Chapter 2

People were so judgmental about things they didn’t understand. It was another reason why I’d never shared anything about my past. The next customer tried to return a half-used tube of Jason’s toothpaste—without a receipt—and with tons of attitude. I recited store policy and got a middle finger for my efforts before she, with her faux Louis Vuitton bag and red hair dye that mimicked Ronald McDonald, flounced out of the store on a pair of mass-produced, slightly crooked four-inch fake leather heels.

“Wow, what a piece of work,” said the next man in line, and I looked up to see plain, friendly features in a narrow face. He had intelligent gray eyes and shoulder-length blond hair with silver streaks.

I smiled and winked at him. “Every day brings an opportunity to build character, don’t you know.”

His laughter was light and fluid, and I felt it wash over me, drawing me in. What the fuck? I ignored it. Once calm, he asked, “Do you practice that line in front of a mirror?”

I giggled. “Every morning, right after I brush my teeth. How may I help you, sir?”

“I need a money order for a thousand dollars, please.” Huh. Didn’t get that high a number very often.

“Sure.” I rang it up, took his stack of hundred dollar bills, then printed the money order. After handing it over along with the receipt, I said, “Thank you for your business.”

He grinned at me, and I decided I liked the chipped tooth I could see in the top row of his pearly white chompers. “You’re welcome.” He looked around, taking note that no one else was behind him in line before continuing, “I have a photography studio across the street. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to be part of a photo shoot I’m doing on Sunday?”

Taken aback, I glanced at Florina, who winked at me before focusing on her own customer. “Me? You want me? I’m…am I not a little old and too skinny and short to be a male model?”

“Oh no, you’re perfect. I often ask people I pass on the street or wherever to be part of my projects. I tend to think outside the box when I work. You’re exactly what I’m looking for. And—” he smiled—“you’ll get paid, too.”

So out of the blue! Eh, what the hell. I could always use the extra money. “Um, okay. I don’t get off until two in the afternoon that day. Would any time afterward be amenable to you?”

“Sure. And don’t worry about what to wear. I’ve got it covered.”

“I see, I think.” I exchanged glances with Florina again. What was I getting into? “Hey, what’s your name anyway?”

“Oh, sorry.” He handed me a business card. “Elias Lane. Yours?”

I blushed before replying, “Engelbert Trentworthy, and for obvious reasons, please call me Trent.”

Elias manfully held back a snicker—his lips were pressed together tightly, though his eyes twinkled. “Uh, yeah, I’ll do that. You poor thing.”

I mock-sighed. “I know.” A line had begun to form behind him, so I had to get back to work. “Thanks for the offer and I’ll see you Sunday, okay?”

“Looking forward to it.”

He left quickly, but I didn’t have time to contemplate what had just happened, much less deal with Florina’s bony elbows when they kept nudging me while she sent me significant looks. Sunday might end up being quite an adventure.

* * * *

I was annoyed, sweaty, and pissed-off by the time I got off work Sunday. The majority of the customers had been assholes—especially the ones who’d just gotten out of church—and it had taken all my energy not to tell each and every one of them where in hell to stick their self-righteous and oh-so-fake piety.

And then, there was Leroy in the meat department, who kept cornering me outside the men’s restroom every chance he got, begging for a quickie. Okay, yeah, we’d done that before in the janitorial closet, but I was so not interested right now. What part of “no” was he missing? And dear God, what was up with his breath? Did he cut up raw meat and eat it, too?

The leer on his face made me want to throw up. That would teach me to be choosier about my hookups, if I ever decided to go back into the cess…uh, sex pool. When I stepped out into the late spring sunshine, all thoughts of kicking Leroy in his hairless, likely sweaty nuts flew as I took a deep breath. I needed to focus on my afternoon with Elias Lane, intrepid photographer.

I made my way to the traffic light, then crossed to the plaza where his studio was located. It was on the second floor at the back of a building shaped like an “L.”

There was a sign on the door that said, “Photo shoot in progress.” I rang the doorbell, hoping it was still okay for me to be here, when a few seconds later the door opened. Elias stood on the threshold, smiling.