CHAPTER 14
“That’s not what I need,” Cole says in a huff.
He pushes past me and grabs a different white cloth from the prop closet. There are so many props. I have no idea how he decides which to use. He steps in front of me, takes the prop, and walks toward the set.
A model is sitting on a chaise with her back toward us. She’s wearing a tiny panty made of strings. It connects below her hips with a snake wrapped around a red crystal apple, the symbol of Evil Eve. Like Eve was in on it with the serpent in the Garden of Eden. I keep my feminist statements to myself, and follow Cole.
“The set is too smooth,” Cole explains. “Adding something like this will visually add texture and softness. You want the viewer’s eye to rest on the curve of her back, right where that apple is. The snake is the leading line that creates the flow of the composition. If you don’t put something in the bottom quadrant of the image, it won’t work as well.” Cole tosses down a fuzzy white rug. He bends at his knees, barefoot, and plays with it until it lies haphazardly, like was thrown there.
I watch him place the rug, but I am having trouble. Shaking my head, I say, “I don’t see it.”
He doesn’t turn toward me. Instead he lifts his camera to his eye and shoots. His fingers curve over the lens and the shutter snaps. Over his shoulder, he says, “You will.”
I don’t reply.
Cole shows me settings on the cameras and lights. He has me move things on set. Basically, I’m his beckon girl. He asks for something and I do it. As the day progresses, I’m starting to see what he’s doing. It comes together with the shoot from the other day. He works his way through the four sets, always shooting to show the model’s best assets while complimenting the teeny tiny lingerie she’s wearing. The trademark Le Femme sexy poses aren’t by accident. Every bit of them is Cole. It’s the way he sees a scene and makes it come together.
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At the end of the day, I’m backing up the shoot onto his computer along the back wall of the studio. Cole walks up behind me after shutting off the lights in the massive room behind us. The crew and model have left. It’s later than usual. I want to leave, but the shoot ran late.
I watch the data transfer. As each thumbnail shows up on the screen, I look at it. I kind of like that panty after seeing it all day. It’s sexy, or at least I think it is.
I wonder how many things are sexy because someone told me they are.
Cole reaches past me, his finger pressing the screen. A thumbnail just appeared. He’s pointing at it, “That’s the shot before the rug. This is the shot after.” He leans in, not paying attention to how close he is, “See how this image makes you glance and look away?” I nod. It does do that, but I didn’t know why. “It’s because the composition is messed up. The flow is broken. There’s nowhere for the eye to rest or reenter the image. But this one,” he points at the picture with the rug, “is better. Since it’s white on white, the texture doesn’t detract from the focal point, but it lends to the overall image.” He turns to look at me. He’s in my circle of space, but I don’t feel the need to force him out. Although I haven’t been around Cole very long, I’ve already noticed that he isn’t a touchy person. He doesn’t seem to linger this close to anyone else. I wonder if he’s doing it on purpose.
“This shoot was more risqué than the one we did the other day.”
I nod slowly, “Yeah, I suppose it was.” He’s still too close. I arch a brow at him, wondering what he’s doing.
He grins, “You didn’t notice, did you? That she was wearing a piece of string all day?”
Thinking about it, I lean back in my chair. Cole steps in front of me and sits down on the desk. “I suppose not. Actually, I hated that piece of clothing this morning... but it grew on me during the day.”
His eyebrow rose, surprised, “Did it?”
“When I first saw it, I thought it was saying women are evil, you know the temptress bitch scenario.” He laughs even though I’m being serious. “Shut up. It’s real. Look it up,” I say, grinning. “Anyway, as the day passed, I thought it was sexy. I think that’s kind of amazing about this place—you get to define what’s sexy.”
His arms fold over his toned chest while I speak. There’s a gleam in his eye that I can’t ignore. It makes my stomach flip-flop when he looks at me like that. “That’s why I wanted you to work here. I knew you’d see it. Le Femme isn’t about making women into sex objects. You missed that before. When you first spoke to me, that was all you thought we were. But now you see it. Don’t you?”
I nod. Cautiously, I say, “It’s more about defining femininity and power. You showcase your ideals, putting them into pictures.”
I’d only been here for a few days, but there is a reason why I am the best in my class. I see things no one else does. When I find something I don’t understand, I want to know everything about it until I understand it fully. Right now, I feel that way about Cole. He confuses the hell out of me.
I tilt my head, looking up at him, “Was that your intention when you started shooting?”
He laughs, “You didn’t ask if you were right. Most people would have waited for confirmation of their claim, and then asked the next question.” He has a dimple on his cheek when he smiles hard.
“Dude, we both know I’m right and that I’m slightly arrogant—kind of like you—so let’s just call it what it is so you can answer my question.” He laughs. “When you started Le Femme, did you set out to showcase femininity and power?” Sometime while I was speaking, I sat up. By the time I finish, the tips of my fingers are on his knee, and I am looking up at him. I smile noncommittally, and lean back into my chair, slouching, not sure why I did that.
His lips press together into a straight line, almost disappearing. His hands rest on either side of his hips on the desk. He leans forward when I lean back, “You’re dangerous, you know that? Not only do you see things clearly—well, when you actually take the time to look at them—but you also call people on it. You demand honesty.”
“I’m scary as hell,” I joke.
“More than you know,” he says seriously. His eyes rove over my face like he’s considering something. He looks to the side, careful to avoid my eyes. Rubbing an imaginary spot on his jeans, he says, “I started Le Femme as a fly-by-night artist. I wanted to be a painter, but that didn’t pay the bills. Someone took pity on me and handed me a camera. I was able to cut my own path from there.
“When I was on my own, I didn’t like what I saw. Women were portrayed as weak. They were cast into a mold that no longer fits,” he looks up at me and continues, “if it ever did. The pieces that dominated the market only show a certain type of woman—a specific type of beauty. I want to show what I think is beautiful. I want the world to see things through my eyes. And I can do that Anna, I can make you see my perspective through this lens.” He taps at the glass on the end of his camera and looks up at me. “It tilts the world on its side. It has the potential to change everything, every concept you have, every belief you hold...” he places the camera down and shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair. “God, if you saw my earlier work, you wouldn’t believe it. Le Femme pays the bills. Le Femme is the tame version of me and that’s the Cole Stevens the world knows.
“So, yeah, my ideals leaked into my work. I’ve found that it’s impossible to keep them out, no matter how hard I try.”
While he speaks, I’m glued in place, mesmerized. His blue eyes pierce me and hold me still. I forget to breathe. Stunned, I wonder, who the hell is this? Who is this man? Do I know him at all? Was every assumption I made, every educated guess about him completely wrong?
I drool at him, lost in the shy passion barely contained in his voice, until he says he was on his own. Liar. I know that’s not true. I know he comes from money. Everyone knows that, so I wonder why he says it—why he tries to tell such a blatant lie. Does he think I’m a moron? Maybe. Instead of calling him on it, I listen to the rest of his story. His passion is addictive.
As soon as he stops speaking, I want to hear more, even if it is lies. No one talks like that anymore. No one says what they actually think, what they believe. I find myself staring at his dark eyes wondering how I could be so drawn to him when we are so different. It’s a question that I smash away with a mental broom as soon as it surfaces. Thinking about Cole Stevens is not the pastime of a prudent person.
My inner-self reminds me that I am not a prudent person.
Damn.