Desire

by Simone Sowood

  At noon, I pull my sandwich from my purse and sit on the bottom step to eat my lunch. The workmen have all gone somewhere else for their lunch. The rich bastard probably doesn’t let them eat in his house.

  “Skye, there you are,” Kelso says, coming down the stairs behind me.

  Gathering my sandwich, water and purse in my hands, I jump up and stand to the side.

  “I’m just grabbing a quick bite. I’ve already come up with several ideas for this space.”

  “That’s great, really. How do you like the house? Does it make you wet?” My eyes flare. What did he just say? Did I hear him wrong?

  “It’s a nice house.”

  “It must make you horny. Money makes all women horny.” My chest heaves and my hands tense so much my sandwich becomes nothing but a ball of bread and ham. Fifty grand. Fifty grand. Ava’s remortgage. Smile and nod. Smile and nod.

  “Uh, I’d better get back to work now. I have to grab some supplies from my car.”

  “Not yet, I’m going to show you the upstairs painting location first.”

  “Oh, okay.” In my trembling, my water bottle and purse slide off my arm and to the floor. I’m left with a ball of a former half-eaten sandwich in my fist. I relax my hand, and the food plops to the floor.

  “Follow me.” Before I can say anything else, he’s halfway up the staircase.

  My feet heavy, I trudge up the steps. We go through a set of double doors. I gulp when I see a huge, round bed.

  “This is my bedroom, isn’t it hot?”

  I take my eyes off the round bed long enough to glance around the room. It’s all red walls with accents of zebra and tiger. Leopard-print scarves are even draped over the bedside lamps. Gag.

  “Is this where you want the last piece?” I need to keep this all about business.

  “Yeah. I want a hot piece of ass right over the bed.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Something to look at when I don’t have a chick over.” What the fucking fuck?

  “You know, all the things I like to do to a pretty girl like you. Do you prefer doggy style or sucking cock?” His eyes bore into me as he speaks.

  My feet shift to run, but I remember Ava’s voice on the phone. Why can’t you remortgage my property? I can’t leave. Smile and nod, smile and nod.

  “Usually erotic art only depicts the female on her own.”

  “Fine, you’re the expert. But I want her spread eagle, and lifelike. I’ve seen your art, your paintings are often like photographs. I want every fold front and center. Maybe have her fingering herself too. Yeah, that’s definitely what I want.”

  “As you wish. I’m getting behind on the entrance piece now, I really have to get back to it.” My heart pounding, I turn and flee the room. Kelso bursts out laughing.

  Asshole! He thinks money gives him the right to mess with me like that? I’m going to work anti-wealth and anti-Kelso themes into every piece in this house. Even the spread eagle one. Especially the spread eagle one.

  As soon as the sun sets, I get the hell out of there. I’ll sketch out ideas for the other paintings at home. I don’t need the light for that. Right now, I plan to avoid Kelso as much as possible.

  “Well, how was it?” Ava asks when I walk in the front door.

  “The guy is a first-rate asshole.”

  “That’s to be expected; he is rich, after all. Money makes people lose their humanity.”

  I consider telling Ava about the comments Kelso made in the bedroom, but decide against it in case she tries to stop me from going back. I have to go back; it’s a huge amount of money, and a gallery show.

  “I’m going to do some more work so I can get this over with as quickly as possible.”

  There’s no point going into my studio since I’m still at the sketching phase. Instead, I prop myself up on my bed and start to draw. There must be a way for me to work what an asshole Kelso is into my work, I just have to figure it out.

  The way I generate ideas is to let my mind phase out of focus and allow my hand to do the work. Before too long, I realize I’m drawing the tattooed arms of the hot guy from the restaurant.

  He was exactly everything Kelso is not: an honest, hardworking, regular guy instead of some rich asshole. My hand drops the pencil and slides between my legs while memories of that kiss form in my head.

  Not-So-Chance Encounter

  (Lawson)

  I spent all Monday going over all the legal points with Julie and her team. I have to make Kelso see the light and settle. He’s only going to lose any case that goes to court, and that’s going to cost him.

  First thing Tuesday, I’m straight back at Julie’s fancy pants legal offices. An hour after the gallery opens, I get a text from my assistant.

  He only has six of her paintings.

  Did you buy them?

  Of course.

  Perfect. Find out her contact details.

  He’s being difficult, and won’t give them to me for ‘security reasons’.

  Tell him I want to commission six more.

  The gallery owner claims he won’t give out Skye’s contact for the security of his artists, but I’m sure he just wants to make sure he isn’t cut out of any future commission.

  Surely if a client is buying every damn painting an artist produces, that artist would want to meet the client. I figure I’ll go down there the minute I get a chance to talk some sense into the guy.

  Part of me is surprised Skye hasn’t phoned me. I can only assume she hasn’t been back in contact with her dick of a manager at Johnny’s. That’s okay, I’ll track her down through the gallery, but it’d better be sooner rather than later. I’ll tell him if he wants to sell me any more of her paintings, he’d better arrange a meet and greet pretty damn fast.

  Julie and I spent the rest of the day in meetings. Hours of legalese isn’t my idea of a good time, and I find my mind wandering to Skye and all the things I’m going to do to her when I find her.

  “Lawson. Lawson,” Julie says, snapping me from my daydream and back into the meeting. This isn’t like me and I don’t like it one bit. No woman has distracted me from my work before. I’ve got to track her down.

  It’s almost seven by the time I get out of Julie’s offices. I head home and hop in the shower, sloughing the day from my skin. Refreshed, I pull on a pair of jeans and the first T-shirt I see in my dressing room.

  My mind is working the whole time on finding Skye. My assistant is good, but I have a feeling I’ll get further with the gallery owner than she did.

  According to their website, the Piek Gallery closes at eight. It’ll be tight to get there in time, but it’s worth a shot. I fold into my Maserati and plug in the GPS co-ordinates.

  The gallery is in an old-fashioned street-front store. There’s no parking lot, and all the street parking is taken. Fuck. It closes in five minutes and I’ve gotta hurry.

  A car is leaving a couple hundred yards away. I push my foot on the gas to claim it before anyone else can steal it on me. Not even bothering to straighten it out, I climb out and hurry down the sidewalk, and instantly something catches my eye.

  Skye? Fuck me. I blink to make sure I’m not seeing things. Sure enough, my beautiful Skye is walking down the sidewalk, straight toward me. She’s wearing a cute little sundress that wakes up my dick. I thought she’d looked hot in the tight skirt and T-shirt at the restaurant but this is a whole new level.

  “Skye, fancy seeing you here.”

  She snaps out of her trance and her eyes widen when she looks at me.

  “Oh my God! Hi, how are you? What are you doing here?”

  She is in danger of rambling, so I cut her off. “Just picking something up. What are you doing here?”

  “I just got the most exciting news, and I was celebrating. You’ll never guess what happened!”

  I wait for her to carry on before realizing she wants me to say something. Do I tell her I have a pretty good idea what it is?”

  “What happened?” I ask
, not wanting to spoil her moment.

  “Some rich lady came in and bought all my paintings at the gallery! She specifically asked for me! My name is getting out!” Tears of excitement prick the corners of her eyes. Her face is beaming with happiness. All because of me.

  “That’s wonderful. You’re so talented, it’s no surprise.”

  In her excitement, she flings her arms around me. With no need for further encouragement, I hold her tight. She’s practically bouncing on her toes.

  She looks up at me and says, “Thank God for rich people, huh?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, laughing with her.

  “Who else would have the money to buy so many of my paintings? They probably didn’t even notice the anti-poverty messages in them.” Of course, her youthful ideas. Still, considering her artist profile, maybe I shouldn’t let her know about my wealth just yet.

  “It’s a good thing I’ve run into you. I went back to the restaurant and missed you when I found out you were fired.”

  “I was fired?” She says, her voice rising at the end of her sentence.

  “That’s what your idiot manager told me. I feel responsible, given what happened in the restaurant last time.”

  “You mean that kiss?” Having her in my arms and hearing her say that word gives me an instant hard-on. Not wanting to freak her out, I move my hips away from her.

  “Yes, I mean that kiss.” I brush my lips against her forehead and continue, “Are you going to give me your number this time? I wouldn’t mind taking you out for a burger, to celebrate.”

  She laughs and says, “I’d love to. Do I get to know your name first?”

  I kiss her cheek, put my lips to her ear and say, “I kind of liked it when you called me sir.”

  “Oh did you now, sir?” The sound sends a shudder to my core.

  “That’s exactly it.”

  “Sir, do I get to know your real name now?”

  “Only if you promise to call me sir once in a while.”

  She looks at me, biting her bottom lip in mock deliberation. “Deal.”

  “It’s Lawson.”

  “Lawson, huh? I like the sound of that.”

  “Great, I’m glad my name meets with your approval.”

  Skye breaks down into a fit of laughter, she’s certainly high on the news of selling her paintings. I swear being held in my arms is the only thing stopping her from crumpling to the ground.

  “Okay, Lawson, when do I get my burger?”

  I open my mouth to say now. To say that I’d take her back to my house for a full celebration. But I stop. For the first time in my life, I’m worried she’ll reject me. No woman has ever rejected me before. But knowing her crazy anti-rich schtick, there’s a possibility she’ll reject me when she finds out about my money.

  I have to make sure I’ve won her over before she learns the truth.

  “How about Friday?”

  “Sounds perfect, it’s a date.”

  Skye stretches up on her toes and pecks my lips. It’s all the encouragement I need. I squeeze her tight and plant my mouth on hers. She responds with vigor and I make no effort to keep my raging hard dick a secret from her. I want her to know what she does to me.

  The feel of her in my arms, the taste of her in my mouth, is almost too much. I want to throw her in my car and take her home and play with her for the rest of the week.

  “Skye, are you coming?” a woman shouts.

  “I’ve got to go. That’s Ava, my ride,” Skye says.

  Reluctantly, I release her. Not wanting her to see my expensive car, I walk in the opposite direction until she’s gone.

  Rich Bastard

  (Skye)

  “Who was that?” Ava asks as soon as I’m in her car.

  “Someone I met at the restaurant.”

  “Have you been seeing him long?” Ava’s making me feel like I’ve been transported back to my parents’ house during high school. Or at least how I imaging my parents would’ve been, had I dated.

  “We’re going on our first date on Friday,” I say, shifting in my seat.

  “Oh, you looked pretty comfortable with him for someone you haven’t even been on a date with yet.”

  There’s no way I’m entering into this type of parent-child discussion with Ava. We ride in silence for the remainder of the way home.

  The whole time, I’m buzzing. I’ve been commissioned for a huge job with Kelso, I’ve sold out of my paintings at Gordon’s gallery, and I’m going on a date with Lawson. I don’t know which of those three things excites me the most.

  “I have to get some ideas down on paper while they’re fresh in my head,” I say when we arrive, leaving Ava in the living room.

  On my way to my bedroom, I stop in my studio and grab my laptop. The lingering feel of Lawson’s arms around me has inspired me to come up with the plan for Kelso’s hideous bedroom erotica painting. While I’m in the right frame of mind, so to speak.

  Friday. That’s three sleeps. Three sleeps until the day I might finally give away my virginity. For him, for Lawson, I’ll do it. Assuming, of course, that he wants to. And judging by the bulge digging into my side tonight, he wants to.

  Stop it, I scold myself. I feel like such a child right now. Not the proper honest-to-goodness adult I’m finally about to be.

  I grab my sketchbook and pencil set and open my laptop. After a deep breath, I hop off my bed and barricade my door with a laundry hamper. It won’t stop Ava, but it will slow her enough for me to hide what I’m about to do.

  If Kelso wants a realistic spread eagle, I have to find out what one looks like. It’s not an image I think I can stomach under normal circumstances. But right now I feel like I’m drunk on Lawson and selling my art. Put those two things together, Lawson and art, and you get one frisky Skye who can handle a bit of full frontal.

  The search bring up pages and pages of results. Of course. There are all sorts, from amateur to professional to just plain nasty. I pick one that seems artistic-ish: a woman propped up on her elbows with her knees bent. At least I can get some height on the canvas.

  While I sketch, I wonder what Lawson will think of me. Or if I’m being too presumptuous. Just because he kissed me, with a big erection digging into me, doesn’t mean I should assume where the evening will head.

  Maybe he’ll be freaked out and turned off by the stupid artist who’s clearly desperate to finally have sex. I need to manage my expectations.

  The buzz of the evening doesn’t wear off for hours, and I keep on sketching until just before two. I’d had enough foresight to pick up an extra canvas, so I’ll do all the early work at home and only take it to his creepy bedroom when I have to. I just need to make sure Ava doesn’t come across it while it’s still here; that would be awkward, in the extreme.

  In the morning, I hide the sketches in the bottom drawer of my dresser and delete my internet history, just in case.

  As I arrive at the colonnaded monument to the absurd, butterflies start in my stomach. Please don’t let me see Kelso. Or at very least don’t let me see him alone. I’m here to paint as fast as I can and collect my money.

  The workmen have left the front door ajar, and I tiptoe into the entrance lobby. My canvas is still propped on the easel off to the side. Good, no one has moved my stuff. I like everything to be organized in a certain way.

  I’ve decided on an ancient Greek temple scene for the lobby, to echo the columns on this oversized house. Except I’m depicting the temple as it stands today: in ruins. Will the irony be lost on Kelso? Probably.

  Using the image of the temple that Gordon printed out for me, I go over it one last time with my pencil. My goal is to crank out one of these paintings a week, and it’s already Wednesday so this one is late. Though, to be fair, I didn’t get much done Monday or Tuesday because of Kelso.

  It’s nearly ten and I still haven’t seen any sign of another person. Which suits me just fine.

  Enough with the sketching, I decide it’s time to slap s
ome paint on this canvas. The dollar amount hits me once again: five-whole-thousand dollars for this one painting! The mere thought brightens my mood, and I hum as I go about getting my paints laid out.

  The doorbell rings, though the door is still ajar. I ignore it and carry on preparing my paints. Kelso will no doubt appear, and with any luck he’ll be too busy answering the door to hassle me.

  A few moments pass and no one comes. Should I answer it? I wouldn’t know what to say to the kind of person who would want to come here.

  A few seconds later, there’s a firm knocking, which pushes the ajar door all the way open. My mouth drops.

  Lawson stands in the doorframe, dressed in a dark blue suit tailored to his muscular frame. Wow. For a moment I forget about the oppression of the workers that the suit represents and enjoy the view. He looks seriously hot, made hotter by the fact that I know underneath the material is all that ink.

  His brow furrows and he looks at me sideways. He appears as confused as I am.

  “Hi,” I say, half greeting, half questioning.

  “What are you doing here?” he snaps.

  “Yeah, I’m wondering the same.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Nice to see you too.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s what you usually say when you run into someone?”

  Lawson peers around, but no one else has come.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” he says in a hushed tone, walking toward me.

  “I’ve been commissioned to create paintings for Kelso Wilson.” I take a step back, my hands on my hips.

  “Kelso Wilson is scum. You need to stay away from him.”

  “I’m here to do a job. An artist job for good money, plus a funded gallery show.”

  “So?”

  “So, this is what I want to do! It’s been my dream since I was five years old.”

  “Kelso is nothing but trouble.”

  “How do you know that? How do you know him? What are you even doing here?”