Wait. She probably wasn’t being fair…to snakes. They vibrated their bodies to warm their eggs. Her last foster mother wouldn’t have warmed Jess with a cup of her own spit, and her creepy husband would have just spit on her for his own amusement.
She shoved the memories away. They were phantoms from a past she barely recalled.
“The bracelet must be pretty special. I hope it works for her,” the bouncer said.
“You and me both,” she murmured, picturing Beth and how proud she would be tonight.
Thinking of Beth still made Jess cry, eighteen months after her death. Liza had to be feeling the loss even more drastically, knowing that but for a few cancerous cells, her mom would be right here with them. The cruel twists of fate had been especially cruel to Jess and Liza when it came to mothers and fathers. They were both orphans now—Liza officially, since her dad had died in an accident before her birth, and Jess technically, since hers had skipped out when she was two. Neither one of them was whining about it, though. They were both gonna be okay.
The bouncer opened the door for her. “Tell her if she doesn’t get a taker on the Touch Me statue, I’ll give her part of my salary for the next twenty years to pay for it.”
As he wagged his brows, she forced a tight smile and hurried in, fearing he’d ask if she’d ever modeled for her sister. She’d been asked that too many times, by too many people.
The short answer: No.
The long answer: Sort of, but only from the neck down. Well, maybe the jaw down.
The longest answer: Yes, and oh, God, wasn’t it freaky-weird to lie there naked while her best friend/sister drew tons of sketches of her?
Jess was the woman alone in bed, gaining pleasure in the only way she could.
Art imitates life.
The number of people who would ever know that: two. Jess and Liza.
Inside, she took a second to gawk at the crowd. When she’d left, the building had been practically empty—only Liza on the floor with the management and the staff. On her way out, she’d sent up a good luck prayer, noting how the tastefully arranged gallery had been thick with possibility, waiting for something to start.
Now, sixty minutes later? Well, hot damn, it had started. Her BFF was taking the art world by storm. The place was jam-packed, a strange cross between an art exhibit and a rave. Potential buyers sipped fruity vodka and gushed over the classical-yet-sensual pieces of art surrounding them. A deep thrum of evocative music pulsed; the very air throbbed with it. She felt it reverberating through her body, each thud of the bass timed to the beat of her heart. God, anybody who didn’t get a rush from this display was obviously half-comatose. Because the music, the food, the ambient lighting, the thrill of expectation and excitement all added to the atmosphere of sensuality inspired by the nude forms filling the room.
Some artists were inspired by beauty in nature, in architecture, in landscapes. Liza was inspired by naked bodies. If she photographed them, she might be called a pornographer. Instead, she sculpted them, and was a hot artist on the rise. Gotta love SoCal.
“There you are!” Liza squealed, grabbing and tugging her into an alcove near the exit. “God, that dress. It’s like Cinder-freaking-ella’s godmother was Christian Dior.”
“Thanks,” she said, amused Liza was sticking to her goal to stop swearing. “Did you think I’d show up here in my hideous prom dress, the only long one I own?”
Correction: the only one she had owned. Now she had this pale blue designer gown. She’d bought it from a consignment store in Laguna Beach, for probably one-twentieth its original price. That had still been just about enough to break her clothes budget for the year, but she wouldn’t have come to Liza’s opening in a ratty outfit for anything.
“Nope. We’re both the belles of the ball.” Liza extended an arm and Jess hooked the bracelet on without interrupting her sister’s babbling excitement. “Can you believe this?”
“Of course I can. I knew you could do it,” she said, loyalty winning the race over honesty out of her mouth. Because, the truth was, she’d been scared to death that Liza’s dreams would be shattered, the whole thing would be a bust, and they’d end the night doing tequila shots in the roach-infested dive downstairs from their not-infested-but-still-sometimes-roachy apartment.
Liza deserved success. But, in Jess’s experience, things like this—acclaim, wealth—didn’t happen to chicks like them. Ever since they were teenagers growing up in a tiny Illinois town, Liza becoming a famous artist was her fantasy, a daydream, like Jess’s was to see her name on an Academy Award statue for Best Original Screenplay. She had never really thought they would come true.
Now, though? Surrounded by rich people oohing and aahing, whispering about the beauty of Liza’s creations, and pretending they weren’t turned on by the naked or nearly naked bodies? Well, Jess wasn’t exactly rehearsing her acceptance speech, but perhaps after tonight she’d be willing to admit such things were at least possible. And thinking about what she’d say when seated next to Benedict Cumberbatch on Oscar night.
Whoops. Inner Sherlock fangirl moment. Down, Cumberbitch.
“Well, it’s all thanks to you.”
“Oh, sure, I’m the one who spent sixty hours a week for the past couple of years in a sweltering storage unit making amazing art out of clay.”
“No, that was me,” Liza said, her smile impish, which went well with her sweet, heart-shaped face, deep brown eyes, and mass of curly brown hair. “But you are the one who got Sid to give me an appointment with Sharon, which resulted in me getting this opportunity.”
Jess frowned, not comfortable going down the I’m so grateful road. Not with Liza, the person she loved most in the world. What wouldn’t she have done to help Liza get her start? She couldn’t think of a single goddamn thing.
“That wasn’t me, it was my cleavage,” she replied with a shrug. “Sid didn’t look above my collarbone the first time I came in to talk about your awesome art.”
“Well, thank heaven Sid’s a creeper.”
“Pervert is more like it.” But perviness had worked to Liza’s advantage. So Jessica hadn’t spit in the jerk’s face or punched him when he’d made a really gross suggestion after looking at the cell phone full of pictures of nude statuary.
Liza glanced down, addressing Jess’s chest. “Thank you, ladies. I’ve been jealous of you half my life, but you really came through for me.”
Jess laughed, knowing what Liza meant. She’d been out for a run, all sweaty and slick, when she’d seen the sign for the new gallery. She was not the type to use T&A to get what she wanted, which was why her usual nonworking uniform was jeans and a geeky fandom T-shirt. On that occasion, though, the she-bits had come in handy. Sid Loman was obviously into college-aged young women wearing tight workout clothes.
She wasn’t really college-aged, though she was still in college. At twenty-five, she should’ve graduated three years ago. But when one started late, and then had to work forty hours a week and go to school part-time, it look a lot longer. After this summer session, she’d be within six credits and one internship of that elusive diploma.
“For all your hard work, you deserve some big, strong, man hands,” Liza added.
Jess purposely misunderstood, lifting her own. “I’m happy with these.”
“I wasn’t talking about you.” Liza nodded toward her chest. “I meant them.”
She cleared her throat. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”
She hadn’t had anybody else’s hands on her body for quite some time, which frankly was fine with Jess. Man hands were attached to men. And men could be…well, she’d leave it at difficult, and ignore the other words sprouting in her mind: bastards, jerks, stalking pricks.
“Come on, not all guys are…” Bastards, jerks, stalking pricks. “Bad.” Seeing Jess’s reaction, Liza backed off. “Sorry. I forgot I’m talking to Sister Jessica, patron saint of celibacy.”
“I’d be happy to end my sainthood if I could meet someone
worth sinning for.”
“I could name a hundred guys who would line up to help you sin.”
“You don’t know a hundred guys.”
“Fifty then. Fifty guys.”
“You don’t know fifty guys either, unless you’re referring to the jerks we went to high school with.” And if she hadn’t slept with any of them then, she sure was not going to now. Even her prom date hadn’t succeeded in getting her ugly dress off her, though he’d tried groping her through it. Which was why she’d ditched him and walked out of the stupid high school dance.
“You’re such a pessimist.”
“I don’t need fifty guys. One would be fine…as long as he’s the right one.”
“There are nice men around. They’re not all like that bastard,” Liza said with a shudder. She knew how bad things had been when Jess ended her last relationship, about a year ago.
Her sister had been her rock, moving without complaint—twice—so Jess could remain away from her ex, Johnny, who she’d dated for eighteen months. They’d both changed their numbers because he’d kept calling, first begging Jess to come back to him, and then growing threatening. He’d also harassed Liza, blaming her for breaking them up.
They both knew the guy was unhinged. It had been a nightmare scenario, for sure.
Fortunately, he had finally backed off…or so she hoped. A tiny hint of worry had been tickling the back of her mind for the past few days, though. One of her neighbors told her a man had been hanging around the building and had asked about her. Private delivery man. That had to be it. She didn’t know if she could handle it if Johnny reappeared on the scene, wearing his crazy like a crown.
It’s been complete radio silence for two months. He’s gone, it’s over. So maybe she would consider reentering the dating world, if only she met someone who, (a) interested her and (b) wasn’t a psycho jerk who would stalk her if she ended things.
As usual, Liza read her mind. “You’ll find someone. Someone wonderful. You have to let yourself be open to it and not worry every guy is going to go Michael Myers stalker on you.”
Johnny had never gone serial killer crazy, but he had once threatened to kill her. That threat had been the final straw. She’d told him she never wanted to see him again, moved, and changed her number. Only he didn’t get the hint…or the blunt statement.
Not wanting to continue the dark conversation on this oh-so-bright evening, she said, “Emily doesn’t get off work until nine, but she promised she’d be over afterward.”
Their new roommate had been with them for only a month. It hadn’t been easy bringing a stranger into their tight little family, but they needed a third to make their rent. So far things were working out. Emily was a lot of fun—she worked with Jess at the restaurant—but was also respectful of the longtime bond her two roommates shared. She didn’t take offense when Jess and Liza wanted some sister time.
“Great, but you’re not getting away with the subject change. It’s high time you put yourself back into the dating game. Or at least the sex one.”
Sharon, the owner of the gallery, came gliding over, looking ecstatic. “Liza, darling, you must come with me! We’ve sold Making Love. The buyer wants to meet you.”
Not only was Jess thrilled the priciest piece in the collection had sold, but she realized she’d been saved by the bell by Sharon’s announcement. Her sex life was not something she ever wanted to discuss, especially not when in public. And sober.
“Seriously? Making Love’s the first one to sell?” Liza asked.
“Did you think it would be a subtle, small-penised, classical nude?” Jess replied with a snort, not surprised a supersexy sculpture had found a buyer right away. Everyone in SoCal wanted to be considered cutting edge and daring. “Of course some studio hotshot wants sex-in-stone. It’ll be the centerpiece of the marble-tiled foyer of his Malibu mansion.”
Liza merely sighed. Making Love was the biggest piece in the collection, depicting two nude forms, not one. It perfectly captured the beauty of human sexuality between two people who loved each other. But it was also full-on statue sex, and there were a bunch of discreet, classical pieces Liza liked more.
“It’s not the first to sell, it’s the second.” Before Liza could ask for details, Sharon went on. “And the buyer is a rich studio hotshot who might buy more, so let’s go.”
Sharon grabbed Liza’s arm and tugged her away. Jess smiled as the women disappeared into the crowd, then decided to walk through the exhibit. She’d watched these items develop from sketch to completion, but she had never looked at them on proper display.
First, though, she needed fortification after her race home and back. Skating around the chatty gawkers, she headed for the bar and smiled at the good-looking bartender.
“Tonight’s special is a Flaming Orgasm,” he said with a confident smile.
“Interesting.”
“Can I give you one?” His words were low, suggestive.
“How about you just make me one,” she replied with a chuckle.
“I’ll make sure it’s strong and powerful…something you won’t forget.”
The guy was obviously angling for good tips, offering hot orgasms to every person who came up to the bar, male or female, so Jess don’t take the flirtation seriously. But when his fingers lingered against hers as he slid the glass across the bar, she took notice. His smile was intimate, his eyes warm. So maybe the invitation wasn’t as generic as she’d imagined.
“Whenever you’re ready for more, you let me know.”
“I think this’ll be enough for tonight.” Because real flaming orgasms were nice, but they so often came with strings attached. Or men. Same difference.
Sipping her strong, fruity drink, she moved through the gallery. Clumps of people whispered around some of the most beautiful pieces. The biggest crowd was gathered around Looking in the Mirror, a stunning piece showing a woman weeping as she undressed. The woman’s eyes and posture conveyed such sadness—a statement on society’s pressure on women to look perfect—that the heart ached to behold her. She affected everyone…well, everyone except Sid the Perv, who looked so pleased you’d think he was the artist, not the salesperson.
Suddenly, something changed.
A frisson of tension slid through her, and a tiny quiver shook her body. The fine hairs on her arms stood up. Her breath shortened, and she began to hear the pounding of her own heart as her pulse surged.
She was being watched.
Jess took a calming breath, knowing her panicked reaction was excessive. Because, well, of course she was being watched. Everyone in the place was watching everyone else, looking for reactions to the art, or for a subject of future gossip. Jess suspected this art show would inspire more one-night stands than Marvin Gaye night at a singles club. Everyone was watchful, wanting to know who wasn’t going home alone and all that critically important stuff people in this zip code loved to whisper about.
That didn’t calm her. Jess’s skin actually began to prickle in goose bumps, and a tiny throb in her lower back made her almost want to arch it. It was odd, but the small of her back, with its vulnerable vertebrae at the base of her spine, was one of her most erogenous zones. A lover intuitive or patient enough to discover the vulnerable spot on her back could turn her into a puddle of need with the faintest brush of his fingertips. Not surprisingly, Johnny never had.
That was how this felt…like a delicate touch. This stare, this attention—it was intimate. The hint of panic receded, utter awareness taking its place.
With her history, thinking someone was watching her every move should make her nervous or afraid. But she wasn’t. Just because she was being stared at didn’t mean any ugly remnants of her past were lurking in the shadows of the gallery. Her instincts whispered this was something different, something new.
She lifted her hand and swiped her hair back over her shoulder. Trying to be unobtrusive, she looked around, hoping discover the person eyeing her. Her stare slid over the crowd. She didn�
��t see anybody focusing on her enough to make her react so viscerally, though she did catch the gaze of more than one guy who offered a smile. She ignored them, even while the heat of someone’s avid attention bored through her skin.
And then she saw him.
He stood in the back corner of the gallery, half-hidden in shadow. He appeared to be the only person in the place not pressed in the middle of a group. Something about his posture—ostensibly relaxed, but with an almost tangible element of tension—warned anyone not to get too close.
The lights from two nearby alcoves cast enough illumination to show he was tall and wearing a dark suit. His brown hair was shot with gold, but Jess couldn’t make out any of his features. Still, she knew he was the watcher. His eyes reflected a gleam of light, and those eyes were staring at only one thing. Her.
Jess looked away, swallowing nervously. She resisted the urge to lift her hair off the back of her neck again, not because she needed a distraction, but because she was suddenly hot. A thin sheen of perspiration had emerged on her skin, to go along with her thudding heart and choppy breaths. The spot on the base of her spine still tingled. She knew it was bizarre to be reacting like this to the watchfulness of a stranger, but thought wasn’t part of the equation. Her senses and instincts were in charge. She felt as confusingly aroused as a virgin on prom night.
Unable to resist, she glanced at him again. He hadn’t moved, still standing silently in the corner, alone, unapproachable. But when he saw her looking, he leaned forward to meet her gaze, so the light shone on his entire face. Jess sucked in a gasp, pure feminine appreciation flooding through her, and she literally wobbled in her spiky heels. She hadn’t had so much as an ankle tremor when darting between cars on Venice Boulevard, but she was ready to fall over because a stranger’s face shifted the world on its axis.
Watching You Page 2