Page 31 of Unlikely

“Ughhh,” he groans. “I thought you’d forgotten about that.”

“Ha. You wish,” I tease. “Now, spill.”

“It’s my car.”

I narrow my eyes at him in confusion. “Come again?”

“It’s my car,” he repeats.

Pushing up off him, I find myself sitting on the bed, legs crossed, staring at him, extremely unsure as to whether or not he’s fucking with me. “I’m sorry, did you just say you own a hundred thousand dollar car?”

His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat and his eyes are brown pools of worry and fear.

“Remy,” I breathe out, my heart racing. “Please tell me you’re not into dealing drugs.”

“I’m not dealing drugs,” he assures me. “But I take pictures.”

“Okay.” My brain tries to keep up, trying to work out what kind of pictur—Oh. I cock my head from side to side. “A-are y-you…?” I stammer. “Do you…?” I wave a hand up and down his body. “You. Pictures. For cash?”

At this, Remy bursts into laughter, his whole body shaking on my bed. “What?” I ask through a smile, laughter slowly bubbling up my chest. “Am I wrong? You said you take photos.”

I grab my pillow and smack him over the head with it. “Tell me,” I whine.

“Okay. Okay.” Still laughing, he puts his hands up in surrender. “I’ll tell you.”

Pulling my knees up to my chest, I patiently wait for him to confirm what I think I’ve guessed correctly, giving him the time and space he needs to feel comfortable enough to continue.

When his laughter finally subsides, he sighs, loudly. “You’re right. I take pictures for money.”

As if I’m at school, I put my hand up in the air, seeking permission to ask a question.

Remy smacks it down. “Just ask already.”

“Are they pictures of you or pictures of other people?”

“Both,” he answers. “Anything else?”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He shakes his head. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

I beg to differ, but I don’t argue with him. “Do I need to keep it a secret?”

“Yes,” he says, his tone a little more urgent and serious. “If you can, I would truly appreciate it.”

“I can do that.” I nod. “But I’m still stuck on you owning a Range Rover. Where the hell do you keep it? How did you keep it a secret?”

He taps my nose. “You know I’m not going to give you all the answers in one go.”

“Is that what your photography course is all about?” I ask, trying and failing for more information.

Ignoring me, he climbs out of bed and then reaches for the small folded piece of paper that’s sitting by its lonesome on my mattress. He unfolds and folds it.

“They have a pretty name,” he says, flicking the paper in my direction. “Call them.”

“Remy,” I call out as he reaches my bedroom door.

He glances over his shoulder at me. “Yeah?”