smoke. Nothing would ever happen between her and Night. They weren’t each other’s type and the timing wasn’t right. She determined to bring these wandering, non-productive thoughts under control and forced herself to think about Night in different terms, as her personal trainer and employer of sorts, nothing more. Mind made up, she rolled over, went to sleep, and dreamt of him.
When she awoke, it was a little after six, just enough time for her to eat, prepare her clothes for work and head over to Night’s house. Not relying on his promise to take care of everything where her look was concerned, she put on the new workout clothes she’d recently purchased, a pair of denim-look, cotton stretch pants paired with a baby-doll-styled T-shirt sporting blue and white stripes, the vertical kind that were supposed to make her look slimmer. She viewed herself in the mirror. Yeah, whatever. Forgoing a lot of makeup she settled for simple mascara and lip gloss, and put her shoulder-length curls back in a ponytail. Looking in the mirror once again, she fought the desire to disparage her appearance. Sexy is inner confidence. That’s what one of the women on Monique’s Fat Chance had said. She’d try and keep thinking that until she believed it. She looked in the mirror once more and smiled.
Self-pep talk over, she placed her uniform and other essentials for work in a garment bag and stowed her midnight munchies, a bag of fresh veggies—carrots, celery, radish, and red peppers—along with her Lean Cuisine, a bag of popcorn, and sparkling water in an insulated carrier. She took her cell phone off its charger, found her purse between the covers and was off.
D’Andra hesitantly rang the doorbell. Between her reservations about being anyone’s spokesperson and the images of Night in her erotic dream, she was a nervous wreck. Her face was flushed before the doorbell was answered.
When it opened, a kindly gentleman with graying hair and a humbled spirit greeted her.
“You must be D’Andra. Come in.”
Her relief that Night wasn’t the first person she faced was evident in her greeting.
“Hi,” she gushed, a little too breathy.
The man narrowed his eyes as he looked at her, and then spoke.
“My name is Frank. I’m the photographer. You’re a little early. Night just finished a workout session. He’s in the shower. Come on into the living room where we’re set up.
“My, my, my,” he continued, looking back at D’Andra as he walked. “Night was right, you’re a fine one. We’re going to get some nice pictures here, yes indeedy.”
D’Andra followed Frank into a nicely decorated and decidedly masculine living space bathed in hues of deep blues and browns. A suede navy blue sectional anchored the space on the room’s far wall, while two chocolate brown leather recliners framed a cocktail table made of ebony wood. These colors, along with brighter hues of rust, grays and tans were reflected in the rug and accent pillows placed strategically on furniture around the room. Stainless steel accessories, including lamps and picture frames, furthered the masculine concept as did the abstract black-and-white photos encased in those frames: the clean body lines of abdomens, arms, legs and backs. Frank’s camera equipment was set up in the corner across from the large picture window.
Frank’s sunny personality immediately put D’Andra at ease. As he fiddled with and readied his camera equipment, he kept up a lively monologue. She learned he was a semi-retired photographer who’d been a friend of Night’s family for decades. His photos had landed in several national magazines, including Jet , Ebony , Black Enterprise and Life . This job he loved had taken him to dozens of states, several countries in Europe and across the plains of Africa. By the time he was ready to shoot his first roll, D’Andra felt she’d known him a lifetime.
“Okay, doll, just place yourself over by that plant,” Frank said,
When she awoke, it was a little after six, just enough time for her to eat, prepare her clothes for work and head over to Night’s house. Not relying on his promise to take care of everything where her look was concerned, she put on the new workout clothes she’d recently purchased, a pair of denim-look, cotton stretch pants paired with a baby-doll-styled T-shirt sporting blue and white stripes, the vertical kind that were supposed to make her look slimmer. She viewed herself in the mirror. Yeah, whatever. Forgoing a lot of makeup she settled for simple mascara and lip gloss, and put her shoulder-length curls back in a ponytail. Looking in the mirror once again, she fought the desire to disparage her appearance. Sexy is inner confidence. That’s what one of the women on Monique’s Fat Chance had said. She’d try and keep thinking that until she believed it. She looked in the mirror once more and smiled.
Self-pep talk over, she placed her uniform and other essentials for work in a garment bag and stowed her midnight munchies, a bag of fresh veggies—carrots, celery, radish, and red peppers—along with her Lean Cuisine, a bag of popcorn, and sparkling water in an insulated carrier. She took her cell phone off its charger, found her purse between the covers and was off.
D’Andra hesitantly rang the doorbell. Between her reservations about being anyone’s spokesperson and the images of Night in her erotic dream, she was a nervous wreck. Her face was flushed before the doorbell was answered.
When it opened, a kindly gentleman with graying hair and a humbled spirit greeted her.
“You must be D’Andra. Come in.”
Her relief that Night wasn’t the first person she faced was evident in her greeting.
“Hi,” she gushed, a little too breathy.
The man narrowed his eyes as he looked at her, and then spoke.
“My name is Frank. I’m the photographer. You’re a little early. Night just finished a workout session. He’s in the shower. Come on into the living room where we’re set up.
“My, my, my,” he continued, looking back at D’Andra as he walked. “Night was right, you’re a fine one. We’re going to get some nice pictures here, yes indeedy.”
D’Andra followed Frank into a nicely decorated and decidedly masculine living space bathed in hues of deep blues and browns. A suede navy blue sectional anchored the space on the room’s far wall, while two chocolate brown leather recliners framed a cocktail table made of ebony wood. These colors, along with brighter hues of rust, grays and tans were reflected in the rug and accent pillows placed strategically on furniture around the room. Stainless steel accessories, including lamps and picture frames, furthered the masculine concept as did the abstract black-and-white photos encased in those frames: the clean body lines of abdomens, arms, legs and backs. Frank’s camera equipment was set up in the corner across from the large picture window.
Frank’s sunny personality immediately put D’Andra at ease. As he fiddled with and readied his camera equipment, he kept up a lively monologue. She learned he was a semi-retired photographer who’d been a friend of Night’s family for decades. His photos had landed in several national magazines, including Jet , Ebony , Black Enterprise and Life . This job he loved had taken him to dozens of states, several countries in Europe and across the plains of Africa. By the time he was ready to shoot his first roll, D’Andra felt she’d known him a lifetime.
“Okay, doll, just place yourself over by that plant,” Frank said,
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