by Cynthia Dane
The woman he had his sights on was in her own world and hardly paid him any attention. Good. That made it easier to take advantage of the situation instead of possibly taking on yet another woman who didn’t know how to let go.
Yet like how Zack saw beauty in every person, he also saw inspiration in the most seemingly random and mundane objects. Since the barista was busy in the kitchen, Zack approached the case and counter with a methodical eye that searched every curve of metal, every flake of fake marble, and every sharp corner of kitchen appliances and decorations for even the slightest bit of inspiration.
Zack glanced up and caught another woman’s reflection in the shine of the display case. Hunched over, she diligently worked from a few pieces of papers and a notebook beneath her hand. A dictionary was opened next to her. Either Chinese or Japanese.
He ordered the first baked good to tempt him and a latte to go with it. He had foregone coffee back home in favor of having some on his yacht. This would do well instead.
Too bad he had to start answering those texts the moment he sat down – with a good view of the woman at her other table of course – and opened his drawing pad.
“Where r u bb?” Stef hadn’t shut up for the past ten minutes. “We doin anything 2nite? Maybe some inspiration? ;) ;) ;)”
Sighing, Zack punched in a response. “Not tonight, babe. Catching up on other work.” He temporarily blocked her after that. He knew how she would respond. It was how she always responded. “What??? You kiddin’!!!”
No, he wasn’t kidding. Truth was, he was bored with Stef, and had been for a few weeks. They didn’t have an exclusive relationship, though. Good thing, because Zack was the type to bounce between a different woman every weekend. Hell, every day if he had the stamina. (He often did.) A man had to do something with his days when he wasn’t sailing or creating.
But sometimes women caught him off guard. Like the woman constantly scratching at her ponytail and sighing over a dictionary.
She was both like all the other women he lusted after, and yet nothing like them at all. Zack wanted to sit next to her, to ask her questions, to put ideas of them getting dirty in the bunk of his yacht into her ear. But he also wanted to keep a respectful distance, to watch how she moved, how she spoke, and how she interacted with the big blue world around her. Even if she only commanded her microcosm of whatever the hell it was she did at her lonely little table.
Zack wiped the tip of his pencil clean using nothing but his thumb and forefinger. Lead smudged his skin. He didn’t care. Perhaps it would add a little more character to his project.
You, my dear. He reveled in calling her that without her knowing. You’re my project.
He wanted to capture her on paper. It wouldn’t be his magnum opus as an artist, but it would hopefully get his creative juices going enough to send him back to his studio and get started on the kind of project that took a week to complete. I haven’t had one of those in a while. Perhaps it was a good sign for the summer. Things had been slow in the creativity department.
Probably because he had spent more time mindlessly chasing tail instead of working. His best friend Seth, also an artist, told him that it was going to catch up with his work one day. Which was rich coming from a guy who fell in love with his muse. But he’s often right about those things. Not that Zack would ever let Seth know that. Might go to his head.
Shut up and start drawing.
That worked.
Zack’s latte cooled, since he soon forgot it was there. Same for the lemon cake, which grew staler the longer he sketched the woman sitting not so far away. He did his best to capture the wisps of her hair, pulled back into a needless ponytail. What was the point of wearing her hair like that in an air-conditioned café? Wouldn’t it be better to let it flow free around her pretty face? Her style choices were interesting as well. Not many women could do the denim shorts and flannel top thing and not look like a try-hard hipster. Her clothes and subsequent style naturally suited her. She was wearing those clothes before they were cool. Maybe she really is a hipster…
It was a simple sketch. One his advisor in art school would have called “pedestrian” and “it’s always good to practice, isn’t it?” That man never cared for Zack’s sketches, anyway. He was more interested in what Zack could mold, be it with clay, stone, or even wood. There wasn’t a single art medium Zack wouldn’t try, although after ten years of intensely going at this whole art thing, he definitely had his favorites. Wood was not high up there.
Neither was sketching or painting, truth be told. But Zack’s best ideas flowed when he put images down on paper first.
He didn’t bother with a lot of shading. Nor did he draw anything below the table, opting to instead depict the young woman as she looked – hand on head, elbow on table, pencil thumping against her dictionary as she inevitably gave up on whatever she worked on.
What’s keeping you from working, my dear? Those were the kinds of questions Zack asked his subjects when he attempted to crack their hardened veneers. What’s got you so tense? Is it money? What’s it like to worry about how you’re going to pay your rent? Zack had never worried about that, but he admitted that kind of life – on the other side of the mirror, as it were – was like for those forced to live it. Is your work hard? What are you working on? Translating? Writing from scratch? Or are you studying for school? Ah, I don’t mean to be rude when I say you look a bit old for a student. In a good way, though. I’m tired of college co-eds. Zack was finally reaching that age, he supposed.
His phone buzzed with a new text. The message was from Seth.
“Dinner on your yacht?”
Seth was never that direct, unless he was chewing his best friend out.
“Pplleeeassssseee??”
What the fuck? Zack wanted to laugh if it wouldn’t disrupt his workflow. That kind of text was so uncharacteristic for the uptight ex-doctor who gave up his whole private practice to pursue his true calling in the arts. Seth would choke on his own brushes before texting that to any man, let alone Zack, who would never let him live it down.
“Sure, Judith.” It must have come from his girlfriend. How Judith got a hold of her boyfriend’s phone like that, Zack didn’t want to know. I kinda do. Again, distractions.
When Zack put his phone down again, he noticed his new muse was gone. Her stuff remained behind, however. She must have gone to the bathroom.
Just as well. Zack had shit he needed to do. He shoved his lemon cake into his bag and took a big gulp of his latte. The last thing he did, after putting the rest of his supplies away, was rip the sketch out of the pad and approach the barista rearranging the case.
“Could you give this to the young lady over there?” he said. “I’d appreciate it.”
The barista looked between the sketch and the man who drew it. “But, this is…”
“I don’t need it.” Zack lowered his sunglasses and turned toward the door. “I got all the inspiration I need, thanks.”
The sun was warm on his skin and the air smelled of the marina only a few more blocks away. To go home to start working… or the marina to play?
Zack loved that his day became unpredictable. No other kind of life was worth living.
***
Rachel returned from the bathroom, a bit crestfallen that the handsome stranger was gone. So much for the eye candy. Did this mean she had to get back to work?
Apparently not.
“Hey, Rachel.” Parvati approached her table even though a small line formed at the counter. A piece of paper was in her hand. “You know that hot guy sitting over there?”
“Uh, yeah? What? Did he stiff you? Harass you?” Rachel knew it. Men that hot never kept their business to themselves.
She did not expect to see a sketch of herself land on top of her mobile office.
“He told me to give this to you before he left.”
Rachel snatched the drawing paper and held it between both hands. Her eyes widened to see her at work, pretending to igno
re Mr. Hot Artist as if he were a man who could be ignored.
He was drawing me that whole time? He… noticed me? He acknowledged my presence?
And he never even said hello?
“What an asshole!” That sneer echoed off the café walls. The two other patrons, each minding their own business, looked up at her. “Least he could’ve done was introduce himself!”
Parvati rolled her eyes. “I’ve gotta get back to work. Have fun with your own. You should frame that, by the way. It’s pretty good, huh?”
While she took a middle-aged woman’s order for a hazelnut latte, Rachel continued to stare, dumbfounded, at the way a total stranger had decided to depict her.
Then she marveled at how big his balls were. Because only a guy with big balls could have thought it acceptable to not only sketch a stranger, but to give her the sketch as well!
No name. No phone number.
Just the slight scent of his cologne. A bit of musk mixed with a hint of something that smelled like pure sea air.
Rachel’s heart and mind vied over what was going to break first. Her brain won.
Chapter 3
Crash!
The top half of Zack’s latest piece – tentatively titled The Siren That Stole My Soul –cracked into two on the floor of his art studio. He likewise tossed his supplies, because they weren’t going to do him any good now.
“This is what happens when we get started on a Sunday.” Every artist, like every sportsman or fisherman, had his superstitions. Those tried and true “dos and don’ts” that would either make or break his day. One of Zack’s was Never start a new project on a Sunday. Continuing a project was fine. Finishing one up was considered fortuitous for the project’s success. Starting one, however, was like cursing himself. Every time he made the attempt, it blew up in his face.
Or broke in half and smashed onto his floor. That worked, too.
At least he hadn’t lost a ton of work. Last night, he was stricken with inspiration. The kind that forced him out of bed and to one of five lightboxes he owned, the one in the corner of his bedroom. The others were here in his studio, on his yacht, in his living room overlooking the river, and in the otherwise untouched room of his adolescence on his family’s estate. That one was my first. A gift from his father, back when his family found it charming that their youngest son was interested in the arts.
The drawing had manifested into an image of a young woman upon the rocks, the water crashing against her mermaid’s tale. The tail is an illusion, though. The water transforms it into a trident, meant to spear a sailor’s heart and force him to plummet to his death. Growing up around the water gave Zack a unique perspective when it came to the wonders – and horrors – of the open sea.
He loved the harrowing tales sailors and pirates told over the centuries. Zack had a humble collection of diaries, biographies, and other non-fiction books that told of life on the seas way back when it was the only way to get from one landmass to another.
So his siren wasn’t the most conventional image men had when they thought of a beautiful young woman wishing to end their lives. Zack’s siren was humbler. An everyday woman of size and beauty. Her hair was ratted by the sea water. Her eyes gleamed green. Her skin was tanned from the sunlight, and her fish tail slimy and powerful. He had been excited to get to work. He knew there was a reason he had that slab of marble ready to go in his studio. It had been destined for The Siren That Stole My Soul.
Until he knocked it into two, anyway.
Zack sat on his paint-covered stool and surveyed his mess. The siren’s shoulder had barely been formed when she decided to fuck with him. It’s fine. From this, I can create two smaller pieces. He’d find a way to rework that shoulder into a fish tail to account for the new proportions. Perhaps he would do two acts. The first would be the traditional feminine beauty. The second would be the monster the sailor saw when it was too late.
“Could I get any more literal?” Zack buried his face in his hand. “What a waste of perfectly good marble.”
The price didn’t concern him. The logistics, however, would be something else. His supplier would chastise him for wanting more without a show to account for. But the reason Zack put up with the supplier’s artistic outrage was because they went to art school together.
Zack didn’t like his works to be literal. He wanted them to make people look twice. To see the hidden meaning on the second pass. To understand his view of the world. To see…
“Fuck it.” He hopped off the stool and checked his phone for messages. That early on a Sunday morning? Nothing. “Fuuuuck itttt.”
He knew what was wrong.
That woman he had seen twenty-four hours before.
For some reason, Zack hadn’t been able to shake her image from his head. Whoever she was, she had been the inspirational ticket he had been searching for. He understood that more with every hour that passed. And he had no idea how to find her, unless he camped out at that café every day, hoping to see her again.
Nah. That was ridiculous. There were millions of beautiful women out there, eager to be his models and muses. I should know. I’ve slept with enough of them. Zack had done entire collections on his love life and the many kinds of women he had enjoyed in bed.
The woman he saw the day before wasn’t the most striking. Not the most well-dressed. Certainly not the most expensive. She was refreshingly normal, and sometimes that triggered Zack’s creativity better than some of the Nordic and Brazilian supermodels he had dated.
“I’m thinking… a collection of average women.” Yes, that would go over super well with his agent. Average women. Art critics flocked to see average women.
Zack needed to get some air. Maybe some food. Was his kitchen back home stocked? Time to find out.
Zachary Feldman had thought himself an utter genius when he bought two side-by-side apartments and renovated them together. No, not into one smooth space, although that’s what every interior designer and contractor he brought on assumed. One was his personal apartment. The other was converted into a large studio because he fell in love with the lighting and the view of the river (and marina) before he fell in love with the neighborhood. The only rooms he kept in the other apartment was the master bath and bedroom. The kitchen was reduced to a mini-fridge and industrial sink, the cabinets and counters transformed for art supplies, some of them needing special temperature controlled environments. When an artist worked with several mediums at once, he was wont to create his own work space the exact way it needed to be. For both practicality and professionalism.
He put away his apron and washed his hands in the industrial sink before grabbing his keys and locking up. The hallway was quiet, a welcomed contrast to the sounds of the city he sometimes heard when he threw open his studio windows to air it out and to bring in inspiration.
His lovely neighbor was in the midst of locking up her apartment as well.
“Good morning!” Zack called, jerking the uptight blond out of her Chanel heels. Her matching navy blue purse also slipped down her arm. “Helluva Sunday, ain’t it, Kat?”
Kathryn Alison had one of the fakest smiles in the city. As one of the richest, she had tons of practice flashing fake smiles at obnoxious men like Zack. “Absolutely beautiful. See you had a bit of inspiration.” Her smile crashed off a face only Swedish genes could sculpt. “Heard it, too. What? Did your ego smash through the floor and kill Mrs. Gupta downstairs?”
Zack pretended her words struck him right in the heart. The dramatic flail against his studio door made her roll her eyes. “Such scathing words!” He popped right back up with a renewed countenance. “As a matter of fact, one of my most recent pieces had a bit of an accident. But that’s all right. You’re here now, Kat. My inspiration and desire to get back to work is restored.”
“Don’t call me Kat.” She jiggled her door handle, making sure it was locked before dropping her keys into her purse. She looked like she was either dressed for a business meeting or a day out with the gir
ls. On a Sunday? It could go either way for the city’s biggest charity machine. “Feldman.”
“I love it when you talk dirty.” Zack leaned against the wall, hand crawling toward the sconce hanging above them. His other hand drummed against the crown molding, feet digging into the plush carpet beneath them. These luxury apartment buildings pulled out all the stops when it came to impressing residents in the hallways. “Especially when you talk dirty to your boyfriend.” He winked at her.
“Feldman!”
“When are you going to dump that loser and finally go out with me?” Zack clasped his hand over his heart, his T-shirt sweaty from artistic exertion. “Every night I hear you two going at it is another night of my soul being tortured.”
Kathryn regathered her bearings, the embarrassed flush leaving her cheeks. After a hearty sigh, she said with confidence, “We do not go at it every night.” Her purse strap snapped against her shoulder. “Not in my place, anyway.”
“It’s only fair that if you complain about my work that I complain about your sex life.”
“I hardly see how those things are comparable.”
Zack laughed. This ribbing he and Kathryn Alison engaged in every time their paths crossed was a product of two things: the nuisances they caused one another, and the fact that Kathryn was hot and deserved way better than her loser boyfriend Ian Mathers. Okay, so he has more money than me. Was crowned King Playboy before he gave it up for monogamy and let me have that title. Still a loser.
Women weren’t the only ones who carried chips on their shoulders from college. Zack and Ian went back. Way, way back.
Wouldn’t it be perky sweet if he managed to seduce Ian Mathers’s girlfriend he never shut up about?
Of course, that’s how it started when Zack first moved in and found out that Kathryn Alison was his new neighbor. Then he discovered how witty she was. At first, that only made him more attracted to her, even with the rumors that she was a hardcore Domme. (Okay, so that sounded hot too.) But then he also discovered how much of a spoiled princess she was, and Zack was subsequently reminded that he vastly preferred dating women who were not heiresses. Too high maintenance. Too up their own asses.