by J. J. Sorel
I sighed. “Yep… They’re both fucking guilty.” I took her hand. “I’m sorry you had to see it. Did anyone else?”
“No. It was upstairs in the office.”
“Hell.” I shook my head. My father had done it again.
“I’ve spoken to Tabitha about it. She admitted being drunk, and I was pissed with her. She was all apologetic, promising she’d never do it again. However…” Clarissa’s lips tightened into a mock smile.
“However?”
“Tabitha is broken in many ways. But she’s like a sister to me. She’d jump in front of a bus to save me. She protected me at school from all the bullies. She was always there for me. She will always be there for me, Aidan. I can’t hate her. Our friendship’s too deep.
I buried my nose in her hair. The perfume sent a shiver of warmth through me. “Sweetheart, loyalty is paramount in my world. It’s the glue of friendship and love. It’s everything.”
“I get that with you, Aidan. That’s why I love you, because I’m loyal to a fault, as well.”
“To a fault? One can’t be loyal to a fault.”
“Well, look at this situation? You probably want me to stop seeing Tabi now, don’t you?”
“I have no control of what you choose. I get that Tabitha is your closest buddy. And although I don’t think she’ll be able to stay true to Evan, which annoys me, because Evan’s a top guy, it’s not for me to interfere.”
She hugged me. Ah… that was better.
“But what about your father?”
“Yeah, well… Grant has always had a thing for young, pretty blondes. Nothing’s changed there.”
“And Sara?”
“They’re rock solid. She knows he fucks the odd groupie. She just turns a blind eye. How do you think she met my father?”
Clarissa’s pretty features crumpled into disbelief. Her face said it all. I came from a fucked-up family.
“You do realize, I wouldn’t have been born were it not for his philandering ways.”
“What do you mean?”
“Patti, my deranged mother, was and still is a groupie. That’s how I arrived in this world. Not a nice beginning. But here I am.” I opened my arms.
Clarissa’s eyebrows drew in sharply. “But does that make it right? I mean, the fact you were conceived that way?”
“That’s a salient point, Clarissa. But he’s my father. Look, I’ll have a word if you like. But he is what he is. You know, he was married when he had that one-nighter with my mother?”
“When you put it that way, I can see it’s a gray area. I couldn’t imagine a world without you.” She smiled sadly.
I took her into my arms. “As I couldn’t imagine a world without you, Clarissa. Although I can’t do anything about the sins of my father, nor should I take responsibility for them, I can tell you one thing, beautiful girl. I don’t want or need anyone else. I hope you feel the same. I can’t tell you how profound it is knowing that I was your first and will always be the only man to taste, feel, and fill you.”
Clarissa melted into my arms and our lips met, soft, tender, and with tongues entangled. She pulled away. Oh no. What now?
“But what if it’s in the genes?”
“What, baby?”
“This need to stray.”
“Shit, Clarissa.” I scratched my stubbly chin. “I know how this looks, having a mother and father both hopelessly weak. That’s exactly why I’m determined not to be like them. It sickens me. To be honest, when you told me you found my father with Tabitha, my first reaction was shame.”
“Please don’t feel like that, Aidan.”
“Then are we good?”
“We’re more than good.” She ran her tongue over her lips.
Mm… good. Playtime.
I lifted her into my arms and carried her to the shower, where she took my thickened cock and drained me to the point of delirium. After which I made a meal of her pretty pussy.
CHAPTER FORTY
Fumes of heavy solvents smacked me in the face. One didn’t need to take drugs around there to get high. The chemical-laden air made my head spin.
Chris had his back turned to me. He was working on an enormous canvas, minimal in content, with a splattering of paint here and there.
He must have sensed me standing behind him, because he turned. His heavy lids lifted slightly. “Aidan.”
“Chris.” I pointed to his work in progress. “That’s pretty upmarket.”
He stepped away and held his chin. “Yeah, good, that’s the intention. Painting to formula. Need the cash.”
“You don’t sound too pleased with it.”
He cocked his head. His eyes had that unmistakable drugged-out haze. “What do you think?”
“Just as I said, it’s very marketable.”
“I know that. Hence the formulaic method.” He chuckled. “But what do you think?”
I took a deep breath. “It’s not my thing. I’m a little more old school in my tastes. But I’ve seen a lot of contemporary art, and that is as good as any of the works I’ve come across. It shows talent. And at least you’re using oils.”
His eyes lit up. “Ah… yes. Thanks for noticing. They are, by far, superior. Especially for this Rothkoesque approach. That was his magic, you know? The smooth, effortless transition from one color to another. Only oils can blend into a seamless layering. I’ve seen so many Rothko wannabes in acrylic. They’re like a disease. They’re everywhere. They make me fucking puke.”
I had to laugh. He had one of those expressive faces that I assumed came from taking drugs. I’d seen it before with Ben, who had also had a relationship with heroin. I supposed it stripped back that protective layer we all hide behind.
Chris reminded me of Ben, full stop. Which didn’t mean I liked him. I was suspicious of him. Because I could see that he wanted what was mine—Clarissa. I’d done a background check on him. It was not a pretty read. He’d lost his job as a tutor due to sex with a student. His drug habit had seen him do time in prison. And if it were anyone else, I’d fuck him off.
But his work and influence on the students at the VHC were hard to ignore. I appreciated the way he encouraged and supported the members, who, like their teacher, had walked on the wild side of life. The art had left me speechless. Clarissa was right to defend him despite my concerns. To support fallen creatures was, after all, everything I stood for. And Chris fit that profile.
He rubbed his hands. “Can I offer you a beer?”
“No, thanks, I’m driving.”
“I might have one, then.” He shuffled over to a small fridge. The industrial warehouse, filled with stretched canvases of all sizes, could have been itself a work of art with its paint-splattered walls. The concrete underfoot was cold and layered with decades of human sweat and toil. Light filtered through the wall-to-wall windows delivering the natural light that all artists craved.
Despite being a drug addict, Chris was incredibly productive.
He took a thirsty sip and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He reached into his pocket, brought out a soft pack of Camels, and popped a cigarette in his mouth.
“I have to say, I wasn’t surprised when I got your call to see the rest of the studies.”
I scrutinized him for a moment. His tone had a mocking flavor about it. I couldn’t tell if it was disrespectful toward me or the world in general. “Yeah, well, when Clarissa showed me the portrait, I was…” I shrugged. Should I be honest and tell him that I wanted to punch his lights out for producing a portrait of Clarissa that showed liquid arousal in her large brown eyes? A gaze I’d witnessed when making love to her. And hoped that nobody else would ever see it.
The painting had made my skin tingle and heat up at the same time. My stomach hit the ground when I saw how Chris had captured a raw sensuality that was personal. I took my jealousy out on Clarissa, chastising her for being so suggestive to the camera. After which I regretted being so fucked up about it that I held her and apologized with a long, heart
felt kiss that went all the way down her luscious body.
I followed Chris to the corner of the open warehouse. He pulled a large sheet off some canvases, and there before me were six paintings of Clarissa’s face. There was one where he captured her shoulders, which were naked.
Noticing my disapproving grimace, Chris said, “Hey, don’t worry. I photographed her face. The shoulders are my invention. She really was a well-behaved model. Just a few quick snaps on the phone. And there you have it.” He pointed to the canvases of Clarissa’s beautiful face.
One particularly drew my attention. The painting Clarissa had brought home portrayed her with hair out and an innocent, girlish twinkle in her eyes. Even though it was an aspect of Clarissa I couldn’t get enough of, the painting before me represented Clarissa as a sensuous woman.
Jealousy tightened my veins. The composition was of Clarissa holding her hair up, her lips parted slightly. Her eyes, with a hint of a smile, had a dreamy, bedroom look. Each painting offered a variety, with hair up or down, some serious and some playful in expression. I loved them all despite struggling with the green monster.
“They’re stunning. That’s why I’m here. I don’t want anyone to have them,” I said.
He grinned. “Mm… I figured that much. That’s why I painted seven of them.”
My brow drew in sharply. “You presumed I’d buy them?”
“Let’s say I hoped you would. You bought my sea studies at my opening. That suggested you had faith in my work. It wasn’t because I wanted images of Clarissa to stare at and admire.” He smirked. “Not that I mind staring at her, mind you.”
My lips twitched up at one end as I clenched my fists. I had to control the urge to punch him. I reached into my pocket for my checkbook. “How much? For all of them.”
His face brightened for the first time. He scratched his arms. “How’s $10,000 sound?”
I scribbled $50,000. “Here. I’ll get my driver to pick them up tomorrow.”
Chris was still peering down at the check. He looked up at me. “Yeah, sure, man. Anything, and hey, look, um… it’s pretty generous of you. I’m generally having to haggle about prices. It’s a nice change. And I probably should tell you that Clarissa’s already paid me $2,000 for the one she bought for you.”
I nodded. “They’re beautiful. And really well done. I consider it a bargain, to be honest.”
“Well then, if you want to pay more.” He laughed, looking up with his stoned, bloodshot eyes “Only kidding.”
“There’s something you could do for me.” I said.
“What’s that, man?”
“Don’t put it all up your arm.”
He flinched. His eyes opened wide for the first time. “How do you know that’s what I’m going to do?”
“Chris, I know a junkie when I see one.” I looked straight into his eyes.
“Well, you know, I’m not really a junkie as such. Even if I do dabble every now and then.”
“Hm… to each their own, Chris. Only, you’ve got a shit load of talent. I’d hate to see it go to waste. And even though I don’t feel as if I can trust you where Clarissa’s concerned, your performance at the VHC has been stellar. The students relate to you. Their art is phenomenal. Better than I could have imagined. It’s the only thing that’s saved your ass.”
His mouth turned up at one end. “How’s that?”
“I know you were thrown out of your last teaching post. And I know that you have a prison record for drugs.”
Chris nodded slowly. “Then thanks for giving me a second chance. I’m pretty weak when it comes to women. As for prison, I was set up. In any case, I’m chuffed that you like my work.” From heartfelt gratitude to salesman in one beat. He smiled. “And hey, what about a painting of Clarissa in your arms?”
That seriously resonated with me. “You’ve got a deal. We’ll arrange it soon.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CLARISSA
I stood there with hands on hips. “Aidan, I don’t want them in here. Waking up to seven versions of my face every morning would drive me crazy.”
Aidan laughed. “I love it when you’re feisty.” He approached me and ran his hands smoothly up my thigh.
I pulled away. “Oh, no, Aidan, you’re not going to get your own way with those silky caresses.”
He pulled a mock scowl. “Silky caresses? You’ve been reading your romance novels again.” He drew me close again and stroked my cheek. “In any case, I love the idea of waking up to your beautiful face every day.”
“You’ve got the real thing by your side, Aidan.”
He let out a frustrated breath. “All right, Princess. Anything to make you happy. I’ll hang them in my music room.”
I fell into his arms and kissed him.
“Hm… I take it you like that idea.” He tapped his athletic thigh. “Sit here and let me play with you.”
Just as Aidan was undoing the buttons of my blouse, the phone buzzed. It was our last day together. Aidan was heading off for the week. “Shit.” He sighed and lifted me off as if I was a feather.
He picked up the phone. “Linus. Ah-huh. Send him up.”
Aidan looked at me. “It’s Chris. I arranged for him to photograph us. I mentioned it to you last night.”
I nodded slowly. My fairy-tale existence had robbed me of my normally razor-sharp memory.
He pointed at my half-exposed breasts. “You better button up, Clarissa.”
“What am I to wear for the shot?”
He shrugged. “How about that beautiful green silk dress you wore the other night?”
I nodded pensively. “Yeah. That’s a good choice. I’ll go and get changed now.” I leaned in and kissed him on the lips, taking away a taste of myself from his earlier feeding frenzy.
It was still hard to believe my walk-in wardrobe, the size of a room. I stood there, as I’d done so many times, my head spinning from too many choices. There were dresses, skirts, blouses of every color, shape, and length. I brushed my hands along the rack of dresses, my fingers luxuriating on the silks before landing on the green silk dress, which I was sure Aidan had chosen because of its plunging neckline.
I opted for cream lace stockings, which I clipped onto a luscious, creamy garter with matching bra and panties that I’d just purchased. Aidan’s predilection for ripping my panties meant that my underwear account was almost as big as my clothing one.
Releasing my hair from its messy bun, I let it splash over my shoulders and brush my waist. I kept the makeup minimal, with just a hint of kohl and red lipstick.
When I entered, Aidan was handing Chris a beer. Although it was only early afternoon, I got the feeling Chris did everything to excess.
Both of them turned toward me. Aidan’s eyes sparkled with appreciation, while Chris’s haven’t-slept-in-twenty-years eyes widened ever so slightly. He lifted his hand to salute me.
“Hi, Chris,” I said.
“You look good enough to…” Chris flashed a mischievous smile at Aidan, whose eyes narrowed in response. “Good enough to paint.” Chris finished with a grin as he polished off his beer in one thirsty gulp.
“Do you want another?” asked Aidan, opening the fridge and pulling a small bottle of beer out.
“Yeah, great.” Chris looked about the room. “This is a seriously romantic space.” He headed for the frames of languid nymphs by the sea and whistled. “Alma-Tadema. And they’re not prints either.” He peered deeply into the painting as if trying to read small print. “I hadn’t figured you for a neo-classicist, Aidan.”
Aidan remained standing with his powerful arms crossed. An upward curl of his lips formed. “Is that what I am?” He looked to me.
“Aidan has eclectic tastes,” I said, following Chris as he stepped from painting to painting. “Just like me,” I added, pausing on Aidan’s face.
Chris studied the sleeping beauty image that both Aidan and I loved. “Ah… the Alma-Tadema wannabe, Godward.”
“I’m impressed, Chris
. Not too many know of him. He was always in the shadow of the master.”
“Well, it’s hardly a surprise. I mean, it’s a complete copy. They’re interchangeable. If it were on paper, he’d be accused of plagiarism.”
“I disagree,” I said.
His brows met. When I didn’t elaborate, Chris continued, “Putting aside his lack of originality, he was a damned skilled painter. That’s plain enough.” He pointed to the dark-haired reclining woman in the painting. “She reminds me of you, Clarissa.”
Aidan came to join us and put his arm around me. “Doesn’t she?”
He looked pleased. Aidan had always insisted on the resemblance amid my protests of denial. At last he had an ally.
We stepped away from the work, and Chris regarded Aidan. “Are you going to stay that way for the photos?”
I jumped in. “No. Aidan’s going to wear a linen shirt and a silk cravat.”
An enigmatic grin claimed Aidan’s face. I wasn’t sure if he liked my bossy suggestion or whether he was going to spank me afterward. Whichever way, I was in a winning position.
“I’ll be back in a minute, then,” said Aidan.
“Take a seat, Chris. Make yourself comfortable,” I said.
He fell into the Louis XIV chair I’d brought up from the teal room. He tapped the arms of the turquoise silk chair. “Is this an original?”
I nodded with a sigh. “It’s the same question I asked after seeing it and falling in love.”
“Can I sit in it, then?” he asked, stroking the embossed fabric.
“Of course.”
He looked so incongruous slumped in the antique chair that I had to comment. “You make a great image, Chris.”
His brow lowered. “I do?” He sniffed.
“I’ve got a thing for chairs. It came from my late mother. She used to paint them. When I was a child, she read me Adventures of the Wishing-Chair by Enid Blyton, after that I treated chairs differently.”
His lips drew up at one end. “Nice story. There’s certainly a little magic in here, that’s for sure. Louis Quatorze,” he drawled. “Never sat in anything so ancient, nor so fucking pretty. Except…” A slow smile overtook his face.