1985
Madonna’s Material Girl blasted from the speakers in Sebastian Kincaid’s photography studio in downtown Miami. He hated the bubblegum pop hit, but it helped the models move in front of the lens, and he was always willing to sacrifice for his art. Music was one of the most useful tools he employed to put every rail-thin wannabe supermodel who strolled through the doors with stars in their eyes at ease.
During the past five years, his career had exploded, and Sebastian Kincaid was at the top of his game. The evidence of his success resided on shelves installed on the exposed brick walls of the downtown loft. There, golden trophies shimmered under spotlights, and framed covers of his most prestigious fashion magazine assignments graced the walls. The shelves also held his most prized possession, a vintage camera collection passed down from his father on the day he graduated from the Brooks Institute of Photography. His father had wanted to be a photographer, but Sebastian had actually become one.
He wasn’t afraid to push society’s boundaries and create outrageous images that got tongues wagging and established his artistic genius in the world of haute couture. It was a close-knit judgmental monarchy that bowed at the altar of the superficial, and by the time he was twenty-seven, Sebastian was king.
His avant-garde photographs were seen by millions in magazines, on billboards, and even plastered on the sides of buses. Each commission was a feather in his cap and added to his prestige, allowing his rates to skyrocket into the stratosphere. His work had been published in every reputable fashion magazine on the planet, and commissions coming in from luxury brands doubled every month.
The upcoming spread in Harper’s Bazaar was his highest paid yet and over a year in the making. He finally achieved the pinnacle of success he’d been working toward, becoming the most sought-after fashion photographer in the industry. It was a verifiable fact that made his dick so hard he could cut diamonds with it.
As the song’s chorus ramped up, he tuned out the music and tuned in to the gaggle of long-limbed women he eyed through his viewfinder. He pressed the shutter instinctively, like the camera was an extension of his arm, focusing on their lithe bodies cavorting in front of his lens. As he captured each breathtaking image, his zeal renewed.
“Arch your backs,” he suggested, and they rushed to comply with his command, setting off a heady swell of power flooding through him. It never got old. The most beautiful women in the world submitted to his instructions instantly, like they were dripping from the lips of a Greek god. After using the last frame, he handed the spent magazine over to his assistant.
“Reload it, Ronnie,” he demanded, completely dumbfounded when a reloaded Hasselblad film back was laid in the palm of his hand without delay. It usually took several minutes to reload film, and he’d grown accustomed to waiting in between rolls.
“How did you…?”
“I started counting the frames,” Ronnie offered in explanation.
“My man!” He clapped the younger man on the back with the palm of his hand. “You’re indispensable!”
“That’s what I was hoping you’d say,” Ronnie said with a capable nod. “And you’ll also be pleased to learn I’ve taken the liberty of calling in our sandwich order.”
“Anticipating my needs before I do?” Sebastian raised a brow. “Wow! Above and beyond the call of duty. I should give you a raise.”
“You should,” Ronnie agreed, offering Sebastian a crooked grin, then asked, “Did you want me to grab them while you wrap up the shoot?”
“Sounds like a plan.” Sebastian turned his full attention back to the models sashaying his way. They ambled toward him, forming a circle, on long legs that stretched for days and towered over his slighter stature. “Last chance to make some magic, ladies.” He tipped his chin up to look in their eyes. One of the girls reached out and squeezed his bicep, and he savored the contact. It was one of his favorite perks of the job.
Sebastian knew his limitations. He wasn’t conventionally attractive, but he wasn’t ugly either. His wavy mullet was gathered in a ponytail at the base of his neck. He had a strong nose, broken a time or two from mouthing off, and an intense gaze from his piercing blue eyes could make any woman feel like the only one in the room. He dressed like a New York artist, always in black from head to toe, a look that allowed him to recede into the background yet look professional. It was leagues away from Ronnie’s sloppy t-shirt, jeans, and well-worn tennis shoes.
In school, one of the most important lessons he’d learned was that his camera was a powerful equalizer. With it, he could transform the life of any model who walked in front of it, and that was an incredibly attractive quality. Andy Warhol understood the concept better than anyone.
His technical prowess behind the camera and growing client roster afforded Sebastian many delicious nights with the girls smart enough to understand how the system worked. Being flirty with the photographer virtually guaranteed more photos would be taken and increased their representation to fashion houses. From this exposure, there would be runway offers and flights to Milan and Paris to work with the best in the business. Sebastian wasn’t the type to spell it out or make demands, but he never turned down their advances. He’d always been the type of man who took advantage of opportunities he was presented with and relished the power that came with being pursued by beautiful women.
The session continued, with flashes popping off sporadically, like a late summer thunderstorm. Getting the shot was similar to harnessing lightning in a bottle. He always knew the moment of conception because it was accompanied by a surge of adrenaline that roared through him more powerful than any aphrodisiac. “Got it!” he shouted with glee, waving the camera in the air triumphantly, as blood rushed to his nether regions. “Great job, everyone.”
The photo session had gone so well, he decided to go for extra credit. “If you ladies could indulge me, I have one more concept I’d like to try with you. It’s not for the squeamish, but a personal project inspired by Stephen King’s Carrie.”
“Ooh! I’m in!” Melania enthused, the excitement on her face palpable. “I loved that book.”
“Coolio.” Sebastian turned to Ronnie who’d just returned with their food. “Let’s lay down the sheets of plastic and prep the buckets of blood.”
Two hours later, the models left after using the shower in the full bathroom in the studio loft. The red-dyed corn syrup dribbled and hugged every one of their curves, and the results on the Polaroids sitting on his desk were jaw-dropping. The photographs walked the delicate line between gore and eroticism, and he instinctively knew that when they hit the mainstream, his name would be seared into the memories of every fashion house in the world.
“You’re a genius,” Ronnie praised after the studio was cleared out, handing over Sebastian’s pastrami on rye.
“All it takes is ten thousand hours in the pursuit of any skill to master it,” Sebastian lectured, wondering if Ronnie was smart enough to appreciate the nugget of greatness he’d just been handed. He ripped open the parchment paper his sandwich was wrapped in and took a bite.
“Hey, I was thinking, instead of that raise you were talking about, I was wondering if I could work on my portfolio here,” Ronnie asked. “On my own time, of course, and I would provide all my own film.”
Sebastian mulled it over, pleased that his brilliance hadn’t been wasted after all. It was the kind of arrangement he would have tried to secure for himself when he was a student. Ronnie had gumption; he saw a reflection of his former self in the younger man. The shoot had gone so well that he was feeling generous. “I’ll make that deal as long as you clean up after yourself and work around my shoots. They always take precedence.”
“Goes without saying.” Ronnie grinned and took huge bites of his sandwich to finish it as fast as possible. He cleaned up the studio, popping the flashes before unplugging the lights like he’d been taught to protect their delicate tubes from being blown by a power surge. He rolled up the cords and pushed them to the edges of the infinity cove, a white corner-less wall of vinyl that was the background for many of Sebastian’s photo shoots.
Sebastian watched the younger man work, pleased with his attention to detail. “Ronnie, your performance today solidified my decision. I’d like to offer you a position as my permanent assistant.”
“Really?” Ronnie grinned, in shock at his good fortune.
“Really,” Sebastian confirmed. It felt good to reach a hand back to help another person on the path to success. He could already tell Ronnie wouldn’t be a threat to his career. He was too simple-minded and gob-smacked in the presence of beautiful women. Ronnie didn’t understand they were a distraction that would render his creativity impotent when most of his blood was summoned elsewhere. He also lacked the vision that was as central to Sebastian’s makeup as his DNA.
Looking around the studio, Sebastian realized every goal he’d set for himself as a student at Brooks had come to fruition, and he could confidently say he now lived a lifestyle he’d only dreamed about. His star was rising high in the sky, and the perks were far better than he ever imagined—sexy trysts with up-and-coming models in the industry, a little coke, and a flashy red Corvette he’d purchased last month after a record-breaking quarter of commissions. He was living high on the hog and enjoying the fruits of his labor.
In the summer of 1985, Sebastian Kincaid was becoming a fashion photography icon, but in just a year, three hundred and sixty-five short days, his career would be destroyed. He would swing from the highest high to the lowest low. His public fall from grace would be epic, and the worst part was, it would completely blind side him.
