Sixteen
When he’d realized she was serious about taking pictures in his place, Xander had considered pulling the Simon Vance book off the shelf. He’d done so long enough to read it again, refresh himself, then had nearly tossed it into the box he kept for donations.
He didn’t want to see that dull, stricken look on her face again.
In the end, he decided pulling it off gave it too much importance. She knew it was there, and would wonder why he’d taken it away.
Weighing the stress factor, he figured it at fifty-fifty, and opted to leave it alone.
She’d tell him when she was ready. Or she wouldn’t.
He helped her haul her equipment up the steps, where she paid more attention to the equipment than what she intended to shoot. She pulled a tripod out of a case, telescoped it, did the same with a light stand.
“I’ve still got that wine you like if you want.”
“Thanks, but not when I’m working.”
As he subscribed to the same rule, he got them both a Coke.
She nodded, ignored it as she pulled out a light meter. “Can I have one of those chairs over here for the laptop?”
“I’ll get it.”
She attached a camera to the tripod, eyes narrowed now on the wall of books.
“That’s an impressive camera.”
“Hasselblad, medium format. Larger media, higher resolution. I’m going to shoot digital first.”
She took a back from her case, attached it to the camera. When he looked in the case, the bag—the lenses, backs, cables, attachments—he understood why everything was so damn heavy.
How the hell did she haul all that stuff around?
He didn’t ask because he recognized focused work mode.
She peered through the viewfinder, used a remote to switch on the light, switch it off. She popped an umbrella out of the bag, screwed it onto the light stand, then shielded that with a screen.
She checked everything again, changed the angle of the tripod, walked it back about an inch.
If she thought about the book, she didn’t show it.
He figured it took her a good thirty minutes to set up and take a couple of test shots. Halfway through it, he decided she didn’t need him, got a book out of his office, and settled down at the table to read while she worked.
“Is there a system to the way you shelve the books?”
He glanced up. “Where they fit, why?”
“You have Jane Austen beside Stephen King.”
“I don’t think either one of them would mind, but if you do, you can move books around.”
“No, that’s part of the point. It’s a wall of stories. Take out any one, go anywhere. It’s . . . Storyland.”
She pulled him into watching her again. Shoot, study, adjust, test, shoot. Curious now, he got up to take a look at the laptop screen.
The colors bloomed deeper, the light a little dreamy. Somehow she made some of the tattered spines appear interesting rather than worn.
Another popped on. He couldn’t see the difference, but apparently she could as she squinted at it, said, “Yeah, yeah.”
She took half a dozen more, making minor adjustments, then crouched down to slideshow through all the shots.
“How come it looks better in the picture than in reality?”
“Magic. This one, yeah, this is the one, I think. It looks great in reality. Light, shadow, angle, that’s just atmosphere.”
“You made art.”
“I captured art,” she corrected. “I want to take some film.” She took the back off the camera and switched it with something out of her bag.
“That camera does both—digital and film?”
“Yeah. Handy.”
He wanted to ask how—wanted to see how. But she had that in-the-zone look about her again.
She went back to work; he went back to reading.
She pulled him out of his book when she switched backs again, changed lenses, and took the camera off the tripod. She moved to the side, took a picture of the books from a sharp angle. Checked the result, adjusted the light, took a few more.
When she lowered the camera, moved to the shelves, he thought for a moment she meant to pull off the book about her father. But she pulled one from a higher shelf, carried it to the table.
“I want you with the Austen. Can you bookmark what you’re reading?”
“I’ve read it before. I can pick it up where I left off if I want.” He felt more than a little foolish. No one would ever term him shy, but the idea of taking pictures of his hands?
Weird.
“You’re serious about the hand thing.”
“Deadly. Tough man’s hand with classic novel written by a woman, one a lot of people consider a woman’s book.”
“A lot of people are stupid.”
“Either way, it should work.” She took out her light meter. “And the light’s good right here for what I want. Good, natural light through that window. Especially if you just . . . scoot your chair to the right, just a couple inches.”
Once he had, she checked the light meter again. Apparently satisfied, she went back for her laptop, set it on the postage-stamp corner of counter.
“Just hold the book open, the way you would if you were reading it. Not the first page—you’ve been reading it awhile. About a third of the way through.”
He felt ridiculous, but he did it. He’d give her five minutes to play around.
She shot over his shoulder so that sultry summer scent spilled over him.
Maybe ten, he considered, while she shifted behind him, leaned in closer.
“Turn a page—or start to, don’t turn it all the way. Just—stop, hold it. Good. It’s good. But . . .”
She straightened, frowned at the laptop image. He had to twist around to check it himself, and what he saw surprised him.
“I thought you were crazy, but it looks like an ad in a high-class magazine or something.”
“It’s good, but it’s not quite there. It needs . . . Of course.”
She pulled open his refrigerator, took out a beer. When she spotted the opener, she popped the top, then to his shock, poured a good third of it down the sink.
“What? Why?”
“Tough hands, a beer, and Pride and Prejudice.” She set the beer on the table, framed it, moved it closer to the top right edge of the book.
“You didn’t have to pour it down the sink.”
“It needs to look like you’re drinking a beer and reading Austen.”
“I have a mouth, and a throat. We could have poured it in there.”
“Sorry, didn’t think of that. Left thumb under the page, turning it, right hand on the beer. I need you to cover the label—I’m not looking for product placement. Hand on the beer like you’re about to pick it up, maybe even lift it a half inch off the table.”
Since there was no use crying over spilled beer, he followed instructions. Picking up the beer, setting it down, turning a page, not turning a page, until she lowered the camera again.
“Perfect. Just exactly right.”
He turned to see for himself, saw the beer had been inspired. It gave the shot a cheerful edge, and added balance.
“Real men read books,” Naomi said. “I’m going to offer poster size.”
He felt weird all over again. “Posters.”
“Brick-and-mortar bookstores, adult learning centers, college dorms, even some libraries. You’ve given me some damn good work today, Xander. I’m going to tell Kevin it’s a go on the steam shower.”
“You’re putting in a steam shower.”
“I am now.” Nodding, nodding, she scrolled through the shots on her computer. “Yes, I am now. I’d talked myself out of it, but when I get this much good work on a Sunday? I’m steaming.”
He pointed at her. “I earned time in that.”
“You definitely did.”
She didn’t resist when he pulled her onto his lap, but did hesitate when he started to take the camera.
“I’m not going to bounce it off the floor. It’s got weight,” he commented.
“Just over nine pounds. I’m mostly going to use the tripod with it, and it’s worth the weight. It’s tough and reliable, and you can see just how sharp.”
“And this deal on the back makes it shoot digital?”
Nodding, she removed it. “Excellent system—no pins to catch on anything, and it has its own integrated software. It’s not something I’m going to take on a hike, but for what I wanted here, and for what you want with the band, it’s the machine.”
He had to admit he’d like to play with it himself, just to see how the mechanics worked. But he didn’t see that happening, any more than he’d let her under the hood of his GTO.
“I use my phone if I take a picture.”
“Very decent cameras on phones today. I’ve taken some nice shots I’ve been able to manipulate and sell. And now, I wouldn’t mind a half a glass of that wine while I break this down and we set up in the garage.”
“I can take care of that. I’ve already got most of a beer.”
“Thanks.” She hesitated again, then kissed him. “Thanks,” she repeated.
“No problem.”
She rose, went over to carefully replace her camera in its case. And as he rose to get her wine, he saw her gaze shift back to the books.
“So, it’s a classic therefore a clichéd question, but have you read all of these?”
“Everything out here, yeah. There’s some in my office, in the bedroom I haven’t gotten to yet.”
She pulled off casual, he thought, compacting her tripod, sliding it into its soft case.
“Mostly fiction, right? But you’ve got some nonfiction mixed in. Biographies, histories, books on cars—surprise—true crime.”
He could pull off casual, too. “Nonfiction, written well, is a story.”
“I tend to only read nonfiction that’s work related. How do you know if something based on true is written true?”
“I guess you don’t.”
“Sometimes it must be perception or personal agenda, or just enhancing or adjusting for creative effect. Like a photograph. I take an image that’s real, but I can manipulate it, change tones, enhance or soften or crop out to meet my own agenda.”
He brought the wine to her. Fifty-fifty, he’d thought. She’d done the work she’d come to do on the first fifty. Now, he could see, she’d tied herself up in the second half.
“I’d say the person in the original image knows what’s true and what’s manipulated.”
“That’s the thing about words and images.” She took a slow sip of wine. “Once the words are on the page, the image printed, it becomes what’s true.”
She turned away then, set her glass aside to break down her lighting. “They’re not so different, words and pictures. Both freeze moments, both stay with you long after the moment’s over.”
“Naomi.”
He didn’t have a clear idea what to say, how to say it, and decided it would be nothing as the sound of an old truck with a rusted-out muffler boomed outside.
“That’ll be Lelo and his muffler from hell.”
“If he had a friend who was a mechanic, he could get that fixed.”
“I’ll have to suggest that. For the millionth time. At least he can help us haul all this down.”
—
She liked Lelo—and it generally took her longer to like. And Tag loved him at first sight. Man and dog were all over each other in an instant, like long-lost friends (possibly brothers) thrilled with the reunion.
“That’s a good dog. That’s some good dog.” Crouched, Lelo rubbed Tag all over and got licked lovingly in the face with every stroke. “I heard you found him out of gas on the side of the road.”
“That’s right.”
“Not out of gas now, are you, boy? Not out of gas now.”
Tag rolled over, exposing his belly. His hind leg pumped like a piston in time with the rubbing.
Lelo had straggly hair halfway to his shoulders the color of a Kansas cornfield. He came in about an inch shorter than Naomi with a skinny build and ropey muscles set off in a tie-dyed T-shirt and jeans frayed at the knees and the hems. An emerald green fire-breathing dragon rode sinuously up his right forearm.
“How are you doing up there on the bluff?”
“I like it.” Naomi set up her lights as she considered ideas and options for the shoot.
“Needs help with the landscaping,” Xander said as he brought in—as ordered—his guitars, both his ax and his old acoustic.
“Oh yeah. They sure let that place go. Never did have much what you’d call creativity with the landscaping. And Dikes never gave a shit.”
“Loo’s ex,” Xander explained.
“Stayed stoned most of the time. I should know since I got stoned with him. I don’t do that so much anymore,” he said to Naomi. “I could take a look up there, if you want. Give you some ideas.”
“I could probably use the ideas.”
“No charge for thinking. Here comes Dave and Trilby.”
Dave the drummer, Naomi remembered. Broad shoulders, compact build, brown hair worn in a kind of modified Caesar. Jeans, a faded Aerosmith T-shirt, banged-up brown hiking boots. Trilby—keyboards—made a striking contrast. Smooth dark skin, wide dark eyes, a head full of dreads. Cargo pants and a red tee on a gym-ripped body.
They hauled in their equipment while Xander called out introductions. It helped that everyone had full hands and tasks. She always had a problem meeting so many people at once.
Of course the dog eased any awkwardness, happily roaming from one to another after he’d sniffed enough to reassure himself they were okay.
“I took a look at your website,” Dave said to Naomi as he set up his drums. “Slick. I’m in charge of the band’s. Not so slick. Techwise, it rocks—that’s what I do—but the look doesn’t hit it hard.”
Since she’d taken the time to view it herself, she couldn’t disagree. “It’s really thorough, and easy to navigate.”
He grinned. “Which is saying yeah, the look blows. I was wondering if we could get some shots today I could use there, juice it up.”
“I’ve got some ideas.”
“Good, because in that area I’m fresh out. My wife said maybe we should go more retro.”
“You’re married?”
“Eight years, two kids.”
She couldn’t say why she’d assumed he, and the rest of the band, would be single.
At the serious engine roar, Dave adjusted the angle of his snare. “That’ll be Ky. Lead guitar,” Dave added, as she watched the big, black, tricked-out Harley roar up.
Tall, dark, and dangerous, she thought. You couldn’t say handsome, not with the narrow face, the scruffy goatee, the hawkish nose and just overly generous mouth.
But he made you look.
He aimed eyes as dark as his hair at Naomi. “Hi there, Slugger.”
Xander glanced over from setting up the speakers. “Naomi, Ky.”
“Yeah, I saw you put Marla on her knees the other night. She’d earned it.”
“Nobody’s seen her for a couple days,” Lelo said.
“Yeah, I just heard about that.” With a kind of practiced shrug, Ky swung his guitar case off his back. “Hooked up with somebody at the bar. Wouldn’t be the first time. You had a lost weekend with her back when, didn’t you, Lelo?”
“A half a weekend, in a weak moment.”
“We all have ’em. Got beer, Keaton?”
“Cooler, outside the bay.”
He gave Naomi a lazy smile. “Want one, Rocky?”
“No, thanks.”
“Water and soft stuff in there, too.”
“I’d take a water.”
She put her hands on her hips, looked around.
Yeah, she had ideas.
“I’m going to take some basics, just to warm everybody up, test the waters. You’re set up like you are onstage, so go ahead, play something.”
She pulled out her Nikon, changed the lens, checked her light meter as they got in position, decided what to play.
“Dave’s got his Aerosmith on, so let’s go there,” Xander suggested.
“Don’t look at me unless I tell you to,” Naomi ordered, and began to shoot.
Standard, she thought. Good, solid, but standard. She got some decent head shots, some wide angles, some where she let the motion blur.
When the last chord crashed down, she lowered the camera.
“Okay. Now, we’re not doing any of that. I need to see the wardrobe options. Lelo, I want to stick with what you’ve got on, but let’s see what else there is.”
Men, she thought as she pawed through the choices, should learn how to be more creative.
“I bet you’ve got more stuff in your trucks, your trunks.”
Lelo came up with an old, oversized army jacket. She tossed it at Dave. “You.”
“Seriously?”
“Trust me.” She pulled out a white T-shirt. “You’ve had this awhile, right?” she asked Xander.
“Yeah.”
“Okay then.” She took it over to a grease stain, dropped it, rubbed it in with her foot. “Better,” she decided when she picked it up. “Better yet, smear some motor oil on it.”
“You want me to smear oil on the shirt.”
“Yeah, like you got some on your hand, swiped your hand over the shirt.” She demonstrated. “Do that, put it on. Trilby, is that red T-shirt new?”
“Kind of.”
“Then I’m sorry, but I need to rip it.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re built, and I want to see some skin and muscle.”
Lelo let out a hoot.
“Across the pecs, okay? Xander, I need some chain—not too heavy.”
“Christ,” he muttered as he ruined a perfectly good T-shirt.
“Chains for me?” Ky grinned at her. “You want to chain me up, Legs?”
“That’s what women will wonder when they look at the picture.” She gave him a mirror of his cocky grin. “Stud.”
“What kind of picture is this?” Trilby asked, holding his red shirt.
“Hot, sexy, rock-and-roll. If you don’t like it, we can go with the basics I already shot, and more along those lines. But let’s try this. I want that compressor over here, and that grease-gun thing. I want some old tires piled up, right about there. You wouldn’t happen to have a broken windshield.”
Xander tugged the stained and dirty shirt over his head. “I replaced one last week, haven’t taken it to the junkyard yet.”
“Perfect. Bonus round. Haul it in here.”
“I don’t get this,” Dave muttered, and sniffed at the sleeve of the army jacket.
“I do.” Lelo rubbed Tag, grinned at her. “Open it up, guys. We’re the Wreckers, right? We’re a fucking garage band. We’re in a garage. Let’s use it.”
“Now you’re talking. I want some tools.” Lips curved, eyes focused, Naomi nodded. “Big, man-sized tools.”
—
Xander didn’t want to think about how long it would take to put everything back where it belonged. The bay turned into a jumble of car parts, tools, and musical instruments.
He thought he had fairly good vision, but it seemed too art house, over the top, and out of the box.
And he was sitting on a freaking air compressor, with his beloved Strat in one hand and a cordless drill in the other. Ky wore chains bandolerostyle, and Dave looked baffled in Lelo’s grandfather’s ancient army jacket. She’d had Trilby lay his keyboard against a stack of tires.
The only person, besides Naomi, who seemed to think it was a fine idea was Lelo, sitting cross-legged on the concrete floor, with his bass in his lap, a grease gun held like a rifle.
She had their own music banging out on playback, and the fancy camera on a tripod. She took some shots, shook her head.
No one spoke as she pulled a bandanna out of the pile of clothes she’d rejected, dipped it into the can of motor oil, then walked to Dave.
“Come on, really?”
“Sorry. You’re just too clean-cut.” She dabbed and smeared some oil on his cheek.
She stepped back, angled her head.
“Lelo, lose the shoes. Just toss them to the side—beside you, a little in front. I need a hubcap.”
“I got one in the bed of my truck.”
When Lelo started to rise, she motioned him down. “I’ll get it.”
Dave turned to Xander when she went out. “What the hell have you gotten us into?”
“I have no idea.”
“She’s hot.” Lelo lifted his shoulders. “Just saying. If you hadn’t seen her first, Xan, I’d make some major moves.”
“I just bought this shirt.” Trilby looked down at the tears. “I only washed it once.”
“Let her do what she does,” Ky suggested. “Xander’s bound to get lucky and owe us.”
“He already got lucky,” Naomi said. “You had two.” She arranged the hubcaps, stepped back. “Tag! Those aren’t yours.”
He’d nearly reached the discarded shoes, and now slunk back again.
“For now, everybody look straight at the camera. Badasses, give me some badass. Come on, let’s see you steam up the lens.”
She should’ve gotten a few beers in them first, she thought.
Still, it worked. The light, the setup, the arrangement worked.
She stepped to the side. “See me?”
“You’re right there,” Xander pointed out.
“So everybody sees me. Hold that thought.” She went behind the camera, looked through the lens. “Imagine me naked.”
And there we go.
“Again. Don’t lose it. Imagine me imagining you naked. Yeah, that’s got you thinking.”
She came out again, picked up one of the hubcaps, handed it to Dave. Went back.
“Ky, wrap one of the loose ends of chain around your fist. Go with the music, play.”
“I’ve got a hubcap,” Dave pointed out.
“And drumsticks. Play the hubcap. Play the tools, play the instrument, whatever strikes. Play. You’re onstage, you know how to interact onstage.”
She took them from play to war—instruments and tools as weapons. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the dog slinking back, caught him in the frame.
“Tag!” she called out just as he grabbed one of the shoes.
Lelo just laughed, hooked an arm around Tag. “Hey, he can be in the band.”
She took the shot, took two more while the mood held. Then stepped back.
“That’s a wrap, gentlemen.”
“That’s it?” Dave blinked at her.
“It takes her twice as long—more,” Xander corrected, “to set things up than to take the pictures.”
“You can see if it was worth it. I’ll set the laptop on slideshow. If you like the group shots, I’ve got time to take individuals—you’d want to change again.”
“It’s nice of you to offer,” Dave began, “but I should probably . . . Hey, that’s a nice shot.”
She’d started with the basic band shot. “Yeah, it’s not bad.”
“No, these are really good. Tons better than what we have now. You see this, Trilby?”
“Sweet.” In his ruined shirt, he braced a hand on Dave’s shoulder, leaned in to study. “You got some individuals right here.”
“Nice.” Ky unwrapped the chain. “We can really use these.”
“Aces, but the others are going to be better.” Still barefoot, Lelo squeezed in. “Are they coming up?”
“These are with the Nikon. I’ll switch cards when they run through.”
“Can you email these to me?” Dave asked her.
“You’re not going to want all of them, and the files from the Hassie are huge. I’ll send you a sample of the best of them once I go through.”
She switched cards, waited to see if she’d gone wrong.
“Told ya!” Lelo punched Dave’s shoulder when the shots began to slide on-screen.
“These are— We look—”
“Super cool!” Lelo punched Dave again.
“I thought it was crazy, even stupid.” Dave glanced up at Naomi. “Big apologies.”
“Not necessary. Worth the shirt?” she asked Trilby.
“And then some. These are great. Really great.”
“That’s talent, and that’s vision.” Ky nodded at the screen. “Shouldn’t have doubted you. Xander’s got a knack for spotting talent and vision.”
“That one! Gotta have that one, the one with the dog.” Lelo scrubbed at Tag, who still had the shoe in his mouth. “Band mascot.”
“How about that wine now?” Xander asked her when the slideshow started again.
“I could have a glass—one—before I set up for individuals.”
He took her hand, drew her outside the bay. “And after that, stay.”
“Oh, I really should get back, take a better look at these, start to weed through them.”
He leaned down, kissed her, warm and long in the quieting spring evening. “Stay anyway.”
“I . . . I don’t have my things, or Tag’s food, or . . .” She should take a breath, take some room. Then he kissed her again. “Come home with me,” she said. “When we’re done, come home with me.”
—
He went home with her, and late into the night when whatever dream chasing her made her whimper and stir, he did what he never did. He wrapped her close, and held her.
—
While Xander shielded Naomi from the nightmare, Marla lived one.
She didn’t know where she was, how long she’d been in the dark.
He hurt her, whoever he was, and when he did, he whispered how he would hurt her more the next time. And he did.
She tried to scream, but he’d taped her mouth. Sometimes he pushed a rag over her face, and the terrible fumes of it made her sick, then made her go away.
She always woke in the dark, woke cold and scared, and wishing with all her heart for Chip to come save her.
Then he’d rape her again. He cut her, and he hit her. He cut her and he hit her even if she didn’t fight the rape. Sometimes he choked her until her lungs burned, until she passed out.
She couldn’t remember what had happened, not exactly. When she tried to think, her head hurt so bad. She remembered walking home, being mad, so mad. But couldn’t remember why. And she remembered—or thought she did—having to stop and puke in some bushes.
Then the big car with the camper—was that it? She walked by a camper, and then something hit her. Something hurt her. And those awful fumes took her away.
She wanted to go home, she needed to go home. She wanted to go back to Chip. Tears leaked out of her swollen eyes.
Then he came back. She felt the movement. Were they on a boat? She felt, as she had before, the space tilt, and creak. His footsteps. She struggled, tried to scream, though she knew it was useless.
Please, please, somebody hear me!
He gave her one hard slap. “Let’s see if you’ve got one more night in you.”
Something flashed, blinding her. And he laughed.
“You sure aren’t much to look at now. But I can always get it up.”
He cut her first so she screamed against the tape. He punched her with a fist cased in a leather glove, then slapped her to bring her around again so she’d cry when he raped her.
It was always better when they cried.
Then he used the rope to choke her. This time he didn’t stop when she passed out. This time he finished it, and took her out of the nightmare.
When he raped her, when he choked her, he called her Naomi.