by Cynthia Dane
“Oh, that?” Zack practically turned sheepish when he caught Rachel looking at a carved marble statue of a woman lounging on a couch. Isn’t this like… really hard to do? Making marble look like fabric? While Zack wasn’t on the same level as some of the greats, at first glance Rachel was tricked into thinking that the woman was covered in silk instead of smooth, rippling marble. “It’s not finished. Not sure I’ll ever get around to finishing it. It’s too big to put into any of my current collections, and private buyers don’t like statues with features too fine.”
Rachel pulled back her hand before she touched the tiny nipple poking through the rocky silk. “You have private buyers?”
“Not gonna lie, most of them are the same people. My agent keeps a mailing list for me. He comes in here all the time to take pictures for it… but yeah. I’ve got buyers in Asia, Europe, New York… used to have a big Argentinian fan, but he died. His daughter said he had a stroke when my last nude painting arrived.”
“Are you serious?”
“That’s what she told me.”
Rachel could hardly believe it. “So you only do statues and paintings of nude women, huh?” She laughed. “And you wanted me to be one of your models?”
Oh, he was definitely sheepish now. “I wouldn’t say that,” he softly said. “I take commissions if I think it’s worth my time. That guy from Argentina commissioned artistic nudes. Sometimes he sent me the model he wanted me to paint. I’m guessing most of them were either his mistresses or women he pined after.”
“Really?” Rachel decided to follow one of her hunches. After all, a man like Zack, regardless of how good of an artist he was, would not pay attention to certain details unless he and the model were engaging in certain acts. “Did he know you were sleeping with them?”
“Please.” Zack turned around. “Only about a third of them. Many of them aren’t exactly my type. Or they’re taken. Or they’re gay.” He waggled his eyebrows in her direction.
“Must be nice to be a big bad artist who gets all the ladies he wants.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” Zack sat on the stool in the middle of the room. A workspace was setup before him. Looked like two pieces of marble sitting side-by-side, a chisel and brush left on the ground. “I get a few, though.”
“Let me guess.” Rachel continued her lap around the room. The natural light was superb that time of day. Perhaps not for getting work done, but certainly for enjoying it. That went double for the half-finished works. Sometimes it was the imperfections that showed best in the setting twilight. “You bring them, they take off their clothes, and pose for an ungodly amount of hours while you toil away over canvas and stone. Then you both take out your pent-up aggressions next door in your apartment.”
“Nah.” Zack picked up the brush and dusted off his small work in progress. “I’ve got the master bedroom still set up back there. We do it in there. Way easier. Less personal.”
“Heaven forbid art be personal.” Laughing, Rachel hopped into the empty reading nook. I bet a bunch of naked women pose here. Angels in the daylight, succubi in the moonlight. “What’s it like getting laid whenever the hell you want?” She reached the window, tracing the carvings that had probably been there since the building went up decades ago.
“What are you talking about?”
Rachel swung her legs, sneakers barely grazing the concrete floor. “You’re handsome, you’re rich, you’re an artist who sets his own schedule… you must be drowning in pussy.”
“I don’t know if I’d say drowning… and I don’t get laid whenever I want.”
“When’s the last time you got some?”
Yes, Rachel was aware that she was swimming into dangerous territory. On one hand, it was friendly banter. On the other, Rachel risked setting herself up for jealousy. This was, after all, a man she was attracted to. A man she had been willing to sleep with when her body begged her to have him.
Yet hearing about his sex life might help her decide that she had dodged a bullet. At best, it would tell her that they were not compatible anyway. Better off friends. Or maybe better off never hanging out again, depending how this went.
Zack took five seconds to think about her question. “Two and a half weeks ago? I honestly don’t keep track.”
“That long, huh?”
“I go through dry spells. Honestly, I don’t think I get as much as you think.”
“Suuure.”
“When was the last time you got some, Ms. Taylor.”
Rachel kept her face turned toward the window. From that high up, traffic looked like tiny ants scuttling in line. Planes blinked on their way in and out of the local airport. A window cleaner had almost made his way to the top of the building across the street. “Last weekend.”
She could’ve sworn there was a beat before he responded. And his voice cracked. I swear that, too. “See? You’ve gotten some more recently than me. Not a big deal. It’s just sex.”
Rachel drew her feet up into the nook. Behind her, Zack hopped off his stool and rummaged through a bin of discarded canvases. “Is that what we would have been doing last night? Just sex?”
Zack paused his rummaging. “Anyway! Do you like painting?”
“Hm?”
Zack laid a large square canvas flat on the floor. It had a nice tear going down the center. Had the artist done that in a fit of creative rage? Or was it one unfortunate mishap out of many that happened in a studio? “Painting.” Zack placed a large mason jar of water next to the canvas. Next, six oil paints appeared, most of them almost to the bottoms of their containers. “You wanna fool around?”
“Uh…”
“With art, Rachel.” Zack pulled his phone out of his pocket and used it to turn on the speakers lining the studio. “What’s your creative poison? Classical?” A rendition of Beethoven’s 2nd blared over the speakers before he turned the volume down. “Pop?” Britney Spears stepped out of 2001 to tell them how lucky she was. “Maybe some adult contemporary?” Sting spent most of his time in fields of gold.
“Got any metal on there?”
Zack laughed. “What’s a good band? Can’t say I listen to a lot of metal.”
“For me, it’s either that or Bollywood soundtracks.”
“Let’s stick with metal for now.” Zack must’ve found the most generic metal playlist he could summon on Spotify, for the songs that played were the gateway drugs, not the hard stuff. “Get over here and paint with me.”
Rachel reluctantly hopped off the nook and approached the canvas laid flat next to a line of colorful paints. Zack was already mixing some together on a palette. The shade of green he created with the bright blue and neon yellow was impressive. I could do that. Come on. How hard is it? Rachel loved playing with colors as a kid. A little red, a little white… such a nice pink…
“I’m warning you,” Rachel said, picking up the nearest paintbrush. “I’m not a good artist. I can’t draw for shit.”
“You don’t have to draw anything. Close your eyes and…” He looked up at his speakers the moment a Norwegian man shouted death grunts over the thrashing guitars. “That you, Satan?”
It sounded like Rachel’s everyday soundtrack to her. What kind of music does this guy regularly listen to? Reggaeton? Country? Oh my God, him listening to country…
“Anyway!” Zack tucked his legs beneath him and gestured for Rachel to get started. “Start painting whatever you want. Doesn’t have to be anything in particular. This is some scrap canvas I can’t use for my main projects, so we can do whatever we want with it.”
Rachel dunked her brush into the red paint. She kept eye contact with Zack while she drew a thick, wavy line across the top of the canvas.
“That’s right. There you go. Knock yourself out, Rachel.”
“Oh, I will.” She followed it up with the neon yellow, delighting in how orange her line became. “It’s the simple things in life, you know? Like color magic.”
“That’s the spirit.” Zack grabbed his br
ush and swirled his concocted green in the far corner of the canvas. “Let’s create a masterpiece.”
Rachel assumed they would get bored after half an hour.
They painted for two.
Twilight fell behind the neighboring buildings. Automatic lights came on as the hours grew later. Rachel was so absorbed in the kaleidoscope of colors she painted that she barely noticed that natural light had been replaced with synthetic. The only marker of time passing was the song changing every few minutes. But there was a reason Rachel liked working to heavy metal: the songs were always similar enough that she wasn’t distracted when one stopped and another began.
Rachel barely recognized this passage of time, since she was so transfixed on the colors appearing on the canvas and the empty stories she and Zack shared while they messed around. He regaled her with tales of art school, specifically his master’s program in which he was ambitious enough to create a mixed-material exhibition that his professors told him were foolhardy. “They said it couldn’t be done by someone at my skill level,” he said, his side of the canvas covered in whimsical trees and pink, flowing rivers. Was he following Rachel’s lead? She was, after all, creating a rainbow-colored sky dotted with white stars. “So I told them to fuck off and created four paintings, two statues, and took up the centerpiece myself. The only time I did living art. Don’t think I’m going to do it again.”
“What did you do? Invite people to draw on you?”
“No.” Zack was grim as he cleaned off his brush. His water was almost lack. “My theme was the naked soul. Everything I created represented one of seven sins in myself. A sort of self-reflection. Programs eat that shit up.”
“And you were…” Don’t say lust, oh my God.
“Gluttony.”
Rachel stopped painting. “Gluttony?”
“Yes.” Zack breathed in deeply. “Fuck me, I was dumb enough to think eating food all day would be awesome.”
“You didn’t.”
“You ever see that documentary Super Size Me? That was me.”
“You’re kidding!”
“I’m not. I was so sick by the end of my final exhibition that I’m pretty sure the panel passed me because they felt bad.”
“Wow. That reminds me of when I studied abroad in Japan and got it in my head that I was going to try every fast food chain they had. Some burgers were not meant to be consumed.”
Zack added a flurry of orange fruits to his green trees. “Go on.”
It was Rachel’s turn to regale her friend of embarrassing college times long past. She spent half an hour talking about her semester abroad in Japan. How hard it was to make friends because she wasn’t a big drinker, and everyone knew it was awesome to study abroad in Japan because their legal age was 20 instead of 21. If someone didn’t want to binge drink every other night (or every night,) they were a social pariah. Or at least that’s how it played out in every group of expats Rachel was ever thrust into.
“Even if I were a drinker, and I’m not,” she said, “it’s such a waste of money. You’re better off making fake friends with the people who only wanna use you for English lessons. Free food that way.”
“But not fast food, I hope.”
“To be fair, I would eat Mos Burgers every day for the rest of my life if it was available.”
“Never heard of it. But I’ll take that to heart the next time I’m in Japan for business.”
“How often does your business take you to Japan, though? Is that where all your Asian buyers are?”
Zack pressed his brush against the canvas, his eyes leveled on Rachel. “Family business, mostly. My father does a lot of business with Japanese contractors and investors. Sometimes he takes me with him because his Japanese contacts like me a lot more than either of my brothers. Some kind of cultural thing happening there, I guess.” He shrugged and went back to his painting. “I love sushi, so it works out.”
Rachel yawned, inhaling more than a fair share of paint fumes. “Shit,” she muttered. “I should get going, honestly. I have to get up in…” she finally checked the time on her phone. “Oh my God, I’m supposed to be up in twelve hours to meet with a client!”
Zack scoffed. “Thought we were having a sleepover?”
Rachel winced. “I don’t know what I was thinking when I said that.” The thought of going back to his apartment was a bit too overwhelming. I don’t know if I could sleep in a place like that, even if it was on his couch. Sometimes Rachel had a hard enough time sleeping in her tiny but cozy apartment. She was born and raised in the countryside, content to never see her neighbors and to sleep in utter silence. Moving to the city had been an adjustment in more ways than one. “I really should go home.”
Zack hopped up. At first, Rachel assumed he was going to barricade himself across the door of his studio in an attempt to keep her there. She was pleasantly surprised when he reached down to help her up. “If you really wanna go, I won’t stop you,” he said. “But I think I have a compromise you might be interested in.”
Rachel relished the touch of his warm hand around hers. See? This is why I need to leave. I’m too attracted to him. Rachel knew what she could do to rectify the heat burning in the pit of her stomach. She could go back on her pledge to herself and sleep with him. Sleep with him, that was. Fuck him. Screw him. Ride him into midnight and take that stickshift for a spin. She was a terrible driver. She definitely didn’t know how to drive a stickshift.
“What did you have in mind,” she tentatively asked.
He didn’t release her hand. “This way.”
Zack showed her to the master bedroom, probably much more understated than the one in his personal apartment. A king-sized bed, perfectly laid out in sleek, black comforters called to Rachel’s tired body. Who knew fainting on a yacht and painting half the evening away could wipe so much out of her?
There was a TV, but it was the size of her mother’s and not as smart. The adjacent master bath only boasted a large shower and a single sink. Everything was an afterthought in this place. A room to crash in should he be too exhausted after a long night in the studio. A place to bring his models if he couldn’t wait the extra few minutes to get into his usual master bedroom.
Rachel hadn’t forgotten that tidbit.
“So you brought me to your fuckpad where you fuck all your models?” she said with mock disdain. “You expect me to curl up next to you in a bed you’re used to fucking people in?”
Zack rolled his eyes. “You can leave if you want. But this bed is big enough for the both of us. Also, it’s washed. Regularly. I promise you that there are no remnants of women past beneath those covers.
Rachel thought up a new excuse. “I don’t have anything to sleep in.”
“I’ve got lots of spare clothes in the dresser there. Would a size L in men’s be too big of a T-shirt for you to sleep in? Because that’s what I wore in college.”
“Can I wash up in the shower?”
“Absolutely. I’ll find something and tuck it behind the door.” Zack turned on the TV. “Promise I won’t look if you don’t.” He clicked his tongue. “Cause I’ve gotta change too.”
Rachel shed her sweatshirts and shoes, starting a pile at the end of the bed. Five minutes later, she was naked in Zack’s shower, marveling over the hot, soft spray of water that cascaded over her from two different directions. A dark blue towel was already hanging up, ready for her to use when she was finished.
She took her time.
After all, she still needed to decide what she was going to do about Zack.
Had he been flirting with her all day? Or was that a genuine friend shtick? Sure, he said that he was fine with being friends with her, but he had also been open about wanting to sleep with her. Excuse me, let me model for him. He probably said that to every woman he fancied. Wasn’t it convenient for an artist at his skill level? Ask woman out, paint her picture, get her clothes off, paint some nipples, then seduce and fuck her. Not that Rachel would ever fall for it.
“Fuck me.” She didn’t know if she muttered that to herself or to the water caressing her naked body.
She imagined Zack coming in there, as naked as she was, and pretending that they were still just friends while lathering up his toned body. Maybe he’d talk about what games he liked to play while cleaning his thighs and discuss his grandmother’s world-famous pumpkin pie the moment he remembered he had ass cheeks that needed extra soap.
Rachel conked her head against the shower wall. The perfect position to notice that her nipples were hard.
God damnit! Out there, right now, was a man so hot that he might as well be on fire. And so fine that not even the best China in the universe could compare to his chiseled body and the easy way he moved from one place to another. He oozed confidence, charisma, and a natural know-how of a woman’s body. He practically drew them for a living, after all.
Fuck him. To pieces.
And fuck me. Because that’s what I want him to do.
Rachel glanced at the detachable shower head. She could grab it right now and finish herself off before going back out there to Zack and his ready-to-go-at-any-moment regard for life. Maybe this was all a part of his plan, anyway. Rachel didn’t fear that he would force herself on her – although there was a dangerous fantasy to stow away for another day, another shower – but she did fear that he would attempt to seduce her again, and she wouldn’t be able to say no.
A big part of her begged her to let him do it. Have his way with her. Take her in that sterile bed like he had taken a hundred women before her. Who cared? As long as she got the best lay of her life, right? He probably had condoms stored in the nightstand for these occasions.
But the smallest part of her warned her that it was a bad, bad idea. This was how she got into trouble. Men like Zack were trouble incarnate.
She knew one thing, though. This whole “just friends” thing was not going to last as long as they kept seeing each other as available sexual beings. He needed a girlfriend. And she needed a partner of some kind. There. Temptations gone.