Page 3 of A Man To Remember (Skin on Skin #3)

JESSE

THREE, TWO, ONE, aaaaand, I'm fucking out of here.

I shove my phone into my pocket at midnight on the dot and wave to Sawyer on the other end of the bar, signaling my departure.

Still fresh, having started his shift just two hours ago, Sawyer waves back and mouths "Have a good one," while performing a no-look pass of three shot glasses to his current customer.

I pace to the back and take a hasty shower, washing the night away, and throw on fresh clothes equally hastily. It's been exactly four hours since Austin sauntered away with the two men who looked like basketball players moonlighting as models, because yeah, faces like that should not go to waste.

The club is still packed to the brim as I make my way to one of its many, many private rooms, my palms and feet tingling with anticipation, because how often do you get the chance to see how the sausage is made?

And by sausage, I mean erotic photography which may or may not involve sausages as well.

There weren't any nudes per se on Austin's website, but damn, there might as well have been.

It's something he does, some photo trickery, an optical voodoo if you will, that makes all the people in his photos appear naked, and banging for that matter.

Even when they're not touching. Even when they're fully dressed.

When I finally reach the blue door, I swipe my key card unceremoniously and crack the door open. They couldn't hear me knock, anyway.

I poke my head in and for a second, I'm sure I got the wrong room. Looks like they've refurnished.

The four sofas with no backrests and no armrests, that used to be joined together into a giant leather island in the middle of the room, are now pressed against the walls, along with the long low tables that used to surround the makeshift, kingdom-sized bed.

Two of the tables stacked on top of each other in a construction I'm skeptical of are home to two laptops, several cameras, and even more black tubes people attach to their cameras for reasons I'm not knowledgeable enough to understand.

And by the wall opposite to where I'm standing is a large, roll-out graphite backdrop, in front of which two tall, unfairly muscular men are posing.

One of them, the one with his head shaved almost bald, has his back pressed to the other one's torso, and the one behind him has one arm wrapped around his middle, his head leaned down as if he were kissing the other one's neck, lips not quite touching the skin, his long hair falling over his face, making him appear mysterious even outside a still, curated image.

Austin is standing a few feet away from them, his back facing me. He has one hand propped against his waist and a camera with a large black tube attached to it is by his hip where he holds it, seemingly mentally mapping out the best angles.

As I step into the room, I lock eyes with the long-haired model. For a second, I feel like I'm doing something wrong, even though I'm not, but then he looks away, seemingly unperturbed by my presence.

Austin waves his hand to his models in a gesture that must be some inside knowledge, because they change positions.

The long-haired one steps to the front and bends slightly while the bald one stands behind him, one hand on the other's waist, the other on his shoulder, and they look like they're... damn .

A flash takes me by surprise, illuminating the models in a momentary white glow. And again. Austin's now moving, stepping around his models, periodically ducking down and straightening up to capture the pose from all possible angles and then some.

My eyes are fixed on the scene, and I half-consciously saunter to one of the sofas by the wall and take a seat.

Austin motions his hand in a secret signal again, but the models don't switch places this time.

Instead, the one at the back slides one hand from the other's waist to his front and then down until the tips of his fingers are behind the waistband of his partner's briefs, which are the sole item of clothing the man's wearing.

I only half-register the series of flashes that follow, my attention solely on the models. Do they know each other? Are they a couple? Because this all seems so... intimate, so uncomfortably familiar it'd probably be awkward to do with strangers. But maybe that's all they are. Professionals.

I try not to make a sound as I take off my hoodie. I probably should just suck it up and stay motionless, pretending I'm one with the furniture to not disturb the men at work, but damn, it's hot in here.

It's just a little too much skin and muscle and, well, men for my comfort, so I focus on Austin's omnipresent gear instead.

Where he fit all of this shit is anyone's guess.

There are a few standing lights, surrounded by reflective silver cones positioned at varying distances from the models, two large, open umbrellas, and a giant silver screen tilted at an angle.

I'm sure it's all very strategic, but from the outside, it looks like chaos and a half.

And in the center of all this mess is Austin, currently on his knees, his head tilted sideways as he looks at the back screen of the camera, also sideways, and snaps a series of shots.

If he noticed I'm here, he doesn't show it.

He probably hasn't. Even though I only see one side of his face, it's more than enough to gauge his focus.

With his lips pulled tight and his brows furrowed, it's clear he's in the zone—the zone where nothing exists save for the task at hand, the zone where, if an earthquake were to happen right now, he'd only realize because his shot lost focus.

I scoot deeper into the sofa, resting my back against the wall.

Austin looks so... grown up. Yeah, that's the only term that describes him completely at this moment.

Of course, he's technically been a grown-up for a long-ass time now.

We both have. But something about his dedication, about the unwavering professionalism he exudes, makes me feel like I've been pretending this whole time, feigning maturity and skipping classes while everyone around me graduated from the school of life and is now putting their diplomas to good use.

But hey, maybe it's not me. Maybe I'm okay, and it's just Austin who's been mature all along.

Has he? I scan my brain for memories of the past, but save for a few glimpses, a handful of still images of him and Jamie hanging out and laughing and shooting hoops, I come up empty. Not that I'm surprised.

A voice I wasn't expecting makes my body jerk, letting me know I've zoned out. Just like in school. "Alright. That's a wrap," Austin's voice announces.

"Whew." The long-haired model brushes said hair off his face and pats his co-worker on the shoulder as a sign of a job well done. Yep, definitely not a couple. They both look tired, but utterly satisfied—one of the best feelings known to man.

Austin says something I don't quite catch, and both models laugh, whatever charged tension hung in the air just seconds ago now a distant memory.

Now that they're done, I technically don't need to make myself invisible anymore, but the subtle intimacy hanging in the air compels me to do just that as I watch the models gather up their things and put their clothes back on.

I try not to stare. Somehow, witnessing someone—strangers, at that—dress up seems as much of an invasion of privacy as watching them strip down. Who knew?

Reminding myself they're in fact aware of my presence and don't seem to mind, I lift my gaze.

It lands right on Austin's back, where he's standing hunched over his laptop, his shoulders squared, the muscles around his neck seemingly tense as he clicks away, indicating that the job for the day may be over for the two men currently finishing buttoning up their garments, but his is far from done.

"I'll try to send you the proofs later tonight," Austin says, more to his computer than the men, judging by his unflinching pose.

I check my wristwatch and scrunch my forehead. Does the guy ever sleep?

They exchange a few more pleasantries, and after a couple of "Byes" and "See you tomorrows", the two unfairly attractive guys start heading my way. It throws me for a loop for a split second before I remember I'm sitting by the only exit.

They both send nods my way as they pass me, and I'd be lying if I said my face doesn't brighten up at that. I know I'm not a part of the art making process, but it's nice to be acknowledged.

Once the door closes behind them, I count back from five to give Austin some breathing room before I insert myself into said art.

Waiting until he takes a break seems pointless—clearly, the guy's a workaholic, his stance frozen as he looks down at the screen.

With habits like that, he should have a hunchback by now, but he doesn't, his posture as flawless as it was years ago.

I give myself a point for remembering that tidbit as I shove Austin into the unfairly attractive box right next to the models and haul my ass up before sauntering over.

My footsteps echo off the walls, making my presence abundantly clear, but Austin doesn't flinch, indicating my ninja skills are far from perfect and he knew I was here all along.

He doesn't look back, however, and once I reach his post and stop right behind him, I look over his shoulder and at the screen.

Looming back at me is the long-haired man, with his head tilted down, looking straight into the camera, one arm wrapped around the other model who's flexing his back muscles, his face nuzzled into the crook of his work-husband's neck.

My gaze follows his spine, down to where the small of his back disappears in the shadow.

Even though I just witnessed the process, I could have sworn he's naked.

"Mesmerizing," I say to make my presence officially known. Also, because it's true.

Austin doesn't look back, proceeding to the next shot. "Mmm," he hums. "I'm not sure, actually."

My head snaps back and my eyebrows all but meet as I inspect the next shot, and then the next.

"Why?" I ask. "They look…" I tilt my head to look at them from a different angle, because apparently my body decided I actually know what I'm talking about.

"Well, they're pretty damn good, if you ask me. " Not that he did.

Austin tsks and shakes his head. "I don't know. I'm just not feeling it."

Apparently he's able to see things I'm not. That's why he's the artist.

"For what it's worth," I push, as if a part of me is hellbent on providing support he's never asked for, "I like them. You know, as a layman."

Austin straightens up, and I can practically feel the relief in my own shoulders. Then, he turns for the first time, and when his eyes finally meet mine, his eyebrows shoot up slightly, as if the conscious part of his brain only now realizes I'm here.

The creative process is truly a mystery.

Once all pieces of him are seemingly on the same page, he props his elbow on the table construction behind him and he leans back, before giving me a prolonged once-over that lingers uncomfortably across my skin even after his attention is back on my face.

"Maybe you should do it sometime. You know, as a layman. "

I may be imagining things, but I could swear there's a dryness to his voice that wasn't there before, and I'd ask him what's wrong if I knew what it is he's talking about in the first place. Instead, I just blink. "Do what?"

His gaze makes a round trip down my entire frame again, and damn, why does it feel so weird? I successfully fight the urge to step away. Not that we're super close, and not that it'd matter—it's his attention that weighs a little too heavy, not his physical presence.

But then, I do take a step back, and a sharp one at that, when he speaks again. "Pose."

The word echoes inside my skull three times before I gather up enough of my wits to chuckle. "Yeah, no. Not much of a model."

Not much of a daredevil, either. Not anymore, anyway. These days, I'm all about boring. Happily so.

Instead of a leisurely travel, his eyes merely flicker to my chest this time before ping-ponging to my face again. He shrugs one shoulder. "I guess."

My brows furrow and I open my mouth, take a sharp inhale and wait for the words that don't come. That was… kind of rude, wasn't it?

Austin nods to himself before turning on his heel and focusing back on the screen, hitting the space bar to switch to the next photo.

I shake my head. He's just focused, and I'm interrupting.

I allow myself a couple more minutes of standing behind Austin in perfect silence, looking over his shoulder as he goes through the shots, lingering on some for extended moments, while skipping others right away.

After that, I can't justify being here any longer.

My curiosity has been satisfied, I guess.

Well, it hasn't actually, but it's not like I'm learning anything new.

It'd be one thing if we were having some in-depth conversation about lenses, or lighting, or one of the million other things I know nothing about.

But all we're having is a shared silence I'm not clever enough to break.

"Alright. I guess I'll get going. Leave you to the craft and all that," I say as I scratch the back of my head, because awkward . Austin doesn't look up.

"Bet," he says to his laptop. Whatever that's supposed to mean.

I nod to no one, slowly turn on my heel and saunter toward the door, grabbing my hoodie from the sofa on my way. Somehow, it got chilly.

As I reach for the handle, the sound of my name reaches me from where I left Austin. I turn my head to find him facing me, arms folded over his chest. I raise one brow.

"The offer stands." The fact that my brain's not braining today must be apparent on my face, because he clarifies, unprompted. "To pose."

I'm about to coy my way out of it again, but stop myself before I do. It didn't work so well the last time, and getting my ego stomped on twice wasn't on my bingo card today. Instead, I force a smile and nod. "I'll think about it."

And with that lie on my lips, I leave him alone.