My New Muse (XXX) (Completed)

Chapter 2

Remember what I said about being able to survive anyone after Montgomery?

That was utter rubbish.

The first thing that struck me as I hauled the heavy-as-fuck photographs, one by one, into Mr Rochester's studio apartment, the edges of the badly cut hard plastic casing digging into the skin of my fingers, is that his walls were bare. You'd think that someone who spends eighty thousand on two photographs would, at the very least, have a two bedroom with a few paintings on his walls.

"Bloodclaat," I muttered under my breath, hauling the thing over threshold.

He was sitting, relaxed, on the sofa opposite the television, and eyed me curiously as I struggled to get through the door, offering no assistance.

Finally, I got through the door, and rested it flat on the floor against the wall perpendicular the couch, beside the television.

I'm now on my third beer - he offered me, then directed me to the mini bar, not bothering to get up, and asking me to get one for him - trying to calm my nerves. My hand is shaking with the effort to not crush the beer can.

He keeps saying little things, specifically designed to piss me the hell of. Like how I should sleep more to get rid of the bags under my eyes, when I sleep for eight to ten hours every night. Or asking me if I want a brush, when I have the perfect style for kinky curly hair - kind of like how Tip from Home wares her hair out.

"This was my first photography show, and I must admit, your work is closer to what can be considered as art than I expected."

Closer?

Closer?

This is art. This is what I've dedicated my life to.

"Closer?"

He gives me a condescending smile, and then clears his throat.

"You see, photography will never be art. You are simply looking through a lense-"

"Lighting, mirrors, filters, focus, the subject, angles and so. Much. More. Are a part of photography. One angle, one filter, one ray of sunlight could be the difference between erotic asphyxiation and a psychopath ex on a rampage. Don't you dare demean my art like that." By the time I'm done, I'm heaving, taking deep breaths to make up for the oxygen that I just lost. I'm so tired of having the same argument, defending my job to people over and over again.

But he just laughs. Hard.

"Relax. It was a joke," he assures me with a disgusting grin. He is disgusting. I am absolutely. Disgusted. "Why else would I buy your art?"

Well now, considering that that's why I'm here in the first place, I feel like a complete moron.

"When's your next showing?" he asks, assessing me with dark brown eyes.

" I don't know. Didn't plan one." The truth is that I don't really do showings - don't really like them. But Marcus insisted on me having that one, saying that he'd advertised well, on my behalf, to all the right people, and it would give me experience as a photographer. When it got cancelled, I'd worked for months, just worked too hard to just let it go down the drain.

And now here I am, remembered as the girl who had her showing at Mr Assclown's house.

Now, he's looking at me, assessing me. I can see him weighing the pros and cons, see the question that he so desperately wants to ask me in his eyes - a question that I don't want, that I'm dreading, but I need. Like the most bitter liquid medicine imaginable.

"Can I give you a job?"

Now I want to cry. Really, really break down sobbing. Because I don't want to see this man ever again, but I do need money. I need it really fucking badly.

"What's the job?" I ask hesitantly. With his level of arrogance, he could well want me to take pictures of his dick. But at this point, I'd take a picture of a turd for money. The seventy thousand that he gave me can barely cover my water bill, and food for the month (I have a serious problem with spending money on good coffee), as well as light bill (I'm addicted to my television; pathetic, right?), rent and gas money. Actually, it isn't enough. JPS is probably going to cut off my electricity. Again.

"I have a family reunion on Friday. I need someone to take photographs."

Not so bad. He'll be with others, his family, and he'll have to behave. You'll survive.

"I'll talk to my agent, and then call you back."

"I need an answer now."

Breathe.

It's now almost ten p.m. I can't call him now. Marcus is not a night person, and I'm very sure that he wouldn't appreciate me waking him up with a phone call.

"Okay. I'll do it," I agree, hoping that I won't regret this.

***

"Absolutely not."

"I already said I would, Marcus," I reply, rubbing my forehead. It's too early in the morning for this shit.

"Cancel it."

"I'm not going to tarnish my reputation just because you disapprove."

"Who's the agent?"

"It's still my decision! I need the money."

"I arranged for you to meet with one of Jamaica's best photographers on Friday. His schedule is jam packed-"

"Then I'm sure he'll appreciate the opening. Cancel it."

"Leah-"

"I said cancel it, Marcus!" I let out a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry. It's just that... I'm under a lot of pressure right now. I don't like this guy. He's such an asshole."

I hear silence. Then, "Why don't you just bring him with you?"

I snort. "That would never work."

"Stop and think about it for a second, Leah. Shemarré Martin is a photographer. He wants to give you tips on photography. Where and when better to do that than while you're photographing?"

"Jesus Christ, you're a genius. And Rochester shouldn't mind because it'll probably make the photos come out better."

"See, there's always a solution." I can hear the smile in his voice. "Now since you're free today, and I don't work for you for free, I suggest that you get off your lazy ass and hustle."

I chuckle. "Thanks, Marcus. You're always there to ever so subtly remind me that I'm teetering on the line of poverty."

"Anytime, babygirl," he says with a grin that I hear through the phone. "Anytime."