Chapter 1

Lucy Ferguson was preparing to do yet another photo shoot; the assignment she had today would have been one many women photographers would have killed for.

She was going to be shooting the centerfold and feature photos for Playgirl; secretly, she wasn't thrilled about shooting naked men for a beefcake publication and stuff like this was out of her element. If it hadn't been for the lucrative fee and her car payment being due, she wouldn't have taken the job at all.

Though she loved her job and was hailed as a great talent by many agencies and clients, Lucy put up with a great deal of aggravation from both men and women, not to mention her own agent, Owen Spencer.

As good as Owen was, he could be such an ass sometimes when it came to securing bookings for Lucy; she made it clear that she preferred to shoot musicians and bands. Being a former garage band singer herself during her college years, she could get into their minds and bring out some incredible shots.

But lately, the band and musician photo shoots have been less and Owen has been sending her on shit like this.

His excuse?

"You need to work outside of your comfort zone, Fergie."

And thanks to the efforts of Owen, there were the temperamental prima donna, anorexic looking, high fashion girls that expected everyone--including Lucy--to jump when they snapped their fingers, neurotic assistants that Lucy couldn't keep around for more than a week, and grumpy magazine editors that wanted everything yesterday.

There were the handsome yet arrogant men who acted as if she should be honored that they let her take their pictures, when they weren't trying to score a lay from the lady photographer
by making made crude comments or rubbing their crotches, pointing to their dicks, and then spread their hands out to show Lucy the size.

She didn't know which was worse, that or Owen calling her Fergie. Frankly, she'd like to bitch slap him for putting her through both.

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Suprisingly, the Playgirl shoot hadn't been as bad as Lucy had initially thought it would be; sure, there was a naked dude in the middle of her studio, but unlike the self-absorbed assholes she had worked with before, the centerfold man had been a sweet, shy "good old boy" from the sticks down South.

"Just tell me what to do, darlin', and it's all yours," he smiled at her.

No crotch rubbing, dick pointing, or sexual remarks. They should make more guys like this, Lucy thought.

Now looking over the prints, she couldn't find one bad picture of the guy. A few airbrushes here and there, but even that won't take much effort. He was just beautiful and his down to earth air even showed in the pictures.

The editors were going to eat this kid up, she smiled to herself. Maybe she wouldn't so hard on Owen for getting her this job.

The phone interrupted her thoughts, and Lucy grabbed it on the second ring, figuring it would either be the Playgirl editor or Owen checking in with her.

"Lucy here," she answered.

"Fergie!" Owen bellowed. "How's it going?"

"Okay, Owen? First off, my name is Lucy. I swear to Christ if you call me Fergie one more time, I'm going to pull you through this damn phone."

"Whoa, it must be past someone's snack time," Owen responded.

"Very funny. It's Lucy. Got it? Now that that is out of the way, the shooting was great. I'm looking over the pictures now."

"Mr. Naked Centerfold went well then?"

"He wasn't a bad sort, surprisingly. I kind of felt a little sorry for him, being from the sticks and all. Kind of a little naïve about a few things, but he was a nice guy."

"Does this mean I'm off the hook for bidding you to do this job?"

"Perhaps," Lucy replied.

"Good," Owen said cheerfully. "Because I got another great assignment for you."

Oh this should be a barrel of laughs, she thought, rolling her eyes.

"Okay, Owen; let's have it," she sighed, getting a pen and paper.

"You'll love this. World Wrestling Entertainment is looking for some good photographers to shoots some new promos for some of their talent. They just booked a shitload of photographers this week for the jobs."

"So what does this have to do with me? We all know wrestling is fake anyway."

"You're one of the photographers, Fer--er, Lucy."

"What?! Owen, you asshole! What the hell were you thinking?"

"Oh come on, Lucy, think of getting your name out there. Beats the fuck out of shooting hole in the wall bar bands for nickels and dimes. And these guys are paying serious bucks."

Lucy let out a grunt. "How much? And it better be good, because I'm about ten seconds away from killing you."

Owen told her.

"Jesus Christ! You can't be serious."

"Serious as a heart attack, kiddo. I have to warn you that you're the only woman photographer, though," Owen added.

"Thanks a hell of a lot," Lucy sighed. "Now I have to deal with fake athletes rubbing and pointing to their crotches, and then showing me how big their cocks are in order to try and score with me, if not giving me 'me man, you woman, you do what man say' attitudes."

"I don't know about that. The dude they have you doing doesn't seem to come across as that type."

"Yeah, like that ever happens in their field." She rolled her eyes again, not believing that Owen was being taken in by this shit. "So what is Mr. Excitement's name?"

"Paul London. Good luck, kiddo, but with this guy, I doubt you'll need it."

Lucy clutched the note paper in her hand, shaking her head. The big paycheck better be worth it, she thought. And if this character gives me any shit, he and Owen are both going to be ripped a new asshole.