Through the Lens Read online

  My cheekbones are high and strong. The upward curve of my lips hint at my love for the catwalk, the lights, and the attention. My eyes are focused straight ahead, never straying from the lens of the camera aimed right at me.

  The camera loves me. The people gasp for me. And the lights shine for me. But it just doesn’t feel right anymore.

  Years of training betray me in the next moment as my eyes flick left to where I know my future is sitting. Regis Malone watches me. He’s the producer of a new soap opera titled Pacific Moon, set to start taping in LA six months from now. He’s looking for a fresh face like mine—at least that’s what he told me when we met at a bar in LA before I hopped on a plane to New York for this show. It’s the opportunity I’ve been waiting for, and the timing could not be better.

  “An amateur to the screen, with the confidence of a trained actor and the passion to want it all,” he’d said as he shut the billfold and stood from his chair. He was a stout man with a booming voice, and wide, prideful eyes. And as he looked down at me, it was clear that he was well-aware of his accomplishments and the power he held. He loved my look, my attitude, my walk, and my natural, but subtle, Southern drawl. He was offering me my first true chance to leave the modeling world behind.

  So I invited him to my show in New York to seal the deal, to show him what I do best and what I’m willing to give up for a chance at something new. This isn’t my first attempt to break away from modeling. I’ve been hungry to leave—desperate for it—for years. And acting will give me the opportunity to do just that. After countless secret auditions, and just as many rejections, I haven’t given up hope.

  But tonight, I can taste opportunity fresh on my tongue like sweet victory. My insides feel electrified with everything to come. It’s all unfolding just as I planned.

  My walk is perfection. I can feel it in my timing as my steps hit the runway on a steady, midtempo beat. My lips are tugged up just slightly at the corners, a trick my mother taught me to give my resting bitch face a much-needed lift.

  I hit the end of the runway and release the one smile I’m allowed. All designers have their own rules for their catwalk, and the one-smile rule is Gabriele’s. My eyes connect with Regis’s, and I grow giddy inside as he nods his approval like it’s a secret message to me. I’m one step closer to my endgame.

  I’m so caught up in my daydream that I miss the timing of my pivot. When I speed up my next step to recover my pacing, one of my heels catches in a flowy section of my skirt.

  Dread locks up my entire body as I teeter forward off my spike heels with more force than I can manage. Suddenly, there’s too much air beneath my shoes and zero chances of saving myself.

  It’s a short one-foot drop off the stage, but it all happens so fast, it’s impossible to find my footing. My palms catch my fall as I slam into cold cement. My head whips forward, and pain shoots up my arms. My knees crash to the hard floor, and now I’m on all fours.

  My eyes squeeze shut as mortification slips through my veins. One breath… two breaths… three breaths. Noooooo. My insides are sobbing. I can’t look up, but I peel my eyes open just enough to see a pair of men’s shoes under my nose.

  The music is still pulsing through the speakers, but all I can hear are the whispers. All I can feel is the shock of the crowd. And all I know is that everything I had planned for my future—my exit from modeling and my entrance into the world of acting—is now completely tarnished.

  Five Star Faye

  Desmond

  “Sir, would you like something to drink?”

  I pull my groggy eyes from the window that overlooks a field of clouds and the bright-blue sky above it. As tired as I am, I can never sleep on planes. There’s something about the altitude and not having anyone to talk to that brings every thought to the surface of my mind—the busy kind of thoughts that could benefit from a hit of a joint. Not that I’ve done that shit in years. Nowadays, the only highs I believe in are the natural sort like reaching the top of a mountain after a long hike, zooming around town in my ride, cooking a badass five-course gourmet meal from scratch, and sex.

  Since I can’t have any of the above, I’ll settle for the next best thing, something that might just settle my mind when it feels impossible. With a quick glance at my watch, I confirm we’ll be in the air another four hours. I look up at the flight attendant and clear my throat. “I’ll take a Bloody Mary, thanks.”

  The man in uniform immediately begins gathering the ingredients, and I shift in my seat. My eyes drift to the warm body beside me, which belongs to an attractive woman with a waiting smile. Her gaze is already on me and possibly has been for quite some time. I wouldn’t know since I’ve been lost in my own thoughts since boarding this dreadful flight. I hate plane rides. I hate sitting. I hate waiting around while the fate of my life is in someone else’s hands. All I can do is sit here, wishing to sleep through the entire thing.

  “Tough morning?” the woman asks.

  My eyes snap back to hers, and I cough out a laugh, remembering why I had my eyes glued to the window in the first place. The last thing I wanted when I climbed aboard this plane was to devote a single second to small talk. Then again, I hadn’t noticed her yet.

  My eyes flick down, taking in her stretchy yellow suit pants and tight white tank top that calls attention to certain enhancements, before moving back up her body and landing on her bright-green eyes. If I were to venture a guess, I would say she’s an important businesswoman, maybe an executive at her organization, possibly divorced since she’s not wearing a ring. And I imagine she has little free time for anything more than a quick fuck now and then.

  I smile at that last thought. My favorite type of relationship. When it comes to women, I’m definitely the type of guy who prefers a low-maintenance relationship, and I’m not afraid to admit it. No woman could ever label me as a player because my intentions are clear from the get-go. I won’t lead a woman on, and the second any sort of feelings get involved, I’m out.

  I flash her a smile. “More like a rough night.”

  Amusement replaces her smile as she faces forward. “Looking like you do, I imagine you have many of those.”

  My brows lift at what I’m just going to assume was an advance of some kind. Clearly, she’s interested. But in what, I’m not so sure yet. Not that I’m complaining. By the way she carries herself, I would venture another guess that she’s got twenty years on me putting her in her late forties. An older woman who’s sexy, bold, and beautiful. Those are my three favorite qualities, and this spitfire has them all.

  I angle my body toward her, my anxious thoughts drifting away. “It wasn’t that kind of rough night, unfortunately.”

  There’s a pause before her curiosity wavers and she turns back to me. “Do tell.”

  Discomfort snakes through my chest. I’m not in the mood for meaningless prodding from strangers. They don’t need to know my business, no matter how good-looking they are. Best to keep my answers short if I have any chance of steering us back toward safe ground. “I was visiting someone in Dallas. I wouldn’t want to bore you with the details.”

  “Ah, handsome and mysterious. I’m sure the ladies love it.”

  My mouth opens, ready to tell her that’s not all the ladies love, but we’re interrupted by a male figure leaning toward us.

  “Sir, your drink.”

  “Thank you.” I’m grateful for the interruption. While the mile-high club has always been on my bucket list, mindless banter is the last thing that will take my mind off of the situation I just left.

  Red and blue swirling lights.

  The cold, unforgiving jail cell that smelled of piss and bad decisions.

  The small courtroom and the sympathetic eyes of the judge as she passed her sentence.

  It’s been the longest week of my life, and I can’t wait to get back to Seattle.

  I take the plastic cup of ice and Bloody Mary mix first, set it down in front of me, then reach for the vodka shots. For the next few m
inutes, I sit in silence. I mix my drink, tip the cup against my lips, and let the spicy liquid glide down the back of my throat before sinking back into my seat with contentment.

  Numbness is my goal. That’s the state I want to be in. Anything is better than reliving the past four days in my hometown of Dallas. It was where I grew up, physically and literally. It was where I met my best friend, who would, for some miraculous reason, take me under his wing and give me an opportunity I never deserved. And it was the home that never really felt like home to begin with.

  I reach into my bag at my feet and pull out my camera to start flipping through the most recent photos, a habit when I’m lost in my thoughts. I tap through an entire series of pictures I took in the kitchen of a family friend who I stayed with in Dallas where I made an herb-roasted Cornish game hen with rice pilaf and pan jus.

  Cooking is the number one love in my life, so much so that I need to photograph every detail of my finished meals in their most vulnerable form, with steam still billowing from the pan, plated, and in the midst of being decorated with fresh herbs and seasonings.

  When I capture a photo, I need it to tell a story in a way that captures all the senses, as if the viewer can taste the meal on his tongue with just one look. I click through a few more photos, freezing on the money shot, the one I’ll edit, print, frame, and hang with the rest of my favorites in my cooking school’s kitchen back in Seattle.

  “Did you take those?” the woman beside me asks.

  I power off my camera and turn to her with a lift of my lids. My photos, for the most part, are private, like a journal, but I like to capture the food I create. “I did.” I respond to her slowly, hesitantly, unsure if I want her to dig deeper.

  Her mouth parts like there’s something she wants to say about it, but instead she reaches for something safer. “Now I’m even more curious about you.” She narrows her eyes. “You obviously don’t want to tell me about where you came from. How about you tell me where you’re going instead?”

  I laugh, a flicker of irritation sparking inside me—at myself, not the stranger sitting beside me. It’s gotten to the point that my discomfort about where I came from is so bad that I can’t even talk about it anymore. I wave my anxious thoughts away.

  “I’m heading home to Seattle.” I toss her a look. “And you?”

  Her eyes twinkle mischievously. “Business. Maybe a little bit of pleasure too. We’ll have to see.” She eyes me curiously. “What is it you do?”

  “I’m a chef.”

  She leans back, an impressed look replacing her curious one. “That explains the photos.”

  I’m not surprised by her reaction. Chicks dig a man who can cook. But I’ve found I only enjoy it when I’m at work, experimenting and teaching. When I’m at home alone, I stick with takeout and leftovers. In fact, I usually eat propped up in my man cave, watching sports. It’s simple. Simplicity dissolves when there are expectations. And women always come with expectations.

  “That’s it?” she chides. “That’s all I get? What kind of chef are you? And for who?”

  My eyebrows lift. “Why the interrogation? Maybe I didn’t say for a reason. Maybe I don’t want to tell you.”

  She laughs, a full-on belly laugh revealing creases beside her eyes and a full set of pearly whites. “I happen to have an interest in your profession. I might dabble in the culinary field myself.”

  “Is that so?” Her amusement triggers something in me. “Please don’t tell me you’re a food critic.”

  There’s nothing that scares and excites me, in equal measure, more than a food critic poking around the cooking school where I teach.

  She leans back with a challenge in her eyes. “And what is wrong with food critics? If it weren’t for those with exceptional palates and creative write-ups, some of the best mom-and-pop restaurants in the world would have gone out of business. It’s a competitive market, with restaurants on every busy corner. You want your food to stand out from the rest? Then you need someone like me on your side, shouting your unique offerings to the world. That is, unless you have none to show.”

  My eyes go wide, suddenly forgetting everything I was trying to avoid on my long plane ride home. This conversation just got interesting. “You’re shitting me. You’re an actual food critic?”

  She laughs and holds out her hand. Her diamond bracelet catches the weak overhead light. “Faye Montgomery. Pleased to meet you.”

  Fuck, I think my heart just exploded all over my insides. “Faye Montgomery?” My eyes sweep over her body again, this time with an entirely new perspective. “As in, Five-Star Faye? I love that show.” I shake my head. “I didn’t recognize you.”

  She shrugs, a satisfied smile playing on her face. “I’m not surprised. I don’t get much TV time. It’s about the food and who makes it. That’s what’s important. That’s what we showcase.” Leaning back, she folds her arms, which conveniently pushes up her chest. “So tell me about your restaurant.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, beautiful, but I don’t own a restaurant.”

  Her eyes furrow in curiosity.

  “My buddy and I own a cooking school. Well, he’s more like a silent partner. I teach, I certify, and I entertain.” I give her a wink, letting my pride for my business show. “We’re in a hot spot in downtown Seattle. Classes fill up months in advance. We’re accredited and growing our services. It’s been a huge success.”

  Faye’s narrowed eyes show her skepticism. “Original recipes?”

  It’s my turn to lean back and feel somewhat defensive. “All original. All food made from scratch. All ingredients picked up daily from the farmers market around the corner. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “Interesting.” She reaches into her purse and pulls out a black business card with gold writing. “You should call me.”

  I raise my eyebrows, feeling a smirk pulling at my lips. “Call you?” I linger on the question, letting our flirtation brew just a little bit longer.

  She rolls her eyes to bat me away. “Not that kind of call. Not yet anyway.” She doesn’t even blink through her forward comment. “I’d love to check out a class while I’m in town. Maybe your kitchen is a fit for the show.”

  “You’re serious? You want to check out my food? I’ve seen your show. My place isn’t exactly the type of joint you review.”

  She shrugs. “Maybe not. But we’re between seasons, and I’m looking for fresh ideas. I’m just interested in checking it out. If I hate it, I walk, and you’ll never see me again.”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “Ah, you’re a cocky chef. Humor me, will you? Which part isn’t going to happen? Me hating it? Or me walking away?”

  “Both.”

  “Now I definitely need to try your food.”

  I toss my head back and laugh. “Great. And I get to read your scathing review, written just to spite me.”

  “Clearly you don’t watch the show. The worst that can happen is that you don’t get any airtime, and I won’t give pity attention for food that doesn’t deserve it. You think your food is good? Let me be the judge.”

  She reaches out her perfectly manicured hand, which I stare at far longer than I really should—not because I’m admiring her soft skin or blinging jewels, but because this is a serious opportunity, one I’ve been wanting ever since I accepted my chef’s hat after four years of grueling culinary training. Growing up, I wanted that so much, but I wanted this more than anything else.

  My hand slides out to meet hers. As we touch, my eyes meet her ice-cold blue ones. “You’re in for a treat, Ms. Montgomery.”

  She meets my challenge with a knowing smile. “Oh, I’m counting on it, Mr…” She tilts her head. “You forgot to mention your name.”

  “Blake.” I grins at my James Bond impersonation. “Desmond Blake.”

  Lobsters Have Feelings

  Maggie

  “Remind me why we’re here again.”

  My sister, Monica, responds with a
single look to express her annoyance before she takes off around the low-rise Seattle building. She would have never dared to give me that same look when we were younger—one that makes me boil inside as I watch her patent leather heels snap beneath her. I quicken my steps to keep up. For someone who has the short legs in the family, she makes up for it in speed.

  “What do you mean remind you?” she asks.

  “We need this final class to get our cooking certificates.”

  My face scrunches in confusion. “Certificates for what? You told me we were signing up for one month of classes, and that became three. I don’t understand. It’s not like you’re going to go out and get a cooking job somewhere.”

  “Well,” she sasses back. “Maybe it will come in handy for you, seeing as you need a job so you can stop mooching. Funny how you can afford that fancy ombre, but not even a little bit of rent.”

  My face grows hot just thinking about the many times she’s slung the word “mooch” since I came to live with her. And I ignore the comment about my hair because this ombre is a necessity, not a luxury. After my fall on the runway, I didn’t want to take any risks of being recognized after a social media video of it went viral.

  The whole experience was so embarrassing, I couldn’t even bring myself to tell my sister. I still harbor guilt over that three months later. When I moved here, Monica was going through some pretty heavy stuff herself. The last thing she needed to worry about was me and my drama. But just because I temporarily moved to her town and live in her tiny-ass apartment in Bellevue, Washington—a city just outside of Seattle—does not mean she gets to boss me around. As the older sister by four years, that has always been my job.

  I swallow my bitterness, knowing that, despite our mutual frustration, I do owe her one. But if she calls me a mooch one more time…