In which absolutely nothing of consequence happens...(no, seriously).

Chapter 3: Session

White profile against a black backdrop, white pearls against a black dress. The woman's few visible features were striking against the all-encompassing, velvety blackness: white face, white hands, white pearls...and nothing else. The rest was simple blackness. The woman's skin glowed with a Pre-Raphaelite paleness amidst a dark vortex, making her look like a ghost, a white specter emerging from some great, black beyond. The pearls, threaded loosely through her long white fingers and left to dangle in a noose-like loop almost to the floor, led the eye from hands to face. Yes! The image was a more than competent reproduction of Eugene Richee's 1928 photo; the stark light-and-dark contrast suited O'Malley's style and he felt comfortable reproducing the well-known image. Besides, it was better than his model's suggested alternative...

"I still say we shoulda done Michelle Pfeiffer on a piano," complained the woman-whose intrusive voice spoiled the illusion and made it obvious to the whole world that she was, in fact, not a woman at all. Her voice held the gruff tone of a man's, twangy and more than a bit abrasive. She broke her pose to glare at O'Malley from across the way.

"No more pianos. And no red sequined dresses."

The woman continued to glare.

"No, Tallulah. Why can't you just trust me on this?"

"'Cause I look like dog-shit in profile, O'Malley." The woman stood defiantly, hands on hips and chin raised.

A loud snicker came from across the way.

"What are you laughing at over there, Sherman?" asked the woman in the pearls. The top of the artist's plaid golfing cap was just visible over the back of the couch. "Don't you have some phallic-y looking building to go paint or something?"

"And what is that supposed to mean?" said a voice from the couch.

"It means you spend way too much time hanging off of O'Mammy's apron strings-why don't you get a clue or two?" said Tallulah, jabbing an immaculately manicured finger in the couch's direction.

Sherman's horrified face appeared over the back of the couch. "Ouch! What the hell, Lu?" He glared across the loft to the makeshift space where Tallulah and O'Malley were currently shooting.

"I hate both of you," declared O'Malley, rubbing his scalp in annoyance. It was two in the afternoon, but he still felt wrecked from all the drinks he'd had at the Pence last night. Definitely not enough recovery time. And he still had the stupid ball to shoot that night. God-why the hell did he have to work so much? And on a Saturday? Other people didn't have to work on Saturday...

"Oh, I think you know exactly what I mean, Sherman."

"You are such a bitch, Lu."

O'Malley unscrewed a bottle of Bushmill's and poured it into his coffee mug, ignoring the conversation taking place around him. It had occurred to him to just skip out on the stupid party with the stupid theme that was being thrown by some stupid magazine editor, but then Ari had called him that morning-at the ungodly hour of ten-to say that she would be coming around at eight to give him his press pass for the event. He knew that her real intent was to make sure that he showed up on time like he was supposed to. The woman was like some combination talent agent/Gestapo. It was truly amazing how little O'Malley actually participated in his own professional life. It wasn't necessary, not with someone like Ari around. She booked his shootings and then shuttled him to and fro from one place to another like some overly-watchful nanny. All O'Malley had to do was take the pictures.

And sometimes even that could be an obnoxious pain. Like with Lu, for instance.

"This bitch is just trying to open your eyes to the truth, Shermie-boy."

"I don't need your stupid advice, Ta-llu-lah," answered Sherman petulantly. He slid back down on the couch and grabbed up one of O'Malley's cameras from the table in front of him.

That got O'Malley's attention. "Lay off the camera, Sherman. It's older than you and cost more than five months rent."

"Geez," said Sherman, who promptly set the camera-a 1975 Canon F-1-back down. He then picked up what looked to be a greeting card, one that had been left lying casually between the camera and a conspicuously empty bottle of Jack. "Hey, is this a birthday card or something? I didn't know it was your birthday, O..." Sherman's eyes grew wide as he read what was actually written in the card. "Holy shit, O. Is this really from your old man?" Sheman held up the card questioningly.

"Yes," O'Malley responded icily. "And I'd appreciate it if you'd stop going through my things." From over O'Malley's shoulder, Tallulah mouthed the word, "Stalker," and Sherman gave her the finger.

Sherman put the card down and looked uncomfortably at the floor. "Does he always tell you to repent and to get down on your knees and beg God for the forgiveness of your sins?"

"Every Christmas and every birthday," said O'Malley flatly. Then: "He's not a fan of my work."

Silence filled the room.

"That's cold, coming from your dad," said Tallulah finally. Then, to take everyone's mind off what was written in the card, Tallulah said: "What's with the bed post in the corner, sugar? Have a little too much fun or something?"

O'Malley had forgotten about the wooden post that was propped against the wall. A little memento from the previous weekend. Last Saturday he had woken up in the middle of an overly bright afternoon, his body hurting in places he didn't even think were possible. And there had been nothing but a big black hole in the place where the previous night's memory should have been (a disconcerting-but not uncommon-side effect from all the drinking he'd been doing). Bleary-eyed, he'd gotten out of his bed and had promptly tripped head-first over the bed post, which was detached and laying like a waiting trip-wire on the floor. A suspicion began to form in his mind then, one which was egged on by his various aches and pains, that there may have been some sort of air-borne shenanigans at play. Well, there had been only one sure-fire way to find out what really had happened...

He developed the film from his camera.

It surprised him, sometimes, what mysteries lay within those tiny little cells. Especially when you were a black-out prone drunk. And on that weekend, the Souljacker concert had been apparently too much fun for him. Or rather, there had been way too much vodka and tequila, and maybe a joint or two, with a little cocaine icing thrown in to sweeten the whole thing up. And then there had been not one-but two-guys in skinny black band T-shirts, both sporting tongue piercings and smudged eye-liner. And the end result: shenanigans. O'Malley had been vaguely horrified, but unsurprised, to discover-within the consoling sanctuary of his darkroom-just exactly how he had spent his weekend. Which was to say, he had treated his body like an open amusement park, and his head-as well as his furniture-had ended up paying the ensuing price for it. Just thinking about it now set his temples to throbbing...

O'Malley muttered the phrases "air-borne shenanigans" and "narcotics-induced," which was enough to send Tallulah into a rather horsey sounding laughing fit. "O'Malady, baby! You need to take it down a notch. You are cute, for sure, but you are no spring chicken-"

"-so my aching back tells me. You can stop with all the advice, Lu."

"-a nasty, drunken, pervy photo-taking, clap-ridden Irishman like yourself-"

"You forgot 'cradle-robbing,'" interrupted Sherman.

"Yes-thank you, Sherman! A nasty, drunken, pervy photo-taking, clap-ridden, cradle robbing Irishman like you needs some advice. Does nobody ever tell you the truth about yourself?"

"Fuck off, Lu."

"See, I thought not-"

"-and I take exception to the term 'clap-ridden.'"

"Then I retract it."

"Thank you." O'Malley paused and took a big gulp from his whisky-laced coffee mug. He made a face as he realized the coffee-to-whisky ratio was tilted way too far in whisky's favor.

"You gonna share that bottle, sugar, or you gonna horde it?" asked Tallulah.

"Didn't you just give me some sort of drinking lecture?"

"Shit, man! My advice is strictly of the 'do as I say, not as I do' variety. And I could use a cigarette, too."

Tallulah stepped away from the black backdrop to dig through a beaded purse for a pack of cigarettes. She slid one out, stuck it between her scarlet-painted lips, lit it, and grabbed up the bottle of Bushmill's. It gave O'Malley an idea.

"Hey, Tallulah, can you get back in that pose, but keep the cig and the whisky bottle?"

Sherman was watching over the back of the couch. "That's gonna look funny."

"So let's be funny," said O'Malley, who was suddenly liking the idea of changing the image from its former pearl-graced elegance to something more 'elegantly trashy.' And the image suited Tallulah's personality better. But he didn't, of course, say this out loud.

Tallulah resumed her position in front of the black backdrop. O'Malley took up his other camera, a 1976 Canon AE-1, and went to work. "Let's make like it's Christmas and wrap this shit up," muttered O'Malley. "I want to sleep before tonight's gig." The retro-sounding click of the shutter filled the room.

"Are you really going to Vic's party tonight?" asked Sherman from the couch.

"I'm going to be working at Vic's party," answered O'Malley, whose face was currently glued to his camera back.

"Danny's band's gonna be playing."

"I know," said O'Malley. And if he did enough good pictures for them, then maybe Danny would finally forgive him for skipping out on Jaded Sadie's show last weekend.

The bad weekend...

And maybe-maybe-if O'Malley was extra lucky, then that hot little blond from the Pence would actually show up. O'Malley had been thinking about the boy way too much, and he was more than aware of the fact that he was becoming just a wee-bit obsessed with him: a kind of heady, anticipatory feeling he hadn't experienced in a long, long time. But maybe that was a good thing. Maybe he really had gotten too jaded, a state fueled by having too many things-and people-just fall freely into his lap. Maybe he needed the challenge. And this kid was definitely proving to be a challenge. Twice now, he'd been shot down. Most guys would have just given up and walked away, but O'Malley's own stubborn nature just urged him on. He wanted-needed-to change the boy's mind about being photographed. There had been a moment in the bar-the moment where the boy had dropped his eyes and shook his head at his offer-where O'Malley had almost gotten a sense of...what? Regret? Hesitation? Denial? No, there had definitely been something there. Something. And it was this 'something' that made O'Malley think that maybe-just maybe-he could change the boy's mind. That he could overcome whatever it was that was holding him back. That the obstacles weren't completely insurmountable.

And hopefully, if the boy showed up to the party tonight, then O'Malley could give it another try...

End Chapter 3.