“No, thank you,” I mumbled as I hung up.
God. I really am an idiot.
After I stared at the museum’s webpage for a few minutes, I considered my options. I suppose I could have called the cops, but what case did I really have against him? Ben had never laid a finger on me, and he had paid me for each sitting. Really, this was just a case of a poor girl not asking too many questions so she could keep getting paid. Ben’s actions were certainly unethical, but I guessed that they weren’t criminal.
It wasn’t like I could report him to the museum, either. Since Ben had always paid me in cash—his own cash, it seemed—there wasn’t a paper trail and therefore no way to prove I’d ever really modeled there. Mind you, the fact that I’d never signed any forms like a standard issue W-9 really should have been a red flag, or at least provoked me to ask a few questions. It seemed that my only recourse was blocking Ben’s number and never setting foot in the museum ever again.
I shut my laptop, shoving all thoughts of shady art teachers to the side as I wondered what I’d do with myself all day. After wandering around my apartment for a bit, I sat at my art table and started sketching. Probably since I was feeling a bit frustrated, what with sleeping against Sam’s hard, muscular body last night but not doing a thing with it, I’d drawn a nude man. He turned out to be smoothly muscled, with dark hair that fell rakishly across his eyes, a scruff of a beard darkening his chin.
Sam’s hair was always falling in his eyes. On the one hand I wondered why he didn’t cut it, but he sure was cute peeking out from under that dark fringe. And that body of his…Sam must do more than just run. He must belong to a gym or something, or have a personal trainer instructing him on how to keep those muscles plump and healthy.
Actually, I bet his building had a gym, probably on the first floor or thereabouts. I bet Sam took regular classes there, lifting weights, doing a bit of cardio…
I blinked, snapping myself out of my daydreams about Sam’s body and all the ways I could play with it. When I looked down at my sketch I laughed out loud; I’d drawn Sam naked.
“Wow, I really am a mess,” I said to the sketch. “I didn’t even notice that the art teacher was obsessed with me, and now I’m obsessed with a gay man.” I added a few more lines to the sketch, and mumbled, “Please be bi, Sam. It would really make me happy if you turned out to be bi.”
At seven forty-five on the dot there was a knock at my door. I looked through the peephole and saw Sam standing in the hallway, wearing his typical uniform of tee shirt, jeans, and boots; he’d also thrown on his battered black leather jacket for the occasion. My mouth practically watered at the sight.
“You’re early,” I said as I opened the door. “Miss me?”
“Always.” Sam looked me up and down, his appreciative gaze telling me how much he liked Jorge’s dress on me. In keeping with the hippy vibe of the dress, I’d straightened my hair and parted it down the middle, and created a cat eye look with some black liquid liner. After adding some clear gloss and the white boots, I was the perfect sixties siren.
“Around,” Sam said, making a twirling motion with his hand. I spun around, letting the dress’s hem bell out. When I faced him again, he pulled me into his arms. “You look great.”
“You too,” I said, stroking my hand over the flat plane of his chest. “Burgundy shirt tonight? You really do have one of these in every color, don’t you?”
“I match the colors to my moods,” he replied. Before I could ask what mood burgundy signified, Sam slid his hands down my back, underneath my skirt, and squeezed my butt.
“Hey,” I said. I tried squirming away, but I had no chance against those muscles of his. “What gives?”
“Just making sure you’re wearing something appropriate underneath this very short dress.”
“And if I hadn’t been?” I asked, winding my arms around his neck.
“You would have gotten a stern talking to, young lady.” His blue eyes bored into mine for a moment, then he said, “Come home with me tonight.”
“Why, Mr. MacKellar, whatever for?” I asked, fluttering my lashes.
“I want to shoot you in this dress. I’m a photographer too, remember?”
“You’re suggesting that I let you take pictures of me at night, in your apartment?” I asked with a raised brow. “Sounds like you’re an evil mastermind, luring me to your lair so you can have your way with me.”
Sam gave me a crooked smile. “That a yes?”
“It’s a maybe.” I kissed his chin, then I wiggled out of his arms and grabbed my purse. “I’m ready if you are.”
“Then let’s go, darlin’,” he said, offering me his arm.
After a short cab ride we arrived at the gallery, which was one of those impossibly hip places in Soho that didn’t deign to advertise, but all the cool kids knew about anyway. Michael’s colorful sculptures were arranged against the stark white walls, like little pockets of rainbows. The man of the hour was standing in the center of the room, wringing his hands.
“Oh, Sam, thank God you’re here,” Michael said when he caught sight of us.
“Like I’d miss this,” Sam said. “Michael, you remember Britt?”
“You talk about her so much, how could I forget?” Michael grabbed my hand, holding my arm to the side while he checked out my dress. “Thank you for attending my showing, sugar.”
“Of course,” I said. “Is Astrid here?”
Michael dropped my hand. “No, my own flesh and blood had something better to do than watch me succeed. Her loss.” He raked his gaze over my dress. “You look great, sugar. Maybe you can be my wingman while we troll for hotties.”
“Hey now, Britt’s here with me,” Sam said, slipping his arm around my waist.
Michael looked down his nose at Sam. “Like she’ll ever get any from you. Oh, hey!” Michael called, as he went off to greet more people, leaving me standing there in Sam’s arms.
“What was that supposed to mean?” I asked Sam. When he gave me that innocent face, I added, “About me not getting any?”
“I have a reputation of not going all the way,” Sam replied. “Michael and I used to date, but we never…um…” Sam’s cheeks darkened as he rubbed the back of his neck. “You know.”
“I’m not sure I understand. Please explain it to me, using small words whenever possible.”
Sam put his mouth next to my ear, and whispered, “I never fucked him.”
I shivered, every hair on my body standing on end. “Maybe if you stopped talking about girls all the time, you’d do better with the boys,” I suggested.
“Maybe so.” Sam released me and grabbed two champagne flutes from a passing waiter. “Drink?”
“Please.” I sipped the cool liquid, wishing it would cool down more than my mouth.
We drifted about the gallery, and Sam introduced me to a few of his friends. Jorge was there with his wife, a curvy blonde named Matilda who towered over her husband by at least a foot. While Sam and Jorge discussed wardrobes for an upcoming shoot at Nash’s, Matilda and I wandered around the gallery, taking in Michael’s work.
“He certainly is talented,” I said. Michael’s preferred medium was papier-mâché, and I was looking at a sculpture of a piñata hanging from the ceiling revolving above the partygoers.
“Oh, yes, Michael always has been,” Matilda said. “If he wasn’t sculpting, he was painting or sketching. No matter what he did, it was always something creative.”
“Have you known Michael long?”
“He and Jorge have been friends since they were children,” she replied. “I met Jorge just after high school, about a year before Michael met Sam.”
At the mention of Sam’s name my gaze flew across the room. I saw the object of my desire deep in conversation with Jorge. “Sam said he and Michael used to date?”
Matilda nodded. “That was a lost cause from the start,” she replied. “Michael was head over heels for Sam, but Sam just didn’t love him back.”
&
nbsp; “Aww,” I said, feeling a certain camaraderie with Michael; I was all too familiar with unrequited love directed at Sam. “Maybe Michael just wasn’t his type.”
“Seems that maybe you’re Sam’s type,” Matilda said with a sidelong glance. Before I could stress that in spite if my wildest dreams that wasn’t the case, the last person I wanted to see stepped in front of me.
“Hey, Britt,” said Ben, the creepy art class instructor. “I didn’t know you liked sculpture.”
“What are you doing here?” I demanded, taking a step back.
“I’m friends with Michael,” he explained. “Is something wrong?”
“I called the museum,” I said. “You know what they told me? They don’t pay models. All of their models are volunteers. You’re sick, Ben.”
Ben frowned, but it was gone in an instant. “You must have called the wrong department,” he said. “I hire models all the time.”
“Britt, do you work for this man?” Matilda demanded.
“I don’t work for him. Ben here just took advantage of stupid, inexperienced me,” I replied. “Excuse me.” I turned to walk away, but Ben grabbed my elbow.
“Britt, wait,” he said. “I can explain.”
“I understand things pretty well,” I snapped. “Let go of me.”
“You heard the lady.”
I looked up and saw Sam, my knight in a leather jacket, standing behind Ben. “Sam,” I breathed, yanking my arm free from Ben’s hold and moving to stand next to Sam.
“Britt and I were having a conversation,” Ben snapped.
“It seems that your conversation has ended,” Sam said. “Now, Michael is a very dear friend of mine, and I don’t want to disrupt his show. However, if you put your hands on Britt again, rest assured I will.”
With that, Sam turned and led me to the back of the gallery, keeping his hand on the small of my back the entire way. There was a stucco half wall at the back of the room, and beyond it was a secluded area with a few benches scattered about, a quiet place for patrons to get away from the bustling gallery for a few moments. I sat on one of the benches, Sam crouching before me.
“What happened back there, darlin’?” he asked, taking my hands in his.
“You were so right about Ben,” I began, then I told him everything I’d learned when I called the museum.
“And now he’s here,” I concluded. “I asked him why he’s here, and he said he’s a friend of Michael’s. I feel like he followed me here tonight.”
Sam frowned, then he stood, hauling me up with him. “I’m going to have Michael throw that bastard out,” he declared.
“Sam, no,” I said. “You were right, this is Michael’s big night. Don’t let an asshole like Ben ruin it.”
Sam stroked his thumb across my cheek. “I want you to feel safe.”
“I am safe as long as I’m with you,” I said, then I stood on my toes and kissed him. Why, I couldn’t say; okay, that’s a lie. I kissed him because I’d never felt safer in my life than when I was in Sam’s arms.
Sam didn’t waste any time deepening the kiss, pressing my hips against his as his hands found their way to my butt. Sam’s lips against mine somehow removed all the anxiety I’d felt over Ben’s presence, somehow it made everything right. I wrapped my arms around Sam’s neck and the world fell away around us. I could have gone on kissing him forever.
Before we could get too inappropriate for a public place, a bright light distracted us.
“What the—” Sam said, blinking. “Someone just take our picture?”
“Guess so.” I stepped back from Sam and tugged down my dress. “Want to go back out there?”
“Only if you’re ready.”
I slipped my hand inside his. “Let’s do it.”
In the short time we’d been in the alcove, the gallery had filled with patrons. Michael waved at us from across the room, surrounded by admirers and purchasers alike.
“I’m so glad this is going well for Michael,” Sam said. “He’s worked toward this for a long time.”
“Thinking about getting back together with him?” I teased. “He is awful handsome.”
“No checking out other guys when you’re with me,” Sam admonished. “And no, Michael and I won’t be getting back together.”
“Too bad. I bet you two were a cute couple.”
Sam speared me with one of those devilish looks of his. “We were damn hot, thank you very much.”
I giggled, but before I could tease Sam further, a man carrying a voice recorder stepped in front of us. “Leonard Hughes, covering this opening for the Soho Arts Weekly,” the man said, referencing the neighborhood paper. “Can I get some quotes from the two of you?”
“Um, sure,” I said, glancing at Sam. It was then that I noticed the man with the video camera standing behind Leonard. “Why does a paper need video?”
“It’s for the website,” Leonard replied. “Names?”
“Britt Sullivan, Sam MacKellar,” I said.
“Thoughts on the opening?”
“It’s wonderful,” I said. “Michael is a very talented man.”
Leonard stuck the recorder under Sam’s nose. “Yes, Michael is one of the best young artists in New York. The city is lucky to have him,” Sam said.
“Great! Thanks, you two.” Leonard and the man with the camera went off in search of their next victims, while Sam just shook his head.
“That was surreal,” he said.
“I can’t believe we were interviewed,” I said. “Well, sort of.”
“All sorts of interesting things happen when Michael’s involved,” Sam said. “Come on, darlin’, let’s get some more champagne.”
The crowd thinned out as the night wore on, but that didn’t dampen Michael’s spirits in the slightest. He was sailing about on cloud nine, and I could hardly blame him. Someday, maybe I’d have a gallery opening of my own, with a packed room fawning over my creations. I thought about what Sam had said, that I just needed to make time for my art, and I decided he was right.
Sometime close to midnight I slipped away from the crowd and visited the restroom. When I emerged, Ben grabbed my shoulders and thrust me against the wall.
“Why won’t you talk to me?” he demanded. “I thought we were friends.”
“Why did you lie to me?” I shot back. “Why did you trick me into sitting there naked for you? You treated me like some kind of prostitute!”
“Yeah, well, you kept coming back for more,” he said, dragging his fingers down the side of my neck. “Admit it, you liked having all those people watch you. You liked getting naked for money. For me.”
I gasped, so mad I was speechless. Then Ben was yanked away from me, and I saw Sam holding him by the back of his shirt.
“I told you to stay away from her,” Sam growled. “The lady does not want your attention.”
“Lady?” Ben spat. “You call a slut like her a lady?”
That was when Sam hit Ben, and Ben’s nose spurted a fountain of red as he went down on the hardwood floor.
“You fucking bastard,” Ben yelled. “What the fuck is your problem?”
“I’d like the answer to that as well,” Michael said, striding over. “What the hell is going on here, Sam?”
“He had Britt up against the wall, wouldn’t let her get away,” Sam said. “He’s been following her.”
“He was bothering her earlier too,” Matilda said as she and Jorge came to stand next to Sam. I silently sent her my thanks. “Britt was not happy to see him.”
Michael looked from Matilda to Sam to Ben, then at me. His lips were pursed so tightly white lines of tension marred his dark complexion. “Well, Britt? What’s your version of this mess?”
“Ben’s sick,” I whispered. “He’s been following me, calling, and texting me. I’m thinking about getting a restraining order.”
“Restraining order?” Ben screeched. “You kept coming back for more, you—”
“Enough, both of you,” Michael barke
d as Sam wound up for another hit. I grabbed Sam’s arm while Michael looked down at Ben, shaking his head. “Well, Benny boy, you’d best go quietly so I don’t have to call on New York’s finest. On second thought, I do love a man in uniform.”
Ben got to his feet, all the while glaring daggers at Sam and me. “You’re really taking their side?” Ben demanded. “I’m the one bleeding here!”
“You also seem to be the asshole here,” Michael countered, then he made a shooing motion with his hands. “Go on, get. Oh, and if you bleed on any of my work I’ll be sending you a bill,” Michael added.
Ben turned and shoved his way through the crowd of onlookers. Once he was out of the gallery, I turned to Michael. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I wish none of that had happened.”
“Me too, sugar.” Michael’s frown dissipated, and he patted my shoulder. “Ben’s always been a bit, shall we say, socially awkward. Luckily you had Cowboy Sam here riding to your rescue.”
“I call him a cowboy too,” I said, enjoying Sam’s embarrassed frown.
“He is one for the damsels in distress,” Michael said. “Keep an eye on your cowboy, sugar. I need to see to my guests.”
Michael melted into the crowd, followed by Matilda and Jorge, then Sam pulled me into his arms. “I wish you hadn’t hit him,” I said against his neck.
“You’re not the only one. My knuckles are killing me.” We burst out laughing at that, and Sam hugged me a bit tighter. “Want to get out of here?”
“Thought you’d never ask.”
***
Sam and I ended up going to his place, just like he’d asked me to earlier. After what had happened at the gallery there was no way I was spending the night alone in my apartment, not until I was positive that Ben had no idea of where I lived. And there was the fact that Sam’s apartment was pretty awesome. It was a two bedroom, with a tile-topped half wall separating the living room from the kitchen. The walls of the living room were painted a warm cocoa brown, and Sam’s furniture was all buttery soft leather and dark wood. The rich colors coupled with the stark white trim and light blue throw pillows made the place look like a design catalog. Then again, Sam probably had one of his interior decorator friends set everything up for him.
Changing Teams Page 9