile anyone should make the mistake of trusting.

“I want to take some pictures out here for a few more minutes since you both showed up with some cool ass rides,” Clarke exclaims, gesturing to the motorcycle Roman arrived on. “Suzuki GSXR, right?” It’s enormous and considering the size of the Greek god before me, I’m certain a smaller one wouldn’t be able to hold him.

Roman nods and crosses his arms before turning to me. “1970 Chevelle SS?” he asks, and I am grateful for this lifeline. This I can talk about.

When I begin to speak and my teeth hurt, I realize I’ve been clenching my jaw. “Yes. Rebuilt with my dad. Finally finished it about six months ago,” I say, voice breathier than I intended.

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