Page 67 of Savored Sins
Fuck. He’s right. In all this, I forgot about that damn competition—even though it’s the underlying reason I’m even in this mess to begin with.
But it’s not the competition’s fault. That competition still needs to be won. And even though I’m pretty sure that someonelike Jaxon Slade is going to beat me by a mile, I guess I owe it to myself to at least try.
“Yes, it’s worth the energy. Yes, you should at least try,” Will says, using a fake kind of bored voice to answer the questions I didn’t ask aloud. “Just do it. Who cares if you win? Follow through for once.”
As he turns to head to the kitchen and I make my way to the bedroom, I hear his voice echo down the hallway: “And don’t fucking open Tinder!”
But he doesn’t need to say it. I’m past it.
Autumn’s all I’m thinking about now, and Iwillset things right. Regardless of whether she ever looks at me again.
I’m gonna grow that pair of balls if it kills me.
thirty-three
ZEKE
The night goes by in a blur of video frames.
As soon as I set foot inside Will’s guest room, locking the door behind me, I flip open my laptop, pull my headphones over my ears, and get straight to work. It’s hard, editing the footage of Autumn and me from the other night. Seeing her face, hearing her voice. Watching as she sometimes glances at me with this shy little smile I never noticed before. I’m acutely aware of everything I’ve probably lost.
But I do it, anyway. I make it through. And by the time the sky outside has turned a faint, hazy pink and the birds are twittering in the trees, I’ve got a solid fucking pilot episode. The outro music could be better, and some of my cuts are iffy, but I’m sure SyFy can handle a little production. The brief for the contest said they’re looking for presence, originality, and a spine-tingling knack for approaching the paranormal, so if that’s what they want, I’m there. Jump cuts be damned.
Having the footage to work on has made it easier to keep my mind off of Autumn, but now that I’m done, my brain goes right back to the fateful loop, playing that same footage. I’m honestly starting to wonder if I’ll evernotsee myself throwing up on the sidewalk while the coolest chick in the world looks on, disgusted.And I know—I deserve every second of this horror reel. But that doesn’t make it any less awful.
I can only imagine what shitty footage Autumn’s mind is playing. I’m going to go out on a limb and guess it’snotthe footage of me finger fucking her in the alley. Or grinning at her above the surface of the rippling lake.
I keep thinking about texting her—calling her?—to apologize, but what would I even say? It’s not like there’s anything new I can tell her that I didn’t say yesterday. I had a chance, and I blew it. I let her down. I ruined her whole damn show, and any text I could send would be woefully inadequate. End of story.
As I hit the send button on my submission email, I realize I’m holding my breath. I’m not very optimistic about my chances of winning, but this thing is the most I’ve got right now. I need alittlehope if I’m going to make it through this day, so I guess this pilot is what I’ll pin my stupid little hopes to. Go forth, my puny pilot. Go forth and try not to let the competition absolutely clobber you. I did my best.
I’m about to click out of my email when something catches my eye. I don’t stay as on top of my email as I should, and between the unopened digital bank statements and random concert announcements, there’s an unread email I must’ve missed.
An email from Carter.
Honestly, I click on the email out of habit—like I always do with Carter’s emails. Carter’s a decent dude, and it’s always cool to see what he’s up to, sellout though he is. But this one’s not a newsletter, nor a marketing email. It’s written directly to me, and it’s obvious he sat down and typed it himself because of the snarky mention of our most hated professor in the opening, which makes me snort.
But then Carter gets down to business, asking me for probably the literal tenth time to join his team—and for once,I let myself weigh the idea, just for a minute. I’ve never had a “real” job before, and in fact, have always wholly resisted the idea. Which Phoebe always screws up her face about, asking me why I even bothered going to college if all I’m going to do is bartend and wait tables.
And I get it. It does seem weird, to have gotten a degree in media technology and then not even use it. But thehoursthese real-job people work. The effort and time they spend commuting to an office where everyone hates each other but pretends they don’t. It’s depressing, and I just haven’t been able to reconcile it—especially when doing creative work to line other people’s pockets means I have less capacity to do it for me.
But now…
Now I’m rethinking things.
I click the link in Carter’s email and scroll through his firm’s website. The photography is stunning, and the video campaigns are even better. Like, this shit looks on par with ads that run during the Super Bowl, which is pretty fucking impressive.
I’m still chuckling in amusement at an ad they filmed from the unmistakable vantage point of a McDonald’s ball pit, when I stop my scrolling. There’s a whole series of super sharp, deliciously vivid photos of a model in DKNY. The camera’s caught the model right in the middle of blowing a bubble, and the light’s hitting her clothing in a way that makes me feel like I could reach out and touch it, run my fingers along the wispy fibers of her slouchy wool sweater.
The composition of the photo is perfect. The expression on the model’s face is perfect. The clothing, matched to the background? Also perfect. And below it, there’s a caption that says the series ran in Boston’s Citrine magazine.
The wheels in my mind start to whir. Carter has worked with Citrine. Carter has an eye for kick-ass photography. Carterknows how to put together a sharp, professional marketing campaign.
Carter owes me a favor.
I suck in a breath, my heart beating faster. This could be it. This could be my ticket to fixing the shit I wrecked. Because now the game has changed. Now, Carter and I each have something the other one wants.
It’s 6:00 AM on Sunday morning, but I call Carter anyway. I don’t even care. If this dude’s serious about wanting me at his company—which I guess he is, judging from the ten different messages he’s sent over the past three months—he’ll listen to what I have to say. I just hope he picks the fuck up.
