JAXSON CASSIDY
THE ARTICLE WAS TOTAL BULLSHIT.
Closing the magazine, I slapped it down on the bar and stared at the happily engaged couple on the front.
I couldn’t get away from weddings.
I picked the publication back up and found myself reading the article for the second time. Then again, who wouldn’t reread something when they were the headliner?
WHO’S WHO in ATLANTA
LOCAL PHOTOGRAPHER MIGHT LOOK LIKE SIN IN FRONT OF THE LENS, BUT IS HE SIN FROM BEHIND IT? by Elise Petra and Chloe Carmichael
With a face that once earned him a spot in ads for Marc Jacobs, not to mention a casting in that never talked about Calvin Kelvin sexing campaign, Jaxson Cassidy could have been a model. Don’t believe me? Check out the stock images of him on, “Hunks of Atlanta Stock.com.” To show our support to all things Atlanta, we even posted one of these long-ago taken images in our Love Connections column a couple of weeks back. As the gods have it, our hunky Jaxson gravitated toward the other side of the lens. Photographing weddings A in Atlanta to get his start, he is finally ready to move on. Most recently, he won a chance to photograph this year’s upcoming Swimsuit Edition for Sports Illustrated. The dream of a lifetime for any photographer, but can this pretty boy make the cut? Only time will tell.
What bullshit!
I clutched the issue of Hotlanta tight between my fingers. Okay, so it wasn’t total bullshit.
I had been on the other side of the camera and way more than once or twice. This Elise and Chloe needed to get their facts straight. Do their research more thoroughly. So shoot me, while I was in college it was the best way to earn some extra cash.
But come on, this article made me look like a pussy loser.
To get my start?
“My start!” Those two words had me seeing red.
I’d started seven years ago. Fuck you, Elise and Chloe, very much.
And what the hell was this website she was talking about? Then again, who gave a shit?
Not me.
I downed the beer in front of me and ordered another before glancing at the monitor. Sure enough, my flight had been canceled. Fucking great.
The glossy page of Hotlanta felt like it was leering at me. Fucking great.
I had a choice to make. Fucking great.
Either think about my ex-fiancée, whose wedding I had just photographed, with her brand new husband waiting to go on their honeymoon, or read about myself. Tough choice I had. Not. I read the article for the third time. Each word only making me more pissed by the minute.
“Finally ready to move on!”
Seriously.
What a bitch.
Like it was my choice to shoot two hundred and fifty Goddamn weddings before getting a shot to do what I had longed to do from the very start.
Anger boiled like hot water in my veins. I slapped the magazine down on the bar one more time and stared at it. Stared at the dark black, glossy hair and blue eyes. At myself.
Even with a career-changing legitimate gig on the horizon, my picture was the focus. Not my work. But my picture. That I hadn’t even taken.
Now that really was total bullshit.
I never should have stopped in the airport bookstore. I turned to shove the magazine in my bag.
I wanted to burn it.
Needing to get the hell out of Atlanta, I glared at the monitor. It looked like that wasn’t happening anytime soon.
It was time for the hard stuff.
I’d have to settle for drowning my sorrows in whiskey and getting piss drunk. If I drank enough, maybe I’d forget all about my ex-fiancée and her new husband, and the fact that they were more than likely—
Fuck, I couldn’t even think past that.
Roughing a hand down my face, I sighed. My eyes were burning. I’d been up for more than twenty-four hours straight, and the alcohol was making that fact increasingly apparent.
What I needed was some sleep.
A glass of whiskey, or a bottle even, was probably a bad idea. If I drank anything that strong, there was a very real possibility I’d end up knocking on the newlyweds’ door and confessing God knows what.
Just as I turned back to signal the bartender for the tab, my gaze landed on the sexy woman standing in the middle of the bar like she was lost. I felt the oddest swoosh of adrenaline flood my veins, and other places.
I hadn’t felt this way in a very long time.
Long, slender legs stood there. Big, doe-like eyes seemed to be searching. Damn, she was hot. She might have been dressed all uptight-like, but the way she stood in those heels told me she was anything but. It was more like she was playing dress-up.
I watched her.
Our eyes met for a few short moments, but then she jerked her head down and stared into her purse. Was she avoiding making eye contact with me? What the fuck? I wanted to call her over, but then she took a step. Toward me or away, I wasn’t sure.
Still, I watched some more.
I was fascinated by her movements.
I’d been around enough runway models to know she didn’t have a clue how to strut in those designer heels. In fact, I started to wonder if she might not fall off of them, that’s how much she was wobbling.
What was her deal?
Intrigue hit me. I wanted to know.
Know her.
It was something I hadn’t felt in a very long time. I couldn’t decide if that was good or bad.
What did it matter?
Captivated, I found myself fighting off a chuckle and decided this could be fun. She could be fun. If nothing else, she could be something to take my mind off the fact that the girl I loved was fucking someone else’s brains out right now.
“Check?” the bartender asked, heeding my call for attention from moments ago.
On second thought . . . maybe I’d stick around.
Why not?
Turning, I shook my head. “No, I’ll have a whiskey. The good stuff, neat. Actually, make it two.”
With the drinks ordered, I twisted back and this time when I caught her gaze, I held it. Her eyes went so wide when she realized I was not only looking at her, but staring.
Refusing to let her go, I grinned and motioned with a hard nod to the empty seat beside me. I was inviting her, no, bidding her, or maybe even daring her, to come a little closer.
What did I have to lose?