Exposure Read online

  “Dulcie’s on Sixth.”

  “Oh, I heard that place is good.”

  The waitress leads us to our table, which must be difficult with Christopher’s eyes attached to her ass as it sways its way through the maze of tables. I follow him, texting Bex about what an asshat he’s being already.

  Once seated, we order wine and peruse the menu. After a few minutes the waitress comes to take our order.

  “She’ll have the kale salad and I’ll have the T-bone with

  a side salad.” He ordered me a salad, a freaking salad.

  “She will have the mushroom burger with fries, thank you,” I say, handing her my menu. Her eyes are wide at the mini scene developing and I can almost guarantee she’ll be telling her friends about the douche who tried to make his date eat a salad.

  “I assumed you were on a diet, most chicks are, no offense.”

  “Whatever, Christopher. Could you act like something resembling a gentleman for five minutes before I kick your ass?”

  He smirks and shakes his head. “I’ll try.”

  We manage a little awkward small talk until our food is delivered. I for one am happy for the excuse to stop talking. The meal is delicious, I devour every crumb, much to my date’s dismay. When the waitress comes to collect our plates, she asks if we'd like dessert.

  "No, I'll be licking dessert off her later."

  I tell her no, and shoot a scowl at him, completely done with this farce of a date. “There is no way in hell I'm coming home with you.”

  “Playing hard to get? I’m used to a different kind of date but I'm up for a challenge.”

  “Whatever... I don’t want to spend my evening to arguing with you, as much fun as this has been.” I need to change the subject before I smack him. “My show is this weekend if you want to stop by. I think it’s some of my best work.”

  “That’s cute. Maybe you’ll sell a few, make enough to keep snapping your little weddings as your day job.” The elitist douche has some nerve to look down on me and my work.

  “I do quite well snapping weddings, actually. My calendar is booked solid for the next two months.” Why do I feel the need to defend myself to him?

  “Yeah, but it’s not like you’re creating art, it’s just filling a void.”

  I try to calm my murderous rage before speaking. “Isn’t that your specialty? Filling young co-eds’ voids, telling them all kinds of sweet things to get them in front of your camera.”

  “I knew this would end up being some petty revenge plot.”

  “Revenge plot? I thought this was a date. Clearly that was an illusion, or maybe I’m a grown-up now and you prefer girls who can’t think for themselves.”

  “A date?” He laughs. “I don’t date, I fuck beautifully, and I create incomparable art.”

  “Do you even hear yourself talk, you’re such a douchebag. I can’t believe I asked you out.” I down the rest of my drink in one gulp. “My work might not be selling out shows at the Guggenheim, but I’m proud of who I am and how far I’ve come. I grew up with nothing and when my mother walked out on me I could have slipped through the cracks, but I didn’t. I made something of myself.

  “I imagine it was difficult growing up with a mother like that. Though, I suppose it’s lucky she left when she did; you managed to make something of yourself even though you were born into a legacy of white trash.”

  I stand up so fast the chair shoots out behind me and falls over. “This was a mistake,” I say quickly before walking outside. I lean against the building, wiping away angry tears with the back of my hand, trying to understand why the hell I thought dating was the answer to my problems.

  Christopher walks outside, lighting a cigarette before he looks at me. “Your place or mine?”

  I stand there, fuming, staring at him. He can’t seriously expect to get lucky after this. Does he really think I’m that kind of girl? As if I should feel lucky someone like him would want someone like me.

  Funny thing is, once upon a time I might have. Maybe when I was younger, and starved of love and attention I would have fallen into his bed. I would have pretended he cared for me while he used my body for the night. But Noah showed me what love really is. Because of him, I’ll never fall for a fake version of what we had. “Neither, thanks. I’m going home, alone.”

  Looking confused, he shakes his head before saying, “Fine, whatever, I’ll drive you home.” When I take a minute to answer, he speaks up again. “Relax, it’s pretty obvious this wasn’t a good idea, just get in the bloody car, I’m not going to leave you here alone.”

  With a shrug, I climb in his car and buckle up. The ride to my place is quiet and loaded with tension. When we pull up outside my house, I try to open my door, but it’s locked.

  My stomach drops as I cling to the door handle.

  “What the hell was this, Alexa? You asked me out, you flirt with me every time I come into the club. I thought you were finally ready to hook up, not continue to be a fucking tease,” he spits before I feel his cold, rough hand grab my thigh. I try to pry it off, but his fingers dig in painfully. “No one says no to me. You want to play games? Let’s play.” He forces his hand between my legs and instinct takes over almost immediately.

  I grab his pinky and bend it back until I hear a crack. Christopher screams a curse that echoes through the small space. Knowing that won’t stop him, I swing my elbow back with as much force as I can muster into his nose. Another satisfying crack signals my time to exit. While he hunches over holding his now-bleeding nose, I reach over him and hit the unlock button before fleeing. I run up the stairs, grabbing my keys from my purse.

  Just as I slide the key into the lock I hear a door slam behind me. “You broke my nose, you fucking bitch!”

  “And your finger. Now go home before I call the cops,” I warn.

  That doesn’t stop him, he continues to amble towards me. I get the door open, slamming it behind me and locking the door. I grab my cell out of my purse with a shaky hand and dial 911. I tell the dispatcher my address over Christopher’s banging and cursing at the door.

  “You think you can treat me like this, you stupid white trash bitch. You aren’t worth the money I spent on dinner.” Sirens ring out in the night, followed by the sound of his car starting and squealing off into the night.

  I collapse on the floor, crying, until the police officer knocks on the door. I spend the next hour answering questions and making a statement. The officer strongly suggests filing a restraining order. Just the way you want a date to end; with broken bones and a visit from the police. Dating officially sucks and I’m going to die alone with fifty cats.

  Bex went to dinner with her boyfriend, Craig, tonight so she missed all the chaos but walked through the door in a panic, after seeing a police car in the driveway. “What happened?”

  “Christopher happened, he jumped me after our date.”

  “Holy shit! Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, a bit bruised. I broke his finger and nose though. Hopefully he’ll think twice before forcing himself on another woman,” I say with a smile.

  “You’re amazing! I’m so proud of you.”

  “That should be everything, Miss Raine, but don’t hesitate to call us if he comes back. And think about that restraining order,” the officer says, putting his notebook away.

  “I will, thank you.” I walk him out.

  When I come back in, Bex is in the kitchen making tea. I sit at the counter, staring down at my favorite pair of chucks that are now stained with the blood of a douchebag. How did my day go so wrong?

  “You gonna be okay?” she asks.

  “Yeah, I mean it was awful, but I feel empowered and for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like a victim.

  I saved myself.”

  “Hell, yeah you did.”

  “How was your date with Craig?”

  “Good, I guess. I don’t know, I really like him but feel like he’s not in a 100 percent, you know?”

  Craig
was our ex-manager at Shots, and he was a nice guy, kind and attentive to Bex. “Maybe it was an off night for him.”

  “Maybe, I’m dead on my feet. Night, Lex,” she says, pulling me into a hug.

  “Night.” I sit up for another hour, searching social media before I head to bed. Curled into myself, I let the tears flow freely. Here in the dark I can shed my secret tears. I wish Matty was here, he would be so proud of me. My heart aches thinking about him, wondering where he could be right this minute. Does he have a wife or children to keep safe and kiss goodnight? Or is he alone, like me.

  I want to believe he’s happy. Same with Noah; I hope he’s living a life that makes him happy. Maybe they left me because they didn’t love me as much as I loved them. I try so hard to ignore the voices that convince me to believe the worst about myself. Did they choose to leave me and chose to stay gone? I break down when I look at the butterflies. No matter what I accomplish in my life or how many years pass, the ache of the missing pieces of my soul makes me feel like I’ll never be whole again.

  Most days I can pretend I’m okay. That this life I’ve made for myself is enough. My career, my friends are enough. I’m not ungrateful for what I have, I love Bex and my work, and Lana and John have given me a life full of love and a future. But with Matty still missing and Noah’s disappearance from my life, I feel the cold emptiness they left in their wake tonight. Running my finger over my butterfly tattoos that have become a full sleeve, I send a silent prayer to my best friend. Elise’s love is still saving me, even from heaven. “I miss you. Please, Elise, help me find them.”

  What Noah and I shared was one drop of water in the sea of my life. I tell myself it wasn’t as perfect as I remember. That I was a lonely kid from a loveless home, and the love and attention he’d shown me was seen through rose-colored glasses. I try and fail to convince myself that our love wasn’t magical. In the dark, I cling to those moments we shared, when love was pure, and my heart was full and the whole world stood at our feet.

  I fall asleep staring at the picture of us I’ve kept beside my bed all these years, knowing what I tell myself is all lies; he was the magic in my life, and our love was the real deal.

  I’ve felt empty every day since we parted.

  My show opens with huge success; all my photos sell. The night is a whirlwind of schmoozing with strangers and trying to accept praise gracefully, which is not something I manage very well. Insults I can take like a pro, but compliments have a harder time penetrating my protective shell.

  Christopher shows up toward the end of the night. He offers an apology, but I’m not interested.

  “Leave now, before I call the cops, again. You came to say sorry, fine, you did that, now please leave.” If there is one thing my childhood taught me it was how to spot an abuser, and that’s the last thing I need in my life. Thankfully he leaves without any drama or issue. By the time the show is over, my introvert self is ready to climb into bed and recharge for a week.

  “Brilliant night, congrats, Lexi,” Sarah says, her fiancé Derrick beside her, both here to support me.

  “Thank you for coming. I’ll see you guys next week so you can see the proofs from your shoot, before your mom gets them.” We all have a laugh at the expense of her overbearing mother and say our goodbyes. It was a wonderful night and after the dust settles I’m so proud of myself; another sold out show.

  Sitting at the breakfast table the next day, I’m sipping my coffee and scrolling Instagram, as one does, when Bex runs in the room, squealing, “They wrote an article about your show!”

  “What? Who did?”

  “The local newspaper, look,” she says, laying the paper flat on the table and tapping the page. “Alexa Raine Photography shows promise, her raw and whimsical photos are going to take the art world by storm.”

  My whole body tingles with excitement. “Oh my god,” is all I can muster. Pride overwhelms me. I’ve never felt like anyone cared what I was doing. I didn’t dare hope for this kind of reaction.

  “I’m so proud of you, Lexi,” she says, giving me a hug.

  “I couldn’t have done any of this without you.” I wipe

  the tears flooding my eyes and try not to let this go to my head, but there is a little voice in my head screaming, I’m amazing!

  Chapter Thirteen

  I’m in the early planning stages for a new show about skin art and its healing properties. I love tattoos, always have, I sport a full sleeve on my left arm, incorporating vines and fl owers around the swarm of butterfl ies: one for each person who loved me. Lana, John and Bex’s butterfl ies were added to the mix over the years.

  In addition to my full sleeve, I have a camera tattooed on my right forearm; I got that one my fi rst year of college. And behind my right ear, the words, For you I shall live, for Elise. On my hip, I’ll carry you with me, until we meet again. And on my ring fi nger of my left hand I have a crown, immortalizing Noah King forever. In my heart, I’ll always be married to him; no other man measures up. After fi ve years, they’re still a part of who I am.

  “Morning. I've booked us with the best tattooists the city has to off er. We’ll split the meetings. She hands me a piece of paper with three tattoo parlors listed with appointment times beside them. “Here's your share,”

  “Whoever manages to make it home without a new tattoo wins,” I say with a smile. We are both slightly addicted to ink and the fact that we will be spending the whole day in tattoo shops means one or both of us will probably cave.

  Bex laughs. “You’re on.”

  “Take pictures of anything that looks like it might be a good candidate. I’m looking for truly remarkable stories that go with their ink. The theme is, our bodies are the canvases for our life stories. What does yours say? Or something like that.”

  “You got it, boss. Ugh, life is hard, I have to hang out with hot tattoo artists all day.” She gathers her list and phone, shoving them into her massive purse. “I’m off, my first shop opens in twenty. See you for supper. It’s your turn to order in.” Though we do know how to cook, I confess we get takeout more than we should.

  My first stop is Quicksilver Ink. It’s a relatively small shop. When I walk in I’m greeted by a young girl with purple hair and seven facial piercings. Seven. I’m no prude, but all I can think of is them getting snagged in my hair or something horrifying and ripping one out.

  “Hi, I’m Alexa Raine. I have an appointment with the manager at ten-thirty.”

  “Okay, she’s waiting in her office through there. Last door on the left,” she says, pointing down a hallway. I thank her and make my way.

  Seraphina, the owner, looks like a 50’s pinup and I immediately love her style. She’s kind and seems very interested in what I’m trying to do with my show. As luck would have it, one of her clients who would be a perfect fit is scheduled to stop by this morning. She shows me her portfolio as well as the books for the two other artists that work there.

  The perfect fit Seraphina mentioned is Joseph; a marine, whose body is a rich tapestry of his life and trials in the military. We spend an hour talking about his life before, during, and after his service. Losing friends. Something we have in common, to watch someone close to you die, in your arms. Watching the life drain out of them. We shed a few tears and he agrees to pose for me. We set up a time for him to stop by the studio and say our good-byes.

  At my next stop, I find a few pictures in their portfolio of a breast cancer survivor who has intricate tattoos covering her double mastectomy scars. I know the moment I see her picture that she’s my next subject. I can only hope she agrees to it. The shop can’t give me her information, but I leave mine and they promise to contact her and relay the information. Other people’s stories and struggles move me, their pain, how they keep moving forward in their lives when all else seems hopeless.

  This show means more to me than any other. I consider being a subject myself. Show my scars and how my ink saved my life more times than I can count. It’s all I’ve got
to remember the important people in my life.

  The next shop doesn’t have any clients with the criteria I’m looking for, so I leave my card behind for any future clients they think might be interested in sharing their story. They don’t have any leads for me, but they do refer me to another tattoo shop; King of Hearts. The owner is rumored to do great work and specializes in the type of tattoos I’m looking for. Once I get to my car, I call and try to get in to see them today. No luck—they’re too slammed today to see me, so I book an appointment for later in the week.

  Exhausted and ready to call it a day, I pick up a pizza and head home. Bex arrives shortly after me, so we sit down to compare stories, and pictures of possible clients. Without saying a word, Bex slides a twenty over the table and I immediately start laughing. “You caved?” She shows me a sweet little tattoo of an antique key she got on her wrist. “How cute was the artist?” I know my sister, and hot tattoo artists are her kryptonite.

  “Ugh, so freaking cute it physically hurt talking to him,” she says, falling back on the couch.

  I can’t help but laugh. “Did you get his number?”

  “No, he was wearing a wedding ring. I told him if he ever gets divorced to call me.”

  “You didn’t!”

  “Oh yes I did. He was flattered, but the receptionist wasn’t. Apparently, she’s his wife.”

  “Bex! Could you not sully my business name with your whorish ways?”

  “It’s fine! I apologized and told her she was lucky to find a good one, we were besties by the time I left.”

  Bex and I head to Shots a bit early. She wants to rub up

  on her boyfriend before he opens the bar, since she hasn’t seen him all week.

  “You’re not going to have sex with him in his office while I’m sitting at the bar, are you?”

  She looks at me with wide, fake-innocent eyes, like I haven’t had to endure their grunting and groaning every other time we go to the bar early. “I would never!”