Wanted_Big Bad Brother

by Natalie Knight

  She looks at the painting, reflective as she purses her valentine-shaped, deep red, lips. Kissable lips.

  “Hmmm…I’m not sure,” she says, “this one doesn’t speak to me at all.”

  I’m instantly enamored. She’s right. This is a pile of shit masquerading as a painting. I look her in the eyes and try to engage her.

  “I suppose art is personal,” I say.

  She gives me that quizzical look again.

  It’s clear I haven’t got her completely into my orbit, so I continue, “I mean, what we see, and what the artist intended for us to see, can be two different things.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Pixie says.

  “For example, you,” I say smiling by best I-have-to-have-you smile. “You are someone who should be painted.”

  She blushes, and then she steps back. It’s clear she’s offended, and that’s a first for me. I always have women eating out of my hand, and other parts too. This one's not buying it, and for the first time, I’m on 'virgin' territory.

  When she turns to walk into the photo gallery next door, all I can do is follow.

  Katherine

  I've never taken a photography class in my life, and I'm not well-versed in the art of it all—if you don't count taking pictures with my cell phone—but I do know what I like. And this photo exhibit is…interesting.

  It's a photographer's portrait collection called Red Hot .

  The theme that binds each and every one of these pictures is that the models in these photos are all redheads.

  "I've always thought gingers were sexy," Robin says, secretly giving me a wink as we walk through the gallery. "If this doesn't inspire you with your writing, I don't know what will."

  In one photo, a man is flexing, and seemingly deep in thought with his gaze somewhere in the distance. The background is blue, matching his eyes.

  In another portrait, a man stares down the lens of the camera, his red beard and chiseled chest acting as focal points.

  "Like what you see?" The guy following us asks, walking up behind me and nudging me playfully. “The name’s Blake, by the way.”

  "Katherine,” I say as I try to think of a reply. “You could say that," I smile.

  Two can play this game.

  "Just so you know," he says, pointing and looking straight at my neck, "that freckle is more beautiful than anything I'm seeing on these gingers."

  "Nice try, but I don't have freckles."

  "You do," he says, stepping closer and brushing his fingers just below my ear. "It's right there."

  The second he touches me, a thrill runs down my body. I find myself blushing against my will.

  How did he notice that freckle? I completely forgot about it. It's such a small detail…but I have to admit, he's right. I do have a small freckle on my neck. It's there all right, and always has been.

  I look him up and down for a moment. If I'm being honest, there's something hot about Blake.

  Sure, he's a great looking guy—built and charming, with piercing eyes, the intensity of a blowtorch. But there's also a poetic confidence about him that is unusual. He seems to view the world through the lens of art—looking through color, symmetry, and shape—and he isn't apologetic about it. I can respect that.

  But…and this is a serious but —he has some major personality flaws.

  He's arrogant, and probably goes through women faster than he changes outfits.

  And I'm not about to get played by another man again—not after Dale. And something tells me that getting involved with Blake is like holding a match to a gas tank.

  Total chaos and drama.

  Robin walks ahead us, scrutinizing the walls of photos, and Blake takes the opportunity to walk beside me.

  "I have a question and need a woman's advice," he says, changing the subject.

  "Sure," I say, shrugging my shoulders.

  "Let's say—hypothetically speaking—I see an attractive woman," he says. "Do I approach her, or is that too direct?"

  "Why are you asking me?" I say. "I'm the last person you should ask."

  "Humor me, will you?"

  "Fine," I say. "I think you should approach her. Honesty is the best policy."

  With that, Blake's lips turn up into a smile.

  "I'm glad you said that. Because in that case," he says, stopping and turning to me. "I'm Blake. It's nice to meet you."

  He reaches his hand out to mine and shakes it.

  I laugh. "Does that work on women?"

  He ignores my question and gives me one of his own.

  "Have you ever considered modeling?" he says.

  "Me? You're joking, right?"

  "Serious as a heart attack."

  "No," I say, shaking my head. "That's not what I do."

  "I think you should model for me."

  I can't help but laugh out loud.

  "You have the wrong girl," I say. "I'm not the type to give you a private show in your apartment, romping around naked for your sole pleasure."

  "Not so fast," he says, resting a hand on my arm. "That's not what I mean. I'm a painter, and I'm looking for a new model to paint. Fresh inspiration, if you will."

  I shake my head. "Of course you are," I say, laughing. "And I'm a secret princess. Nice try, but I call bullshit. I'm not buying it."

  "You seriously don't believe me, do you?"

  I shake my head and then watch as he pulls out his phone.

  "Here," he says. "I'll prove it to you."

  He scrolls through his phone, bringing up various websites that have done interviews with him—the Huffington Post art column, Juxtapose magazine, and more. The list is impressive. Then he brings up his Instagram profile.

  "And this is some of my work," he says, scrolling through pictures of his art."

  "I had no idea," I say, feeling slightly embarrassed. It's bad enough I'd never heard of him before, and according to his Instagram account, he has close to 750k followers, but I just called him a liar.

  "So what do you say? Want to model for me?"

  "Even though you're an artist and Instagram-famous, I'm still not interested in posing for you," I say.

  "Come on," he says, smiling. "I don't bite."

  Instead of answering, I just shake my head.

  "I have an idea," he says. "How about you come to my apartment and look at my work."

  Just then, Robin walks over to us. She's apparently been eavesdropping because she says, "You should totally go Katherine! This could inspire your writing."

  "I don't know, I–"

  But before I can finish, Robin cuts me off. "Oh wow, look at the time," she says, pulling her cell phone from her purse. "I've gotta go. I uh – I have some plans this evening," she says, in a tone that's not totally convincing.

  I watch as she gives me a quick hug and kiss on the cheek and leaves the gallery. I watch her until I can't see her anymore.

  Now that she's gone, it hits me. I realize that I'm standing here, alone with Instagram-famous-superstar-artist Blake.

  And he's wearing a grin wider than Texas.

  Katherine

  Agreeing to come to the gallery is one thing, but actually making my way there is proving a point. I’m not going to become another Blake statistic.

  That’s right, after I met him I did a little digging on him…Blake has a serious reputation (fast cars and women), and he isn’t just Instagram-famous. He’s a heavyweight in the world of art – and he has the bank account and lifestyle to prove it.

  But I’m still getting over having my heart broken by that two or three timing prick Dale, and I’m not about to stumble right into the next disastrous relationship. No, thank you.

  When Blake asked me to show up at his exhibition, I was getting ready to say ‘no’ when I remembered Robin’s words – this might be the inspiration I need. If it hadn’t been for her, I wouldn’t have come at all.

  But I promise – I’m not going to fall for any of the usual one-liners from men like Blake, particularly the ‘pl
ease model for me, you inspire me.’

  As if.

  It might work on the blonde, big busted, cleavage-revealing models Blake seems to be typically photographed with, but not on me. Besides, I have to focus on getting my creative juices flowing and to write my next bestseller.

  The unfortunate reminder of my unfinished work unleashes thousands of butterflies in my stomach and little beads of sweat form in the palm of my hands.

  “Someone got dressed up,” a familiar voice from behind interrupts my thoughts.

  I pivot and smile at my friend, hoping I haven’t turned red like a tomato.

  “Just because I’m not interested doesn’t mean I can’t look my best.”’ I defend myself, pleased to push thoughts of current failings aside.

  To feel good you should look good, I’ve read somewhere.

  “What are you not interested in?”

  Blake has materialized next to me. He’s so close to me that I can’t help but be acutely aware of his maleness. Broad shoulders, rugged features, a partly open shirt to reveal a body honed to the point of perfection, and well-fitting pants. Despite my best endeavors, my eyes take in the full package and betray me.

  To regain my composure I take a step back, only to have my heel find a crack in the pavement of the footpath. I lose my balance and instinctively reach for something to hold onto so as not to fall.

  A strong hand steadies me.

  Each and everyone one of my nerve cells starts to tingle. He pulls me toward him. My heart races a million miles an hour and I have to fight a sudden desire to melt in his arms. Images of two naked bodies entwined flash through my mind.

  “Shall we go in?” Robin’s voice penetrates my foggy brain.

  “Thank you,”’ I mutter and pull my little black dress down a little, desperate to regain composure.

  Blake links arms with me, pulling me in close, in a possessive manner.

  “I think I better hang on to you.” He smiles brightly at me.

  My skin is burning where he’s touching me and I curse the weakness of my flesh.

  Inside Out Art is not the small gallery I was expecting, the grey bland concrete exterior betraying the vast, expansive treasure hidden inside.

  As soon as we enter, I catch my breath.

  Waiters in black suits and white shirts balance trays of champagne, weaving their way expertly through the large crowd of attendees.

  I notice all the envious stares most of the women aged eighteen to eighty shoot in my direction as we try make our way to a less busy part of the exhibition. Of course the stares are because at Blake, not me.

  “Wow,”’ Robin exclaims and stops in front of a smaller painting.

  I am swept away by the beauty of the young woman in the work of art. I tilt my head to the side and glance at Blake, acutely aware of his intense gaze on me.

  “You should model for him,” Robin says loud enough for everyone to hear before she moves onto the next painting.

  I would have liked to hit her, best friend or not. It is as if all eyes are suddenly upon me. The women shoot poison arrows in my direction and if looks could kill I’m sure I would be a pile of ashes on the floor beside playboy Blake, who ‘s clearly enjoying the spectacle.

  I decide not to reply and instead follow my ex-best friend. Oh, I’ll have some words for her next time we were alone. I feel conscious of the sound of my stiletto heels echoing on the concrete floor and I wish I had chosen different footwear, something less attention-drawing.

  As I walk from painting to painting I cannot help but be impressed. Art isn’t exactly my forte, but I know enough to appreciate good paintings when I see one.

  Most of the subjects are women, of course. But they’re not the nudes I had expected. There are nudes apparently, but they’re not in your face. Most are surprisingly discreet.

  “I still want you to model for me. You’re the perfect combination of beauty and sex appeal.” I can hear Blake speaking softly in my ear and those butterflies have come back in millions. My knees wobble a little and I hope they won’t give way.

  I can’t remember the last time Dale said I was pretty, sexy or beautiful.

  “I bet you say that to all the women you want to have your way with.” The words are out before I can stop them.

  Moving on to the next painting my eyes feast on a young woman who is leaning on a windowsill. She has a faraway look in her eyes. Blake has captured the longing of the woman perfectly.

  I focus on the finer details. Her arms folded. Pink lace of a bra is just visible with her white blouse unbuttoned to just above the gap between her breasts. It is suggestive, but not offensive.

  “You’re jumping to conclusions.”

  His voice brings me back to reality, as does the gesture of his left index finger stroking my cheek.

  “Um,” I’m lost for words.

  “Will you at least have dinner with me?”

  I feel my resistance crumble and desire sweep through me.

  Before I can stop myself I nod.

  Blake

  "You know what's sexier than chocolate?" I say, looking over my shoulder at Katherine from the stove.

  "Nothing is sexier than chocolate," she says with a smile.

  "Chocolate and chili."

  "I don't know," she says, scrunching her nose. "That sounds strange as a combo if you ask me."

  "Try this," I say, motioning for her to join me in the kitchen. I spoon some of the sauce from the pan and hold it out to her. "I think you'll like it."

  She leans in, parting her mouth. I place the spoon on her tongue.

  "Good, right?"

  "Oh wow, there's some heat to that, but it's…amazing," she says.

  "Fun fact – chilis are an aphrodisiac."

  She seems interested in that, but also hesitant to believe anything I say. I don't know if it's from the heat of the peppers, or talking about aphrodisiacs, but I notice that her face suddenly looks flush.

  "How do you know so much about food?" she asks. "I had no idea you have culinary skills."

  "I know my way around the kitchen," I smile.

  I watch as she steps away from the kitchen and looks around the apartment.

  "Nice place you've got here," she says.

  "It's my own private oasis in the middle of the city."

  "You do have a lot of privacy here."

  "So," I say with a grin, "what do you do for a living besides making men excited?"

  That catches her attention.

  "You can try to butter me up all you want, but that's not why I'm here," she says.

  I can tell this isn't going to be easy. She has her guard up higher than the Empire State building.

  "What? I can't give you a compliment?"

  She considers this for a moment.

  "I came here to have dinner, not to be pet like some lost pussy cat."

  "A lost pussy," I say, smiling at the pun. "Now that's an interesting thing to think about."

  "Can you get your head out of the gutter for even five minutes?" she says. But as she turns her head away, I detect the hint of a smile forming on her lips.

  It's working. She's slowly letting her guard down.

  "I can't help it," I say. "You're so hot, even my zipper is falling for you."

  I reach down and pretend to pull my zipper up.

  This causes her to laugh. "So, you're an artist, chef, and comedian."

  "Sometimes," I say with a smile.

  "I'll give that one to you," she says. "That was pretty funny."

  I finish cooking dinner, and carry it to the dining table. The entire table is set atop a checkered tablecloth and I made sure to add a bouquet of flowers from the farmer's market.

  Because who doesn't love flowers?

  "You outdid yourself," she smiles. "This looks incredible."

  "Never miss an opportunity to see something beautiful," I say.

  She considers this and nods. "Beauty is such a strange combination of things."

  "It's so hard to
qualify, isn't it?" I ask. "I mean, what pleases one person may not please the next. It's sort of like this giant, fascinating puzzle that we're all trying to figure out. But do you know what I think the best part about beauty is?"

  Katherine shakes her head. "No, what's that?"

  "The best part is that no art can truly and fully express it," I say. "As an artist, that's the goal. You chase it, and try to re-create it, and you can come very close, but it's never the exact thing in your mind's eye. I find it fascinating."

  "How many layers do you have?" she smiles. "You can paint, cook, make me laugh, and you're also a philosopher."

  "Is that a good thing?" I ask.

  "A very good thing," she says, and she seems to be blushing all over again. "Consider me charmed."

  "You know, I have a confession to make," I say, pouring her a glass of red wine.

  She looks from the wine to me, and arches an eyebrow. "Oh?"

  "I've read your book."

  "Wait," she says, surprised. "You have?"

  "It's really good. You have so much talent as an artist."

  "Look who's talking?" she says, her grin widening. There's a new sparkle in her eyes when she turns to face me. "I think you're one of the best painters I've ever seen."

  "You're just saying that," I chuckle.

  She places a hand on my arm. "It's true! I mean it. The way you capture a person's personality in their portrait is incredible."

  I lean forward in my chair, moving closer to her. My heart seems to be kicking in my chest now. Here I am, sitting across a woman who is not only incredibly hot, but who is also an artist. She understands it.

  "Being a creative person is hard," I say. "For the most part, the world doesn't understand it. It's frowned upon in many circles, and every painting I do is a passion project."

  "Yes, exactly" she says. "But only because it has to be fueled by passion. The most beautiful and creative art in the world isn't seen or touched — it's felt with the heart."

  As soon as she says the word 'heart' I'm acutely aware that mine is already close to bursting. This woman is driving me crazy, and in the best possible way. My pulse feels as if I've just climbed a few flights of stairs.