Anchor Me
Page 68
And yet here he was, begging agents to send their most sensual girls to him. Breaking his own damn rule because he was desperate to find her. That elusive girl who was hiding in his mind, and who maybe—just maybe—had an agent and a modeling contract.
But he knew she wouldn’t. Not that girl.
No, the girl he wanted would be a virgin with the camera, and he’d be the one who would first capture that innocence. That was his vision. The plan he’d stuck to for eighteen long months of squeezing in sessions between his regular commercial photography gigs. Almost two years of all-nighters in the dark room and surviving on coffee and protein bars because there wasn’t time to order take-out, much less cook.
Months of planning and worrying and slaving toward a goal. And those sweet, precious moments when he knew—really knew—that he was on the verge of creating something truly spectacular.
He was exhausted, yes. But he was almost done.
So far, he had over forty-one final images chosen for the show, each and every one perfect as far as he was concerned.
He just needed the final nine. That last set of photos of his one perfect woman. Photos that would finally seal his vision—both of the girl in his mind and of what he wanted to accomplish with this solo exhibition.
He’d sacrificed so much, and he was finally close. So damn close … and yet here he was, just spinning his wheels with models who weren’t what he wanted or needed.
Fuck.
With a sigh of frustration, Wyatt dragged his fingers through his thick, short hair. “Actually, ladies, I think we’re done here. I appreciate your time and your interest in the project, and I’ll review the shots I took today and be in touch with your agent if you’re selected. You’re free to get dressed and go.”
The girls all looked at each other, confused. For that matter, JP’s face reflected that same confusion as he returned to the studio with Wyatt’s Leica slung over his shoulder and a tall, familiar redhead at his side.
“Siobhan,” Wyatt said, ignoring the trepidation building in his gut. “I didn’t realize we had a meeting scheduled.”
“I thought you were going to shoot a roll of black and white,” JP said at the same time, holding up the Leica in the manner of a third grader at Show-and-Tell.
In front of Wyatt, the girls paused in the act of pulling on their robes, obviously uncertain.
“We’re done,” Wyatt said to them before turning his attention to his assistant. “I have everything I need to make a decision.”
“Right. Sure. You’re the boss.” But as he spoke he looked sideways at Siobhan, whose arms were now crossed over her chest, her brow furrowed with either confusion or annoyance. Quite probably both.
But Wyatt had to hand it to her; she held in her questions until the last model had entered the hallway that led to the dressing room, and the door had clicked tight behind her.
“You got what you needed?” she asked, cutting straight to the chase. “Does that mean one of those models is the girl you’ve been looking for?”
“Is that why you’re here? Checking my progress?” Shit. He sounded like a guilty little boy standing in front of the principal.
Siobhan, thank God, just laughed. “One, I’m going to assume from the defensive tone that the answer is no. And two, I’m the director of your show first and foremost because we’re friends. So take this in the spirit of friendship when I ask, what the fuck are you doing? We have less than a month to pull this all together. So if none of those girls are the one you need, then tell me what I can do to help. Because this is on me, too, remember? This show flops, and we both lose.”
“Thanks,” he said dryly. “I appreciate the uplifting and heartfelt speech.”
“Screw uplifting. I want you on the cover of every art and photography magazine in the country, with your show booked out on loan to at least a dozen museums and galleries for the next five years. I couldn’t care less if you’re uplifted. I just want you to pull this off.”
“Is that all?” he asked, fighting a smile.
“Hell no. I also want a promotion. My boss is considering moving to Manhattan. I covet her office.”
“Good to have a goal,” JP said, tilting his head toward Wyatt. “I covet his.”
“Go,” Wyatt said, waving his thumb toward the dressing room. “Escort the girls out through the back door. And then I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“That’s your subtle way of getting rid of me, isn’t it?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Wyatt retorted. “I wasn’t being subtle at all.”
JP smirked, but didn’t argue. And with a wave to Siobhan, he disappeared into the back hallway.
“So how can I help?” Siobhan asked once he was gone. “Should I arrange a round of auditions? After all, I know a lot of really hot women.”
That much was true enough. In fact, Siobhan’s girlfriend, Cassidy, featured prominently in the show. And it had been through Cass that Wyatt had met Siobhan, who had both a background in art and a shiny new job as the assistant director of one of the more prestigious private art museums in Los Angeles.
Originally, Wyatt had envisioned a significantly smaller show staged in his studio, not a gallery. The location was good, after all, and he anticipated a lot of foot traffic since folks could walk from the Third Street Promenade. He’d asked Cass to model about eight months ago, not only because she was stunning, but because he knew the flamboyant tattoo artist well enough to know that she wouldn’t balk at any pose he came up with, no matter how provocative. Cass didn’t have a shy bone in her body, and she was more than happy to shock—so long as the shock was delivered on her terms.
Siobhan had come with her, and before the shoot, Wyatt had shown both of them three of the pieces he’d already finished so that Cass would have a sense of his vision. It was the first time he’d laid it out in detail, and it had been cathartic talking to Siobhan, who spoke the language, and Cass, who was an artist herself, albeit one whose canvas was skin and whose tools were ink and needles.
He’d explained how he’d originally just wanted a break from the portraits and other commercial photography jobs that paid the bills. And, yes, he was beginning to make a name for himself artistically with his landscapes and city scenes. That success was gratifying, but ultimately unsatisfying because those subjects weren’t his passion. There was beauty in nature, sure, but Wyatt wanted to capture physical, feminine eroticism on film.
But he knew she wouldn’t. Not that girl.
No, the girl he wanted would be a virgin with the camera, and he’d be the one who would first capture that innocence. That was his vision. The plan he’d stuck to for eighteen long months of squeezing in sessions between his regular commercial photography gigs. Almost two years of all-nighters in the dark room and surviving on coffee and protein bars because there wasn’t time to order take-out, much less cook.
Months of planning and worrying and slaving toward a goal. And those sweet, precious moments when he knew—really knew—that he was on the verge of creating something truly spectacular.
He was exhausted, yes. But he was almost done.
So far, he had over forty-one final images chosen for the show, each and every one perfect as far as he was concerned.
He just needed the final nine. That last set of photos of his one perfect woman. Photos that would finally seal his vision—both of the girl in his mind and of what he wanted to accomplish with this solo exhibition.
He’d sacrificed so much, and he was finally close. So damn close … and yet here he was, just spinning his wheels with models who weren’t what he wanted or needed.
Fuck.
With a sigh of frustration, Wyatt dragged his fingers through his thick, short hair. “Actually, ladies, I think we’re done here. I appreciate your time and your interest in the project, and I’ll review the shots I took today and be in touch with your agent if you’re selected. You’re free to get dressed and go.”
The girls all looked at each other, confused. For that matter, JP’s face reflected that same confusion as he returned to the studio with Wyatt’s Leica slung over his shoulder and a tall, familiar redhead at his side.
“Siobhan,” Wyatt said, ignoring the trepidation building in his gut. “I didn’t realize we had a meeting scheduled.”
“I thought you were going to shoot a roll of black and white,” JP said at the same time, holding up the Leica in the manner of a third grader at Show-and-Tell.
In front of Wyatt, the girls paused in the act of pulling on their robes, obviously uncertain.
“We’re done,” Wyatt said to them before turning his attention to his assistant. “I have everything I need to make a decision.”
“Right. Sure. You’re the boss.” But as he spoke he looked sideways at Siobhan, whose arms were now crossed over her chest, her brow furrowed with either confusion or annoyance. Quite probably both.
But Wyatt had to hand it to her; she held in her questions until the last model had entered the hallway that led to the dressing room, and the door had clicked tight behind her.
“You got what you needed?” she asked, cutting straight to the chase. “Does that mean one of those models is the girl you’ve been looking for?”
“Is that why you’re here? Checking my progress?” Shit. He sounded like a guilty little boy standing in front of the principal.
Siobhan, thank God, just laughed. “One, I’m going to assume from the defensive tone that the answer is no. And two, I’m the director of your show first and foremost because we’re friends. So take this in the spirit of friendship when I ask, what the fuck are you doing? We have less than a month to pull this all together. So if none of those girls are the one you need, then tell me what I can do to help. Because this is on me, too, remember? This show flops, and we both lose.”
“Thanks,” he said dryly. “I appreciate the uplifting and heartfelt speech.”
“Screw uplifting. I want you on the cover of every art and photography magazine in the country, with your show booked out on loan to at least a dozen museums and galleries for the next five years. I couldn’t care less if you’re uplifted. I just want you to pull this off.”
“Is that all?” he asked, fighting a smile.
“Hell no. I also want a promotion. My boss is considering moving to Manhattan. I covet her office.”
“Good to have a goal,” JP said, tilting his head toward Wyatt. “I covet his.”
“Go,” Wyatt said, waving his thumb toward the dressing room. “Escort the girls out through the back door. And then I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“That’s your subtle way of getting rid of me, isn’t it?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Wyatt retorted. “I wasn’t being subtle at all.”
JP smirked, but didn’t argue. And with a wave to Siobhan, he disappeared into the back hallway.
“So how can I help?” Siobhan asked once he was gone. “Should I arrange a round of auditions? After all, I know a lot of really hot women.”
That much was true enough. In fact, Siobhan’s girlfriend, Cassidy, featured prominently in the show. And it had been through Cass that Wyatt had met Siobhan, who had both a background in art and a shiny new job as the assistant director of one of the more prestigious private art museums in Los Angeles.
Originally, Wyatt had envisioned a significantly smaller show staged in his studio, not a gallery. The location was good, after all, and he anticipated a lot of foot traffic since folks could walk from the Third Street Promenade. He’d asked Cass to model about eight months ago, not only because she was stunning, but because he knew the flamboyant tattoo artist well enough to know that she wouldn’t balk at any pose he came up with, no matter how provocative. Cass didn’t have a shy bone in her body, and she was more than happy to shock—so long as the shock was delivered on her terms.
Siobhan had come with her, and before the shoot, Wyatt had shown both of them three of the pieces he’d already finished so that Cass would have a sense of his vision. It was the first time he’d laid it out in detail, and it had been cathartic talking to Siobhan, who spoke the language, and Cass, who was an artist herself, albeit one whose canvas was skin and whose tools were ink and needles.
He’d explained how he’d originally just wanted a break from the portraits and other commercial photography jobs that paid the bills. And, yes, he was beginning to make a name for himself artistically with his landscapes and city scenes. That success was gratifying, but ultimately unsatisfying because those subjects weren’t his passion. There was beauty in nature, sure, but Wyatt wanted to capture physical, feminine eroticism on film.
