Changing Teams (2 page)

Chapter Two

Sam

After the cover shoot wrapped and most everyone else had gone home, I puttered around the studio seeing to things that both were and were not part of my job description. While Nash employed several individuals who were perfectly capable of making sure that models were booked and sets and costumes were available, I didn’t mind handling those tasks myself. What I did mind was the chance that one of those tasks wouldn’t be completed, and the subsequent delays we’d suffer.

There was also the fact that I was soaking up information like a sponge, and fully planned to use every last detail when I opened up my own studio. I’d come to New York intent on being a photographer, not some other photographer’s assistant, and my pride had taken a hefty blow when I accepted Nash’s offer of employment. The common sense portion of my brain had recognized the opportunity for what it was, so I shelved my dreams for a time and made myself indispensable to the fashion scene’s current favorite photographer. In another year or so, I would open my own studio and take the city by storm, not to mention take Nash’s place.

As I made my final circuit of the studio proper, I spied a woman’s denim jacket flung across the back of a chair. Since I didn’t recognize the jacket as belonging to one of our employees, and that we’d only had a few for-hire individuals on site, I deduced that the garment was owned by one Britt Sullivan, the lovely young thing who’d stood for the cover.

No, calling Britt lovely was an understatement. When she’d shown up at the shoot wearing skinny jeans, black cowboy boots, and a slouchy gray and black off the shoulder tee, I couldn’t help but notice her. She had long, light brown hair with just enough wave, clear honey brown eyes, and curvy hips that I wanted to grab hold of and never let go. If we’d been back home in Iowa, all the local jocks would have been vying for her, enticing her with pop and cotton candy, and winning her musty stuffed animals at the local fair. Thank God we weren’t in Iowa.

I managed to play it cool when Nash introduced me to Britt, and I’d even flirted a bit with the new model. Then Britt put on her costume for the shoot, an eighteenth century gown made of a tawny silk that paled next to her rich, almost golden hair, and I nearly lost it. I’d been an artist and photographer for years, and worked with many models garbed in sumptuous costumes as well as nude, but none of them had ever taken my breath away.

What the hell was wrong with me, getting all worked up over a woman?

I shook my head, clearing all those unsuitable thoughts from my mind, and picked up the jacket. It wasn’t remarkable in any way, just a generic cotton garment from a department store chain, but it held my attention nonetheless. After I stared at it for a few seconds, I went to my laptop and looked up Britt’s number. I was punching it into my phone less than a minute later.

“Hello?”

“Is this Britt Sullivan?” I asked.

“It is,” she replied. “Who am I talking to?”

“This is Sam MacKellar, Nash’s assistant,” I explained. “I believe you left your jacket at my studio.”

“Oh! I’m so glad you found it. I’m sorry, I don’t usually leave things behind.”

“No worries,” I said. “I can deliver it to you, if you’d like. Are you near the studio?”

“I’m a few blocks away.”

I glanced at the time on my laptop; it was just before six. “Want to meet up at Catalonia at seven?” I asked. “It’s that new tapas place.”

“Is that the one with the raw bar?”

“I believe so.”

“All right, Sam MacKellar, it’s a date.”

With that Britt ended the call, and I stared at the phone in my hand. Had I really just asked a girl out on a date? Well, the lady was mistaken because this event was not a date. This was a jacket-returning, nothing more.

I left the studio and swung by my apartment to change my shirt; just because I was going out on a not-date didn’t mean I couldn’t look good. After I’d exchanged my black tee for a dark purple one and swapped my black Chucks for my favorite Doc Martins, I headed on over to Catalonia.

I found Britt seated at the bar, sipping a glass of red wine. She was wearing the same slouchy gray and black striped tee and skinny jeans from earlier, her long hair pulled forward over her shoulder. Since she wasn’t wearing her jacket I saw that the back of her shirt had a low neckline, exposing her to below her shoulder blades. I’d never known that a woman’s back could be so beguiling.

“Your jacket, darlin’,” I said, presenting her the garment as I claimed the chair next to her.

“Thank you,” she said, draping the jacket across the back of her chair. “I hope you don’t mind, but I ordered for you.”

“Ordered what for me?” I asked, then the bartender set a pint of beer before me. He glanced at Britt and winked at me before wandering back down the bar; wow, did he ever have the wrong idea. Seemed like everyone did except me. “No wine for me?”

“You strike me as more of a beer guy.” Britt eyed my shirt. “I see you changed. Sort of.”

“Sort of?” I shot back, then that nosy bartender returned with a plate of raw oysters and another set of winks. He deposited a rack of various sauces and lemon wedges before us a moment later. “Did you order us half the place?”

“You have to get oysters at happy hour,” Britt said. “They’re only a dollar each—and they’re frickin’ awesome.” She grabbed an oyster and slurped it right off the shell, then she grinned. “Go ahead, try one.”

“I’ve had oysters before. One of my favorites, in fact,” I said, then I made a show of squeezing lemon over one before downing it myself. Man, those were good oysters. “You know, there’s a better way to eat them.”

“Is there?” Britt asked, raising an eyebrow. “Tell me, O Wise One.”

“There surely is.” I got the bartender’s attention, and ordered two oyster shooters.

“They’re in tomato sauce?” Britt asked once our shooters were delivered. Being that each shooter consisted of a raw oyster nestled in a tall shot glass of red liquid, she’d made a reasonable assumption.

“No, Bloody Mary mix,” I clarified. “Along with a shot of pepper vodka and a bit of horseradish.”

Britt looked down into her shot glass. “Sounds decadent. And spicy.”

“Correct on both counts.” I raised my shooter; a moment later Britt did the same and we clinked glasses. “Cheers,” I said, then I downed my shooter.

“Cheers,” Britt reciprocated, though she only downed half of the liquid in one gulp, and none of the oyster. She scowled at her glass, then she chugged the rest like a champ.

“Oh!” Britt fanned her face, then she reached for her wine. “I think I got horseradish up my nose.”

“Have my beer instead,” I said, sliding the pint glass toward her. “There’s a reason why no one adds horseradish to Merlot.”

“Thank you,” she said after she gulped down some beer. “You’re right, that would have been gross.”

I grinned. “Up for another?”

She grinned back. “Bring it.”

***

Britt and I spent the next few hours talking, drinking, and downing all the crazy seafood concoctions we could handle. My dining companion proved to be the adventurous sort, sampling everything from squid cooked in its own ink to a plate of yellowfin crudo. However, she drew a hard line at the octopus salad.

“Those tentacles are just so…tentacle-y,” she said, poking at the item in question. “You’re really going to eat that?”

“I’m really going to eat it.” Then I made good on my words and downed the sucker. Truth be told octopus wasn’t my favorite, but the look of sheer horror on Britt’s face made eating it more than worthwhile.

“Ugh,” she shuddered, clutching her stomach. “What if one of those tentacles grabs hold of your insides?”

“Well then, I reckon I’ll have me a permanent pet,” I replied. Britt shuddered again and sipped her wine. I withdrew my phone from my back pocket, frowning when I saw the time.

“Getting pretty late for a Wednesday evening, darlin’,” I said as I set my credit card down on the bar. “I’d best be getting you home. We don’t want you showing up for a shoot with puffy eyes.”

“Oh, I’m not modeling tomorrow,” she said. “But you probably have work.”

“That I do.”

The bartender took my card and the check, and Britt frowned. “Did you just pay for the whole thing?”

“Seems that way,” I replied. Since Britt had arrived with the intention of eating dollar oysters and sipping four dollar glasses of Merlot, I couldn’t expect her to foot the bill for the culinary adventure I’d taken her on. “Take care of the tip, if you like.”

She scowled at me, then she fished in her purse and dropped a twenty on the bar. “You really didn’t have to do that.”

“Where I come from, a gentleman pays the bill.”

She laughed shortly. “Yeah, well, it’s not like we’re on a date.”

Okay, that comment stung. I knew Britt wasn’t trying to be hurtful, and she was right, this was not a date. However, when she said it out loud it made me realize how much I wanted to be on a date with her. I wanted it a lot.

God, why did I want this woman so much? Had I taken a blow to the head?

The bartender brought me my receipt, and I scrawled my name on the dotted line. I also added an extra twenty to the tip. Yeah, maybe we’d gotten a bit too extravagant with all that seafood. The bill thus settled, I stood and Britt followed suit.

“Which way to your place?” I asked once we were outside the restaurant.

“Seeing me home?” she asked, batting her eyelashes at me. “You really are a gentleman, aren’t you?”

“My momma raised me right,” I said. “If she, or my gran, had the slightest notion I hadn’t walked a lady home, they’d tan my hide but good.”

“Even now?”

“Especially now, since I’m old enough to know better.”

Britt looped her arm with mine, and we headed down the sidewalk. “Well, I’d hate for you to get in trouble on my account. Come on, it’s this way.”

A block and a half later found us standing in front of an apartment building. “This is it,” Britt said, then she stood on her toes and kissed my cheek.

“What was that for?” I asked.

“For bringing me my jacket, for buying dinner,” she replied. “And for hanging out with me. I know you must be busy.”

“I’m not that busy,” I said, “but you’re very welcome.”

Britt smiled, then she petted my cheek. “And let your beard grow in, will you? This stubble’s all scratchy.”

“Yeah, we wouldn’t want you getting beard burn on your lips.”

“That would be awful.”

We stood there grinning at each other, only stopping when a passing pedestrian sneered that we should get a room. “Well, upstairs with you,” I said, jerking my chin toward the door. “Get some rest, young lady.”

“Yes, sir,” Britt said. “Night, Sam.”

I watched Britt enter her building, and was still watching a few minutes later when a light flickered on up on the third floor. A moment later Britt appeared in the window, waving at me. I waved back, then I turned and headed toward my own apartment. Normally I would have taken a cab, but I needed to clear my head. I’d just spent the best few hours in longer than I cared to remember, and I’d spent them with a woman on a not-date. A woman that I was seriously considering calling again.

What the hell had I just gotten myself into?

Chapter Three

Britt

The next morning dawned bright and sunny, one of those perfect New York fall days that had all of summer’s good points with none of the humidity. I’d heard that Northern California boasted a similar climate year round, but it was going to take a lot more than the promise of good hair days to get me to leave the east coast.

Since I didn’t have any modeling gigs scheduled for that day, I spent the morning painting. Even though I’d been getting booked more and more over the last few months, I’d never really wanted to be a model; I wanted to make a living as an artist.

It wasn’t that I disliked modeling, but I was only working in the field because I needed to pay for things like rent and food. I’d been doing mostly department store catalog work, which had its good points and bad points; the good being that the work was plentiful, the bad being that the fees were lower than average. However, those shoots tended to be full of friendly people, and some of them let me keep the clothing I’d modeled. I was particularly excited about a catalog shoot booked for the upcoming week that would feature winter gear; in addition to my sitting fee, I hoped I would score a sweater or two.

Maybe it was because I had winter on the brain, but my painting that day turned out icy blue, like the heart of a glacier. Blue like the eyes of a certain photographer’s assistant, along with some dark slashes that matched his scruffy, scratchy beard…

I shoved those thoughts away. I was in the midst of a dry spell of epic proportions, that much was true, but fantasizing about a gay man was just lame. Wicked lame, as my mom would say. Then again, she’d married my stepfather, which made her opinion of the opposite sex questionable at best.

My phone squawked, so I wiped off my hands and picked it up. I checked the display and found a text from my best friend and fellow model, Astrid:

Astrid: Free tonight? I thought I’d treat NYC to one of my legendary Thursday night parties.

I laughed; the only thing legendary about Astrid’s parties was that she kept having them. After I replied that I’d be there around nine, I set my painting aside to dry, laced up my sneakers, and went for a walk.

Later on, after I’d showered and dressed myself in skinny jeans, a dark chiffon peasant blouse, and a pair of strappy flat sandals I’d scored from a recent shoot, I headed over to Astrid’s party. She only lived a block away from me, but her place was about four times the size of mine. Astrid was a sought-after model, and didn’t have to work as the occasional life subject at one of the local art museums to make rent like I did. Hopefully, if Nash called me for a few more sessions, I’d have some more images to add to my portfolio, and be well on my way to scoring gigs that paid as well as Astrid’s. Who was I kidding? I’d settle for more gigs that let me take the props home.

I walked up the three flights to Astrid’s, then I knocked on the reinforced steel door. The small town girl inside my New Yorker shell was amazed at the amount of money people would pay to live in a repurposed slaughter house.

“Well, hello there,” Astrid greeted, looking me up and down as she opened her door. “Aren’t you a sexy thing?”

“You know it,” I said. Astrid, an expert at channeling the sixties, was wearing a floor length caftan in a knockoff Pucci print. At least I assumed it was a knockoff; if that was the real deal Astrid was wearing the equivalent of a month’s rent—rent on her place, that is. She’d teased and then smoothed her dark hair into a perfect bump, and her green eyes sparkled. Completing her look was a wide white headband and platform espadrilles.

“Really, Britt, you have got to play up your hair,” Astrid said as I stepped inside her apartment. “You have length and waves other girls would die for, and you just let it hang off your head.”

“Maybe I’m going for the peasant vibe.” I looked around her apartment; there were at least twenty people milling about, and I didn’t recognize any of them. “Where do you find all of these people?”

“Oh, here and there,” Astrid said, taking up a length of my hair and twirling it around her hand. “Networking is important, Britt. You should try it sometime.”

“That’s why I have you.” I knew Astrid was right, but I resisted immersing myself in the industry like she had. I was more than content to let Astrid and my agent network on my behalf. “You weed out all the worthwhile acquaintances for me.”

“Britt! Come over here, girlfriend!”

I looked over my shoulder and saw Nash Williams’s assistant Sam, of all people, waving at me. “You know Sam MacKellar?” Astrid asked.

“Yeah, we met at my cover shoot yesterday,” I replied, leaving off how we’d met up afterward, and spent a few hours drinking and eating aphrodisiacs. “Why?”

“He used to date my cousin,” she replied. “Now, he’s the most eligible man in New York.”

I snorted. “Eligible to other men.”

Astrid glanced at Sam, then she gave me a sly smile. “You better go say hi before he pops a vein.”

“Don’t want to be rude,” I mumbled, then I made my way over to Sam. He was surrounded by a gaggle of people, so many that Sam had to shoulder his way out of the swarm to reach me.

“Darlin’, I had no idea I’d get to see you again so soon,” Sam said as he lifted me off my feet in a bear hug.

“Miss my nips that much?” I teased. “Those oysters must have done the trick.”

“Fresh,” he admonished with a gentle tap on my bottom. Great, now Sam was fondling me in new and different places. Before I could call him on all the groping, Sam set me on my feet and turned me toward his friends. “This is Britt, the model I was telling ya’ll about. Say hi, darlin’.”

“Hi, darlin’,” I said.

“Britt, my dear sugar, you have made quite an impression on our Sam,” said a statuesque black man with a shaved head, as he looked me up and down. “Now that I see you, I understand why.” He stuck out a hand. “I’m Michael.”

I shook his hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Of course it is,” Michael said. “Now tell me, how do you know my cousin?”

“Cousin?” I repeated, then Michael jerked his chin toward Astrid. “Oh, I’ve known her for a year or so. We worked together a few times and hit it off.” I eyed Michael’s chiseled form, and asked, “Are you a model too?”

Michael laughed behind his hand. “She’s beautiful and she flatters! Sam, where do you find these girls?”

I laughed with them, then Sam introduced me to the rest of his friends. Like Sam, they were all artists in one form or another, with specialties ranging from photography to sculpture. However, only Sam had managed to procure a job as prestigious as Nash Williams’s assistant.

I hung out with Sam and his friends for a while, then I drifted around the party. Really, I only bothered socializing because Astrid said I needed to network, and deep down I knew she was right. Until I figured out how to make a living via my art, modeling was paying the bills, and the good jobs never went to wallflowers.

What no one mentioned about socializing was that all that smiling and being polite was hard work. About an hour after midnight I wandered over to Astrid’s couch and flopped down, exhausted. Despite my best efforts at looking unapproachable, I wasn’t alone for long.

Sam strode up to me, hiding both of his hands behind his back. “Brought you a present,” he said, swaying a bit.

“Oh? What sort of present?”

Sam brought his hands forward, revealing a glass of red wine in each. He offered one to me and said, “You looked thirsty.”

“How did you know I only drink red?” I wondered aloud.

“All the pretty girls drink red,” Sam demurred. “And you only drank red at Catalonia.”

“Aren’t you the detective,” I said as I accepted the glass. It was my fourth glass of wine, but hey, it was a party. Drinking too much was something of a requirement, especially at Astrid’s soirees. “Thank you. Want to sit?” I asked, indicating the cushion next to me.

“Surely.” Sam plopped down beside me and drank from his own glass. “I meant what I said earlier. I really didn’t think I’d get to see you again so soon.”

“Yeah, all that shellfish definitely got to you.”

“Tease,” he said. “I mean, I thought about calling you. I was thinking about calling you as soon as you were inside your place last night. I was actually going to call this afternoon and ask if you’d come to this party with me, but I chickened out.”

I laughed, mostly to overcome the awkwardness of the drunk gay man saying he wanted me to be his party date. Was I exuding desperate pheromones or something? If that was the case I was on track to win Ms. Pathetic Girl of NYC, Manhattan Borough. “Well, I’m here and you’re here, so the universe worked it out for us. “ I eyed his near-empty wineglass and asked, “How many of those have you had?”

“Wine? This is the first.” He drained his glass. “However, there were the beers back at Michael’s, and the tequila shots we did earlier—”

“What? How many beers did you have? No, tell me how many shots?”

At least he had the decency to look ashamed. “Five, maybe six. Seven? Were they all tequila?” Sam thought for a moment. “Yep, just tequila. And I’m pretty sure there were just six. Or seven.”

He’d had enough booze to knock out a Clydesdale. “How are you still conscious?”

Sam gave me a sly gaze. “I have an indomitable will, darlin’,” he slurred, slumping toward me.

“That’s it, I’m getting you out of here.” I set our glasses on the coffee table and hauled Sam to his feet, which wasn’t easy being that he was half a foot taller than me and a great deal heavier.

“But the party,” Sam protested, swaying in the alcoholic breeze only he could feel.

“Is over.” I slid my arm around his waist and guided him toward the door. “At least, it is for you.”

“Where are you two going?” Astrid asked as Sam and I hobbled toward the door like the world’s lamest three-legged racers.

“Sam’s wasted,” I explained. “I’m going to get him downstairs, put him in a cab.”

With that, I steered Sam out of Astrid’s apartment and toward the elevator; in his current state stairs were a bit beyond his drunk ass. After we stood on the curb for about twenty minutes with no cabs in sight, I changed plans.

“Stupid nonexistent cabs,” I muttered. “Come on, you can sleep it off on my couch,” I said, grabbing his arm and dragging him toward my building. “My place is just down the street.”

“Taking me back to your place?” Sam inquired with that grin of his. “Trying to get me to change teams, darlin’?”

“You wish,” I snapped.

I endured more of Sam’s teasing, and his hand in the back pocket of my jeans, for the rest of our walk. Once we were inside my apartment, I gave him a tour of the important features.

“There’s the couch, bathroom, and refrigerator,” I said, pointing at each in turn. “Need anything? Water, aspirin, perhaps a lecture on temperance?”

“I’m good,” Sam replied, then he flopped face first onto the couch.

Having seen to my guest, I grabbed a tank top and fresh panties from my dresser, then went to the bathroom to wash up and change. Not five minutes later, I was snuggled up in bed. Not a minute after that a drunk man slipped under the blankets beside me.

“Hope you don’t mind sharing space with me, darlin’,” Sam murmured. “I was cold.”

“I would have gotten you a blanket.” He put his cold toes on my calf and I yelped, kicking him away.

“Aww, baby, am I not welcome?” Before I could reply, Sam slipped his hands around my waist, bringing my back flat against his chest. “You’re so warm and soft,” he said, and I felt his hard cock pressing against my butt.

“I-I thought you were gay,” I said, wondering who I’d let into my apartment.

“I thought so too,” he said thoughtfully. Sam slid his hand up from my waist, cupping my breast and rolling my nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “Must be your cute nips.”

“Must be all the booze you had,” I retorted, noting how my voice wavered. I’d had more than my fair share of alcohol as well, and man did he feel good in my bed. More than that, Sam was funny and easy to talk to, and I’d enjoyed his company both at the party and last night at the tapas bar. And there was the not so small fact that he was gorgeous.

And gay. Let’s not forget the gay part.

I rolled over and looked him in the eye. “So, what’s all this about? Are you telling me you want to mess around?”

Sam smiled an evil smile that turned my insides to jelly. “I do believe some messing around is in order,” he replied, settling his hands on my hips.

“Don’t you think you’ll regret this?”

“What? This?” he asked, sliding his hands down to my butt.

“Yeah. That.”

He squeezed. “Only if you will.”

I looked at him, taking in his strong jaw and piercing blue eyes, and figured a little fun wouldn’t hurt. “I guess we can always blame whatever happens on the booze.”

“Mmm. Booze.” Sam slid his hand underneath my panties, his fingertips drawing tiny circles on my skin.