Photo Slave (The Art of Domination #2) by Erika Masten

and
a last minute booking cancelation for a Ferragamo shoot. And she had plenty to
say about what Nolan should have been doing about all of it.
    Cheri was there as
well. I literally cringed when I caught sight of her stepping around from
behind Rilla to interrupt—unsuccessfully. Unable to get in a word, my little
sister moved back and forth between patting Nolan consolingly on the back and
rubbing the lean muscles of Finn Garvey’s shoulder and arm through his ironic
preppy polo, the thick black lines of goth tats just visible under the edge of
his white sleeves. The male model paced anxiously behind the rest of the crowd
and periodically sucked on the whiskey bottle he held. He made for an
interesting contrast to the image I retained of my first glimpse of Nolan as
the eerily composed lord of the Bacchanalia.
    Cheri’s interaction
with these two men caught my attention for all the wrong reasons, because I was
trying to decipher her feelings toward them, what role she played for their
sakes. Her touch along Finn’s arm lingered longer, and her gaze sought his out
repeatedly, to reassure or perhaps to be reassured. I knew I should have been
asking myself if dating a male model with a taste for whiskey and gothic
tattoos was the best choice for Cheri, but instead all I kept thinking was that
I was relieved she wasn’t looking at Nolan Beal the way she looked at Finn
Garvey. That sense of respite faded quickly enough beneath the slow creep of
guilt over letting my attraction to the photographer supersede my better
judgment.
    From the relative calm
of what I gathered to be minimum safe distance, I asked Viv, “What’s going on?
Bad timing? Because I can go. I mean, Nolan called me to come over, but if
something has happened….”
    Stepping up beside me
with arms folded, the teen shook her head and frowned with surprisingly adult
pragmatism. “Nah, this is starting to burn out. They’ve been like this just
about every day for a week. Things quiet down until someone shows up….” Viv
threw me a pointed sidelong glance. “Rilla,” she mouthed. “They gotta rehash
all the details—who said what when, who did this, didn’t do that. Everyone’s
boxers get knotted up, mostly because Nolan isn’t panicking like they are. Much
shouting and waving of hands. Twenty minutes later they’re all tired of
arguing. Rinse and repeat. All because some dumbass TV reporter who wouldn’t
know art from his ass called to ask if anyone had a comment on the boycott.”
    “Boycott? Of what?”
    “Some lady from Mothers
for Moral Media has been writing letters to the editor and talking to the TV
station about her campaign to get Nolan’s pruri— peri— his pervy photos pulled
from fashion magazines and billboards.”
    “Prurient?” I
suggested.
    “Yep, that. His booking
agent called last Friday while he was out at Haute to say this Pamela Wiley
lady had been contacting all the designers who use Nolan’s photographs. She
wanted them to know they were encouraging the….” Viv’s dramatically lined eyes
rolled and went out of focus while she struggled to remember. “The
objectification and degradation of girls and women. Not a Helmut Newton fan, I
guess. She’s threatening to organize a national boycott of the designers,
magazines, and galleries that feature Nolan’s stuff.”
    I stopped myself from
marveling aloud that the teenager knew the reference to the provocative twentieth
century fashion photographer. She had obviously kept her eyes and ears open
while doing the odd tasks around here for Nolan, and she deserved a lot better
than patronizing surprise for staying sharp and learning something. Instead, I
asked, “So this group doesn’t like the erotic domination tinge to Nolan’s
photographic style, and they are trying to shame the designers into not using
his work?”
    “Yep.”
    I frowned. “Because
ass-high mini dresses and sheer blouses aren’t really the problem as much as the
positions the models pose in. We