Behind His Lens Read online

  He starts to retreat so he can get back to work, but he keeps his blue eyes pinned on me, making my stomach feel hollow and tingly all at once. “Wednesday afternoon, Charley. Pencil it off because you and I are having coffee and I know just the place to take you.”

  In that moment, Jude’s charm steals a piece of my heart and carries it away with him. I can’t help but wonder what he’ll choose to do with it.

  I shouldn’t have agreed to coffee.

  …

  Jude

  Thirty. Thirty-one. Thirty-two.

  “Take it easy, man. We still have another couple of rounds,” Bennett warns as he spots me behind the bench. With one final heave, I shoot the bench press bar back into its metal holders and sit up.

  “I feel like I’m going insane,” I groan. The towel soaks up every drop of sweat as I forcefully drag it across my forehead. Our upscale gym is packed with the after-work crowd. Women in tight pants and tank tops swarm around us, but I don’t look at a single one of them. They do nothing for me anymore. Damnit.

  “Because of Charley?” Bennett asks as he rounds the bench press so we can swap places.

  “Who the hell else would it be?” I snap. I’ve been acting like a complete asshole to Bennett lately, but I can’t help it. I have so many pent of feelings— desire, anticipation, need, guilt— and it’s pissing me off. No matter how much I run or hit the gym, I can’t get her out of my head.

  “Cool off, lover boy. You’re having coffee with her tomorrow, right? That’s a good start.”

  “I have no clue what I’m doing. If this was any other girl I’d buy her a coffee and then we’d have sex in the coffee shop’s bathroom.” I toss the towel down onto my gym bag,

  “I’m not meant for relationships.”

  “That’s true, you’re one moody asshole. I almost feel bad for Charley.” He shoots me a grin as he starts his reps.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I mock, rolling my eyes.

  He breathes heavily as he lifts the bar in quick successions. “I don’t know what’s going on in your head, but don’t fuck Charley over,” he exhales as he lowers the bar to his chest. “I actually like Naomi, and I can’t imagine she’ll keep seeing me if you screw over her best friend.”

  I tug a hand angrily through my hair. “What do you think I’m doing, Bennett? She literally stripped when I took her home Saturday and I left. I left so I wouldn’t screw it up and she hated me for it. I saw the hurt in her eyes and it killed me to leave her like that.”

  Bennett rests the bar back into the sockets and sits up, twisting around to face me. “I cannot believe I just heard you say that. Who are you?”

  I puff my chest, trying to recover from my sappy admission. “You’re one to talk, Bennett.”

  “Yeah, Jude. I’m the first to admit that our lifestyles were shallow, but I’m not running from what I feel for Naomi. I really like her and I’m not wasting time with games.”

  I sigh angrily. “It’s not the same for me.” I move around to start another round of presses, wanting this sappy conversation to end already. But Bennett keeps going.

  “I know. I know you have your own problems to work out. You chose that fast lifestyle to keep away the prying questions and unwanted sympathy. I just chose it because it was easy…”

  His cocky smile makes me relax and I try to focus on the weight of the bar above me.

  “Just figure out what you want before it’s too late.”

  …

  I don’t think Bennett meant to scare the shit out of me last night, but ever since our conversation my stomach hasn’t stopped churning. It feels like someone’s wringing out my organs and won’t let go. It’s not like Bennett said anything revolutionary, but hearing everything laid out so simply made it feel real, inevitable, final. I can’t toy with Charley. She’s not the type of girl you bang out of your system. She’s the type of girl that becomes your muse, the inspiration for your entire life. She makes me want to live a life that’s worthy of her, but I can’t change the past no matter how hard I try, so maybe that’s not even possible.

  “Is this seat taken?” A woman asks, breaking me out of my thoughts. I look up to see her pointing to the vintage armchair next to mine. She’s smiling invitingly and it’s clear she wants to strike up a conversation.

  “Oh, yes, sorry. I’m waiting on a friend.” The liquid spark dwindles in her eye before she nods and turns to find another seat. I watch her walk away with soft focus, but then the cafe’s front doors open. With a burst of bright light, Charley steps through the threshold. The sun still shines through the glass behind her, illuminating her silhouette, making her appear ethereal and intangible.

  I watch her blue eyes span the bustling room, trying to find me, and my pulse spikes. I offered to meet at her apartment so we could take the subway together, but she wanted to meet here. Now that I’m watching her, I think she might have known something I didn’t. Seeing her across a crowded room sends a thrill through me and I wish so badly that she was mine. That she would see me from afar and a slow, sexy smile would grace her delicate features. She would cross the room slowly, purposefully. I would stand to greet her and when she drew near, I’d pull her into my arms and envelope myself in her sweet scent. She’d kiss me on the neck with a feather-like touch and murmur a hello into my ear.

  The whirring of the coffee machine pulls me out of my reverie, but I’m left with one residual thought: I’ll make her mine. I have to.

  Her eyes finally land on me and it feels like in that moment she exists solely for me. She offers me a shy smile before glancing down to her feet and heading over. She darts between tables. I stand slowly, studying her graceful movements. She looks effortlessly sexy in her ripped up jeans, white tank, scarf, and fitted leather jacket. So much so that I haven’t even collected my thoughts by the time she’s standing in front of me. We end up lingering there silently for a moment, soaking in each other’s presence and smiling like fools.

  “Hi, Charley,” I murmur as my body itches to step closer. She leans forward on her tip toes and kisses my cheek. The sweet gesture is fleeting, over faster than I could’ve imagined. The skin she kissed still feels alive, like her lips and my cheek are magnetic poles trying to draw toward one another again.

  “Hi, Jude,” she hums softly, and my insides liquefy.

  “I got you a vanilla latte,” I twist around to point to the table sandwiched between our two armchairs. “But if you want something else I can go grab it.” I shove my hands into my pockets nervously and turn back toward her.

  “That’s perfect, thank you,” she sighs, seemingly surprised that I remembered her drink of choice. The sweet glow behind her eyes makes me want to purchase a dozen more lattes for her just to prolong the desired effect.

  In a flourish of graceful movements, she folds herself into the chair as I sit down in silence. She unwraps her navy scarf from around her neck. I try to slyly study her over the brim of my coffee cup. The moment the silky material slips away, the radiant skin between her neck and the top of her shirt is finally revealed. It’s tantalizing, a little sliver of milky perfection.

  She sighs, breaking my trance, and picks up her latte. With a glance to the right and left, she nods. “This place is really cool.”

  We’re in one of my favorite coffee shops in New York. It’s tucked away behind an old book store. Most people walk by the warn brick building without a second thought. I stumbled in a few years ago, on a rainy day, and was completely hooked. The chairs are comfortable and inviting, the lights are bright enough to read but low enough to feel intimate, and mellow music is always playing softly in the background.

  “I usually hide away in here on the weekends.”

  She glances up me at me with a bemused smile, as if she can’t picture me actually doing that. Does she expect me to prowl for women every moment of my life?

  “Are you a reader?”

  I nod slowly, “I devour books like candy.” She licks her lips when I say the word devour and I let
myself dream that she wants me as badly as I do her.

  “Same here. Who’s your favorite author?”

  “I don’t have one, it’s too hard to pick.”

  After taking a sip of her latte, she sets the cup down. “Interesting.”

  “Is it?” I beckon with a half smile.

  She props her elbow on the side of the overstuffed armchair and rests her chin on her palm. “What are you reading right now?”

  “The Count of Monte Cristo.”

  She cocks one of her eyebrows, “Are you a Classics man?”

  I run my fingers against my short stubble. “I haven’t decided yet. Sometimes I find myself liking contemporary fiction more. I never get tired of a good mystery.” I take a long drag of my black coffee.

  She’s purposely keeping the conversation aimed on me, but I want to know about her. “What about you, Charley? What book are you reading right now?”

  “‘I Was Told There’d Be Cake’ by Sloane Crosley. It’s a collection of her essays.” A shadow of a smile graces her lips. “I’m only a quarter of the way through, but it’s really funny so far.”

  I nod, “Have you read Sedaris?”

  She grins. “Love him.”

  “Yeah, I can tear through his books in a few hours.”

  “Maybe you can let me borrow one of your mystery books sometime.”

  I nod, “Definitely. Although I usually end up having the weirdest dreams if I read a thriller right before going to bed.”

  “That happens to me too! I’m always being chased or having to flee the country or something.” She laughs before narrowing her eyes on me and reaching over to take another sip of her coffee. I don’t know what she’s thinking, but it seems like I wasn’t what she was expecting. Did she think we’d have nothing in common?

  After we take our sips, I glance over at her and ask a question I hadn’t thought of before now.

  “Is Charley a nickname?”

  The moment the question hangs in the air between us, I see her entire demeanor change. Her shoulders slump and her eyes flash down to her drink.

  The pad of her finger drags along the brim of her cup and her eyes study its thin trail intently. “No.”

  What? Does she not like her name?

  Her peculiar response leaves me briefly flustered and I can’t think of anything to say, so we sit in silence for a moment. I didn’t mean to bring up a negative subject; I want her to be happy with me. I scroll through my mental Rolodex of small-talk topics and land on music. But just when I’m about to ask about her favorite band, her eyes slide up my body.

  “Is Jude a nickname?”

  Her sly smile tells me she’s pushed away those sad feelings and is trying to turn her mood around. Another time I hope she’ll open up to me about them instead.

  I chuckle, “No. My dad is a big Beatles fan.” I smile, thinking of my parents.

  She laughs, a soft, carefree laugh and my heart constrains as if she has a direct grip on it. “That’s awesome! He picked a great song.”

  I nod, “Yeah. I like the lyrics.”

  Her question brings me back to a memory of my dad, and for some reason I find myself starting to share it with her. “My dad plays the guitar,” I seesaw my hand, “somewhat. Anyway, on Saturday mornings, when my brother and I were really little, he’d wake up early and make us eggs and bacon and then grab his guitar. Man, we hated him so much at the time. But he’d kick open our doors and strum that acoustic guitar, breaking out into a choppy version of ‘Here Comes The Sun’.” I glance up to find her blue eyes focused intently on me. She smiles and nods for me to continue.

  “It didn’t matter how many times he played that song, he never seemed to get it completely right. Some cord or another would always be off. He’d sing the lyrics obnoxiously loud, never stopping to fix his mistakes.”

  “My brother and I would protest more and more as we got older, saying we needed our sleep, and I can’t remember when, but he eventually stopped playing it for us.” I nod at my coffee and take a sip. “It’s one of my favorite memories from my childhood.”

  “Do you think he knows that?” Her voice sounds like a soft melody.

  I glance up and slide my hand across my dark stubble, “Y'know, I’m not sure.”

  She glances into the air, thinking for a moment, before her eyes light up, “You should buy him the sheet music sometime… maybe he’d connect the dots without you having to jeopardize your masculinity.”

  I offer her genuine smile. “That’s a good idea. My dad is not the mushy type.”

  “Is he in New York?”

  “Nah. Both of my parents and my brother still live in Boston. My parents bought a house in the suburbs almost thirty years ago and they still live there.”

  “Thirty years!” She twists her long hair through her fingers and pushes it over her shoulder, exposing her elegant neck. “That’s crazy!”

  I shrug, realizing thirty years with Charley doesn’t seem like it’d be enough. “They’re old school. My father was a police officer until he retired and my brother’s still with the force.”

  “Is your mom retired as well?”

  “She taught second grade until she had my brother and me. Then I think my dad referred to her full time job as ‘nagging him’.”

  She throws her head back and laughs and I find myself chuckling along with her because the sound is infectious and addicting.

  “He loves her though. My father completely adores the ground my mother walks on.”

  She nods her head, looking off in the distance. “That’s so sweet. They sound great.”

  I remember her talking about her mom’s drinking problem, so I stick to neutral territory. “What about you? Did you grow up on the island?”

  “Born and bred,” she says with a wide smile. “I love this city.”

  “Did you grow up in Greenwich Village?”

  Her eyes cloud over for a moment. “Nope. I lived on the Upper West Side until I went to Columbia and moved in with Naomi.”

  “That’s where you guys met?”

  “My first day on campus.” She smiles in recollection. “They paired us as roommates because we were both in the Finance program, but when she found out I was actually in Fine Arts, she flipped and threatened to swap.” She laughs, “She thought I was going to be some crazy hippie, doing drugs in the dorm and stuff.” She grins and glances up at me from under her lashes conspiratorially. “Let’s just say that I wasn’t the one who partied the hardest that year.”

  I laugh, not surprised by her revelation. “I like Naomi. I think Bennett has completely fallen for her.”

  She leans back in the arm chair, kicks off her boots, and tucks her socked feet up under her legs. The gesture seems so endearing, but I can’t figure out why. Maybe because she would only do it if she was beginning to feel comfortable around me?

  “Yeah. She seems pretty smitten with him too.”

  “Poor saps.” I wink, and she rewards me with a bright, dimpled smile.

  I cock my head to the side, “Y’know, I went to Columbia as well. That’s why I moved away from Boston.”

  “Oh really? What did you study?”

  “Photojournalism, but I’m twenty-seven so I don’t think we were on campus at the same time.”

  “Guess not. I’m only twenty-three.”

  I wonder what the boys on that campus thought of her. It’s probably best we weren’t there together. I wouldn’t have let her go a single date with anyone but me.

  She clears her throat, “Did you always want to be fashion photographer?”

  Her question catches me off guard. I shake my head as memories buffet me from all sides— hungry children, bloody wounds, burnt villages. My fists instinctively clench around the armchair as I shove the thoughts aside.

  “No. I stumbled into it two years ago and decided it could be a good fit. It’s easy work compared to what I used to do.” That’s all I’ll say. This entire conversation has been too good for me to bring up my demons
now.

  My subconscious shouts at me to change the subject.

  “I saw those paintings in your apartment. They were amazing. Is that what you studied at Columbia?” I slide into asking about her art flawlessly, but she doesn’t answer right away. She eyes me skeptically, clearly aware of the forced transition. I know she sees the desperation written across my features, but no one wants to talk about heavy stuff on the first date. First date. Is this a date?

  “Yes. I started painting after high school and lov…”

  “Clarissa!” Someone shouts a few feet away from us, and Charley’s head snaps up to follow the sound.

  “Clarissa!”

  I stare at Charley, confused. The frat guy moving toward us definitely recognizes her and Charley’s wide eyed expression seems to say the same.

  “Hudson?” she asks with a confused scowl.

  He doesn’t seem to mind her lack of enthusiasm.

  “I can’t believe this. I haven’t seen you in five years and I run into you in this crappy coffee shop of all places?” I bristle at his assessment and Charley shoots me an apologetic glance.

  “How have you been?” she asks with an awkward smile.

  “I’ve been so good. I’ve missed you though. The whole gang misses you.” The guy, Hudson, finally glances over at me but he seems to barely register my existence. My blood boils and I have to fight the instinct to stand up and force him to look at me.

  Charley clears her throat. “Ah well. Hudson, this is Jude… a photographer I work with.” She gestures over to me and Hudson throws me a wave. The sonofabitch doesn’t even shake my hand. And what the hell, “a photographer I work with?” How about a friend at the very least?

  His cheesy, country-club smile splits even wider when he realizes I’m not her boyfriend. “Oh yeah! I’ve seen you in tons of magazines. You’re even more beautiful than you were in high school, Clarissa.”

  She blushes at his compliment and I crack my neck. It’s not something I ever do, but I want to deck this guy and I need something to do with my body so I don’t make a scene in front of Charley and the rest of the coffee shop.