Behind His Lens(11)

“Do you feel that, Charley?”

I feel nothing. Not the floor beneath my feet or the studio lighting against my skin. Only his touch.

When I don’t respond, his hands slide slowly down the length of my torso, sending delicious shivers down my spine.

“Yes,” I whisper so gently that I’m sure he didn’t hear.

I clear my throat, trying to tamper the lust building within me. His hand gently squeezes my waist, demanding a reply.

“Yes,” I murmur a little louder this time.

“Show the camera what you feel, Charley,” he commands in my ear before dropping his hands and walking away. The moment he cuts off his touch, my surroundings rush back in like a crashing wave. My body cries out in protest as my eyes flash open and a deep inhale floods my lungs. Was I holding my breath that whole time?

CHAPTER FOUR

Charley

My apartment is eerily quiet this morning. Normally the sounds from the corner bakery next door drift up to my room, but I’m awake earlier than usual. I doubt the bakery has even unlocked its friendly-yellow doors yet.

I’ve lived in Greenwich Village for the past two years. It feels more like home than anywhere I’ve lived before, including the sprawling town house on the Upper West Side that I shared with my parents for eighteen years. That place can’t be considered a home. Not anymore.

My apartment, or rather tiny room, combines a bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen into one open area. There’s no space for a real painting area, but I make do. The apartment is inside of an old townhouse that my landlord, Mrs. Jenkins, remodeled after her husband passed away. There are four separate apartments on the bottom floor.

Mrs. Jenkins kept the second story for herself. She’s a sweet woman and there would be many nights where I’d go hungry if she wasn’t there tapping on my door with extra pasta or a casserole in tow.

It’s not that I purposely forget to eat. I lost my appetite four years ago and most of the time I have to remind myself that I need to nourish my body. I should take better care of myself. Usually I’m lost in a painting and can’t be bothered, especially when I never feel hungry.

The strange thing is, no matter how little I eat, my body still has the energy to run. It craves it. Every morning I get up and traverse my neighborhood streets. I have a strict route and I adhere to it like my life depends on it.

Except on Saturday mornings.

Every Saturday I drag Naomi to Central Park and we bask in the beautiful landscape as we do our weekly run together. I’ll admit, I usually have to persuade her to go, but she doesn’t fight much once we start.

In an hour or two I’ll meet her outside her apartment and we’ll take the subway up to Sixtieth Street. We’ll hop out at the bottom edge of the sprawling green space, stretch out, and start our run.

The only problem is, I’m not sure what to do to occupy my time until then.

I have two hours to glance numbly around my empty apartment.

I don’t like these gaps of time in my life. I keep my schedule filled to the brim with activities, carefully planning each hour of my day. These unforeseen quiet moments are when my thoughts drift toward the blackness I’ve fought so hard to leave behind. The phrase “an idle mind is the devil’s playground” repeats in my head as I glance down at my phone to see it’s only a quarter after five in the morning.

I know I woke up early today because of him. Because of Jude. I could barely get to sleep last night. Every memory of the day replayed behind my closed eyes last night, keeping my senses tingling and my mind racing.

After the gown ‘incident’, he practically ignored me. Mrs. Hart directed most of the remaining shoot, which ended up wrapping earlier than I was expecting. She loved the first shots so much that the next few outfits only took a few minutes to shoot. By the time I’d returned from scrubbing off my makeup and changing back into my clothes, the set had turned into a desert town. Jude’s assistants were meandering around, breaking down lights and packing up the diffusers – Jude was nowhere to be found.

I guess his work was done.

With a sigh, I roll onto my side to examine the early morning light casting shadows across my room. I would try to forget about him completely, but our photo shoot recommences on Monday after Mrs. Hart and her team finalize the Fall Fashion pieces they want to feature. Will he be there Monday?

I was actually sad when I realized he was gone.

But what was I expecting? He works with models all day, every day. It’s clear that any attraction felt was strictly one sided. I tug a hand through my hair to jar me from the embarrassing realization. Enough.