Confronted (Beauty And The Billionaire Geek Book 1) (3 page)

I called him back and asked for the specifics. My agent informed me the photographer offered five grand for four hours. It would progress to full nude with light fetish and bondage scenarios. Costumes would be supplied.

It all sounded pretty normal for me, but there was a stipulation that I come to the shoot alone. I never went to a shoot with a new photographer without a friend, especially not nude, fetish shoots. Going would break my cardinal rule of not being a dumb ass. I told my agent to pass and hung up the phone.

An hour later, my agent called again with another offer from the photographer who insisted that I had the look he wanted. No one else would do, and salary for the shoot would be tripled if I accepted. Fifteen thousand dollars for four hours was an exceptionally large sum for one shoot for a model of my caliber. I told my agent I’d think about it and would get back to him.

I had exactly thirty-five dollars in the bank and a credit rating in the low double digits. As a model, it wasn’t as if I received a regular paycheck. I either took the jobs that were offered, or starved.

I went to Stacy’s room and found her doing sit-ups on a yoga ball in a seventies style jumpsuit. I rolled my eyes at her and stood in her doorway.

“What?” she asked at my expression.

“That outfit is just so… cliché. Are you doing a Jane Fonda workout?”

“Who?”

“God. You don’t know who that is?”

“Not really.”

I only knew about the Jane Fonda workout because I’d grown up with my mother and sisters in my grandparents’ hand-built hippie house on the redwood coast of California. The house had been full of my grandparents’ things, including ancient VHS video tapes and a player.

“I like this outfit. It’s totally retro.”

“Are you working this weekend?”

“Yeah. I’m representing the gym at a fitness trade show.”

“I have an offer for a shoot with a new photographer this weekend. It pays half a year’s income for a normal person my age. The only problem is, they insist I come unaccompanied. It’s totally sketch.”

“Dang, that’s a tough choice,” she said, doing another crunch on her ball.

“What do you think?”

“Can you meet the guy first?”

“I don’t think so. It’s pretty mysterious so I’m getting a lot of red flags. The problem is, I have exactly thirty-five dollars in the bank. No wait, I have twenty dollars because the cab home cost me fifteen bucks. Freaking rip off.”

“Rent’s due. I don’t think I can cover you again. I’m on a pretty tight budget already, and I’m maxing out my credit cards.”

“I know Stacy. Thank you for covering my ass the last two months. You’ve saved my life.”

“What are friends for? Why don’t you call your sister? See if she can help.”

I frowned and crossed my arms tightly over my chest. “I’m not asking Claire for money,” I said. She’d given me way too much for me to turn around and start mooching money off of her. Claire had practically become my mother after ours had died.

The idea of asking my oldest sister Regan for money felt a lot like asking a zoo animal for a favor. Even though Regan was doing a lot better these days, I still couldn’t bring myself to ask her for anything.

Besides, both Claire and Regan had gotten where they were today without someone giving them handouts. I should be able to do the same thing.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Zoe. It doesn’t look like you have a lot of options,” Stacy said breathlessly as she counted off crunch number one-hundred-ninety-nine. She sat up on her ball and wiped her face with a towel.

“If you do the gig, just keep your cell phone within easy reach. Let everyone know where you are, and call me every thirty minutes. It will probably be fine. You know artists. They always have strange habits. Remember the guy that wouldn’t shoot unless he had the air conditioner cranked to sixty degrees. You thought your nipples would cut glass that day.”

“Yeah.” We both laughed, and I shivered at the memory. “You’re right.” I turned from the doorway, went to my room, and called my agent. How could I possibly turn down fifteen grand when I couldn’t even afford to pay my rent?

***

I got off the bus in Pioneer Square wearing a pair of cut off denim pants folded under the knee, a black indie band t-shirt and a pair of low, white canvas tennis shoes. My long hair hung in a loose braid down my back, and I wore a pair of designer sunglasses from a fashion shoot I’d done a year ago.

I pulled my big navy-blue and white striped canvas purse over my shoulder and dodged oncoming foot traffic. The rhythm of the city comforted me even though my heart thudded in my chest. I had no idea what to expect. My agent didn’t even have detailed information on the photographer — no website, no portfolio, just the promise of fifteen grand.

My lips slid around the straw of my Frappuccino as I sucked up the last contents of caffeinated courage. The sweet, creamy caramel and coffee flavor gave me just the jolt of indulgence I needed.

I threw the cup in a garbage can as I passed an art gallery and looked down at the GPS on my phone. I glanced around at the street numbers. The building was supposed to be right here. I found a narrow, inconspicuous doorway between two storefronts. It had creamy white paint and art nouveau architectural details. It was an old building, typical for this part of town. The address hung above the door in black iron numbers.

I stepped into the narrow entryway and found buttons for an intercom. My instructions said to ring the third floor. I pressed number three, and the intercom buzzed.

I gripped the doorknob and turned. The door swung open. Stepping inside and onto an ancient black and white checkered tile floor, I smelled the musty old building scent.  The stained glass window at the end of the hall gave the only illumination, casting the hallway in shadow. Cracking yellow paint surrounded a line of dark wood doors. The tinted light from a high, stained glass window streamed over an ancient wooden staircase.

The staircase creaked under my feet as I stepped upward. I held the thick banister as I climbed the twisting stairs. When I reached the second floor landing, I stood under another stained glass window and pulled my cell phone from my purse.

My thumbs glided over the keys. “I’m here.” I sent the text it to Stacy. She had her trade show today, but she would never be that far from her phone if I needed her. A moment later, I received a text message that said, “Knock them dead.” Hopefully, he wouldn’t knock
me
dead.

I took a deep breath and jogged up the last flight of stairs. Time to stop stalling and get this over with. I arrived at the third floor and the stained glass window at the landing glowed yellow, pink, and blue down a dimly lit hallway.

At the opposite end of the hall, a door stood ajar. All the other doors were closed. A faint white light streamed through, chasing away the shadows. I could smell the subtle scent of perfume over the mustiness.

I moved forward over the black and white tile until I came to the door. Inside, I found a warehouse style room. Big, industrial windows covered the walls and allowed light to stream into the huge, empty space. The tile ended at the hallway, and the floor inside was ancient wood in desperate need of a new finish.

Stepping into the room, I spotted the photography lights aimed at a paper backdrop. A single stool sat in front. A small bed, a claw foot bathtub, and a box of props were placed around the otherwise empty space. 

As I approached the studio set up, I noticed a piece of paper sitting on the stool in front of the camera. I went to it and picked it up. It said, “Put on the costume in the box.” The box sat near the wall under a window. I opened it and looked inside.

Underneath a pair of handcuffs and a whip, I found a small bag with lacy black lingerie. Next to the prop box, sat a pair of patent leather pumps. I inspected the lingerie. It was a one-piece mesh and lace teddy with garter straps and a pair of black silk stockings.

I looked around, wondering where I should change. There was a door on the wall behind the studio set up. I walked over and tried the knob. I couldn’t see anything through the darkness inside. Until I flipped on the light and found a bathroom.

After I changed into the outfit, which happened to be a perfect fit, I fixed my makeup and fluffed up my hair to make it fall in waves around my shoulders.

I went back into the studio, expecting to find the photographer, but there was no one there. I set my purse with my clothes and shoes on the wall near the bathroom door and walked around the warehouse. My heels clicked on the dull wood floors. I pressed my lips together as I walked around the room in the lingerie, waiting.

“You forgot the blindfold.” A voice boomed through the room. I nearly jumped out of my skin. I already felt nervous enough. Now my heart wanted to impress me with its tap dancing ability. I twirled around, looking for the owner of the voice, but found no one.

I looked up and saw that the room had surround sound speakers. “Put it on,” said the speakers. “It’s in the box.”

I did what the disembodied voice asked. This shoot had just up-scaled on the weirdness meter by a factor of about a hundred percent. I slipped the black silk blindfold over my eyes and stood completely blind in the middle of the warehouse, suddenly freezing cold. 

A hand grasped mine, and I jumped at the unexpected contact. I realized it must belong to the photographer. I let him lead me. The hand felt warm and smooth holding mine, a small comfort in a weird-ass situation.

“Sit down,” he said. “The stool is behind you.”

I reached back, felt the cool wood of the stool, and guided myself to sitting. I wondered how I could possibly model being completely blind, nervous, and cold. The darkness had the effect of separating me from my body. I felt clumsy and awkward and didn’t know what to do with my hands.

I heard his feet shuffle away and then the sound of a camera shutter flashing open and closed. “What do you want me to do?” I asked, feeling lost. He didn’t respond. The only sound came from the shutter on the camera. I tried to relax my face, but knew I couldn’t look very sexy with how uncomfortable I felt.

“Should I do something else?” I tried again.

“Slip the strap off your shoulder,” he finally said. I pinched the thin strap of my teddy and began slowly sliding it down. “No! The other one.”

I gulped. He was awfully particular. If he got that upset about what strap I chose, what would he do if I messed up something that mattered? I slid the other strap down, knowing my face looked panicked. If that’s the look he wanted, that’s what he would get.

“Now the other side.” The camera continued to click. “Good, now keep pulling until the bra comes down.”

I pulled the strap downward and the fabric that covered my left breast slipped over my flesh. My nipple popped out and then my entire breast was exposed. “Do it on the other side,” he said. I did. “Now stand.” I stood and felt his hand guiding me to another position in the room.

“There is a bed behind you. Sit down and unfasten the stockings.”

“I don’t know if I can do it blind.”

“Try.”

I sat on the bed and fumbled around with the garter straps. I bit my lower lip and crinkled my forehead in frustration until I finally managed to get one snap open. I was unfamiliar with this type of buckle. The second one was easier.

“Take off the shoe and slide the stocking down your leg.”

I slipped off the shoe and slid the stocking down my thigh and over my knee while the camera snapped. He asked me to do the same on the other leg, and I did.

Being blinded while modeling made me feel incapable of doing my job. This would not lead to sexy photos. I knew each shot would look like a scared woman taking her clothes off in front of a psycho. The fact that he wanted me to look scared made me feel even more creeped out.

“Stand and pull off the teddy. Slowly. Use the shoulder straps.”

I crossed my arms over my body and pulled the straps down. When it reached my waist, I slid my hands to each hip and slipped it the rest of the way off. The teddy glided down my thighs and fell to the ground silently.

I stood naked in front of the bed. My body shook involuntarily with the building fear in my gut and the growing cold. “Stop shaking,” he said, as if this whole thing wasn’t completely weird.

“Sorry, I’m cold and… scared,” I whispered. Usually, I had a great deal more confidence in myself. I’d let this shoot get under my skin, and I couldn’t seem to pull myself back.

“Why?” he asked, dismissively.

“I’m not used to doing entire shoots blindfolded.”

“I’ve seen your portfolio. That isn’t true.”

“Sure I’ve posed in a blindfold before, but not during the entire shoot with a photographer who won’t even let me see his face.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“That’s it?”

“Lie down on the bed and spread your legs.”

“Do you want me to look scared?”

“That wasn’t my intention.”

I lied down. This guy must have been a complete novice. Every photographer had at least some concern for the model’s mental health during a shoot. No one liked a whiner, but the photographers I knew would never intentionally scare the hell out of their models.