But it is the guy behind them, looming in the background with a sour expression, who catches my eye and makes me pause. This guy is the cover model, blazing blue eyes and tanned skin. So gorgeous, he makes my teeth hurt. And he's looking down his perfect nose at me as if my presence offends him.
His face, I know well. From TV ads to billboards, I've seen him smiling back at me, trying to sell me athletic gear, health drinks, and even home mortgages. He's the quarterback, the designated king of the football team, Finn Mannus or ‘Manny' as the press dubs him. A strange nickname, since he's so damn pretty.
///
He catches me looking and quirks a brow as if to say, "Yes, I know. I'm all that and a bag of chips, but don't even think about taking a bite; I've better things to do."
And so do I. I cut my gaze away and study my other clients. They all look back at me with various levels of expectation or impatience. Dominance and testosterone radiate from them like sunlight. If I give them an inch, they'll take over this shoot. They probably wouldn't even notice they're doing it; they're clearly just that accustomed to taking charge.
I draw myself tight and try to remember what they'd been saying. Ah, yes, they were talking about shits. Lovely. It's time to assert some dominance to my own.
* * *
Finn
* * *
There's a lesson I learned early on in life; sometimes you have to suffer thought shit. Best just buck up and get past it as quickly as possible. As a football player, there's a lot of shit I suffer through: physical pain, mental exhaustion, mind numbing questions from the press, rigorous diets, lack of personal time. Looking at it from the outside, you'd wonder why the hell anyone would actually want to be a pro-football player. Answer: because it is the best fucking game on earth, and I kick ass at it.
But there are days like today, when I'm asked-ordered by my team's marketing director-to pose for a calendar, that I really question my devotion to football.
I've been told this is for charity, which is the only reason I agreed. Even so, I give to charity. I use my face and my name to promote causes that protect children, the disadvantaged, the abused. It's one of the best things about my fame. But striking a pose for a beefcake calendar makes me feel like a right fuckwit.
To top it off, I'm standing outside the photographer's door with three of my teammates, and he isn't answering. I pound on the metal door with the side of my fist, and the sound echoes in the wide stairwell. This is technically my day off. I could have been napping, soaking in the tub-don't knock it 'til you try it-or playing Call of Duty on my PlayStation.
Then again, if he doesn't show, we don't do the shoot. No skin off my nose there. "We get the time wrong?" I ask over my shoulder.
"Nope," says Dex, my center. "In fact, we're a few minutes late."
Perfect. We're sitting out here with our dicks in our hands. "The photographer had better not be having some sort of artistic huff."
Dex shrugs, looking bored. "Maybe he's on the can or something."
My starting wideout, Jake Ryder seems more interested in cracking jokes.
Jake shouts at the door again, banging on it with his fist. "Dude! Nip it off and open up!"
If I wasn't so distracted, I'd be embarrassed. I pace and eye the stairs. It isn't too late to get away.
Unfortunately, the door whips open. A woman stands there looking pissed and kind of scary. She's thin and tall, maybe five foot ten, which still makes her six inches shorter than me. Her eyebrows are arrow straight, not something I'd normally notice on a woman, but it gives her such a fierce expression, as if she's an Amazonian ready to do battle, that it's hard to ignore. Or maybe it's that she's glaring like she's deciding which one of us she wants dismember first.
As if she hears my thoughts, her dark gaze snaps to me. And I swear I feel it down to my balls. She's not pretty. No, her narrow face and high-bridged nose are too severe for pretty. Long straight hair, inky black at the roots and magenta at the tips, give her a Goth girl vibe. As does her black tank-top and black jeans. A tattoo of dogwood flowers, done in black lines, run along her left upper arm.
In short, she's the type of female who has stayed clear of me for my entire post-pubescent life. And I've stayed clear of her type as well. Call it cliché, I don't care. It's just a simple truth; women who look like her have never had any interest in guys like me, and I've never given her type a second glance.
Even so, my blood quickens. Her intense stare holds power. And power is something I respect.
I hear it in her husky voice when she finally speaks. "Nip what off, do tell?"
That's a sex voice, the kind that wraps around a guy's dick and tugs. I absolutely do not need to respond to a sexy voice right now. Especially since she clearly considers us nothing more than a bunch of unruly boys.
Take charge. Control the situation. It's what I do. Always. I step forward, bring her attention back to me. "We're here for the calendar shoot."
Her upper lip curls. "Well, I certainly didn't think you were here for the little league group shot I have scheduled later."
///
Cute. Really cute. Wait. What?
"You're the photographer?" Dread punches my gut.
She scoffs with obvious annoyance. "Let's not be a cliché, eh, pretty boy?"
Prickly heat fills my gut. I've been called that my whole grown life. I'm used to it and don't really care when the guys tease me about my looks. But pisses me off, hearing it come from this woman, as if I'm nothing.
Ryder snickers. "She's got your number, sweet cheeks."
No, she doesn't. Not even a little. But she thinks she does, which fucking irks "Hey now, we were told our photographer's name was Chester Copper. Excuse me if I assumed it was a man."
She flinches as if smacked, and a little crinkle forms between her brows. "I go by Chess. I've no idea how your PR manager got my full name." It sounds as if she aims to find out.
I don't envy the poor sap who let her full name slide. But I do like that I'm getting to her too. Turn about is fair play, honey. "Probably because they do background checks to weed out the freaks."
Chess gives a me bored roll of her eyes. Now that I'm close enough, I can see that they're bottle green, the color deep, but crystal clear. I don't think I've ever seen eyes that particular shade, and it makes me want to keep looking.
I have no idea why I'm even noticing. Her appearance has no bearing on how she'll do her job. And that's the only reason I'm here.
At my side, Jake stirs, his brows pulling together. "Chester Copper … That's kind of like Chester Copperpot from The Goonies," Jake adds, looking around at all of us. "Remember that movie?"
Our photographer utters a ripe curse that makes me fight a grin.
"Yeah, that's a cool flick," Rolondo says to Jake. "Little dude who played the lead grew up and played Samwise Gamgee. Man, talk about a sad sap. As if I'm gonna toss myself into the fires of Mount Doom cuz I gotta boner for a hobbit."
Dex, who has remained silent until now, shakes his head with clear disgust. "He was on a quest to save Middle-Earth from Sauron, chucklehead."
"Naw," Rolondo insists. "He wanted Frodo bad."
My grin grows. Get these guys talking about movies and they'll go off on a never-ending tangent. Something Jake knows as well. He makes a noise of annoyance. "Hello? Can we please get back to The Goonies and Chester Copperpot? You know, that old dude they find all shriveled and crushed by a boulder?"
Chess goes full-on red. "Yes, I know," she grinds out. "My parents met at a draft house viewing of the movie. They expected a boy, and since my grandmamma had already embroidered all my baby blankets … " She shrugs as if bored, but I don't miss the tension in those slim shoulders. She's pissed.
"And they actually named you after a Goonies character?" Dex asks, horrified.
"Yes." Her voice is tight and pained.
I'm torn between kind of loving her parents and thinking they're nuts. On the one hand, big points for originality. On the other, who does that to a girl?
Rolondo murmurs something about crazy white people under his breath, clearly not low enough because Ms. Chester abruptly turns and strides into the studio with those long legs of hers.
After exchanging looks, we follow.
The loft takes up half the floor of the building. It's an enormous space of exposed old brick, well-worn plank floors, and industrial black grid windows. There's a living space with massive brown leather couches and one of those coffee tables that are made out of a gnarly tree trunk. An old, farm dining table is set opposite a gourmet kitchen.