Long Shot Read Online Free Page B

second. Rebecca shoots me a little grin as she sets down our plates that says she’s going to grill me next.
    “I take it you haven’t photographed penises before.” I gathered this scientifically, from the way she literally fell to the floor earlier. Rebecca makes as if to linger for the answer, but I wave her off. She pouts but goes.
    “Nope.” She shudders just a bit. “No, my normal photography is a tad more… traditional.”
    “What do you shoot?” I inhale the steam from my coffee and smile, happy to be here, happy to be in my favorite place with a girl I could easily see becoming my favorite, too. She’s so damn cute I can hardly even. “Since you’re a dick pic virgin.”
    “Portraiture. Think Annie Leibovitz. Well. I aspire to her, anyways.”
    “Wow.” I rack my brain to figure out who Annie Leibovitz is. Was she the one that did all the gay men? No, there would be penises involved then. Maybe she did fashion-y things. I fake it.
    “Annie Leibovitz is some hardcore shit. Really inspiring, very cool. She defined a generation.”
    “You have no idea who she is.” Apparently I don’t fake it very well.
    “I have no idea who she is.” I smile, and she actually kind of smiles back. Her whole face lights up when she does, and I’m enchanted. “But she sounds legit.”
    “Annie Leibovitz is an absolute legend. Her work is incredible, tasteful, pushing boundaries, showing how unique we are as human beings. She has this killer way of showing the personality of each of her subjects, and how beautiful each one is. In her lens, freckles, scars, and tattoos all look amazing.”
    “And in your lens, each vein, hair, and flare will look amazing, showing how unique we are as penises?” I briefly feel that I understand the artistic vision.
    She ignores me and takes a bite of her croissant. Her eyes roll back. It’s like her world stops moving for a moment, and I’m not sure if she’s having an orgasm or a religious experience or both. Having had this meal before, I’d guess both. “Oh my God.”
    “Told you it was good.”
    “I don’t even like ham and cheese.”
    “They are miracle workers here.” I toast her with my own croissant and take a bite. It’s melty and gooey and a little crispy and fluffy and buttery. They use locally cured ham and beautifully aged cheese. Basically, it’s the perfect croissant. It’s the perfect sandwich. Perfect coffee, perfect sandwich, perfect breakfast date. Even if it is technically lunch.
    “I would eat these every day if I could.” She’s still looking half-dazed and talking with food in her mouth. I can’t help but laugh at her.
    “See if you’ll ever use Taco Bell as a hangover cure again,” I wink at her. “Just can’t compare.”
    “How did you—you know what, it doesn’t matter. I’ll admit, this beats the nachos I had planned.” She sips her coffee and finally looks at me in the eyes.
    It catches me off guard, the sudden connection that pops between us. My breath catches, and her breath catches and we look away at the same time. I take another bite, she takes another sip, and the silence between us becomes awkward. She’s blushing, and I am growing concerned that I may be too.
    This would be so much easier if I were at work. I wonder if she, too, is reliving all those memories from last night. How I lavished her with attention and she ate it up. How I danced for her, and she divvied out a stack of bills with my name on them. A story for our grandchildren, surely. I change the subject before my pants get too tight. Again.
    “So, can I see any of your work somewhere? Online, or at one of the shops here in town? I’d like to check it out.” She cocks an eyebrow at me. “You know, to make sure you’re good enough for Peter.”
    “Please.” She scoffs and only focuses on her sandwich. “Any douche with an iPhone could take a decent shot of a dick. They just never do, is all. Too impressed with themselves to look at it objectively and