She could end up on a book cover just like that.
Why should I care? Clothes shouldn’t define you. During my younger days, my parents would tell me of all the dire things that could happen to me based on the clothes that I wore. Unfortunately, that seems to have become fixed in my head, warring with the eternal question of why young females should be responsible for the apparent uncontrollable urges of men.
What Alicia is wearing makes her look sexy, something to be objectified. But isn’t that exactly what the photographer wants? For women not so blessed, or perhaps wizened with age, to see her and dream of themselves in her image? To be someone attractive to men?
I can’t think of my daughter in that way. Underneath the makeup and the clothes she’s chosen for today, she’s still my little girl, the baby I once held in my arms. Often I wish, I could have kept her that age. It was far easier.
She raises an eyebrow, making me realise I haven’t said a word, but I find it impossible to tell her you look nice. Contenting myself that I’ll be there with her, I pick up my keys. “Come on, we better leave now if you don’t want to be late.”
“This is so freaking embarrassing,” she says, storming past me, then opening the front door and exiting the house. “Stupid. I’m not a child.”
Oh but you are, I reply in my head.
It’s a fine balance not wanting to scare your child but wanting them to be aware of the many evils in the world. Perhaps I haven’t adequately set the right balance. Am I a failure or just the typical parent of a wilful teenager?
Backing the car off the driveway, I make my way through the city then up and out into the countryside that surrounds it. The temperature starts to rise as we begin to climb, as shown by the digits flicking up on the console, and the air conditioning starts to work harder. In direct correlation, Alicia’s mood, which had commenced poor, sours the more miles I drive. After I’d made one comment about how it was nice to get out of the city for a while, and she’d refrained from answering, I stay quiet.
Eventually, my GPS tells me I’ve arrived, and I pull off into a paved parking area, immediately spying I’m not the first to have arrived. There’s an impressive gleaming Harley parked up, and an older, weatherworn and heavily tattooed biker standing beside it. At first glance, he seems quite harmless. As he turns, presumably to check out who’s in the car, then when he swings back around to look out over the scenery, I see his leather vest has patches on the back of it. Satan’s Devils MC, says the top one, the bottom, San Diego, and the middle patch is an emblem of some sort, the grim reaper with a scythe looming over what looks like three demons.
It's scary as hell. I swallow, wondering whether it’s best to turn around and make a run for it.
But any chance of escape is soon lost. Alicia, completely oblivious to any danger, gets out of the car and storms off as though wanting to put distance between us. Telling myself I’m overreacting, I decide the best thing to do about the biker, who’s clearly in some sort of club, is to ignore him. Maybe he’s just stopped off to look at the scenery and will soon move on.
I start hoping Devon Starr arrives quickly, and then the biker will be gone. I find his presence unnerving. I know nothing about motorcycles or the people who ride them. Alicia’s father was into muscle cars.
Ah, another car is pulling in. Alicia’s face brightens when she sees the man driving, and I recognise him from his Facebook profile. It’s Devon, the photographer. He greets Alicia with a nod of acknowledgement, then goes over to talk to the biker, who’s soon moving his motorcycle to a spot that’s just been pointed out. It dawns on me it must be a prop for the photo shoot. My mind’s eased that the biker has a good reason to be here.
Then we seem to be waiting again. Devon’s getting impatient, tapping his watch, while the biker smokes a cigarette, politely moving downwind of me when he reads my disgust.
At last it becomes clear who the delay is for.
My eyes fall on the newcomer and I can’t stop the roll of my eyes. Jeez, does this kid think the sun shines out of his rear or what? Every movement seems practised, starting with the way he exits the car. His walk is fluid, the way his hips flex looks like he’s been coached on how to move sexily as he saunters across to Devon and my daughter. Warily I watch Alicia’s face, seeing her eyes are wide, her mouth open, and her cheeks flush. The kid’s demeanour might be wasted on me, but not on her.
Devon exchanges a few words, presumably about the newcomer’s tardiness, though the kid doesn’t look very contrite. Then he kicks into professional mode, posing his models as he wants them. My eyes are sharp, watching for any impropriety. It’s undeniable there’s chemistry between the pair, or on Alicia’s part, definitely. The photographer seems to know what he’s doing, and positions them just right, telling them what expressions to wear, making heat beam out of them.
I suppress a smile as it becomes clear the biker is very protective over his motorcycle. I do grin at the way he snaps when the kid
