Page 7 of The Photo
I’m a single model.
Focused on the future.
I guess there’s an element of luck thrown in alongside the hard work and long hours. I’m not complaining. What other job pays you to look good and wear designer outfits? This life has helped me to pay off my mother's mortgage and gift my little sister, Willow, a new car.
Social media is a buzzkill, but the female population wants to see my every move. From sweating in a workout selfie, to the no carb breakfast I ate earlier. It baffles the shit out of me, but they’re hungry for it, and visibility keeps me popular. I choose what I post and keep myself as private as possible.
My buddy, Travis, is a social media monster who’s worked hard to turn himself into a million-dollar self-branded influencer. He’s always dishing out tips and pointers.
Yesterday, he told me to repost something a follower tagged me in to drum up excitement. There were hundreds to choose from, so I picked at random with a scroll and pointer finger. Then, boom. The girl lost her shit with joy, and now they all think I’ll notice them too. It’s upped the ante, making the followers more voracious.
I’ve no idea who the girl is, and I’ll never be the father to her unconceived kid. Then the weirdest thing happens. A private message pings into my inbox. I get so many women offering themselves up that I’ve turned off my notifications, however this one lands while I’m browsing. A blunder meant for the girl whose post I reused.
In a hitch of fate or misplaced intrigue, I read it—and laugh. I opt not to tell her the reason for my wonky toe. A bad-tempered kid tantrum that resulted in a mistimed wallop to the corner of my bed and a shooting pain up my leg.
The mystery girl's profile picture doesn’t show much of her face, hidden beneath a dusting of white powder and imitation blood. For some reason, I swipe across her uploaded photos, pleasantly shocked by striking auburn hair. Her almond-shaped eyes are a vivid green, sharp and arresting. The girl called Rowan is stunning and querying my character and physical attributes.
I reply. Sure, why not? It’s only fair to give the girl a heads up that her message was received, even if it popped up to the wrong person. After a little snooping, I found out she likes seahorses and vampires and lives in Ireland. She also thinks I’m hot. A tingle shivers all over me, like she’s brought a warming fire to my cold loneliness.
I slip on white sports socks, inwardly smirking to myself because I just sent a photo of my foot. There was nothing incriminating, but the fact I sent it tickles me. I rarely do whimsical shit like that.
“Noah.” Alexa tosses me my leather jacket, slapping my arm as it hits. “The car is waiting. And stop smirking, asshole.”
I snatch my phone, type a quick closing message to Rowan Hudson and then pocket it. “What am I doing?” I mutter.
There isn’t time to carry on the pointless, silly banter with a stranger. She’s probably too intense, anyway. They always are. No doubt she’ll show the reporters our brief conversation, and it will be splashed over the tabloids by the time I land in Rio.
Four
I had a real-life conversation with Noah Adams. My heart rate hasn’t settled all evening. It’s a revelation. Unbelievable. Gob smacking. I flop on my bed in a haphazard, awkward fashion. We sank five ciders topped with blackcurrant juice when we should have stopped at one. Thoughts of that man have me flushed and dreamy.
It’s difficult peeling jeans off while lying flat on my back, but that’s what I try to do. Chelsea is convinced it wasn’t him or his foot. Apparently, I’m being taken for a fool by his friends or security detail. Call me naïve, or plain old hopeful, but I’m certain the tanned foot was his. There isn’t any solid proof of that fact other than my belief. Surely, if it was a sick joke, which let me add, it really would be sick, then why would the joker send me a foot and not something more substantial.
If I was a crazy follower, I’d post the snap on my story and tag him in it. I like having a secret between us. Weirdly enough, the boney foot is giving my pulse a reason to quicken. I don’t understand why a foot would do that, and I don’t wish to psychoanalyze the absurd arousal. I’m throwing my hands up in denial.
Theoretically, I could blab to the world, but I can’t, and I won’t. I’d never betray his foot that way. It's saved in my wank bank folder—I mean favorite folder—where I’ll continue to stare at a naked part of him longingly with a guilt free conscience.
If I’m honest with myself, it could be anyone’s foot.
With my jeans and adjoining panties kicked off the mattress, I throw out a searching hand to hunt for my pajama bottoms. The intense build up between my thighs won’t go away, even though I’m a few eye rolls away from sleep. My palm glides south, daring to find the throbbing torture. I need visual stimulation if this quickie will work, so I pull my phone from my jacket pocket. I’m naked and naughty from the waist down and dressed like a cold nun on the top.
I select a photo of Noah lounging on a chair by a breakfast bar, fully naked except for a well-positioned cushion and a wolfish grin, then I ready myself for action. This is the height of my stimulation these days. Just me and a photo of my long-time crush. It’s not tragic, I’m just fussy, and this way I get what I need without awkward dates.
Soft circles turn hard and punishing. I’m frantically rubbing and gazing at his hard body. My knees draw up and then splay wide. I have to imagine it’s his hand doing the work and the silver cushion on his lap will fall away. I long to hear his Canadian voice coaxing me on, to burn under his touch and melt from his relentless kisses. Would this fantasy be better than the real deal—I seriously doubt it.
“Oh, Noah,” I breathe out his name, holding his face like he’s posing for me. “If only you knew what just went down. I’m sorry to use your photo like porn.” Ugh! Now I feel grossed out and pervy having somehow violated him.
Guilt draws my knees together with a snap, and I let the phone drop. He’ll never know.
Aside from the infatuation I have with a man I’ll never meet, let alone be with, I’m mostly normal - I am, seriously. We all have our minor indiscretions, and Noah just happens to be my weakness.
I’m dedicated to my passion. Photography entered my life after my father's colleague gave him an old Polaroid camera, which ejected instant photos. It fascinated me from the day I captured an ostrich munching on lunch at the zoo. I carried the memory home in my hand and pinned it to my memory board.
I study hard and dabble with alcohol on the weekends. My parents are not rich, but they’ve cobbled together enough money to subsidize my college fees. There’s only so far their budget will stretch, so I take care of my rent.
In my spare time I upload photos to a stock image website, and they pay me for every picture downloaded. The images don’t make big bucks. Some months I deliver takeaway pizza to make up the difference. It’s uncomplicated and practical. I take photos like humans breath, regularly and without thought.
I roll to my side and pull at my downy jacket like a blanket. It’s too much effort to find my pajamas. I’m tired. And then the screen glows.
