Page 41 of Washed Up
“With something to look at on it for me?”
I’d hoped to be far away before he judged my efforts. Instead, I’m forced to stand as he flicks through a week’s worth of images. It’s a toss-up as to whether Zach or I find this more excruciating. He’s naked, gagged and chained in front of a stranger, and my innards are knotting themselves so tight I might need surgery to untie them again.
“There’s some nice shots of Reid. I like this one of Wynter. Is this the direction you’re thinking of pursuing—rock photography?”
“I’d like to—”
He’s connected the camera to his computer, projecting the images onto the wall. He skims past most of them but flicks back and forth between five or six grainy, black-and-white images of the guys in the studio, eventually honing in on one of Reid playing, in which Wynter’s reflection appears to be standing next to him. It’s the look on Wynter’s face that makes it interesting, not merely the effect.
Ric sucks on the edge of his lower lip.
He flicks through some more of the week. Pauses a few times. Eventually, he goes back to the studio photo. “It’s got good texture. It certainly captures a moment. Yeah, okay.”
Yeah, okay, what?
He hands me the camera back. “Keep it.”
It’s the sort of camera I’d have to take a loan out to own.
“You don’t own anything this good, right?”
I’m so stunned; it takes all my effort just to shake my head.
“I want to see more of this.” He nods at the wall. “If you go on the road with them, you stick like fucking glue to them. Be a fly on the wall. Give us all the moments that we’d never normally see. Show us the underbelly, the warts, the dark. Give us intimacy. Do you think you can do that, Iris?”
“I… I can try.”
“The correct response is, yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir,” I say. How can a man wearing strawberry sauce be so intimidating?
He nods his approval. “I can’t be arsed to fuck about with bank details at the moment.” He produces a chequebook, and a goddamned fountain pen. “Iris Allen, correct?”
“Yes.” He tears the slip from the book and waves it in the air to dry the ink, then puts it in my hand. “I’m investing in you. I’m expecting to see some output that justifies that.”
I look at the figure and nearly wet myself.
“That’s your cue to exit. Zach has human limits, even if he’s superhumanly sexy.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Iris
I stow the cheque in my back pocket, where I’m sure it’s going to self-ignite.
There are another four cars in the restaurant’s shore side carpark in addition to those there earlier. The squeals of children reach me from further along the shore, where the publicly accessible beach lies. They mingle with the screeching of the gulls overhead.
There’s no sign of the boys yet. I rest against the side of Wynter’s Merc.
A car door opens to my rear. I hear the crunch of shifting gravel. A shadow slides over my feet as a figure blocks out the sun. I turn my head, and he’s there.Harrisonis there.
He’s here.
A chill penetrates my skin. Harrison makes a grab for me and catches a handful of hair, wrenches on it so hard that it snaps my head back and makes me screech from the pain.
“Think you’re clever, don’tcha. Taking a leap. Not coming home. Here’s the thing, Iris, honey. If you don’t want to be found, you might want to avoid having your picture taken with celebrities.”
I didn’t.
