And just to rub salt in the wound, he shot commercial art.
He’d never had the patience to do art for art’s sake. Delayed gratification was his idea of no fun at all. He left the apartment dark with only the city’s soft glow through the blind-covered windows revealing the vaguest outlines of the framed art on the wall. Even that almost overwhelmed him tonight.
He didn’t want to see the huge prints by the art artists: autographed Goldsworthy, Liebowitz, and Joseph Francis’ photomosaics for the moderns. A hundred and fifty rare, even one-of-a-kind prints adorned his walls—all the way back through Bourke-White to Russell’s prize, an original Daguerre. The Museum of Modern Art kept begging to borrow his collection for a show…and at the moment he was half tempted to dump the whole lot in their Dumpster if they didn’t want it.
Crossing the one-room loft apartment—as spacious as the studio—he bypassed the circle of avant-garde chairs that were almost as uncomfortable as they looked and avoided the lush black-leather wrap-around sectional sofa of such ludicrous scale that it could be a playpen for two or host a party for twenty. He cracked the fridge in the stainless-steel-and-black corner kitchen searching for something other than his usual beer.
A bottle of Krug.
Maybe he was just being grouchy after a long day’s work.
Juice.
No. He’d run his enthusiasm into the ground but good.
Milk even.
Would he miss the camera if he never picked it up again?
No reaction.
Nothing.
Not even a twinge.
That was an emptiness he did not want to face. Especially not alone, in his apartment, in the middle of the world’s most vibrant city.
Russell turned away, and just as the door swung closed, the last sliver of light—the relentless chilly blue-white of the refrigerator bulb—shone across his bed. A quick grab snagged the edge of the door and left the narrow beam illuminating a long pale form on his black bedspread.
The Chanel boots weren’t in the studio after all. They were still wrapped around those three thousand dollar-an-hour legs: the only clothing on a perfect body, five foot-eleven of intensely toned female anatomy, right down to her exquisitely stair-mastered behind. Her long, white-blond hair lay as a perfect Godiva over her tanned bosom—except for the too-exact symmetry, even the closest inspection didn’t reveal the work done there. She lay with one leg raised just ever so slightly to hide what was meant to be revealed later.
Melanie.
By the steady rise and fall of her flat stomach, he knew she’d fallen asleep while waiting for him to finish in the studio.
How long had they been an item? Two months? Three?
She’d made him feel alive…at least when he was actually with her. Melanie was the supermodel in his bed or on his arm at yet another SoHo gallery opening. Together they journeyed to sharp parties and trendy three-star restaurants where she dazzled and wooed yet another gathering of New York’s finest with her ever so soft, so sensual, and so studied French accent. Together they were wired into the heart of the in-crowd.
But that wasn’t him, was it? It didn’t sound like the Russell he once knew.
Perhaps “they” were about how he looked on her arm?
Did she know tomorrow was the annual Thanksgiving ordeal at his parents? The grand holiday gathering that he’d rather die than attend? Any number of eligible woman would be floating about his parents’ house out in Greenwich; anyone able to finagle an invitation would attend in hopes of snaring one of People Magazine’s “100 Most Eligible.” They all wanted to land the heir to a billion or some such; though he was wealthy enough on his own, by his own sweat, to draw anyone’s attention. He ranked number twenty-four on the list this year—up from forty-seven the year before despite Tom Cruise being available yet again.
But not Melanie. He knew that it wasn’t the money that drew her. Yes, she wanted him. But even more, she wanted the life that came with him—wrapped in the man-package. She wanted The Life. The one that People Magazine readers dreamed about between glossy pages.
His fingertips were growing cold where they held the refrigerator door cracked open.
If he woke her they’d have a great time heating up the sheets. Or a great party to go to. Or…
Did he want “Or”? What more did he want from her?
The supermodel in his bed. Companionship. An energy, a vivacity, a thirst he feared that he lacked. Yes.
But where was that smooth synchronicity hiding, like the light-image-camera-man of photography that he’d lost? Where lurked that perfect flow from one person to another? Did she feel it? Could he ever feel it?
“More?” he whispered into the darkness to test the sound.
The refrigerator door slid shut—escaping from his numbed fingers—which plunged the apartment back into darkness, taking Melanie along with it.
His breath echoed in the vast darkness. Proof that he was alive, if nothing more.
It was time to close the studio—time to be done with Russell Incorporated.
Then what?
Maybe Angelo would know what to do. He always claimed that he did. Maybe this time Russell would actually listen to his almost-brother, though he knew from the experience of being himself for the last thirty years that was unlikely.
Seattle.
No! He’d have to go to Seattle, of all ridiculous places, to find his best friend. There was a possible upside to such a trip—maybe there’d be a flight out before tomorrow’s mess at his parents’. He slapped his pocket, but once again he’d set his phone down in some unknown corner of the studio and it would take forever to find. He really needed two—one chained down so that he could always find it to call the other.
Russell considered the darkness. He could guarantee that Seattle wouldn’t be a big hit with Melanie.
Now if he only knew whether that was a good thing or bad.
About the Author
M.L. Buchman started the first of, what is now over 50 novels and as many short stories, while flying from South Korea to ride his bicycle across the Australian Outback. Part of a solo around the world trip that ultimately launched his writing career.
All three of his military romantic suspense series—The Night Stalkers, Firehawks, and Delta Force—have had a title named “Top 10 Romance of the Year” by the American Library Association’s Booklist. NPR and Barnes & Noble have named other titles “Top 5 Romance of the Year.” In 2016 he was a finalist for Romance Writers of America prestigious RITA award. He also writes: contemporary romance, thrillers, and fantasy.
Past lives include: years as a project manager, rebuilding and single-handing a fifty-foot sailboat, both flying and jumping out of airplanes, and he has designed and built two houses. He is now making his living as a full-time writer on the Oregon Coast with his beloved wife and is constantly amazed at what you can do with a degree in Geophysics. You may keep up with his writing and receive a free starter e-library by subscribing to his newsletter at: www.mlbuchman.com
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Also by M. L. Buchman
* sweet version also available
The Night Stalkers
Main Flight
The Night Is Mine
I Own the Dawn
Wait Until Dark
Take Over at Midnight
Light Up the Night
Bring On the Dusk
By Break of Day
White House Holiday
Daniel’s Christmas
Frank’s Independence Day
Peter’s Christmas
Zachary’s Christmas
Roy’s Independence Day
Damien’s Christmas
and the Navy
Christmas at Steel Beach
Christmas at Peleliu Cove
5E
Target of the Heart
Target Lock on Love
Target of Mine
Firehawks
Main Fli
ght
Pure Heat
Full Blaze
Hot Point
Flash of Fire
Wild Fire
Smokejumpers
Wildfire at Dawn
Wildfire at Larch Creek
Wildfire on the Skagit
Delta Force
Main Flight
Target Engaged
Heart Strike
Wild Justice
Henderson’s Ranch
Nathan’s Big Sky*
Love Abroad B&B
Heart of the Cotswolds: England*
Where Dreams
Where Dreams are Born*
Where Dreams Reside*
Where Dreams Are of Christmas*
Where Dreams Unfold*
Where Dreams Are Written*
Eagle Cove
Return to Eagle Cove*
Recipe for Eagle Cove*
Longing for Eagle Cove*
Keepsake for Eagle Cove*
Deities Anonymous
Cookbook from Hell: Reheated
Saviors 101
Dead Chef
Swap Out!
One Chef!
Two Chef!
SF/F Titles
The Nara Reaction
Monk’s Maze
The Me and Elsie Chronicles
Strategies for Success
Managing Your Inner Artist / Writer
Estate Planning for Authors
* * *
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Copyright 2017 Matthew Lieber Buchman
Published by Buchman Bookworks, Inc.
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the author.
Receive a free Starter Library and discover more by this author at: www.mlbuchman.com
Cover images:
Young Couple In Love With Flying A Kite At Countryside © Beznika
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Lost Love Found in Eagle Cove Page 3