by Kitsy Clare
“Exactly.” Dave would not guess this as easily. Score one for Erik.
“Model, two minutes,” exclaims the drawing teacher from over by the makeshift stage. With irritation, I see Taffy walk in late, her boobs practically popping out of her tank top, and set up hastily in the back. She sees Erik over by me, and I swear there’s a jealous frown spreading on her flawless face.
Dave has finished his conversation with Harper. As he turns around, he gives Erik a warning glare as if to say “quit crowding our space”. He continues to glower at Erik as he settles behind his easel. “Um, isn’t it time for you to get to work?”
“In a minute.” Erik, still grinning at me, seems supremely unbothered by it all. He gives me a bye-for-now squeeze on the shoulder and then jogs to the stage where he disappears behind it.
My shoulder is still tingling when he emerges from the velvet curtain in his suede loincloth and eases right into that sexy pose from yesterday. This time when Erik’s eyes meet mine, I can’t lie; a virtual bonfire erupts between us.
***
We start uptown, at my pick: a show of computer art. The wall pieces are comprised of symmetrical abstractions—a quality that makes me feel as if the world fits together in a neat, provable equation and everyone is shiny and happy—so different from my chaotic past with my mom. The works are in cool jewel tones of mint green, pink, and cerulean.
“Tell me, what do you like best about this style?” Erik asks in a genuinely curious tone.
Not many people get it, I’m thinking. “I guess it relaxes me. It’s reassuringly ordered. Each side is balanced. I crave balance.”
“That makes sense,” he says gently. Score another point for Erik.
Next, we go to The Museum of Modern Art and look at their extensive surrealist collection. Meret Oppenheim’s fur-lined coffee cup and spoon are pretty hilarious, and Dali’s melting clocks are imaginative, but their intense psychological vibe sets me on edge. Magritte at least has created tightly structured scenes, meticulously painted, like a man in a bowler hat meditating on an apple.
“We should all meditate on apples,” I quip, “the world would be crisp and red and delicious.” Erik’s easy laughter at this fills me with a heady delight.
He shows me Joan Miró’s expressive work of swooping lines and shapes. When he studies it, his expression takes on a glow of pure wonder. It’s a treat to see a grown man look so boyish, so innocent, and it touches me. “I used to take my mom’s stationery and head off into the woods behind our house on weekends when my parents were still sleeping. I’d sit there and wait for birds to settle on the trees, chipmunks to stare at me as they gnawed on nuts. I think they sensed I was drawing them, because they just hung out, didn’t seem scared. Those were my first real models.”
“That’s really creative, but um, the Miro?” I’m not getting the connection.
“Ah, Miro reminds me of that time. When I was a kid, I found a picture of his in an old book. I tore it out and taped it on my wall by my animal sketches. Somehow my animal portraits and Miro’s free-spirited circles seemed to fit together. Like the water patterns the frogs made by the brook.”
“That’s cool. I see it now.” On impulse, I squeeze Erik’s hand, and he squeezes mine back. It opens my heart, and I imagine the boy he was—lanky, in scuffed jeans with white-blond streaks in his hair from the sun. I picture his mom’s letter paper cocked under his arm as he hiked to a brook where he studied frogs and the pinwheels of water they made when they leapt in. Funny that he was drawn to live beings, while I was attracted to mechanical and digital patterns. What does that say about me? Glancing over at Erik, I breathe out a slow sigh. He seems unbothered by how different our art is.
My mind flits to Studio Hightower and its preference for “expressive” work. I’m not so comfortable with surrealism’s passionate, subconscious side, and I’m tempted to confess my quirky past to Erik so he’ll understand why. I almost feel as if Erik would be a better fit over at Studio Hightower than me, with his sensual, animated nudes and love for Miro. “But my aunt would never show the work of a mere model,” I can almost hear Dave say.
I decide not to tell Erik about showing Lydia my work. Not yet. I’ll wait until I know him better. I don’t care whether it’s Dave or Erik or the freaking president, I need to take my time getting to know and trusting someone. We both need to get off our feet, so we visit the museum café. We order jasmine teas and blueberry muffins and find a cozy side table in the corner.
Looking at art together has made me feel comfortable. Plus, Erik’s gazing at me with those expressive eyes, so I take a chance and tell him about the history behind my preferences. “I know my love for order comes from my crazy childhood, my mom being really messy and disorganized and going through three divorces, us moving around. But I can’t help that it’s become a part of me. I like to line up my paints and my shoes. I enjoy counting out how many cups are on my shelf. I like ordered computer art because it’s cleaner than dusty charcoal drawings. Does that make sense, or am I horribly neurotic?”
Erik lays a warm, wide hand on my knee. Fire spreads out from his hand and up my thigh. “You’re just fine, however you are, Sienna. You’re entitled to like computer art, or to line up your paints, or whatever else you want.”
“Thanks.” He has no idea how much that melts my heart. Score three for Erik, not that my over-organized mind should keep count. “So, how about you? What makes you tick?”
“Oh, I’ve been through my own version of hard times,” he admits, his handsome face growing pensive. When he lifts his hand from my thigh, I already miss it. “My family didn’t have the money to send me to college—my sister or me. My dad worked construction. I worked with him for a while when what I longed to do was go to art school and paint all day.” Construction. So Dave was right.
“How long did you work construction?”
“Until last year, when I decided to make a go of modeling.” He lowers his head to study his tea.
We’re silent for a while. The silence fills me with anxiety instead of peace. Can I afford to get close to a guy who’s struggling as much as I am in the money department? It would be so much easier to be with a guy who already has cash and connections. I mean, I wouldn’t expect or even want a guy to support me, but to have his own funds so we wouldn’t be living on the edge and could both pool rent. There’s no way I could float someone else in this pricy city. I hate myself for thinking this way, but I need to be realistic. I can’t go back and live with my mother! Her mess and the chaos would drive me bananas.
I gaze at Erik with a melancholy smile. Even if we can’t be a match, his um, hard labor certainly did his physique justice. His shoulders are wide and burnished; his abs are tight and touchable under that snug green sweater. And despite the fact that he never went to college, he can certainly paint! His photos prove he’s way better than anyone else in my class, and he’s even better than me with representational figures. I’m a roiling mess of confusion.
This feels very dangerous.
“What’s wrong?” he asks me. “You look sad all of a sudden.”
“Oh, it’s nothing. I’m just having a moment.” I can’t believe how attuned he is. “So, modeling was a way in?” I ask as I sip my tea.
He nods. “I did lucrative shots for magazines too. That paid for my rent and my car, while live-studio modeling has gotten me into classes and around the art community.”
“Smart move.” So he’s made some money.
“It helped me meet you.” His uncanny eyes peer into me, all the way into and past my turmoil. Earlier, the intensity of that surrealistic art felt too psychologically intrusive, but now, Erik’s intense gaze feels purely awesome. Not confusing.
Tiny bubbles of hope rise in me—maybe, maybe, maybe. “I’m glad we met,” I murmur.
“Me too.” He brushes a stray hair from my forehead. The light touch of his finger on my skin makes every nerve sing. More, I plead silently, more.
“I want to
get to know you better,” I admit, which is totally uncharacteristic of me. “I’m usually more skeptical, cautious.” I want to touch him, run my hand along his jeans, my finger along his lower lip.
As if he’s feeling the same need for touch, he reaches out and rubs my shoulders. “Does this help you get over that? Your muscles are so tight.”
“God, yes.” Over our teas we lean into each other. His firm yet gentle hands create electric pulses that zing all through me. Even though he’s only touching my shoulders, I’m heating up all over. His touch is masculine and masterful, yet compassionate, giving and in sync with me in a way no guy has ever been before. He draws me in closer. “May I?”
Asking permission to kiss me? Dave never did that; he just took it. “Yes,” I whisper back.
He inches closer, closer, until his lips are almost touching mine. Then he stops as if he’s savoring the wait. The slowness of it drives me to distraction, makes me ache for the feel of his lips on mine. Strands of his hair tickle my cheeks. His warm breath on my lips is speeding up, and it’s so hot to know that I excite him too.
Finally, when I can’t stand the anticipation another second, Erik’s lips graze mine in a tender, slow kiss that extends into a yummy exploration of tongues. Playful flicks, sexy circles, pressing harder; softer, then harder. A fire ignites and spreads downward between my hips.
“I don’t want to rush you or claim you,” he says when we finally break away. “I just really wanted to do that.”
“I wanted you to,” I say breathlessly.
Resting back on his chair, he frames me with his large, callused hands. I study him too, now flushed, his lips swelled and wet from my mouth, his irises a darker green. “Sienna, I’d love to paint you. You’d top off my show in the best way. You’d be the queen muse, the pièce de résistance.” He pauses, and I can almost hear him thinking that he doesn’t want to scare me off. “But no pressure, really. Just say the word if you like the idea.”
Pièce de résistance. Would an uneducated dolt even know that phrase? Erik seems more like a self-made man to me. And I so like that I’m under no pressure, that Erik will be fine whatever I decide. That’s such a turn-on and in complete contrast to Dave’s line that I should decide soon because time is rushing on! I’m imagining all kinds of poses I could do for Erik. Not all of them are solo poses either. It’s funny that he’s called me his muse, because he’s mine. “When, and where?” I blurt.
“Huh?” I guess my response was so instantaneous that Erik wasn’t expecting it. “Oh, you’re up for posing? Really?” His face lights up again with that child-like glee.
Love it, love it, love it!
“Sure, I’d like to see how you’d interpret me. Where’s your studio?”
He sucks on his index finger. Watching him do that makes me want to suck on it. “Um, we could work in one of the empty studios after class. I don’t expect you to come to a relative stranger’s studio.” Geez, he’s so considerate that he’s done my thinking for me. Of course, my mother, or Harper, or Merry would all advise me to meet a new date on neutral, safe territory until I get to know him better.
“Sure, good idea. Neutral ground. Easels already set up…”
There’s a sexy flicker in his eye. “Looking forward to it! Tomorrow?”
Ack, tomorrow’s Wednesday. I’m scheduled to show Lydia Hightower samples of my work, which I haven’t even picked out. “I have an…assignment due tomorrow. How about Friday? That way people will be running out the door early, and we’ll have the studio all to ourselves. Here,” I fish in my bag and hand him one of my new biz cards with my cell phone and address, “in case you need to get in touch with me.”
“Thanks.” He pockets it. “Good point about waiting until early evening. That’s when the place really clears out.”
The idea of us having the whole studio to ourselves is incredibly romantic.
“I’ll make sure I bring a new canvas in.” Erik pops the last piece of his muffin in his mouth. “Want to make one more stop at the Met and check out their Greek nudes? They have an incredible permanent collection. I go there to draw studies and to get inspired. Between looking at the Athenas and the Aphrodites, no doubt we’ll come up with ideas for a uniquely Sienna pose.”
I picture being surrounded by bunches of perfectly proportioned, naked male sculptures and think how being there with Erik will be a treasure trove of eye candy, hopefully leading to more hot kisses. “Lead the way, muse.”
4 CHAPTER FOUR
Harper, Merry, and I haul the grocery bags into my kitchen and then head to my room, where we toss our pink parcels from Victoria’s Secret onto my bed. Today, in addition to our weekly shopping for dinner and a complimentary wine, we took a side trek to the fancy lingerie store. They were having a blowout spring sale and we couldn’t afford to pass that up! We each sprang for two lingerie sets. Merry wants to look hot for Sammy, I want to wow Erik on our modeling date, and Harper wants to…well, she buys lingerie just for fun.
I haven’t told them about this new twist—me posing for Erik on Friday. I dread telling them because they’ll surely warn me not to get involved. All they know is that I went on one date with Dave. They have no idea that he got me a meeting with Lydia Hightower! I have a lot of dishing to do.
But first, we break out the wine and get cooking. I open a chilled bottle of Sauvignon Blanc that was on sale at Trader Joe’s and pass around goblets. Merry, the best cook, coats two pans with olive oil—one for the broccoli rabe and the other for Alaskan salmon fillets. Harper chops garlic. My kitchen is small but inviting, with handmade blue curtains and blue Formica counters. It has one little window overlooking a funky East Village garden, so I get to hear birdsong in the morning, even in the big city.
“A toast to getting sprung from grad school and heading into the real world,” says Harper, lifting her glass. Her dark eyes are luminous, framed by the rich midnight tones of her hair.
“Hear, hear!” I agree. “One more month.” We clink our glasses and take thirsty gulps.
“A toast to Sammy and our new relationship,” Merry reveals. Her mischievous pixie appeal is the perfect counterbalance to Harper’s regal presence. Another round of clinks.
“Dish!” Harper and I squeal.
“Well, you know he and I have been friends—”
“—for like forever,” I say.
“Yup, well, we decided we wanted to take it up a notch. So we’ve been dating.”
“How is he in…?” Harper asks. “I mean, have you two—”
“He’s exciting, not only in that way,” Merry replies, neatly sidestepping the question. “We draw together at his place. I help think up lines for his graphic novel. I discovered that he’s fun to tickle.” She giggles. “He’s extremely ticklish. Delectable to cuddle with too.”
I wiggle my brows. “And lots more, I bet.” It’s easy to picture adventurous Sammy in bed with Merry. I bet they work through the Kama Sutra positions for entertainment. Heck, they’re probably doing a graphic novel version of it, for all I know.
“Sienna, you should talk about doing the dirty,” Merry chides. “We’ve seen you rubbing shoulders with Dave Hightower.” He’s not the actual guy who’s rubbed my shoulders, but there is one. “Dave must be taking you to some fancy watering holes.”
“We did go to Buddakan.”
“I’m jealous.” Harper groans. “I’ve read about that place in New York Magazine. Dave has good taste in restaurants. He’s a classy dresser too. I’d date him in a hot minute if you ever decide he’s not for you.” I always suspected she was sweet on Dave, but now the evidence is in. I don’t want to make Harper feel bad by telling her all of our date details. But then again, there are no romantic details, only the upcoming interview with Lydia, which makes me shudder just to think about. “No dirt on Dave, except um, maybe you should date him, Harper.” I give her an intense look, like I’m officially releasing him to her.
“What? You’re not crushing on him?” A look of
pure astonishment appears on her face. I shrug. “Hot damn!” Harper’s grin slides into a frown. “Wait, why would you just give him to me? Is something wrong with him?”
Great, I’m being a generous, fairly honest friend, and now she’s suspicious? “Well, first of all, Dave isn’t mine to give. It’s nothing bad; it’s just that he and I aren’t a perfect fit. Though he is handsome, and cultured.”
“Yes,” she agrees.
“And Dave’s into making tons of money in the art business,” I add.
“Nothing wrong with art money,” Harper says defensively as she peels a clove of garlic.
I nod. “Dave’s super confident and has a strong opinion on everything. He loves to dress up and eat out in fancy places, and he knows exactly what he wants to do in life. He wants to show his work in Shanghai and in his aunt’s gallery and get boatloads of rich clients that will bring him fame.” I realize these are all of the reasons he’s wrong for me. It’s the very first time I’ve gotten clear about this, and it feels monumental.
“I’ll drink to boatloads of clients,” Merry agrees. “Sammy and I are working on a graphic novel. We’re getting some printed up for Comicon next fall.” We clink glasses at this.
“I just keep seeing Dave with you, Harper.” I shrug. “Though I hate to admit it.”
“Really? That’s so cool!” Harper’s funny because even though she’s a painter, she drools over corporate types.
I’m over Dave, but I’m not quite over what he can give me. Sudden waves of worry overtake me. If he knows I don’t like him, will he tell his aunt to cancel my appointment with her? Why did I just confess all of this to Harper? He also can’t find out yet that I’m dating Erik. I turn to her. “Just don’t tell Dave yet that I’m not into him. It would kill his ego, you know? I’ll deal with it soon. Promise. In the meantime, go for it. No law says he can only date one person.”
She doesn’t look thrilled but says okay. After all, I’ve offered her a lot.