Reckless

by Devon Hartford

  The other pressing problem was my parents. How could I possibly tell them? They’d go thermo-nuclear. I couldn’t imagine telling them. But if I did move in with Christos, I would have to. My parents had co-signed my lease on my apartment, and at the very least, they would deserve to know my new address, in case of emergencies, or whatever.

  Groan.

  Moving in would have to wait.

  Fortunately, in the mean time, Christos and I had solved the problem of not seeing each other enough by me coming over to work at the studio space he’d made for me.

  I loved it. Now I was seeing Christos several days a week, and Spiridon as well, who obviously loved having me around too.

  The only downside to this arrangement was working in the studio alongside Christos proved a bit more of a challenge than I’d planned.

  I hadn’t factored in the constant supply of nude cuties parading through.

  Whenever Christos had a naked model sitting in front of him, thrusting her bouncy bits in his face, and by extension mine, I had to restrain my urge to storm over and throw blankets over the women on a minute-by-minute basis.

  Sigh.

  But I reminded myself, Christos was making art. Not hosting a live sex show. Yes, there was a difference. Not that I’d been to a live sex show, but I’m pretty sure they were more exciting than a nude woman sitting frozen in one position for four hours, minus the brief breaks.

  Double Sigh. I would get used to it. It was art, not porn. Art!

  Art!!

  Seriously, it didn’t bother me.

  Not one bit.

  Besides, who was I to judge? I stared at naked Hunter all the time these days, and he did throw himself at me constantly, yet Christos didn’t care. I could picture Lame Damian freaking out if he’d found out I’d been staring at a hot guy like Hunter naked twice a week.

  Sigh. I didn’t want to be a Lamian. Believe it or not, Christos trusted me. Imagine that. I realized I owed it to him to trust him too. It helped I was on hand to keep an eye on him.

  JUST in case.

  Because I was in NO way jealous.

  Seriously.

  Not jealous at ALL.

  >:-|

  The model today was Isabella. She’d been around a lot lately. Her body was perfect, as in, not one flaw. Her skin had neither freckle nor mole. Her dark hair was luxuriant, her cheekbones delicate and symmetrical, her eyes alluring and radiant, her mouth inviting and plump. Her proportions were perfect, her breasts full, her waist tiny, her hips womanly.

  Not one bit jealous! Not a molecule of jealousy in me. If I walked through a jealousy detector, like, the most sensitive jealousy detector ever invented, it wouldn’t beep and sirens wouldn’t go off.

  Because I. Wasn’t. Jealous.

  I did my best to ignore Isabella. She ignored me with casual ease. Snooty bitch. I mean, she was a terrific model. Never moved a muscle. Totally professional.

  I was convinced that Isabella was toying with me every time she came to the studio. She tried to lay claim to Christos in little ways. Touching him on the shoulder during breaks, offering to get him water, instead of him doing it for her. Giggling like a porn star at everything he said. Even when he said things to her like, “(picture Christos holding his mouth open while no sound came out).”

  You get the idea.

  Constantly.

  Me and her were best friends.

  Fake Smile!

  To Christos’ credit, he handled everything completely professionally. He never seemed nervous, never worried that I was keeping an eye on him.

  During one of the rare breaks when Isabella wasn’t hovering around him, Christos walked over to where I sat at my easel, working on my painting of an arrangement of three Calla Lilies.

  “Wow, that’s coming along great, agápi mou. I love your composition, the way you’ve painted the corner of the window behind the lilies, framing the vase.”

  “Thanks, Christos,” I smiled.

  He scrutinized the painting more closely. “Nice brushwork on the petals. And you really nailed the warm and cool of the white. Normally, people just squeeze white paint out of the tube. But I can see you’ve mixed in hints of lemon yellow for the cool whites and cadmium yellow deep for the warm whites. Excellent,” he smiled and pecked me on the lips. “You’re a natural, like I’ve always said.”

  “Wow,” I smiled, “you never miss anything when it comes to painting.”

  But I think he might have missed my Isabella-induced all-day discomfort. I had a tinge of worry that Christos’ peck on my lips was too brief, too distant, like he didn’t want to look too familiar with me in front of Isabella.

  Crap. I realized I was making myself miserable by making things up, looking for problems that probably weren’t there. Isabella wasn’t even in the room. So there was nothing for me to worry about, right?

  “Is it just me, or is Isabella not picking up on my signals?”

  Dread punched my heart. Signals? As in, Hey baby, as soon as my dumpy girlfriend Samantha isn’t looking, we should totally jump each other like jaguars. And Isabella would purr like Catwoman, Rawr!

  I so needed to murder her before she left today. I wondered if you could find instructions on the internet for how to cut a car’s brake lines? Wasn’t that what they always did on TV shows?

  “Samantha? You there?” Christos asked.

  “Oh, sorry. What were you saying?” I asked guiltily.

  “I just said, I’ve told Isabella a hundred times I have a girlfriend, who I love, who is sitting twenty feet away from us. Chick can’t take a hint. And by hint I mean hammer, because, Jesus Christ, what part of ‘girlfriend sitting right over there’ is she not picking up on?” Christos smirked and smiled at me while caressing my cheek with his thumb.

  Oh, that’s what my boyfriend was saying.

  He continued, “You’d think by now Isabella would’ve realized that she’s so not in your league, and would’ve just given up on me. I guess some rare women aren’t cursed with the female ‘I’m ugly’ gene, and end up over-rating themselves.”

  Was he talking about the same Isabella I had dagger eyes for? The perfect one he was painting?

  “Not everyone can be as blessed by beauty as you, agápi mou,” he smiled.

  Wait, was Christos bullshitting me? I searched his eyes.

  All I saw was honesty and love.

  I was an idiot for doubting him and…swoon.

  I wondered if Christos could send Isabella home early today. Not because I was jealous, but because I desperately needed to jump him right at that moment.

  Isabella walked back into the studio from the back deck, where she had spent her break looking at the view.

  “More painting?” Isabella asked.

  Party pooper. I sighed. Back to my painting of Calla Lilies. At least they were turning out nice.

  “You know what?” Christos asked.

  “Yes?” Isabella said hopefully.

  “Why don’t we finish up early today. I’m feeling a bit tired.”

  Christos had read my mind. Take that you, uh, nice lady model.

  “No!” Isabella pouted.

  Home wrecker.

  “Sorry, Isabella,” Christos said. “I really need a break myself. We can pick up next time.”

  “Okay, Christos,” she said in her thick accent. “I do whatever you say.” Yes, she fanned her eyelashes at him.

  I was now officially above looking daggers at her anymore.

  Christos ushered Isabella out as quickly as he could. She dragged her feet like a kid being told it was bedtime. To me, she seemed as pouty as a seven-year-old, so it was an apt description. Was she like this all the time with Christos?

  Probably.

  I needed to research brake lines tonight.

  When Christos finally got Isabella out of the house, I decided to surprise him when he came back in the studio. I’d become more adventurous in the past few weeks, all because of Christos. He was always encouraging me, reminding me
how wonderful I was, how beautiful I was. His words were starting to sink in.

  Maybe now was a good time to experiment with a little adventure.

  I walked over to the painting he was doing of Isabella. It was gigantic, and it was truly amazing. He’d finished the face, and had painted a good deal of the body. The palette lying in front of the easel was covered in smears of paint. Brushes soaked in jars, paint-stained paper towels filled a small trash can.

  I was in awe of Christos’ talent. I felt like watching him work was as close as anyone would ever come to being in the studio of a Rembrandt or a Vermeer or a Velazquez. Christos was a living master of oil painting, yet he was still so young. And he was all mine.

  I eyed the divan where Isabella had been posing in the nude all afternoon. I was going to take off all my clothes and lie down on it. I wanted to be waiting for Christos when he came back into the room.

  Was I marking my territory? If Christos and I had sex on the divan in the next two minutes, I suppose you could say that I was. Fuck it.

  This was my studio, bitches! :-P

  I untied my painting smock and hung it over the back of Christos’ chair in front of the easel. Then I pulled my sweater and t-shirt up together. When it was over my head, and my nearly-naked torso was exposed to the world, save for my bra, I heard voices in the house, heading toward the studio.

  Shit!

  Christos and…a woman’s voice!

  Double shit!

  I yanked my shirt and sweater back on, mussing my scrunchie. Hair fell out of my pony-tail in random strands around my face. I grabbed my painting smock and tied it on as I trotted over to my own easel and plopped down, smoothing my hair and hurriedly redoing my scrunchie.

  I almost got caught naked! I was never doing that again!

  My cheeks burned, but hopefully my blush would be the only evidence of my indiscrete impulses.

  Christos walked into the studio.

  Followed by Tiffany Queenston-Micehouse. Wow, she really knew how to rain on my parade. She was a practiced expert. I ducked behind my easel, hoping she wouldn’t see me and pull out a handgun or maybe a flamethrower.

  The studio was a maze of paintings and easels between the entrance and me, so she might not notice me in the back.

  “Who was that girl outside,” Tiffany asked Christos at the far end of the studio.

  “Isabella? She’s one of the models Brandon sent me. Down from L.A. I think she does work for Vogue and all the other fashion mags.”

  “She sure is beautiful,” Tiffany said. “Brandon knows how to pick ’em.”

  “I guess,” Christos said.

  “But Isabella isn’t as beautiful as me, right?” Tiffany purred while inspecting the painting of Isabella, her back facing me. She turned slightly and thrust her ass out at Christos. In nature, that was called presenting.

  Bitch!

  “No one’s as beautiful as you, Tiffany,” Christos said sarcastically, glancing at me between the frames of several easels while rolling his eyes and shaking his head. He pointed at Tiffany’s jutting butt and raised his eyebrows in a “can you believe her?” look.

  I stifled a giggle.

  “How beautiful am I?” Tiffany asked, leaning into Christos’ chest.

  Double Bitch!

  “Do you need some more bait for your hook, or are you going to keep fishing for compliments all day?” Christos asked, audibly frustrated. “You know, fly-casting style, just throwing the lure out there over and over, and over, again? Even when this fish isn’t biting?”

  I did the Happy Dance in my head. Yeah, Christos!

  “Fine,” Tiffany huffed. “I came on business anyway. Well,” her voice went coquette, “business and pleasure.”

  “Do tell,” Christos said, perturbed.

  “Daddy told me to offer you $75,000 to paint me nude.”

  “Your dad is so generous. A true prince.”

  “Well, am I worth it?” Tiffany asked coyly.

  “Hey, Samantha,” Christos hollered, “do you think seventy-five K is a fair price for me to paint Tiff?”

  “Do you have to paint her live, in person day after day, or can you use a photo?” I hollered from my hiding place.

  “Huh? Who’s here?” Tiffany asked, concerned.

  “Yeah, it has to be live, in person,” Christos hollered to me.

  “Then charge her two seventy-five,” I giggled.

  “Who is that?” Tiffany demanded.

  I came out of hiding. “Hey, Tiff,” I said casually.

  “You,” Tiffany scowled the second she saw me. “You don’t call me Tiff. Understand?”

  I ignored her demand. “Make sure she pays cash this time. Up front.”

  “She’s right,” Christos said to Tiffany. “Cash up front.” He held out his palm

  Tiffany looked between Christos and me like a trapped hyena bitch. “I see you’ve moved your charwoman into the estate. If she has some time off, perhaps she can clean my toilets as well?”

  Triple Bitch!

  Where was my flamethrower! Tiff was going down in a blaze of glory!

  “I would never subject Samantha to the shit that comes out of your ass, Tiffany,” Christos smiled, “or my worst enemies, for that matter.”

  Tiffany growled. I don’t mean that figuratively. I mean, she literally went, “Gaaarrrr,” low in her throat while her lips peeled back over her fangs. I’d never seen a grown woman do that before. Where was my camera?

  I giggled, but covered my mouth politely.

  “Can I show you the door?” Christos asked her.

  “I know my way out.”

  Tiffany stalked out, slammed the front door behind her, and literally screamed in the driveway.

  Me and Christos heard it clear back in the studio.

  We both erupted with laughter.

  SAMANTHA

  Although Christos and I had finally been making time for each other, Kamiko had fallen completely off my radar, with the exception of Oil Painting class.

  So Romeo and I made a special effort to swing by her dorm room together in the block of time I had after classes but before my shift at Grab-n-Dash. I had plenty of homework to do that day, but I was sure I could squeeze it in later that evening.

  Who needed sleep?

  Kamiko ushered me and Romeo into the suite of rooms where she lived in Paiute Hall.

  “Hey guys!” she smiled. “I can’t wait to show you what I’ve been doing!”

  “Are you making your own Hentai anime porn?” Romeo asked, “The kind with all the penetrating serpents? I’d totally love to see it!”

  “No!” she smacked his arm. “I’ve been working on my submissions for Charboneau Gallery’s upcoming Contemporary Artists show.”

  We all walked through the door to her double room at the back of the suite.

  “Where’s your roommate?” I asked.

  “She went to the library to study.”

  All of Kamiko’s art supplies were crammed onto her side of the room and there was almost no space to move or sit down. Her bed had a tarp over it with a dozen small paintings resting on top.

  Romeo leaned over to pick up one of the paintings.

  “Be careful,” Kamiko said, “most of those are still wet.”

  Oil paintings could take days or even weeks to dry, depending on how thickly you applied the paint, and you had to be careful not to touch them until they dried. I knew, because a week ago, I’d bumped into one of my studies from class that I’d had drying in my apartment. I had been wearing a white sweater and my elbow had smeared across the canvas and come away looking like unicorn vomit. Bye-bye sweater.

  “Where do you sleep?” Romeo asked Kamiko. “With the art?”

  “I put the tarp on the floor at night,” she said.

  “Aren’t you afraid you’ll step on your paintings when you have to get up to go to the bathroom?”

  “I’m careful,” Kamiko shrugged her shoulders.

  “You’re becoming a dorm-room h
oarder,” Romeo joked.

  Ignoring him, Kamiko said, “As soon as they’re dry, I’ll stack them out of the way.”

  “You’ve gone crazy, Kamiko!” I smiled. “You have like, twenty awesome paintings in here!”

  The paintings had all manner of subjects. Some I recognized from our Oil Painting class, but most were new. She had painted a variety of outdoor scenes: a sunlit garden, the cliffs by the beach, crashing waves on the shore, sailboats at the marina, even a seagull that was totally lifelike. They were all really good.

  “Ever since Brandon told me about the Contemporary Artists show,” Kamiko said, “I’ve been doing studies almost every day. I totally want to get one of my pieces into that show.”

  “Aren’t you worried about taking too much time away from all your pre-med classes?” Romeo asked.

  “Yeah,” she sighed, “but I can’t help myself. Painting is way more fun,” she giggled. “Don’t tell my parents,” she said nervously.

  Romeo pulled out his cell phone and mimed dialing. “Bring!,” he said. “Bring! Oh, hello, Mrs. Nishimura? Yeah, this is Romeo Fabiano, Kamiko’s friend. Yeah, Kamiko is totally bailing on her Biology homework and spending all her time painting. Yeah, she’s crazy. Thought you’d like to know.” He mimed ending the call and shoved the phone in his pocket. “She said she’d be here with the entire family to intervene in about an hour. Oh, and you have been disowned. But they’re still coming anyway. Said something about a caning.”

  “I thought caning was only in Singapore,” I offered.

  “Her parents are very multi-cultural,” Romeo joked. I knew that Romeo had met Kamiko’s family and knew them pretty well.

  “They wouldn’t do that, would they?” I asked.

  “No way!” Kamiko said. “Caning uses a rattan stick. My parents prefer those bamboo samurai swords the kendo guys use. They’re called shinai, and have been known to break bones.”

  “What?!” I was shocked. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Half,” Kamiko said morosely. “Anyway, which painting do you guys think I should submit to Charboneau?”

  “They’re all so good,” I said.

  Kamiko was amazingly talented. I had to keep reminding myself that I was getting better every day too, even though it seemed like Kamiko was always outpacing me.