Free Picture Perfect by Camille Dixon

effects and altered the color to warm sepia tones and cooler black and white. God, she looked gorgeous in black and white, a modern day Marilyn. A part of me that had felt dead for a long time began to stir, hungry for the creative passion Angel’s photos injected me with. There was no critical voice in my head, no one to slow me down. It was me, my shots, and a craving for beauty I had all but given up for good.
    I was about halfway through the gallery when my cell phone buzzed.
    “Hello?” I said, lifting it to my ear.
    “Hey, where are you? I swung by your place but didn’t see your car there,” said Erik. “We were supposed to carpool today, remember?” The Metallica CD he kept in his car rocked out in the background, meaning he must be on the road.
    I grimaced, smacking my forehead. “Shit. That’s right. I forgot. Sorry to have you drive all the way over to my place, but I’m actually at school already.”
    Silence. “You… you are? Really?”
    “Really.” I kept glancing at my gallery, itching to get back to work.
    “But it’s seven thirty,” Erik said, still sounding stunned.
    “Yeah, I had some photos I wanted to go over this morning before presenting them to Stark later,” I said absently, clicking away.
    “Oh. Um, cool. That’s great.” He sounded like he meant it, maybe even borderline relieved. “Can I see them?”
    “Sure. I’m in the photo lab. Let me know when you get here.”
    It wasn’t until we got off the phone I realized I hadn’t craved any alcohol this morning. Awestruck, I decided to figure out what that meant at another time, anxious to get as much work done as possible before my appointment with Stark at nine.
    Erik knocked on the lab door fifteen minutes later. I had to get up to let him in since only art majors had access to this building’s lab.
    “Haven’t seen you in here in a while,” he said with a big smile. He looked like a proud dad.
    I was too distracted by all I’d accomplished this morning to pay him much attention. It was addicting, my work-a-holic-streak shooting energy through my caffeine-laced veins.
    Erik came up behind me and whistled. “Holy. Hell. Is that The Fox Hunt Angel?”
    My fist tightened, forcing me to click the mouse a little harder. “Yeah, that’s her.”
    “This is the girl you said you hired as your private model? Wow.” He ran a hand over his face, eyes still glued to the computer screen. He didn’t seem able to take them off, which sent two conflicting emotions of pride and irritation warring inside me. “You lucky son of a bitch. When are you going to get her to do some nude shots?”
    I nearly choked on my coffee, sending a few drops splattering onto my white polo. “Dammit.” I swatted them away while Erik hid a smirk.
    “Can’t say it’s crossed my mind,” I lied, each word tight as I remembered my dream. The feel of her lotion-softened skin, the softness of her hair as I tangled my hands in it, the moan of ecstasy as I plunged into her -
    Dammit. Not. Now.
    Erik either brushed my behavior off or didn’t notice anything, though knowing him it was probably the first. “You gonna put these in the exhibition? You should.”
    “I’ll probably enter some of them,” I said, jumping on the chance to switch back to a more professional topic. And by that, I meant a distraction from the feel of Angel’s writhing body beneath mine. “But solo shots alone won’t get me noticed. I need something more, like a couple.”
    It was something I hated to admit, bringing on that soul-sucking blackness that haunted me as I thought of some overpriced asshole holding her hand or kissing her.
    “Why don’t you do it?”
    I blinked, finally looking at Erik. “Say what?”
    “Come on, look at you.” He made hand gestures to acco mpany his spiel. “You’re a good-looking guy with some modeling under his belt. Why don’t you just save yourself some money and just do the part yourself?”
    I digested this. He had a point. Not