"Hey," he says, his voice urgent. "Are you okay?"
I taste salt and realize I've started to cry. Suddenly, I laugh, the sound completely inappropriate, but oddly perfect. "No," I say. "I don't think I am."
I draw in a breath for courage. "Will you help me?"
The confusion on his face shifts to concern, and he reaches for my hand. "Anything. I already told you I'll lend you the money for Griffin's treatment."
I shake my head. "No. No, not that. It's-okay, here's the thing. There's this little girl in one of my classes. And the other day, she dropped a Cheeto, then ate it off the floor."
Wyatt's looking at me as if I've gone a little crazy.
"Her mom almost lost it," I explain. "I mean, seriously almost lost it over a Cheeto. Made the girl spit it out, then rinse her mouth out with water, then gave her this whole lecture on cleanliness. It was absurd. The kid's going to have a germ phobia for the rest of her life."
"Poor kid."
"I know, right? That's what I was thinking. But then I realized, that kid is me. I can drop a chip and eat it, but it's still the same. My dad's voice is in my ear all the time. All. The. Time. At least that little girl might actually dodge eating something nasty. All I'm dodging is my life."
"I hear you, but from where I'm sitting your life's not too bad. Decent job. Two jobs, actually, both of which you love. A brother who adores you. A really fabulous car. And an offer on the table to be the centerpiece model of what is shaping up to be a pinnacle project in the history of photography."
I laugh. "Well, you might have a point. But here's the thing about my good life. Is it really mine? Or is it the life-in-a-box that my dad built for me?"
He shifts, his attention fully on me. "Go on."
I take off my sunglasses, then tilt my face up toward the sun as I organize my thoughts. And, yeah, as I gather my courage. "It's not that I want to rush into a bar, grab a guy, and-you know-go at it in the bathroom."
"Fuck," he says. "You can say the word."
"Fuck," I say, feeling wildly decadent as the word slides off my tongue. "But that's not my point. I'm trying to say that even though I don't want to go pick up strangers, I'm still missing something. I want more. I want to audition, not just teach dance or practice. I want to cut loose, like you said. Like Griffin has said. I want to shake off this good girl naiveté.
"I want to go a little wild," I continue. "To flirt and fool around and I don't know. It's stupid. I just . . . I guess I just want to know that the world won't collapse on itself if I do those things."
I turn my head so that I can see him, expecting him to look amused. Instead, he looks as though he's been listening to every word I've said. Listening, and understanding.
"I want to do the show, Wyatt. Anonymous, like you said, because I can't risk my job. But I really want to do it."
I can see the relief wash over him. "Thank you," he says. "But that's helping me. You said you wanted me to help you."
I nod, now suddenly nervous. But I force myself to continue. "What you said before. About me doing whatever you say. In front of the camera, and . . ."
"In my bed?"
I nod. "I want that. I want . . ."
I trail off, not certain what I meant to say.
"You want to be like the women in my photos," he says. "Bold. Feminine. Strong. Women who go after what they want. Passionate women. Sensual women." The corner of his mouth lifts devilishly. "In other words, Kelsey, you don't want to be your daddy's girl at all. You want to be bad. Or, rather, you want to be the kind of woman who he'd call bad."
I take a deep breath as the truth of his words resonates through me. "Yeah," I finally say. "That's exactly what I want."
23
Bad.
The word kept going round and round in Wyatt's head. The word-and all of its wonderful, delicious, tantalizing possibilities.
Of course, that particular word could also be a portent that this was a very bad idea.
That, however, wasn't a possibility that Wyatt wanted to consider. Not now, when everything had suddenly turned his way. When the woman who had been his muse for all these years was not only back in his life, she was in his show.
More important, she was in his bed. Or, at least, she would be. And damn soon, too.
He knew it might not last. That she might be interested only in using him to push past her fears. That when the show ended, she might simply walk away, and once again he'd be left only with her memory.
He knew all that, but he didn't care. Because not only was he selfish enough to want her any way he could get her, he was also arrogant enough to believe that he could keep her.