Page 11 of A Man To Remember (Skin on Skin #3)
AUSTIN
THE DOOR CLICKS shut behind my last model of the day, and I turn to find empty space where Jesse should be.
The absence feels loud somehow. For the past few days, Jesse has been a constant—leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, watching me work with those green eyes that catalog every movement I make.
Sometimes he'd slip in quietly during shoots, a peripheral presence that somehow made the room feel more complete.
Sometimes he'd arrive just as I was wrapping up, timing it perfectly like he had nothing better to do than watch me pack expensive equipment into cases.
But not today. Just an empty doorway and the echo of professional small talk with a model who gathered his things and left without any audience beyond me.
I pack my camera with precision, muscle memory taking over while my brain tries to process this new reality.
This is what I asked for, isn't it?
Space. No complications.
No reminders of yesterday's monumentally stupid decision to blur every line I'd spent years drawing between us.
So why does the room feel wrong without him in it?
Earlier today, when I'd stopped by the bar to grab the key card, Jesse had been there.
Working his shift like nothing had changed, all easy smiles and efficient service, looking slightly flushed in a way that could have been from the heat of the club or from something else entirely.
He'd given me a cordial nod—professional, distant, exactly what I'd asked for.
“ Hey. Key card's right here. Have a good one.”
Polite. Appropriate. The kind of interaction you have with someone you know through work but don't really know at all.
And then he hadn't shown up to watch like he had every other day since this whole thing started.
The realization settles in my chest like lead.
Jesse complied with my request. Gave me exactly what I said I wanted.
No lingering in doorways, no quiet observation, no presence that made my hands shake and my focus scatter.
Just the space I'd demanded and the professional distance that should make everything easier.
It doesn't make anything easier.
I grab my laptop, leaving the rest of my gear in place.
The room has become my de facto office over the past few days, thanks to Jesse's intervention with Amanda and the club management.
He'd smoothed every rough edge, made introductions that turned potential complications into simple favors, created a workspace I don't even have to pay for.
All without asking for anything in return except maybe the chance to watch me work.
The hallways of Skin on Skin wind around me like a familiar maze, bodies pressed together in various states of desire and undress. The usual chaos that should feel overwhelming has become background noise, white static that can't penetrate whatever the fuck is happening inside my head.
Was I wrong about Jesse?
The thought creeps in uninvited, worming its way past every defense I've built around my anger.
Maybe the man who smoothed my way in this place, who watches my work with genuine interest, who responded to my touch yesterday like he'd been waiting for it his whole life—maybe that man isn't the same person who destroyed me back in high school.
Maybe that's a past life.
Maybe people actually can change. Grow. Become better versions of themselves.
Maybe I've been carrying around resentment toward a ghost while the real Jesse has been right here, trying to build something new from the wreckage of who he used to be.
As hard as it is to admit, even to myself, I kind of wish he had shown up today.
The bar comes into view, and I make a decision before I'm fully conscious of making it. I could leave the key card with whoever's working. Slip out the back and avoid any chance of seeing him again tonight. Maintain the distance I claimed to want and pretend yesterday never happened.
Instead, I walk straight to the bar like I'm following a script I didn't write.
A man whom I recognize as Sawyer is working tonight, polishing glasses with the kind of efficiency that comes from years of practice. He notices me approaching and raises his chin in acknowledgment.
"Austin, right?" He sets down the glass and towel. "How'd the shoot go today?"
"Good. Great." I slide the key card across the bar, but keep my fingers on it, not ready to let go. "Actually, is Jesse around?"
Sawyer glances toward the back of the bar. "Probably still changing after his shift. Want me to grab him?"
I nod before I can think better of it, watching Sawyer disappear through a door I've never paid attention to before.
My heart rate picks up, and I realize I have no idea what I'm going to say when Jesse appears.
No plan beyond this vague need to see him again, to test whether the space between us is as charged as it felt this morning when he handed me that key card.
The door opens, and Jesse emerges in street clothes—dark jeans and a gray henley that makes his eyes look more green.
His hair is damp from what I assume was a quick shower in the employee space, and there's something careful about the way he approaches the bar, like he's not sure what kind of interaction this is going to be.
"Hey," he says, voice neutral. Bland. Everything I asked for and nothing I actually want.
"Hey." I push the key card toward him, then tap my fingers on the bar top. Something to do with my hands. "Just wanted to return this."
He picks up the card, turning it over in his fingers. "How was today?"
"Fine. Good." The words feel inadequate, but I don't know how to bridge the gap between what we're saying and what we're actually talking about.
"Listen, I was thinking... you want to come by my place later?
I've got the proofs from your shoot ready.
Figured you might want to see how they turned out. "
The invitation spills out before I've fully decided to make it, and I immediately want to take it back.
This is the opposite of space.
This is me actively seeking him out, manufacturing reasons to spend time together, behaving exactly like the teenager I swore I'd evolved beyond.
But Jesse's expression shifts slightly, something that might be relief flickering across his features before he schools them back to neutral.
"Yeah," he says after a moment that stretches too long. "I'd like that."
I grab a napkin from the stack on the bar and scribble my address, the same way he drew me a map on my first day here. The parallel isn't lost on me—we keep finding ways to navigate toward each other despite every rational reason to maintain distance.
"How about an hour?" I slide the napkin across the bar. "Gives me time to get everything set up."
Jesse glances at the address, and I wonder if he recognizes the neighborhood. Wonder if he's already calculating drive time, already deciding whether this is worth the risk of complicating things further.
"An hour works," he says, pocketing the napkin.
I step back from the bar, already second-guessing this decision but unable to take it back now. Jesse watches me go, and I can feel his eyes on me as I navigate through the crowd toward the exit.
By the time I reach the street, I'm counting down the minutes until he'll be in my space again, looking at images of himself through my lens.
Maybe finally understanding how I see him.
Maybe understanding that some things can't be solved with space and good intentions and the sheer force of will.