Dante - Daryl Banner Page 0,15

go dark. “Is burying it in his back an option? By the way, that kid you were looking for the other night …”

“Is long gone,” I cut Lex off, leaving him there with his messy handful of mail as I turn and head down to the basement.

I have a back-and-forth with the new client via email, asking him what he’s looking for in a shoot. He gives me an uncertain reply, claims he’s never modeled before, then just tells me he likes my work and trusts me to make him look hot.

In other words, he’s thrust the ball right into my court to make all the creative decisions.

I guess I can roll with that on a night like tonight.

A few productive hours pass where I finish up some edits I had postponed the other day. After a quick change of clothes, I do an inventory of my workspace. I’ve got all my toys. I’ve got whips and rope in all colors. The sling is ready, just in case. Lights, too. The camera has a fresh card in it. I’m—

Stop thinking about the damned kid.

Damn you, Lex, for bringing him up.

With extra aggression, I take inventory of all the possible gear I can use from my storage closet, reminding myself which colors and sizes I’ve got in leather tops, matching pants, and sports uniforms.

That’s when I find the blue-and-white wrestling singlet dangling from a smooth, wooden hanger.

I stop in place.

I probably subconsciously meant to find this.

And of course I’m thinking of him again.

How my photography so deeply moved him. How it made him dream for an experience only my work could plant in his young, curious mind.

How it made him hunger for something more.

And then how I sent him away, despite all of that.

Mercifully, I hear firm and confident knocking on the front door of my apartment, snapping me out of it. The new client’s on-time. Good sign.

I ditch the gear closet and walk across the wide open space of my apartment, then round the corner of my front entryway. Behind the front door, I take a breath, ready to make a bold first impression.

My heart’s on fire tonight, and I am ready to snap another masterpiece—with total creative liberty. I put on my signature smirk, tighten my jaw with determination, and pull open the door.

The kid stands there.

The kid.

The sight of his fierce blue eyes, shaved head, and tight bod—in a white tank top, black jeans, and military boots—knocks the smirk right off my face.

I stare at him for five long, numb seconds.

He stares back that long, too, by the way.

Then, as if coming out of a dream, a lightning bolt of inexplicable confidence courses through his body. After straightening his posture, he clears his throat and says: “Hello, Dante. I’m—”

“I’m expecting a client,” I cut him off.

“I know.” He puts a hand to his chest. “It’s me. Tye. Tye Jenson, your new client.”

9

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

Tye Jenson. That’s his name.

“You’re—?” I can’t even speak right. Is this kid fucking with me now? Does he take me for a fool?

“Well, you seemed so … perturbed last time when I showed up uninvited,” he points out, “and then accused me of …” He loses his confidence for a second. “… of whatever it was you were accusing me of. So I booked myself a real, legitimate session. Like a real, legitimate client.”

I stare at him.

Like a real, legitimate client, he says.

“And, as your new client, I have decided to … revise what it is I’m here for.”

I cross my arms and wait.

Tye flashes his bright blue eyes at me. “I want you to … take normal photos of me.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Normal photos …?”

“I know you specialize in fetish photography. I know it’s your … thing. Obviously, as I’m a fan of your work. But …” His tone changes suddenly. “Is this really how you treat your clients? Leaving me standing here at your door and not inviting me in?”

My jaw tightens.

This kid—Tye, apparently—sure has a lip on him when he wants one.

I step aside, feeling much like I did that first night he came here. Tye gives me one piercing look as he passes by me, entering my humble abode.

His clean, perfect scent catches in my nostrils.

My eyes rock back as I growl deep in my chest.

I’m losing my fucking mind.

He stops at the foot of my studio, his eyes on the large hanging sling. After a moment, he glances back at me. “Where do we