Torn(4)

I'd offered minimal direction as he'd flexed and moved, granting me the best angles of his toned body. I'd heard the appreciation in the words of the other women in the room when he lifted his arms above his head to showcase his biceps. That's when a phone had signaled an incoming call with a generic ringtone.

I'd stopped shooting to glance around the room, disappointed at the jarring end to my concentration. I have one rule when you walk into my studio and that's no cell phones, or at the very least, I expect my clients and anyone accompanying them, to silence their ringers. It's a small sacrifice for an excellent end product, in the form of stunning photographs.

When Asher had tugged the phone from the back pocket of his jeans to answer it, I knew instantly that something was wrong. I doubt anyone else in the room heard the hushed curse that escaped his lips or saw the way his jaw tightened as he spoke to whoever was on the other end of that call.

He hung up after what seemed like no more than two minutes. It was then that he signaled for one of his assistants to quiet the music. No one else noticed his frustration but it wasn't lost on me. His eyes locked with mine briefly before he made the first announcement to clear the studio. It was only moments ago, yet it feels like an eternity has passed since then.

"Why?" I detach my camera from the tripod and cradle it in my hands. "Why do you want me to take your picture now?"

"Just do it." His chin moves forward as if he's coaxing me. "I want you to do it."

Since I'm technically still working for him, I don't hesitate. I bring my camera up to my eye. My sight trained on his face.

He glares into the lens. His eyelids blinking shut twice before he levels his gaze on me. The intensity is alarming. I take a photograph, and then another, desperate to capture the raw emotion that's staring right back at me.

I step closer. He's showing me parts of himself that I know he keeps hidden from the world. I studied dozens of images of him before I laid eyes on him today and in each of those pictures, the same orchestrated smile was there.

That's not who he is right now. Not one thing about him is rehearsed or staged.

His lips have thinned into a straight line. His brows are furrowed as if he's still struggling to absorb something, or trying to solve a riddle that is eluding him. His expression is telling. I see everything he's feeling in the corners of his eyes and the slight tilt of his chin.

"I used to be a weak man."

I don't want to lose the moment so I keep shooting. My index finger presses the shutter release rapidly as I take endless images, each a slight variation of the one that precedes it. All of them a complete story of the emotional pain he's obviously in.

"Used to be?" I ask without lowering the camera. "You're a strong man now?"

"I thought I was." He turns his face to the left, which highlights how tense his jaw is. "After that phone call, I don't know what, or who, I am."

I know that he's probably expecting me to ask who called but I don't know him well enough to go there. I was hired to take his picture, nothing more. I'm doing that now because he essentially ordered me to. If he wants to confess anything to me, that's not going to be by my urging. That has to come from him.

"Do you have any brothers or sisters?" He looks right at me again, his eyes trying to peer over the edge of the camera to connect with mine.

I don't move. I can't lose this moment. I keep shooting, the quiet click of the shutter barely noticeable. "I have a few."

"A few?" He chuckles. "What does that mean? How many are there?"

"Before I tell you that, "I begin, but I pause. I don't want to lessen what he's feeling but I always preface the answer to that question with some clarification so the person I'm talking to doesn't fall over from shock.

"What? Before you tell me what?" His head darts to the right at the sound of something beyond the closed door. "I asked how many siblings you have. That's a pretty straightforward question."

His profile is remarkable. I wonder, silently, if he could be a model. I photograph enough of them to know what works and doesn't work in that industry. There's a subtle strength in his face that is fascinating.

"My mom always wanted a big family," I offer, which sounds awkwardly intimate given the fact that we just met. I don't stop there though. "My dad didn't know how to tell her enough is enough. Enough kids that is."

He laughs. The sound is genuine and strong. It chases the darkness away from his eyes. "You're one of what? Four?"

I shake my head as I lower the camera. "You're not even in the ballpark."

His brows lift in amusement. "Six?"

"Double that and then some."

"What?" He leans forward, the motion pulling the muscles in his neck taut. He's still shirtless. I didn't ask him to put his sweater back on when everyone left because no woman with the view I have would ask him to cover up that body. Besides, it added to how exposed he looked emotionally in the last set of images I took.

"I'm one of thirteen," I say it with a smile. "I have twelve brothers and sisters."

"Thirteen?" He waves his hand in the air. The simple silver band on his right thumb catches the light. "You're serious?"

"My parents used to call us the baker's dozen." I wince as I say it. "It's a lot of kids but they made it work."