“Not going to deny it anymore.”
He smiled huge and smacked my back, hard. “Good man. You gonna drop this bomb on the wee one?”
I shrugged off his arm and spun around. “Man, you better stop making jokes about her height. I like her petite. She’s fucking perfect.”
He shook his head and hooked me around the neck. “Of course she is, man, but I love grinding your gears.”
“Asshole,” I mumbled.
“Takes one to know one.” He grinned.
“Ain’t that the truth?”
Chapter Sixteen
Bow Pose (Sanskrit: Dhanurasana)
Bow pose is an asana often used in intermediate to advanced level yoga classes. If you are suffering a back injury, do not attempt this pose. However, in retrospect, it can be used for strengthening the back, core, glutes, and thighs. To move into this pose, start by lying flat on your belly. Press into your arms slowly stretching your upper body, bend your knees into ninety-degree angles. If this is comfortable, slowly grab one ankle and then the other. Make sure to attempt this pose first under the watchful guidance of a registered yoga instructor.
MILA
La Luz Gallery was a large building in a high-traffic area. I put on the hazard lights of Moe’s SUV and ran around to the back. Moe had let me switch cars with her so that I could bring several of my newest pieces for a pre-viewing by the art director for the gallery. Typically, the director viewed the pieces and evaluated whether or not they would fit in with their other works or justify a dedicated showing. The individual showing was my goal, and I finally had enough pieces to have one. With the addition of the ten nudes, seven of which were of Atlas, I was solid at about twenty-five pieces. The director had already seen the other fifteen and loved them. However, those paintings had been of buildings and architecture from an abstract perspective. These were straight-up nudes.
I pushed my palms down the tank dress I was wearing to remove any oils and grime I might have picked up. I’d paired the teal dress with my gold gladiator sandals. Two metal, homemade, leaf-shaped earrings hung from my ears, adding a bit of chunkiness to the outfit. Nerves were making me shaky. The energy around me felt thick and laden with anxiety. The paintings I’d brought to show were not my norm. I just hoped he’d see the uniqueness and inspiration behind them.
One by one, I brought each of the five paintings I’d chosen into the viewing room off the front. The sales associate helped me in and let me do my thing while she assisted the few customers who were perusing art.
After about a twenty-minute wait, the director, a tall, thin man with pointed features, entered. His hair was coiffed into a bouffant on top, and his suit was pristine. I’d never seen Steven Schilling in anything other than the finest threads, making my cheapo sundress look like a dirty dishrag alongside him.
“Mila, daaah-ling…” He drew out the endearment, making it sound like it had ten vowels. “It is magnificent to see you.” Steven embraced me and air-kissed both of my cheeks. “You look lovely and boho chic as always. I trust you are doing well?”
Polite conversation would typically last between two and five minutes depending on how much time he had.
“So…let’s see the precious, my dear. I’m positively dying while I stand here breathless in anticipation.” He punctuated his request with a dramatic flip of his hand.
I laughed nervously and started uncovering my pieces.
Atlas leaning on the stool, hard as a rock and looking like a god.
Atlas lounging on the chase, ankles crossed, manhood tucked, eyes closed taking a snooze.
Atlas with a guitar over his thighs, strumming me a melody.
Atlas arched in a good-morning stretch. Now that one had been hard to get him to repeat over and over, but I’d given him a nice blow job before and promised sexual favors after. The man was a glutton for my mouth.
The last was my favorite. Atlas in bed, the sheets pulled just above his soft erection. We’d just dazzled one another. His hair was messy, and he was leaning against the headboard with a sated smile and a come-hither look as he was crooking his finger at me. The. Best. Ever. I swooned every time I looked at the canvas, remembering just the moment when he’d done it.
Steven walked to each painting and spent several minutes inspecting them.
“These are nothing like the others,” he mused.
I answered anyway. “No, they are a new concept and side to my art. I figured at the show we could have one area that had my architectural canvases and then slice it down the middle where we could then show my nudes. I have another five already completed.”
He scoffed. “You have more of these?”
Steven shook his head again and again while he continued to inspect my blood, sweat, and tears with a critical eye. “I’m astounded.”
I frowned. “Um…thank you?”
Steven glanced up from where he was crouched next to the one of Atlas on the stool. The first painting that started this craze for my muse.
“That was not a compliment, I’m afraid.”
My heart sank. Literally, the weight of his words wrapped around the muscle and drowned it in despair, so much so that it probably didn’t even beat anymore. A chill whispered across my skin as if the air was also against me, freezing my skin from the outside as the inside was caving in on itself.
“I honestly don’t know what to say.” He stood and crossed one arm over his chest while he rested his chin on his hand, still taking in my work.
I blinked and licked my suddenly Sahara desert dry lips. “You don’t like them.”
“Like them?” He squinted. “Darling…I loathe them.”
Bullet right to the chest. I stepped back, the need to be farther away from this heartache a physical imperative.
“Uh…I don’t…um…what?”
“Is this your boyfriend?” he asked flippantly.
“I’m not sure why that matters.”
He snorted. “Because, darling Mila, these paintings are clearly created by a woman in love. There’s no tortured nude, no disgusting, rotting flesh. They simply won’t do.”
I’m pretty sure I lost my voice. Not only did he hit me with the L-word, but he also mentioned tortured and rotting flesh.
“Huh? What are you talking about? I wasn’t trying to paint those disgusting images.”
He sighed. “It’s all the rage right now. Perhaps if you made the man bleed, put a couple holes in him, made him a little uglier, they’d be something I could show the public.”
A wave of nausea and dizziness pummeled through me. I ran my hand through my hair and leaned over, taking a few deep breaths until I felt a bit more under control. Steven didn’t even try to assist me. He just stood there silent while I physically and mentally had a meltdown. The guy was probably used to artists losing their minds during his critiques.
I inhaled deeply and righted myself. “You’re telling me that you don’t like my paintings because they are what? Too…”
“Pretty. Beautiful. Stunning.” He nodded. “Awful, really. Such a shame. I had high hopes for what you were going to bring me today.”
“Steven, you can’t possibly mean that.”
His eyes widened, and then a flicker of shame crossed his face. “I’m sorry, darling. I know it’s hard to hear a tough critique, but these paintings will not sell.”
I looked at each image of Atlas in all his glory. His beautiful eyes the only part on his body besides the shadows that I’d actually painted colors into. I’d wanted something to be unique to him specifically, except for the nakedness. “But I thought graphic nudes sold pretty well.”
He nodded. “Yeah, but those were women, not men, and the male ones were all dark and had a thrilling edge of danger. And of course, the bleeding ones were practically sold before I ever placed them up for a showing. A perfect male, even a godlike one, is unrealistic. There has to be something wrong with him. I just see no flaws.”
At that point, I had no idea what to say. I’d spent the last several week
s painting what I thought were riveting pieces that would truly resonate with the masses, and Steven was telling me that I needed to gore them up. “I don’t do blood and violence, Steven.”
He pouted. “I know. We can show the architectural pieces with two other artists in two months’ time. I cannot, however, show these. Until you come up with something that actually speaks to the masses, we, La Luz Gallery, will not be giving a Mila Mercado solo showing. Sorry.”
I closed my eyes and let his words sink in. “Fine. Yes, thank you, Steven.”
He walked over to me and patted my shoulder. “I look forward to seeing you in a couple months. Perhaps by then you’ll have something magical to show me.”
Yeah, like actual dead, rotting bodies tacked to canvases. The flies will really give it that au natural effect.
With my heart broken, my mind destroyed, I packed up my canvases carefully, though I didn’t know why, since Steven had basically informed me that they were unsalable. Shit. What was I going to do? This was the direction I’d chosen to go, and I believed in my work. Maybe I’d just been distracted.
“Are all of these of your boyfriend?”
“These paintings are clearly created by a woman in love.”
“There has to be something wrong with him.”
“I just see no flaws.”
He couldn’t see any flaws because the flaws were in me. My stupidity. I let myself get carried away with a man and look what happened. Disaster. All my work…worthless. How the hell did I let this happen, and better yet, how did I get my edge back? Failure was not an option.
Then the truth smacked me upside the head like a shovel to the face. The only way to fix this was to get rid of the one thing that had my muse working in the wrong direction.
Atlas.
ATLAS
Mila was not right. She avoided eye contact all through dinner. Moe had invited me over for her famous Mediterranean chicken, which of course, I jumped at the chance. Mila’s best friend was a damn fine cook, and I was a man who liked to eat hearty. Any opportunity that a woman wanted to fill my belly of something homemade and hot out of the oven, I was right there, fork in hand, and a willingness to clean up after.
“You okay, wildcat?”
“Hmm?” Mila glanced up, letting the rice she’d barely touched fall off the fork and back onto her plate. She’d mostly moved the food around, and that in itself had me wanting to call out the National Guard. My girl liked to eat and had a hearty appetite most days.
“I asked if you were okay.”
Lily, who was sitting next to me, which she always did when I stayed over, got out of her chair and ran around the table.
She crawled into Mila’s lap and put her hand on her forehead. Then she put her lips to it. “You not hot.”
Mila’s first smile of the night crept across her lips. “No, baby, I’m not hot. Thank you for checking though. Mimi is fine.”
Apparently, that was not explanation enough. “You wanna me to kiss it better?”
She smiled and presented her cheek. “Yes, please.”
The little girl kissed her cheek and then popped off of her. “Now your turn.” She pointed at me. “Kiss her better.”
I leaned over my chair toward Mila. As I got closer, she frowned. That would not do. Not even. I grabbed Mila’s hand and squeezed her fingers.
“Hey, uh, Moe, leave the dishes. I’ll clean them later, yeah?”
She waved a hand as she pulled out a hot apple pie from the oven. “Got it!”
“Come on, hotness. We need to talk.”
Mila licked her lips and sighed. “Yeah, I think we do.”
I led her down the hall toward her room. When I got there, she entered behind me, and I shut and locked the door.
“What’s going on?”
She bit her thumbnail and started pacing. Mila pacing was a shit sign of potential bad news.
“I just don’t know what to do anymore. This thing…” She wrung her hands together as she walked.
“Thing? What thing?”
“Us.”
“What about us?” Dread clawed its way up my chest to poke at my heart with a pointed, curved talon.
She shook her head and continued pacing. “It’s not working.”
I jerked my head back. “Fuck if it’s not. What the hell happened?”
She slapped her hands to her sides. “Nothing happened. I’m just telling you that we need to cool it. Take a break or something.”
“Really? And for how long would that break be?” I sneered.
She ran a hand through her hair and blew on her forehead. “I don’t know. A while.”
“Sorry, wildcat. You need to reevaluate, get some sleep or something because we”—I pointed to her and pointed to me—“are not breaking up. Period.”
Mila put her hands on her hips. “Oh yes, we are.”
I shook my head. “Babe. We’re not.”
I swear she stomped her foot or, at the very least, tapped her toe. “I’m sorry, Atlas, to have to do this to you. I didn’t want to…” she started as if I hadn’t just told her what was going down.
“To have to tell me this. Why do you have to tell me anything?”
“Because it’s not working,” she screeched, running a hand through her hair, making a mess of it.
“What exactly isn’t working between us?” I held out my hand and counted off each finger. “We have a great time together. We are dynamite in the bedroom. Time spent with friends and family so far has been stellar. Our work schedules aren’t perfect, but we’ve worked it out. And I’m in love with you. So tell me what’s not working between us because I’ve failed to see a problem.” My voice had risen to almost a yell.
“Atlas…you love me?” She choked out a sob.
Oh no. “What the fuck, babe! This is not you. This is not us. What happened?”
“My work is suffering,” she muttered through her tears.
“Lotus House is fine. They were okay with your reduction in hours. They know you want to be an artist one day and need the time to work on that. It’s all good. Now come here.” I went to embrace her, and she shoved me away.
“No! My art is suffering. Don’t you get it! My muse is all jacked up.”
I crossed my arms. “Says the woman who has painted more pieces in the past month than she has in the better part of a year.”
She groaned. “You don’t get it. That’s just it. I’m painting, but the paintings suck! They hated them.” Another sob tore through her as she clutched at her chest. “Hated them!” She fell to the bed face first.
I landed right next to her, curled her against me. At first, she struggled, but then the tears took over and she cried. Deep, gut-wrenching, throat-shredding sobs tore through her. I just held on and let her cry it out until, after about twenty minutes, she calmed enough that only a sniffle could be heard. Her head was burrowed into my neck, her breath hot and wet against my skin.
“Baby, tell me what happened.”
Her chest shuddered and shook as she spoke. “I went to La Luz Gallery. To my viewing.”
“Viewing? But I thought you had to plan those way in advance.”
She nodded into my neck. “Yeah, but they have a review in advance. To determine whether or not the gallery wants to show your work. They don’t.”
“They don’t what?” I asked, running my hand down her back in soothing, methodical sweeps.
“Want my work,” she croaked.
I frowned and shifted our weight until we were on our sides face-to-face. “They didn’t like the paintings?”
“No. Steven, the art director, hated them. Said they were too pretty. That the new rage was tortured and bloody.”
“Tortured and bloody?” I couldn’t believe what I’d heard.
She nodded.
I laughed. I couldn’t hold it back. “Babe, that’s ridiculous!” The guffaws came harder as I watched her face twist from an expression of horror, and then recognition, and then finally to humor. And
then my girl was laughing right along with me.
“Do you honestly want to paint ugly shit? Besides, who hangs disgusting paintings in their home? I can already see it. Come sit at my table for dinner but don’t look too hard at the murdered man on the wall. Just swallow down that beef Wellington while looking at a woman’s throat cut.”
Mila started laughing in earnest.
Just when I thought I had her back, and cuddling into me fully, the laughing switched around and the tears fell again. “But they still didn’t want my paintings.”
“So?”
Her head popped back a few inches. “So? It’s my life. It’s my work. If my muse is broken, I have to remove the elements that are making it that way.”
“Which would be me.” I stated matter-of-factly.
Mila bit down on her bottom lip and nodded.
“I can’t believe you’d do that. Well, I can. I get the need to put your dream above anything else, but that’s not how you deal in the real world. There are going to be times when someone doesn’t like your art, just like there are people who don’t like my music. Do I want people who don’t like my music listening? Not really. There’re plenty of music-loving ears around to share. Just like there are plenty of buyers in the world who are going to want to see, love, and purchase your work. Trust me on this.”
Mila’s face crumbled again. “I’m sorry.”
I pulled her closer and hugged her hard. “Don’t give up on us so easily. Don’t abandon me. I couldn’t stand it.”
Mila lifted up her face, now a mask of regret. “I’m sorry.” She kissed my lips. “I’m sorry.” Kiss to my forehead. “I’m sorry.” Kiss down the side of my face. “I’m sorry.” My shirt lifted up as if by magic and her lips were on my abdomen. “I’m sorry.” Her hand covered my hardening shaft where she worked my jeans open like an expert. “I’m sorry.” She covered my hard cock with the warm heaven of her mouth.
I gripped her hair and tugged until she looked up at me. Her eyes were still glassy from her crying jag, and remorse floated across those chocolaty depths. She sucked hard, hollowing out her cheeks and giving it her all…but her eyes, they stayed on me.
Divine Desire: A Lotus House Novel: Book Three Page 19