Naughty Knickers

ONE:

Bella

“That is the most disturbing thing I have ever seen,” Alice gasped.

Bad sign. It took a lot to freak Alice out and she sounded like she had rancid cheese in her mouth. She hadn’t even flinched when I cut the tip of my thumb off chopping potatoes last year and yet here she was looking like she had a rotten taste on her tongue, her face puckered to match, scrunched up in horror. Her bottom lip was curled to the side and even though we’d been here less than twelve seconds, her eyes were already worried for me.

She chanced another brave glance at the photograph in front of us and I could feel her fingers dig deep into my arm.

“I don’t know, it’s kind of intriguing,” I hedged, sighing heavily as I tried to find something beautiful in the horror. Which was impossible. I hooked my arm through hers so that she couldn’t escape, just for good measure. “The girl has a look of adoration on her face that is . . . ”

“Oh, yeah. That,” Alice snorted. “How about the raw meat? And the blood? And that weird squishy thing?” She pointed out something that looked sickeningly like the brain of a large animal near the model’s foot. “I don’t even want to know what that is,” she hissed.

“We’re supposed to look for the metaphor,” I told her. “The deeper meaning. It’s art.”

“I can’t believe I got dressed up for this,” she grumbled.

I’d dragged her out of bed for this, which was Alice-speak for four star punishment. Shoved her into some clothing and then into a cab, all the way downtown to get a first-eye glimpse of the opening exhibit of my latest client. It was a spy adventure of sorts for me, so I’d dressed the part. Short black dress with a delicate lace hem, Victorian era lace up boots crowned with a ribbon just below my knees. Slouchy silk thigh highs anchored by my favorite garters, thick black leather bands studded in silver grommets with a heart-shaped ring suspended right over the tops of my legs. Alice, on the other hand, looked like shit. She was in her ratty old black pants, obscenely low slung, underwear non-existent. A wife beater and that same old boring vest she wore everywhere, pinstriped at some point in its lifetime but now faded and stained with holes in the pockets. She loved that thing as hard as I loved all of my boots and socks and fancy lingerie combined, so I let her slide. Her hair was hopeless, shaggy and always in her face, and with the ever permanent smudge of black charcoal around her eyes she basically scared off everyone within a ten foot radius.

Which made her the best spying partner I could find on short notice.

We’d made it beyond security despite Alice’s appearance, but only because I pulled rank and called in Carlisle to vouch for me. Not only was he head of the Museum, he was the old art school friend who’d gotten me the gig with this new resident artist. He’d handed me the job description not two hours ago and I’d said yes without even bothering to check the details, struck a little starry-eyed by all the possibilities that had just flopped out before me like a yellow brick road. I’d never worked high art photography as my makeup expertise typically was employed for fashion work, so I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

Apparently, I was getting into sadomasochism and animal slaughter.

With some guy named Edward Cullen.

The photographs were blown up to enormous proportions, which might have made them even more jarring, but I was sure they’d be just as disturbing in eight by ten form. A collection of forty photographs, each showcasing one or more beautiful girls. At least, they were probably beautiful. But they were bathing in bathtubs, sprawled out in a tangle of intestines, looking happy as fucking clams. Eerily grotesque in their obvious enjoyment, clutching hearts and livers, sinking their fingers into brain matter as though it was the new hip thing to do. Painting their lips red and staining their skin with blood.

“I have to go throw up now.” Alice turned and made a beeline for the exit, dragging me with her because I was unwilling to relinquish my death grip, scared to be left alone with all that gore. She charged through the crowd on her ratty flat-soled sneakers while I tottered along behind her on my tall, skinny heels, letting her pull me all the way out into the nearest hallway before disentangling myself so she could bolt for the bathroom alone. I had no intention of joining her, my gag reflex was way too strong for that, so I slouched against the wall outside the bathroom door and waited for her to finish. I nervously readjusted my thigh garters, wondering just what the fuck I’d just gotten myself into. What Carlisle had gotten me into.

“Bella!”

Speak of the fucking devil.

He was down at the far end of the hallway, talking to someone, but he was waving me down like he had a bomb in his pocket and I knew how to diffuse them. Wild hands and that same stunned grin he always got when he thought of something particularly brilliant. He had a streak for that, brilliance, and I was pretty content to follow him most of the time, but I had a feeling he might have finally tipped right off his wobbly rocker. I didn’t know if I could do this. I should back out now, while I could still be graceful about it.

“Bella!” Carlisle called out again when I was halfway down the hallway, urging me to move faster with a frantic waving hand as he leaned in toward the guy he was standing beside, whispering something too soft for me to hear. “Come here, I want to introduce you to Edward!” he yelled.

Holyshit.

I was so fucked.

Fucked right into next week, because this guy had no right to look like that.

It wasn’t just the glasses, black and thick and sitting on his razor sharp nose. It wasn’t the two differently colored eyes behind those glasses, one green and one oddly yellow tinged. Wasn’t the soft blue cotton button down that was sleep rumpled and rolled up at the sleeves. It wasn’t the copper-colored disaster on his head or the tree inked onto the side of his neck. Wasn’t the faded brown corduroys or the the way he eyeballed me as I neared. It certainly wasn’t the two day stubble.

It was the suspenders.

Leather that looked soft enough to tie someone up with. Dark coffee brown with copper rivets and clasps to match. What the fuck? Suspenders? Who wore those, and leather ones no less? His eyes raked up and down me, slow and thorough and not at all ashamed of himself for so blatantly eyefucking me, speaking before Carlisle had a chance to introduce me.

“You’re surprisingly overdressed for a makeup artist.”

I burst into flames. Cheeks burning. Blood bubbling. Not sure if I should be turned on or pissed off. I took a deep breath, steeling my face. “You’re incredibly tactless for a starving artist,” I snapped, scowling at the suspenders.

“I’m not starving for anything,” he said smoothly, both hands grabbing onto his suspenders, knuckles going white. His mouth tucked up on one end, a smirk that put a dimple in his cheek, and the motherfucker winked at me. “You have an impressive resume, Ms. Swan. I hope you can keep up with me,” he said lowly as he turned and disappeared back into the crowded showroom.

My mouth dropped right open and I turned on Carlisle with a glare that I hoped would liquify him on the spot. “What. The. Fuck?”

“Trust me Bella. Have you seen that guy’s work? It’s genius! I haven’t seen anything like it in years and he could turn this whole museum around.” Carlisle watched Edward disappear, creases of worry appearing on his forehead. I knew that the museum was struggling, had been for years, and that Carlisle had made it his personal mission to pull the institution up by its bootstraps. So far, he was having a hard time getting a good enough grip to haul it upright. We’d attended art school together nearly half a decade ago and while I’d gone off and floated through Hollywood like a little lost raincloud, Carlisle had set a trajectory through the Chicago art scene and rocketed himself clear to the moon. He’d always wanted to wear designer suits to work, fancy shoes and polished hair, but you just couldn’t do that unless you sold a little bit of your artistic integrity off with your pride and signed a contract. He had three more years to make this museum a success and I knew he’d be damned if he failed.

“If this goes badly, I’m holding you responsible,” I muttered and stormed back down the hallway to find Alice. She was sitting against the wall, her eyes closed, humming and bobbing her head to some song only she could hear. Her makeup was smeared and the neck of her t-shirt was damp around the edges. She was pale and trembly, still green around the edges.

“You look worse than normal.” I kicked the sole of her shoe to get her attention and she scowled up at me, sticking out her tongue to let me get a good look at the two barbells she had pierced through it a couple of years ago.

“I hate you for this,” she grumbled at me as I hauled her off the floor, yanking her to her feet with a grip on her belt loops. Not that she wore a belt, even though she desperately needed one. Her only saving grace was that she was meticulous about her pubic hair. She gripped me tightly and swayed down the hallway, shuddering as we passed by the gallery filled with all the blood.  “Did you ever find him? The photographer?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I sighed, shivering as the chilly night air hit us like a strong dose of reality. “He’s fucking gorgeous, but he’s gonna have to put a bag over that personality.”

“I want to meet this sick bastard.”

Edward

I woke up alone.

Even though I told myself every night that it would be this way, I was never prepared for it. I spent the entirety of every night building walls of sandbags in a vain attempt to hold back the tsunami, but I was still flooded every morning. Barricades of everything I owned flattened by the rising sun. The isolated solitude. I was still rolling over to  find emptiness where there used to be something soft and warm and breathing, but that wasn’t the hardest part. I was still reaching for someone firm and sweet and slippery in all the right places, but not finding her wasn’t what hurt the most. That was the aching hole in my chest. Painful enough to convince me that I’d set the barrell of a grenade launcher up against my ribs and blew a hole clear fucking through myself.  

It really was over.

She really was gone.

And for the one hundred and seventh day in a row, I woke up alone. In an even shittier mood than I had been in last night, if that was at all possible. I’d opened my latest show, but only barely. I knew better than to trust strangers with the finer details and I should have shown up here a week earlier than I did. The last few days had been a scramble to overhaul the layout, lots of yelling and late hours that could have been avoided if they had just followed my instructions. By the time nine o’clock that evening rolled around, I was in a bad fucking mood. Jet lagged and hungry, in dire need of something stronger than the watered down liquor at the bar. In the same clothes I’d been wearing for nearly thirty four hours straight. Tired as fuck, and listening to Carlisle babble incoherently without taking a single goddamn breath.

I should never have agreed to this.

I had the sneaking suspicion that Carlisle was a flake, all bleached out hair and blonde eyebrows and way too much to say, but his offer had been too enticing to let me pass it up. I’d be crazy not to take the gig. A full staff at my disposal, costume, hair, makeup. Control of the models that would pass before my camera lense. A four thousand square foot studio on the museum premises and full access to the current exhibits, given that I asked permission first. A one bedroom apartment over the ritzy art section of downtown and a car service at my beck and call. Either they were desperate, or crazy.

I was willing enough to ride the train, even if it meant a move to a city I held no fondness for. I was fresh off a broken heart and an overnight airplane. If only I had known what I was getting myself into.

The only part of the evening I found not completely exhausting and a waste of my time was that girl. The makeup artist Carlisle had hired for me. The one that sauntered over with her thighs draped in slinky fabric, held up by something leather and metal peeking out from underneath her clothes. I had to grip my suspenders in case I did something rash with my hands. The hint of clasps around her stockings had me itching to flip her skirt up and get a good look at her elaborate wrappings.

What an infuriating little shit.

Gorgeous, but frustrating as fuck. Too cute to get mad at, but too pretty to be taken lightly. I liked the way her eyes pinched when I spoke and the way her mouth fell open, pink and soft and warm. I liked those fuck-me boots she’d been sporting, laced up the front like a goddamn birthday present, and those tights . . . I loved tights. I loved peeling them off. Tugging them over hips and down thighs, the reveal better than the anticipation every single fucking time. I bet she had a killer pair of legs under all that needless fabric.            

All told, that girl was trouble on top of my giant pile of trouble.

I had no idea what I was doing here. I had arrived, but I still hadn’t even put my feet down long enough to dream. On a deadline but unable to tap into my head long enough to pull out anything remotely thought provoking. I had a million possibilities at my disposal but absolutely no motivation. Every imaginable prop and face and place at my fingertips, but no muse.

Because she’d left me.

And again, I woke up alone.

Fuck today.

Next

Author's Note:

Hadley Hemingway is love and rainbows. I would be lost without her. 

This was written for Kitty Badd.

xo

HBM