Long Shot (3 page)

“Annie Leibovitz is an absolute legend. Her work is incredible, tasteful, pushing boundaries, showing how unique we are as human beings. She has this killer way of showing the personality of each of her subjects, and how beautiful each one is. In her lens, freckles, scars, and tattoos all look amazing.”

“And in your lens, each vein, hair, and flare will look amazing, showing how unique we are as penises?” I briefly feel that I understand the artistic vision.

She ignores me and takes a bite of her croissant. Her eyes roll back. It’s like her world stops moving for a moment, and I’m not sure if she’s having an orgasm or a religious experience or both. Having had this meal before, I’d guess both. “Oh my God.”

“Told you it was good.”

“I don’t even like ham and cheese.”

“They are miracle workers here.” I toast her with my own croissant and take a bite. It’s melty and gooey and a little crispy and fluffy and buttery. They use locally cured ham and beautifully aged cheese. Basically, it’s the perfect croissant. It’s the perfect sandwich. Perfect coffee, perfect sandwich, perfect breakfast date. Even if it is technically lunch.

“I would eat these every day if I could.” She’s still looking half-dazed and talking with food in her mouth. I can’t help but laugh at her.

“See if you’ll ever use Taco Bell as a hangover cure again,” I wink at her. “Just can’t compare.”

“How did you—you know what, it doesn’t matter. I’ll admit, this beats the nachos I had planned.” She sips her coffee and finally looks at me in the eyes.

It catches me off guard, the sudden connection that pops between us. My breath catches, and her breath catches and we look away at the same time. I take another bite, she takes another sip, and the silence between us becomes awkward. She’s blushing, and I am growing concerned that I may be too.

This would be so much easier if I were at work. I wonder if she, too, is reliving all those memories from last night. How I lavished her with attention and she ate it up. How I danced for her, and she divvied out a stack of bills with my name on them. A story for our grandchildren, surely. I change the subject before my pants get too tight. Again.

“So, can I see any of your work somewhere? Online, or at one of the shops here in town? I’d like to check it out.” She cocks an eyebrow at me. “You know, to make sure you’re good enough for Peter.”

“Please.” She scoffs and only focuses on her sandwich. “Any douche with an iPhone could take a decent shot of a dick. They just never do, is all. Too impressed with themselves to look at it objectively and realize it looks gross out of context.”

I crack up, partially because of how serious she is, and partially because they’re kind of gross
in
context too. Meredith looks like she’s torn between being really proud of herself for saying something funny and really annoyed that I’m laughing at her. I shake my head.

“Perhaps you can turn this into a thriving career. Teach seminars at local community colleges, and whatnot.”

“Hardly.” She looks horrified. “Anyway. No, the only paying jobs right now for a no-name portrait photog like myself are lame school picture gigs. Those are the actual worst. The kids are all shits and the poses are all dumb and the backgrounds suck. Every one of them. The only people who like school photos are parents. No one wants a copy of that shit.”

“Burn. So, I take it you aren’t a fan of kids?”

“Oh, I like kids just fine. My nephew is amazing. I just can’t handle them in groups.”

“Me, either.” I raise my coffee mug in a toast. “Although I don’t think anyone can.”

“Amen,” she says, and clinks mugs with me.

She goes back to eating with the ghost of one of those room-brightening smiles on her face. A tiny crumb sticks on her full bottom lip for a brief second before her pink tongue darts out. I’m mesmerized, and I definitely can’t stand up right now.

“So, what do you do if school gigs aren’t your style?”

Meredith groans. “At current? Live in my sister’s spare bedroom until I figure shit out, that’s what. I had a great job as head photographer for a magazine here in town that folded almost as soon as the ink dried on my contract. No income meant no rent, so I sublet my place to a college friend.”

“Could you go back to your last job?” I ask, wanting to absorb all the details of her life.

“Nope.” The look on her face says
danger
so I make a mental note to bring that one up after a couple drinks sometime. Assuming I can get her to agree to drinks sometime. I think she feels what I feel though, surely this—thing, this connection that I feel—surely these sparks aren’t only burning me.

“Your turn.” She leans back in her chair and puts her sunglasses back on. There’s no way she’s still got a headache, so is she hiding from me? That means she
has
to feel it too. And she’s fighting it. “What do you do, besides stripping?”

“I’m actually not that interesting. I spend most of my time studying. Trying to finish up my degree ASAP so I can quit taking off my clothes for a living.”

Her jaw drops. “Wait—you mean you’re
actually
stripping your way through school? I thought that was just a line you’re supposed to say for sympathy tips!”

“Well, it also doesn’t hurt to pick up extra tips. But no, I’m dead serious about my journalism degree. It’s a double major with poli-sci. I want to be on the political beat, reporting on stories that have real ramifications in our society. I want to be at ground zero. I want to feel like I’m making a difference in helping Americans understand how what happens at a national, state, and local level affects their lives. Aaaand I want to feel a little less embarrassed at my nerd-rant just now.”

She stares at me, sliding the glasses down her nose.

“You are really not what I expected. A stripper with a brain.”

“Likewise, my dear. A penis photographer. My mom will be so proud.” I grin.

“Rob?” She sounds sexy. I wonder if she’ll ask me to model.

“Yes?”

“You can fuck right off a cliff,” she smiles, stunning me all over again with her gorgeous dimples before covering back up with the sunglasses. I may marry her.

“Only if you’re at the bottom.” She opens her mouth, and I cut her off before she can ruin that sweet line. “Anyways, my degree ought to let me do a decent amount of travelling, which is exciting. I haven’t ever really been outside of the tri-state area.”

“You and me both.” She says it quietly, and then a smile slowly spreads across her cheeks. “Well, between our two amazing careers, we’ll be jetsetting in no time flat. Get out of Cowtown.”

“It’s not so bad. I hear there are some really hot strippers around here.”

“Hot is totally subjective.” Meredith has a playful look. Apparently, feeding her was the key to keeping the demon at bay. I can get behind that. Hanger is real. “Besides, who takes strippers seriously?”

“Not many people.” My turn to sigh. “But I’m pretty hellbent on graduating without any student loans, and stripping is really the only legal way to make that kind of cash. Plus, it comes with a super flexible schedule that even bartenders would drool for.”

“Bartending makes pretty good money, I hear. Why not something like that?” She looks like she actually cares, which is a distinct improvement. I’m feeling extremely optimistic about getting a second date out of her.

I shrug. “For one, I like taking my clothes off. In a general sense. If I’m at home alone, I’m usually naked.” Is she biting her lip right now? Why yes, yes she is. Grow, little seeds, grow! “It’s fun. The guys are cool, most of the ladies who come to the club are thrilled to be there, and it makes more money in a night than I’d see in a week bartending. Bonus, I don’t have to tip share.”

“So all of Bobby’s money I threw down last night….?”

“Paid for breakfast.” I shoot another wink her way. “Thanks.”

“Thank
you
.” She slams her palm on the table and I’m confused. “I was just complaining about being woken up so early in the morning, and she tried to tell me eleven was not the morning.”

“I’m calling this one in your favor. You win. Also, you’re at breakfast with me, so you already received your grand prize.” I should really stop flirting, at least until she starts flirting back. Which should be, like, any time now. We have so much in common. The same car, the same desire to travel, we both think it’s weird that I’m a stripper. We’re like… made to have at least one more date. It’s in the cards. I can feel it.

“Lucky me.” She cracks another small grin and checks her phone. “Well, this has been fun, but I think a nap is calling my name.”

“Fun?” She’s looking at me and thinking of bed, surely this is the beginning of something beautiful. “That’s a hell of a lot better than I expected to get out of you.”

She rubs her eyes and offers an apologetic smile. “Waking up to discover that you lost your shit
and
gave your number to a stripper
and
agreed to be a penis photographer is not exactly the definition of a good morning. I’m sorry if I was kind of bitchy.”

“Kind of?” She kicks me under the table. “I’m kidding! I’m kidding! You were, of course, a raging bitch. But you’re cute, and I’ll allow it.”

She studies me a moment. “Are you really just putting yourself through school?”

“Last semester. Scout’s honor.”

“You were a scout?”

“No, but they have lots of honor.” Another sweet wink and this time she laughs. “I agree, though, naps sound like a good idea. Close-to-open is a brutal shift. I should probably get going.”

“What, no joke about whose place to do it at?” Is that disappointment in her voice? Now
I’m
the grand prize winner.

“Please. I may be a stripper, but I’m also a
gentleman
, Meredith.” And I even play one at the club, fedora and all.

“Oh, of course.” She shakes her head, and I sneak one last glance down her shirt. What I wouldn’t give to see what’s under there. I sigh longingly, cutting it off when she gives me a weird look. I pay while Rebecca hisses that she expects a thorough explanation later.

We walk out to our cars, and I can’t help the growing desire to grab her ass. I pretend to trip so I can press myself against her, and she smells delicious. I’d eat her up in one bite if she’d let me.

I wonder if she’d let me.

“Sorry, crack in the sidewalk.”

I run over to open her door, and she pauses before getting in. The pause that says,
I’ll let you kiss me
. I tower over her tiny little frame, but I bend down and cup her face, a devilish grin on my lips. Her breath catches just before our lips touch, which I play achingly slow, giving her every chance to back out. Instead, she leans forward.

The moment our lips touch, the electricity crackles. We could power the entirety of Kansas City with the sparks between us. Meredith is the most amazing kisser. For a few moments, I’m totally lost in her world. Our bodies are pressed together, our lips are locked together, and I run my hands down to her waist to pull her in closer. Then—

“What are you doing?” Meredith practically yells in my ear, pushing me off.

“I felt like a kiss was the best way to end our first date.” I flash a grin and decide
not
to point out that she kissed me back.

“This wasn’t a date!”

I expected this, but the logic is inarguable. “I bought you a coffee and a meal and we talked about our lives. It was a date.”

“With
my
money,” but her voice is weakening.

“That I earned with my sweet moves.”

“Goddammit! I went on a date with a
stripper
!” Meredith hops into her car and peels off, leaving me standing there with a giant silly grin on my face.

“I’ll call you!” I yell after her. And I will, because this went especially well. Tonight, I’ll dance with extra feeling.

W
ell
,
this
is definitely a new low.

Not only did I go on a date with a freaking stripper, I’m now in my spare bedroom, rearranging everything for a shoot. A
penis
shoot. Every last white sheet Jane had in the house has been repurposed and hung on the walls and over chairs. My bed has been collapsed back into a couch and all my shit shoved in the closet.

There’s a metaphor for my life in here somewhere, but the pieces aren’t coming together.

I’m working as hard as I can, with the music up as loud as I can turn it, but I still can’t distract myself. I kissed a stripper. I brushed my teeth like eight times when I got home, but the damage was done. Because I
liked
it.

I’m a monster.

He suckered me in with his beautiful turquoise eyes and dimply smile. And then he talked about being naked whenever he’s home alone and that image stuck in my mind. I know what he looks like mostly naked, and imagining those stupid heart-printed briefs
off
just turned me
on
.

Maybe I was still drunk. But then that would mean I still am because I’m still into it a whole twenty-four hours later, and I am fairly confident I have not had anything to drink today. As much as I desperately need one to get through the hideous task ahead of me, it’ll only interfere with my ability to properly dick pic.

That was a sentence I never expected to think.

I comfort myself with the fact that I can get utterly smashed with Jane later while turning this into a great story.

I fuss with the white sheets a little more because I don’t know what else to do with myself while waiting for this nasty shoot to start.
Money.
Just think about the money.

It’s a one-time thing
, I tell myself. One penis shoot and this little financial setback will be taken care of. I’ll have enough money to live on until someone eventually hires me for a respectable job. Maybe it isn’t luxury money, but it’ll keep me in Taco Bell. And then Rob, with his perfect eyes and perfect washboard abs and big life goals can disappear.

No respectable girl can be seen dating a stripper, no matter how hot he is.

I have a career to think about.

Thank goodness no one’s home today. I haven’t
exactly
mentioned it to Jane yet. I mean, she never explicitly said “no boys”, but she did say something about keeping it respectable when her son was around.

And he’s not here, so.

I’m just waiting to get us both boozed up enough to see the humor. I can objectively see that this would be extremely hilarious if it was happening to someone else.

The doorbell rings, and my stomach drops to my shoes. I don’t feel ready for this at all. I want to dive back into bed and sleep until they go away and my life disappears and I’m back in my old apartment with my old job. Whatever it is that I’m doing right now, I hate it. I hate it with all my heart, and I just want my old
everything
back.

My pride and my dignity, chiefly.

But, as evidenced by yesterday, the universe is currently not looking out for poor little Meredith Watson. So, it’s time to put on my big girl panties and shoot some dick. I caress my camera for a moment, wishing for better times. Then I realize what I’m doing looks suspiciously like fluffing and stop.

I’ve got my most professional garb on—flowy white shirt over a blank tank, tight black yoga pants, and a scarf. Today, I’m channeling Annie. If I have to take dick pics, I’m going to at least make them
good
. And look good doing it. I check my hair for the fiftieth time and take a deep breath before answering the door.

And of course, there’s another one that throws my theory of “no strippers in daylight” out the window because Peter is hot. I’m completely irritated, and at the same time wondering if I have any single friends with low career standards I can hook him up with.

Peter, is almost as tall as Rob, making me feel sufficiently like a dwarf, with sandy blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. He lacks the dimples Rob has, but instead of a gorgeous and very symmetrical smile, he has that crooked thing going for him that I’m sure has broken a hundred hearts. An evening. For forty bucks a dance.

Just behind him is Rob. Is it hot in here, or is it just him? He’s all muscly in a tight black tee and ripped jeans. His eyes are ablaze against his dark hair and tan skin and rough stubble on his chin. This is completely unfair.

Why couldn’t he just be a barista, or an accountant, or even a
pool boy
, for fuck’s sake?

“Hi again.” I stick my hand out awkwardly, no clue how one should behave in such a situation. Peter shakes my hand, and I step back to let them in. “We’ll be up this way. Do you need anything before we start?”

“I sort of think we could all use a beer.” Peter’s voice is a little deeper than Rob’s and oh my god I am offering drinks to a wannabe pornstar. My mother would sic a priest on me so fast my head would Exorcist-spin if she knew. Which reminds me that I need to call her later and talk about anything
but
this.

“Good call.” Rob flashes me a smile, and I remember how I got in all this trouble to begin with. Everything about that smile says trouble. Unfortunately, I’ve always liked trouble.

I mentally slap myself, repetitively, hoping for a reboot, while grabbing beers for the boys and leading them upstairs. Leading strippers/pornstars into my sister’s spare room. All that money spent on college, and here I am. Huzzah, higher education!

We take a minute to discuss possible angles and lighting. I’m doing my very best to sound professional and not like a terrified, giddy little girl, but I’m pretty sure they can tell I’m faking it. Still, I drop a few big words in there to make it sound like I know what I’m talking about, like backlighting and broad lighting and dimensional lighting.

Anyways, according to a Laurelin McGee book I read not that long ago,
everyone
is faking it.

“I know this may sound ridiculous, but this is my life’s work, so... do your thing, sweetcheeks.” Gross. Peter finishes off his beer and starts unbuttoning his shirt. I immediately delete the list of single friends I was mentally compiling.

Rob shoots me a look that I can’t even begin to decipher because Peter is, like, dancing his clothes off. This is bizarre. A stripper. In my room. Preparing his dick for photography.

“You’re off the clock, buddy. Simmer it down,” I tell him, and glimpse Rob’s smirk from my side-eye.

I turn to glare at him, he who practically got me into this mess. He winks and I feel just a smidge better. Not that I’d ever tell him. Or anyone, for that matter. When a stripper’s wink makes you feel happier about being a penis photographer, you can’t even tell that shit to your
diary
, know what I’m saying?

“All righty roo. We want to showcase your length and girth.” I nod and pretend I’m not a horrified dorkface. “Not a problem.”

“Did you know Peter once won a contest for the largest dick in KC? True story.” Rob plops down on an empty chair and sips his beer. “Yep. A few of the clubs had a big shindig thing, and it turns out that when strippers get drunk, they start measuring their units.”

I stare hard at Peter so I don’t accidentally stare at Rob’s crotch while I idly wonder where he fell on the scale.

But Christ on a cupcake. Now that I’ve looked at the other guy, my eyeballs nearly fall out of my head. Peter Rodman (obviously a stage name) is terrifyingly huge. Like, could break you in two huge. Should be declared a lethal weapon huge. I mentally wince in pain for his future co-stars, because they may need stitches.

Also, I suddenly understand why he’s looking into porn, because normal girls would
nope
that in a hurry.

“Broad lighting, that’s what you called it?” Peter breaks my concentration from staring at his gargantuan dick. Rob’s laughing again. “That sounds like the way to go.”

“Yeah. It’s a posing position to ensure optimal lighting on the targeted area, pulling it to the forefront. It’ll help emphasize your, um, assets.”

“He won a bottle of Johnny Blue for that monstrosity,” Rob volunteers. “That was one hell of a weekend.”

“The curse of being huge.” Peter sighs and looks downtrodden for half a second, then perks up. “Can you fluff me?”

I freeze. It hadn’t even occurred to me that he was still flaccid. Hard, he’d be the Hulk of hoses. Also, a beejer was
not
in the fine print on my cocktail napkin. “Fluff off. Go fluff yourself.”

“Burn!” Rob jumps up and claps his hands. “You owe me twenty bucks!”

“What?”

“Oh, Elephant Man here thought for
sure
you’d die for the chance to swallow that thing, but I told him no way in hell.”

“Great minds,” I find myself saying. Rob winks at me again. It’s becoming a real habit of his. Peter starts jerking off in the corner. I’m officially dying of embarrassment. Time to change the subject. “So, do you accompany Peter’s dick to all its photoshoots?”

“You’ll be happy to know this is his first. You’re popping his dick pic cherry.”

“Oh, I’m so honored.” I catch a glimpse of Peter pumping himself up, and I have deep regrets about not spiking my morning coffee. This is far too much to ask of a sober person.

“Hey, you’re going to do great. I did a pretty intensive Google search on you yesterday and found your school portfolio. You’ve got a great eye, so this should be easy.”

“You stalked me?” I stare, aghast. And then I’m disappointed, because I should have done the same thing to him, but then I remember I don’t even know his last name. In my mind, it’s Stripper, middle name The. “Creep!”

“I had to know my boy was getting what he was paying for. It’s a week’s worth of tips.” Rob shrugs nonchalantly and takes another sip of his beer. I can’t help myself, I snap a quick shot of him doing it. He looks so relaxed, so content, so hot. Surely he didn’t notice.

“See? You know when things look good. You’ll rock it.” He noticed.

I roll my eyes but thank him and turn back to my subject.

“Shall we?” Peter is completely nude, standing in a Captain Morgan pose. I crack up. If I dressed his dick up like a pirate, that would be hysterical. But this is a “serious” shoot, so I get down to it.

Then something even crazier happens. I know, but—
even
crazier. I actually get really into it. Okay, the first few shots were super awkward, but eventually the fact that it’s a penis fades away and I start to really focus on the work at hand. I play with lighting and angles, highlighting veins and ridges, getting a soft-focus face in the background of some pictures, a full-focused face behind others. I make sure his abs are the star of some shots, and spend a lot of time spinning around his cock to get the best angle.

What. Is. Life.

Finally, Rob says, “I’m starving.”

I look at my watch and two hours have flown by without even noticing. Peter took a few breaks to pump himself back up, but other than that, he’s a really professional subject. He didn’t even crack any stupid dick jokes.

Rob, however, made tons. That was fine by me, because honestly? Everyone loves a good dick joke. Also, he was really complimentary when he looked over my shoulder as I reviewed shots before toying around with the lighting. Flattery will get you everywhere with me.

In the end, it was like a real, professional gig.

Peter pulls his clothes back on while I put my gear away.

“I’ve never seen anyone that intense in their work before.” Rob helps me collapse a few light poles. “You really worked it hard in there.”

I shoot him a look. “I thought you ran out of dick jokes?”

“No, it’s not a dick joke. I’m just… I’ve never seen a photographer at work like this before. You took it really seriously, even though I was certain you’d hate it. I’m impressed.”

This surprising compliment makes me smile. “Thanks.”

Peter hands me a check and winks. “We should do this again sometime.”

“Food!” Rob suddenly claps his hands together. “I’m dying for some food. And we should celebrate with drinks. Meredith? What do you say?”

My gut instinct screams no, but why not? I mean, really. I just had my first professional gig in I don’t know how long, which means celebrating is in order. And I was planning on drinks tonight anyway. “You know what, why not?”

“Atta girl!”

Rob flashes me a gorgeous smile, and I know I shouldn’t, I know I should avoid at all costs, but I can’t help but want to see more of it. I want to hear his laugh again, watch those dimples appear on his cheeks. I’m such a sucker.

“Awesome. You know where Tom’s Town is?” Peter, now fully dressed, leans against the door frame in a very model-esque way. Methinks the photoshoot went a touch to his head.

I nod to answer his question. Doi. Tom’s Town serves devilled eggs made with gin, of
course
I know where to find it. Pssht.

“Great! We’ll see you there!”

I walk the boys out and dash back up to my room to pull everything down, just in case Jane comes home and starts snooping. I have to control the message with her, something my journalist friend would know all about. I also need a new outfit. TT screams something cute but relaxed. Dress shorts and an off-the-shoulder top, mayhaps.

Dear god, I’m trying to find a date outfit. What am I doing? I have to show Rob I am unimpressed. I have to show him I haven’t thought about our perfect kiss twice an hour since it happened. Which should be easy. Since I’ve actually thought about it
four
times an hour.

Anyways, I can’t cute up and drink. I don’t need to pick up any more effed-up clients.

I pull up my favorite Frank Turner album and blare it the entire drive to the bar, screaming along the whole way. This, ladies and gents, is what victory looks like. For the first time in weeks, I can afford my own drinks. Honestly, does a girl need anything else? I mean besides, you know, her apartment back and all. Besides that bit, though, does a girl need anything else?

I park next to Rob’s black Corolla and find myself wondering about what he said yesterday, about great minds. Was it just the car thing? Or did he see more similarities in us? He wants me, I’m pretty clear on that. Well, okay, he’s been pretty direct. And there was that killer kiss yesterday that absolutely shouldn’t have happened.