My New Muse (XXX) (Completed)

Chapter 3

"Who the fuck is that?"

This comes from Rochester as he watches Shemarré, a man with perhaps the most ridiculous and pretentious name that I have ever heard, walk towards where I am currently standing, surrounded by his family members.

"Another photographer," I say as nonchalantly as I can.

He chuckles deep in his throat.

"Ms Anderson, did I say that I wanted anyone else to come to this... gathering?"

I have to hold back my chuckle, because I can hear the anger in his voice. This man does not like to be overruled. He enjoys getting his own way.

Well, so do I.

"David," I say, emphasising his first name just to piss him off, "you gave me a job, and I'm simply doing it. If you have certain... quirks, you should have had the decency to sit down and discuss them with me, rather than bulldozing me with demands the way you did."

I walk off, and leave Rochester with his jaw ticking and his hand shaking around his glass. I keep walking until I'm face to face with Martin.

"Hello, Leah," he says, shaking my hand with poorly concealed enthusiasm.

"Shemarré Martin. It's a pleasure to meet you."

His smile broadens. "Please. Call me Shem."

***

As I circle the family reunion several times, taking photographs, Shem passed on whatever he felt necessary to me.

"Stay in the background. Make them forget you're even there."

"Candids are always better; they speak the truth."

"At events like these, the ratio of candids to posed photographs should be approximately ten to one. That should be your aim."

Now, everyone is packing up, and Shem has to leave for his daughter's cello recital.

"Um... Shem?" I say, unsure of how to phrase the question that I want to ask.

"Yes?"

"Um... Why?"

He looks at me as if I'm stupid for a few seconds.

"Huh?"

"Why did you do it? Help me? You're so busy, but you went out of your wa—"

"I saw one of your photographs at a show two years ago. It was called 'Wheels'; a photograph of two children, playing in a meadow. One on a bicycle—"

"—and one in a wheelchair,"  I finish.

"Yes," he says with a smile. "They looked so... happy. I loved how... it was just not what you would expect. Wheelchairs and joy... And I knew that I had to meet you. So when your agent called..."

He shrugs, and then looks at his watch.

"Shit! Kelly—"

"Go," I say, as he walk-runs to his car, in a desperate attempt to not miss his child's recital.

I let out a shaky breath, all too aware that David Rochester has been stabbing me with his eyeballs for the past five hours, and I now have no one to protect me.

***

Since Shem, drove off approximately three minutes ago, David has been giving me this "you're mine now" look, with a fucking smirk, which, if I'm going to be honest, is starting to creep me the fuck out.

For the first time, I actually feel intimidated by him.

Which means that I have to leave. Now.

As soon as I get the chance I sprint to my car, and throw my camera bag onto the passenger seat as soon as I sit. I let out a breath that I didn't know that I was holding, and then go to close the door, which is pulled back.

I don't have to look up to know who it is.

"I wasn't done speaking to you."

"Well, I was." With a shaking hand, I try again to close the door — and he pulls it back. Again.

"I think... it would be more... polite to speak to me outside of the car. Wouldn't you agree, Ms Anderson?"

I gulp. "I have to go—"

"I don't think you have to do shit. I think you're scared of me."

My face heats up.

"I am not."

He smirks. He knows he just got me.

"Prove it."

With a shaking hand, I push the door open and step out, sealing my fate.

"Much better," he says, with a look of approval.

"Fuck you,"  I growl, my irritation with this man getting the better of me.

He just smiles at me as if I just said the most beautiful word in the world.

"Awe, I never knew that Little Ms Anderson was a potty mouth," he says, caging me in against the car making me feel so... small.

"Now let me explain something to you," he says dangerously low, his lips against my ear, "when I give instructions, I want them followed. I don't want strangers showing up at my events—"

"I was doing my job—"

"And I get to say who can—"

"Then don't ask me to do shit for you again! You're so fucking demanding! You can't even wait until the next morning for an answer, and I can't bring anyone along? Fuck you!"

I push his right arm out of the way and jump into my car. He's still standing there when I drive off.

***

Dear Leah,

   I sincerely apologise for my prick-ish behaviour towards you over the period of time which I have known you. I can't promise that I will behave, but I can promise that I will try.

  I have your cheque prepared — I will be home all day today, so just come by and pick it up. If you want to have nothing to do with me, I completely understand.

                                   Sincerely,
David.

Please note that this is a text message  that I received from David Rochester at 3:57 a.m. this morning, a text that woke me the fuck up, and the only reason why I am going to his apartment at 9 a.m. on this lovely Saturday is because he has my money.

Briefly, I wonder what the hell his new job would be. No amount of money, however, would see me working with that asshole again.

The door opens before I can knock.

"Good morning, Leah."

"David."

I take the liberty to sit down on the couch, noting that my photograph now hangs beside the television.

"Beer?"

"Yeah."

And he gives it to me this time.

He flops down in the chair perpendicular to mine, and fiddles with a piece of paper, that looks suspiciously like a cheque.

"I... I just want to apologise. Again."

"David, I really don't give a shit anymore."

He sighs, then looks up at me.

"Leah, my behaviour was unacceptable. I can be an asshole and sometimes, I don't realise it, but that's no excuse."

I'm actually surprised by the sincerity in his voice and eyes. He actually has some degree of decency. Wow.

"I... I accept your apology David."

His eyes light up.

"Really? So we're friends now?"

I have to laugh humourlessly at that. Really? Friends?

"Not even close."