by Kitsy Clare
The couple sitting next to us glances over. I’ll have to make sure I keep it down so we don’t sound like we’re bitter exes taking it to the boxing ring.
“Okay, sure, that was a date,” I hiss. “But you told your aunt I was already your girlfriend, Dave! You told her I was, and I quote, ‘your girlfriend extraordinaire’. I’m sorry, but you should have more pride and scruples.”
Dave clenches his jaw as he shakes his head. “What about you?” he remarks. “Can you honestly say you had no hidden agenda?”
“I did, and that’s my point. When I really took a look at it, I realized that there was no way I could go through with pretending you were the right guy for me just to get a show. Even in a great gallery,” I add to soften the blow of my words.
“Okay, okay, I get it.” Dave rakes a hand through his hair. “But you could’ve had the courtesy to run it by me instead of blurting it out to my aunt. I could’ve told her you changed your mind for any variety of reasons.”
I sigh. “Except the truth, Dave, which is that I’m not, nor was I ever, your girlfriend.”
His long face droops in a basset hound way. It’s strange to see the high-and-mighty Dave Hightower looking so sad and weak. “Didn’t you like me, at least a little?”
I don’t want to feel any sympathy for him, but I do. Playing my words back in my head, I realize I was pretty harsh. “You’re a decent guy, Dave. I could’ve been more diplomatic with Lydia. It wasn’t like I was conniving to bring you down. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, to turn down a possible show at Hightower.” I jangle the ice in my tea. “And I was kind of crushing on you; I think I liked your clothes most of all.” I run my eyes up and down his outfit. “Funny that you put down models, because you could’ve been one in another lifetime.”
“Gee, thanks, Sienna,” he snaps, though his lips upturn in a lopsided grin.
“I still do like you, as a person, but I can’t lie, your arrogance and presumption did piss me off.” I grip a chunk of ice between my teeth and crunch on it. “Maybe everything’s too easy for you. You want notoriety? Your aunt will get you a show in Shanghai, not because you even like to paint, but because you want fame.”
“I can see how that might annoy some people.” He sighs. “But most would do the same in my position. Plus,” he distractedly whirls the coffee in his mug, “not everything comes so easily for me.”
“Like what?”
“Girls. I never know whether they like me for my money and connections or for me.”
The couple next to us glances over again. They’re sure getting an earful.
He’s got a point. “I can see how that would be a downer,” I say. “That’s partly why I wanted to come clean to your aunt, to myself, and—”
“—I just wish you’d have come clean to me first.”
“Fair enough. I’m sorry, Dave, I didn’t mean to hurt you in the process.” I watch a couple on our other side unwrap their paninis. “Problem was, I wasn’t totally clear about it until the moment she was going to offer me a show, or not.”
We’re quiet for a while. The eavesdropping couple looks away. No more juicy fodder for their blogs or whatever. Ha! Now that everything’s on the table, I feel an unexpected surge of sisterly affection for Dave. I plop my hand down on his, which startles him.
“What?” He pulls it back.
“Hey, Dave, I know a woman who likes you for you and not your money.”
His brown eyes light up. “Yeah? Who?”
“Harper. When she was over last time and we were—”
“—scampering around in lingerie?”
“Uh, yeah.” I nod, and we both chuckle. “Harper was tipsy, but you know what they say when people are in their cups: the truth will out.”
“And?” He leans forward, all ears.
“She really, I mean really likes you, Dave. She wanted to make sure I was okay with her getting to know you better.”
“What’d you say?”
“I said yes. I thought you’d want to know.” I pat his hand again, and this time he lets me.
“Thanks, Sienna.” He studies me. “So, who are you dating now?”
I shrug, not sure I feel like telling him after his below-your-pay-grade comment about Erik. But he must sense what’s on my mind.
“Not that model guy, I hope. I heard it might be him.”
“From who?” I’ll throttle Harper, I will.
Dave shrugs. “Don’t exactly remember,” he says to save the guilty party. “But, despite all of this, I do care about you. I just hope that guy has something more to offer than his body.”
He’s unleashed all of my unwelcome nightmares of Erik modeling his long, lean, sexy body for Taffy. For all I know, Erik’s finished his chores and has taken her up on her offer for a mutual pose session at her apartment, in her bed. For all I know she’s running her hands along that chiseled chest I lovingly painted this last week, just over the beating heart of the man that I’m beginning to fall desperately, dangerously in love with.
My insides lurch as I stand up, newly bristling. Why does Dave always manage to annoy me all over again after I’ve finally gotten over the last irritating thing he said? “Look, my good deed’s done for the day.” I toss down a fiver. “For my tea and the tip. And don’t bother telling me Erik’s below my pay grade either. Like I said, don’t presume to know things that you actually have no clue about.”
“Wait, Sienna, don’t walk off mad. I thought we had a good talk.”
I’m almost sorry I told Dave about Harper. Almost. Except I vastly prefer the truth, and I’m glad it’s out. I also know that Dave, in his incredibly clumsy way, is being protective of me—and maybe still a tad jealous.
As I head to the front door, Dave calls out behind me, “Sienna, there’s one more thing!” But I don’t stay to listen. I’m so out of here.
***
I get a text when I’m soaking in the bathtub, getting ready for Erik’s big opening. All my worst Harper suspicions are materialized, and I suspect this is what Dave was trying to tell me as I left:
Harper: Got big news!
Me: wassup
Harper: Dave asked me out-said u told him u were dating Erik.
Me: yup.
Harper: Don’t be so congratulatory!!!
Me: sorry. happy 4 u.
Harper: That’s not all!
Me: go on…
Harper: I showed my work to his aunt. She offered me a solo show!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Me: congrats
Harper: That’s all? Wanna come celebrate at Studio Hightower? Some famous artist named Darlington is showing. Free champagne.
Me: Erik and I already have a date set but have fun.
Wouldn’t you know, there are a zillion openings tonight in the Big Apple. I’ll just have to miss the one Harper’s going to. At least I have a real excuse. If I don’t click off right this second, I’m going to fly through my cell phone and launch into a tirade at Harper. And I don’t need to lose my shit for a third time today. I knew that was the price of dropping out of Studio Hightower, so I can’t blame her. She’s an amazing artist, almost as amazing as me. Ha! At least I haven’t totally lost my sense of humor. I’ll work on getting another show, even if it’s in a humble Lower East Side gallery. As Erik said in one of his pep talks, good talent eventually rises to the top like cream. I don’t have to feel desperate and rush things.
Erik, Erik, Erik, I refuse to believe he would give in to that harpy Taffy’s sleazy charms. I mean, she’s seen Erik touching my shoulders in class; she’s seen us standing close and talking during his breaks. She must know he likes me. Unfortunately, that’s actually an aphrodisiac for some girls. My Erik has more class than taking her bait though. I have to believe it; the alternative is too painful.
Lowering myself into my steamy bubble bath, I take soothing meditative breaths. I wriggle my toes and oscillate my hips to make the bubbles sway and pop. I imagine Erik in the bath with me, stroking my thighs, me washing ev
ery part of him, us painting each other with bubbly froth, kissing each other’s soapy lips. Him drawing foamy circles on my gleaming chest. In a couple of hours, Erik’s coming to swoop me up and carry me off to his one-man show. I can’t wait.
8 CHAPTER EIGHT
Oh. My. Lordie! Erik looks every bit as swoony as I imagined he would in his black fitted suit. It highlights the breadth of his powerful shoulders, slim hips, and lanky limbs and pulls it all together in a delicious three-dimensional package.
“May I?” He holds out a delicate white rosebud.
“You may.” He pins it on my dress, just above my heart. With that, I feel like I’m headed to a very adult prom. As he brushes his lips over mine, his touch and citrusy cologne send shudders of delight through me.
“You look incredibly lovely in that dress.” The heat of his gaze simmers as he takes in all of me.
“Thanks, you look dashing yourself, mister.” I must admit, I do look elegant. Who wouldn’t in a real Valentino black lace dress? I splurged on it last year, and I’ve been saving it for a super-special occasion. This one more than qualifies. Under it, I’ve got my Victoria’s Secret black eyelet lace lingerie set, in case we have a serious make-out session after the show. I link my arm in Erik’s as we step through my apartment lobby and out on the street.
As we wait to hail a cab, he turns to me with a puzzled expression. “Hey, weren’t you at the art store near Museum School earlier?”
My neck heats up. “Me? No, why?”
“Could’ve sworn it was you, dashing out all of a sudden. I called for you and…”
“And?”
“Well, whoever it was kept on running.”
“See, it couldn’t have been me. I would’ve stopped if I heard you calling me. Must’ve been someone who looked like me.”
“But you—she—was wearing the same long red shirt I’ve seen you in.”
Oh, here we go, fast-talk yourself out of this one, Sienna. “Lots of people have red shirts.” Erik must hear that my tone’s gone chilly, because he wheels back toward the street, confusion clouding his handsome features. I feel like a jerk, but I don’t want to get into all of my suspicions and insecurities on his big night. Besides, there’s absolutely zero proof that he did anything wrong.
Instead, I wind my arm around his. “So, where’s your gallery, Art Star?” I ask, for the twentieth time.
“It’s a surprise,” he repeats, also for the twentieth time. I’m relieved to see that a wily grin has replaced his subtle grimace of hurt. A cab approaches. He hails it and holds the door open for me. “To Eleventh Ave at Twenty-Third Street,” he tells the driver.
“Whoa! You landed a show in Chelsea? Very impressive,” I exclaim. Don’t know why, but I thought he’d show in Williamsburg or Bushwick, Brooklyn, the newest, edgiest scenes.
Erik beams from ear to ear. God, he looks adorable like that—so incredibly happy—like the young boy who stole away into the woods and drew birds and chipmunks on his mom’s stationary. “I work hard and I like to think that I’ve earned it.”
“From what I’ve seen so far, your work is unbelievably good, and I haven’t even seen it in person, except for the first sitting of my portrait.” I lean into him. He puts his arm around me and folds me into a lingering, romantic hug. The feel of his hard chest against my softness sends a sensual rush all the way through me.
“Your portrait is waiting for you there. It’s the masterpiece.” He nuzzles my neck as he says this, and I shiver at his warm breath on my tender flesh.
As we get closer to Chelsea, I try to speculate which place it could be. Surely not Gagosian Gallery, which is world famous, but the dealer tends to like ultra-modern work. Erik’s paintings are more classical. Not Dia Chelsea; they would also prefer installations and conceptual fare. In fact, most of these galleries in Chelsea show conceptually oriented art.
“Could it be PPOW?” I guess, “or Tanya Bonakdar?” Those galleries occasionally show figurative art.
“No, way off.” He laughs, clearly savoring my blind anticipation. “Driver, we can get out here.” Erik pays, and we hop out on the corner of Twenty-Third Street.
So where? Erik’s art is archetypal portraiture, yet there’s something quintessentially cutting edge about its honesty and intensity. My theory about current versus classic may be off.
Other couples are sauntering down the block as well. Most are twenty-something artist types in crafty put-together boutique fare, but I spot moneyed older folks in elegant evening wear and even families with kids in their best velveteen party dresses and flat pumps. It’s funny to see people so dolled up negotiating the wide cobblestone streets and asphalt potholes. That’s Chelsea for you—these transformed warehouses used to be the heart of the meat market, and they still have a graffiti aura of truck-stop toughness.
My heart is pounding through my throat as we walk down Twenty-Third Street into the building and zip up fifteen flights. “Erik, for real? Are you serious?”
Into Studio Hightower.
The mob swarms out to greet us like swelling, perfumed protozoa. “Darlington,” someone announces excitedly. “Darlington’s here!”
“You’re…” I gape at Erik, “you’re—?”
“Darlington,” he answers. “You never asked me my last name.” He doesn’t say this mockingly but with laughter and joyful amusement in his eyes—that he’s kept me, and everyone guessing, until the last second.
All of the cruddy things that Dave’s ever said: about Erik being below my pay grade and being only the model, as if a model couldn’t possibly be the most genius guy around—flood into my head. They are the very same things early on, anyway, that held me back from accepting him totally. What else am I wrong about? Hopefully my suspicions about his weakness for other curvy art students. But I still need proof he’s all mine. What, kind exactly? What will it take? I feel a guilty blush coming on and force it away. More than wallowing in my embarrassment and shame, I am longing to see Erik’s work—every last painting. “Show me,” I exclaim.
“With pleasure.” He takes my hand in his strong, warm one and guides me to each painting. And each is a revelation. “Here’s one of my old neighborhood friends, June, who had the most dynamic face and hands.”
“You’re not kidding. I love how you got each of her silver rings.”
“Thanks. Here’s one of my niece, Sarah. Isn’t she an angel?”
“Like a dark-haired winged dove.”
“And here’s one of the models who was so flexible she could basically twist her body into Rubik’s Cubes.”
“Ha, the ultimate torque.” I giggle, hoping that he won’t lead me to one of Taffy, whose portrait would be notorious for having the hugest melons.
“Torque is something you’re good at rendering. Torque me anytime.” Erik pulls me in for a hug on the way to the next painting.
Weaving through the crowd to the neighboring wall, he stops in front of a particularly luminous portrait of a teen with flowing blond hair.
“And who’s this?” I ask.
“My sister Liza, when she was fourteen.” His voice wells with pain and love, and it makes my heart ache for him. “That was the year before she passed.” We gaze at it for a while, and when I look over, there are tears in his eyes.
Delicately, with the tips of my fingers, I wipe them away. Then I stand on my tiptoes and kiss him on each cheek. “The painting is magnificent. Your sister looks so kind. No wonder you loved her.”
We stand like that, staring at the painting together, an unspoken but distinct bond strengthening between us—one of mutually recognized troubles and how they sometimes open our hearts, our perceptions. Humanize us.
The romantic spell is abruptly broken when, of all people, Taffy bounds up to Erik and gives him a sloppy, drunken hug. “Oh my God, I knew your art would be awesome!” she gushes.
Bitch. How dare she intrude on our private moment!
Erik steps back and doesn’t return the hug. “Thanks, for coming
, um…” He looks my way with an apologetic smile and then over at her again. “How did you find out about the show?”
“A card on the school bulletin board.” She pointedly ignores me and gets right up in Erik’s face again, sticking out her ample chest in the process, which actually grazes his chest. “Where’s my portrait?” she teases.
I grit my teeth. Unbelievable! Can’t she see we’re together? Why is Erik so darn polite to her? Why doesn’t he blow her off?
And then he does. He steps definitively away from her and puts a protective arm around me, pulls me in close, and kisses me on the lips. He looks back at her, pointedly. “Taffy, no portrait. No pose. Ever. I’m spoken for. Here’s my girlfriend, Sienna. You probably know her from class. The best artist there, in my humble opinion.”
Touché! Finally, Taffy has no choice but to glance my way. “Hi,” she says begrudgingly, and then she actually sneers, curling her pouty lips downward. Never has a sneer been so, so satisfying.
Erik’s done it—proven I’m his only one, and I didn’t have to ask. A guy saying I’m his girlfriend has never sounded so inviting before. I intend to show Erik in every way, in every torqueing, crazy, dreamy type of pose, how very much that means to me. Before Taffy slinks away, I return Erik’s kiss—a drawn-out, delicious public display of affection.
She spins on her heels and with a loud huff, snakes off through the crowd.
“It was you, in the art store,” Erik says as we finally break away from each other. He’s looking at me with a tenderness mixed with sadness. “Oh, Sienna, I’m so sorry. I bet you thought Taffy and I—”
But he never finishes the sentence because Lydia Hightower finds us. She’s wearing a silver chiffon cocktail dress, and her nails pop with silvery sparkle. Her lipstick is a complimentary Boris and Natasha black. Yow! She still scares me even though when she realizes that I’m Erik’s date, she actually grants me that ultra-cool Beverly Hills Housewife peck on each cheek and declares I look stunning. Really?
I’m loving the dramatic switch!
Her attention turns to my handsome boyfriend. “Erik Darlington,” she coos, “your show is already sold out, and your collectors are chomping at the bit to meet you.” She links her arm in his. “Come, darling…ton.” She giggles at her own dubious joke.