The overdoor bell chimes when the last client of the week enters my studio at five to six on Saturday afternoon. Strawberry blonde hair flutters around her gorgeous face as she takes in the place. Craning her long, slim neck right and left, she scans the many portraits hanging on the walls.
“Hey, can I help?” I ask, stopping the tedious task of tidying up the space before we close.
Well, I close. My business partner, Luke, took the afternoon off to get ready for a party and left me to ensure the props are safely back in the cabinets and the studio is ready for a commercial photo shoot he has booked on Monday morning with the local jeweler.
“Hey, yes. You’re Cassidy, right? I’ve been told you’re the best around here when it comes to portrait photography,” She comes closer, eyes still on the pictures for a moment before she extends her hand. “I’m Aisha Harlow.”
“Harlow,” I repeat, knotting my eyebrows. “Aisha Harlow. Why does that sound familiar?”
She beams, biting on her lip coated with pink lip gloss, clearly pleased I recognize her surname. “Maybe you’ve read one of my books?”
“Yes!” I exclaim when it clicks. Aisha Harlow, the Queen of smutty romance. “I’ve read them all, girl. God, I love your writing.” She has a knack for storytelling. From the first words, you’re sucked in and can’t put the book down.
Just one more chapter… yeah, right. Whenever I get my hands on her new release, I don’t start the book until I have six to eight hours free to finish it in one sitting.
“I didn’t know you’re from around here.”
“Not many people do,” she admits, circling the room again. “I tend to say I’m from Orange County but don’t specify Newport Beach.” She spins on her high stiletto heel to face me again. “Anyway, I need a reliable photographer to snap pictures for the covers.”
I quickly recall the covers of Aisha’s books, wondering what type of photography she has in mind. “So, handsome, half-naked men in sexy, broody poses?”
“Exactly. I’ll hire a model I like and send him your way so you can work your magic.” She points to Luke’s picture that’s displayed by the main door. The camera loves him. He’s handsome and a touch narcissistic and loves the attention posing in front of a camera provides. In his spare time, he eagerly volunteers to model for me whenever I want to expand my portfolio. “That sort of thing. I know it’s getting late, and I’ve got somewhere to be right now, so how about you tell me when we could talk this through over coffee?”
I pull out my notebook to check the calendar. “I’m free on Tuesday from noon till three. Does that work?”
“Perfect. Meet me in the café around the corner.”
We exchange phone numbers, and Aisha leaves, her step bouncy, hair and hips swaying. A tall, ripped, bald man waits outside, resting against a black motorcycle. He’s an incarnation of one of the male characters in her books, and I wonder if he’s her boyfriend or just a research case.
I finish cleaning and locking the studio and then text Luke, my excitement palpable in the air.
Me: You’ll never believe WHO just came by the studio!
Luke: Jesus.
I chuckle, open the door to my car, and place my bag on the passenger seat.
Me: Almost. Aisha Harlow. Remember the book I gave you last month? She wrote that. She wants me to take pictures for her covers. We’re meeting next week to talk over the details!
Luke: Holy shit! You lucky duck. You better recommend me as the model for one of them.
Me: She saw your picture. I think you have a shot.
We text back and forth for a while, and once again, he tries to convince me to join the party tonight. As much as I love Luke and his boyfriend, I’m not keen on their crowd. Too much alcohol and coke-snorting for my liking.
I toss the phone on the passenger seat and start my beloved yellow Fiat, reversing out of a parking space. “Mickey” by Toni Basil seeps from the speakers, but it’s not the radio. It’s my phone and the ringtone I set for MJ.
“Hello?”
“Babe! Please tell me you’re free tonight!” she cries. “Amy stood me up, and I need a wingman!”
“A wingman? Isn’t it wingwoman?” No, that doesn’t sound right. Winglady? “I don’t have plans, but—”
“Thank God! Amy’s got a stomach bug and—” She gasps theatrically. “Holy cow! Maybe she’s pregnant?! I mean, who the hell starts puking out of the blue? She’s been moody as fuck lately, too.”
“Babe, you’re veering off-topic. People do get sick out of the blue, you know?” I check the rearview mirror when someone beeps while I’m waiting for the red light to change. Shit. It’s already changed. “It’s not like you get a postcard a week in advance as a heads-up.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she mumbles. I think she’s eating. Knowing MJ, it’s probably a glazed donut. I wish I had her metabolism. She can eat whatever she wants and never gains weight, while I kill myself at the gym to stay in shape. “But if she is expecting, remember I guessed it first.”
“I’ll make a note of that. Now get to the point.”
“Oh, right, yeah, so please, please, please come with me tonight! It’ll be so much fun, I promise!”
“Come with you where?”
“Express Dates! I booked two spots, but as Amy may or may not be with child, she can’t come. Please, please—”
“Alright!” I cut the pleading short. She will mutter please on repeat for as long as it takes me to say yes. I groan, flipping the indicator. “That sounds dreadful. Why would you even want to go there?”
“To meet guys. Why else?” She huffs down the line. “Come on, you could use a guy, too. When was the last time you had a date?”
Three months ago. I went out with a guy I met online. His name was Mathew, and he made it a point of honor to ensure I knew it was spelt with just one t. He’s the reason why I signed out of dating apps. A young God in the pictures turned out to be a scrawny, scruffy man with a Napoleon complex. Worst date of my life. At least at the Express Dates, I won’t be buying a basket of crap.
“Fine. Where and what time?”
“Well… it’s at that new bar not far from Q. Amaretto or Argento. We need to be there at seven. I’ll pick you up quarter to.”
“Seven?! It’s ten past six, and I’m not even home yet.”
“Love you!” She giggles before disconnecting the call.
Great. I’ve got half an hour to get home, take a shower, get dressed, and do my make-up. Who the hell does she think I am? Sonic the Hedgehog?
