Desire

by Simone Sowood

  When I’m getting ready for bed, I realize the money the hot guy gave me to cover his check is still in my pocket. I pull the money out to put with my apron, which I’ll bring in with me on Thursday.

  I unfold the bills. Three hundreds. The bills lay across my hand and I stare at them. Did he mean to give me three twenties? I don’t think so. He doesn’t strike me as the sort of man who ever makes mistakes.

  Is this supposed to be some sort of ploy to get my attention? Can he even afford to do something like this? I stand, debating what to do. There’s one person who really deserves this money.

  Instead of putting the money with my apron to take into work, I open my top drawer and place it in my stash of emergency money. Money that, until tonight, consisted of thirty bucks.

  When I see the guy again, I’ll try to give him the money back. If he refuses, I’ll think up a reason to convince Ava to accept the money from me.

  In bed, I can’t help myself. I slide my hand between my legs, remembering the minutiae of the kiss. His smell, his taste, the strength of his arms. And, of course, I can’t ignore what was digging into my hip — what an incredible feeling.

  Why didn’t I write my phone number on my drawing? How stupid am I? All I did was sign it with my standard art signature: Skye. No last name; nothing. I wonder if he’ll come in again after the way Kevin acted.

  Almost instantly, an orgasm washes over me. The memory of the kiss is so fresh, I can’t bring myself to take my hand away. I fall asleep with it between my legs.

  At some point in the middle of the night, I half wake up, realize I’ve been dreaming about that kiss, and the man doing the kissing, and that my hand has been moving as if possessed. Dripping wet and excited all over by the dream, I crash into another huge orgasm.

  Please let him come back next Saturday.

  In the morning, I hide from Ava in my studio. I have too many thoughts to sort out. After being sent home and given a final warning, Kevin’s not going to give me any extra shifts; there’s no point in asking. Ava needs to remortgage her house, and my freeloading is the reason. I need to think up a reason for her to take that money, but I haven’t come up with anything yet. And then there are all those possible commissions from the artist website.

  I sit on the floor beside my laptop and call up the website. My eyes widen when a message icon appears in the corner. Someone probably wants me to paint their dog, but my heart leaps in excitement anyway.

  My eyes pop when I see it’s not from any of the jobs I replied to. It’s a new user who only joined last week. I try to calm myself as I read the message.

  I am looking for someone to commission for several works to be hung in the new house I’m building. Am impressed by your work. Reply for more details. Kelso Wilson.

  Holy shit. This might be my solution. I type a reply as fast as my fingers will move and include my phone number. Deep inside, I fantasize that Kelso Wilson is the man from the restaurant. I know it’s silly and immature, but maybe he’s hunted me down somehow.

  Though there’s no way he could find me on this website, artists are told not to publicize their names so people can’t contact the artists without using the website and paying its fee. I was too scared of being banned so left off mine, like most other artists on the site.

  I try to put the message out of my mind while I get back to work on the project of items of wealth out of place in the world. But the whole time my mind is whirring with possibilities. This job could solve all my money worries. If it turns out to be the man from Johnny’s then all my dreams have come true.

  There’s no message back before bedtime. I’m disappointed, but I take comfort in the fact that it’s Sunday.

  ***

  It’s after lunch on Monday, and I’m busy working on the sand in the beach scene. I’ve tried to make the evening dress as unnatural a color as possible, and am now working on making the sand as natural as possible.

  The cell phone balanced on the easel rings. I’m so excited about the commission that I drop the paintbrush on the floor, getting brown paint everywhere.

  “Hello?”

  “Skye? It’s Kevin.” A huge pit opens in my stomach. He never calls.

  “Hi, is everything okay?”

  “It’s really hard for me to do this, but we don’t need you to come in this week.”

  “What about next week?”

  “We’ll see how we manage without you. But that little stunt on Saturday was a serious misconduct.”

  “I’m sorry, he kissed me.”

  “It looked pretty mutual from where I was standing.”

  Fuck. Depressed, the only thing I can do once we hang up is check my messages on the art website. Nothing. I grab a rag and scrub the floor, and continue long after all trace of the spilled brown paint is gone.

  Still on my hands and knees, my phone rings again. What bad news is it this time?

  “Hello,” I say, my voice flat.

  “This is Kelso Wilson. You replied to my message about the commissioned pieces.”

  “Yes, hi, thanks for calling,” I say, suddenly much more cheery.

  “I’m building a fifteen-thousand-square-foot home and want original artwork for it. Right now I anticipate ten paintings, though it might change depending on the size you feel the space needs. The pay would be five grand a painting.” His voice is stern, and more like a command than a request.

  “That sounds like something I would be interested in, yes. Who covers the cost of the supplies?” My heart is pounding. Fifty grand? Holy shit. I’m saved!

  “I’d cover all costs. But I’d need you to paint on-site. I want each work created in the room it’s going to hang in.”

  “As long as you’re local.”

  “And one more thing — I’d need you to start right away. The last person I had bailed on me, and now the work is behind.”

  “I could start tomorrow, if you want.”

  We exchange details and I hang up. My hand trembles as I put the phone back on the easel tray. Fuck you Kevin. I won’t tell him that yet, though, just in case this falls through.

  Now, how pissed is Ava going to be when I tell her about the commission? I walk through the house looking for her, and find her sitting on the couch in the living room, busy with her needlework. It’s a huge image of a local tent city and is a project she’s been working on for eight years now. She expects it to take at least that many more to finish.

  “How’s the new project coming?” she asks. A pang of guilt hits my chest.

  “I have some exciting news.” I try not to sound quite as excited as I am.

  “What are you waiting for? Tell me!”

  “I’ve just been commissioned to paint ten pieces for a new mansion that’s being built.”

  Her eyes widen, and I worry it’s for disappointment in me selling out.

  “That’s fantastic, I’m so proud of you.” She hops up and hugs me.

  “It doesn’t make me a sellout?”

  “No, silly, artists throughout time have painted pieces for their big houses. It’s our way of sucking as much money out of the rich bastards as we can. But I tell you what you should do, make him fund a gallery exhibit for you as part of the deal.”

  My shoulders relax at her words of approval.

  A gallery exhibit — that would be the real break I need. It would get my name out there, not like locking me away in some mansion.

  Excitement bubbles over and I can’t help myself, I start jumping up and down. Soon Ava is as well, and we jump up and down in a little circle.

  Lost and Found

  (Lawson)

  It’s been a nightmare this week dealing with the launch of my latest luxury hotel. Not only did that fuckface Kelso not finish the bathrooms, I’m sure he didn’t finish them out of spite.

  Instead I had to go ahead and open with only half of the rooms available.

  Meanwhile it’s local. It’s going to be something of a flagship hotel for me. My first hotel without Kelso.
<
br />   Julie and his lawyer have been banging heads all week, but I’d had enough. Kelso didn’t meet his end of the agreement, and as far as I’m concerned that’s all any judge is going to need to hear.

  No longer willing to mess around, I went out and hired a whole new construction company to finish the job. After dangling the carrot of working with me regularly, I’ve got them to promise me to work day and night to meet the launch party.

  When I stepped into the shower on Saturday morning, I realized I hadn’t even had a chance to think about Skye all week. Sweet Skye. Just thinking about her makes my dick hard, and that’s all the encouragement I need to grab it.

  I remember her soft lips and the way my arms completely enveloped her. The bumps of her breasts as they pushed into my chest. Most of all that laugh. Fuck, that laugh. It was orgasmic. The thought of drawing a sound like that out of her as I pound her makes my dick explode.

  Tonight, I’m going to go in there and leave with her on my arm. I shudder as I think of all the things I’ll do to her when I get her home. More than anything, I want her legs wrapped around my neck as I feast on her pussy.

  Spent, I prop a hand against the wall of the shower as I catch my breath.

  Around nine that nine, I pull my car into the parking lot of Johnny’s. I take the last spot available, my Maserati sandwiched between a Ford and a Kia.

  I stroll into Johnny’s by myself. I still get a kick out of walking into a restaurant that doesn’t take reservations. The smell of barbecue sauce makes my stomach rumble. I think I’ll go for the ribs tonight. I figure I’ll hang around until closing and take Skye home.

  “What do you want?” The idiot manager who broke up our kiss last weekend snaps.

  “A table. In Skye’s section.” I don’t put up with any attitude from anyone.

  “She doesn’t work here anymore.” His words are a blow.

  “Why not?”

  “She got fired for inappropriate behavior at work.” Fuck, I didn’t mean to get the poor girl fired. That’s okay, I’ll buy her her own restaurant.

  “What’s her number?” I demand.

  “Can’t tell you that, it’s personal information.”

  “I need to know her number,” I say, rising to my full height with my shoulders rolled back.

  “You can ask all you want, I legally can’t tell you.” Pissant. Figures he’d be all by the book. I exhale through my nose.

  “Will you be talking to her again?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Tell her I’m looking for her.” I say pulling my card out of my wallet and shoving it at him.

  He picks it up and examines it. His eyes half pop out of his head when he sees my name. That’s right, asshole, I’m Lawson Heywood. I turn on my heels and stride out.

  I flop back into my Maserati and slam the door. After revving the engine a few times, I tear out of the parking lot, knowing damn well that asswipe manager is watching.

  What the fuck am I going to do now? All my plans for the evening are ruined. Not just the evening: I’d envisioned having Skye in my bed for months. I slam the heel of my hand on the top of the steering wheel.

  Now what? I head toward Julie’s house. I’ll get her people to track down Skye.

  Without knocking, I walk into her house, through the grand entrance with its sweeping staircase and into the kitchen, I grab a beer from the kitchen and head down the hall and into the family room.

  Julie’s sitting on the sofa with her feet propped up on the ottoman. She looks at me and rolls her eyes as I flop onto the couch beside her.

  “What the fuck are you doing here? I thought you were chasing that waitress tonight.” She mutes the movie she’s been watching.

  “She doesn’t work there anymore. I need you to track her down for me.”

  “Did you get her fired?”

  I don’t want to think about that. “Fuck off and find her for me.”

  “You’ve got that backwards, you mean ‘find her for me so I can fuck her’.”

  “That too.”

  “How about a please?” She gives me a wide grin. The same one she always gave me when we were kids and she wanted to annoy me.

  “I’ll give you a thank you when you find her.”

  “Have you tried the internet?”

  “Haven’t had time yet.”

  Julie sits forward and grabs her laptop from the far corner of the ottoman. She opens it and leans back on the couch.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Skye.” Just saying her name makes me ache.

  “Skye what?”

  “Beats the fuck out of me.”

  “How on earth do you expect me to find her?”

  “I don’t know. Her name’s Skye and she’s an artist. There can’t be that many of them.”

  Julie’s fingers fly over the keyboard. My eyes fix on them, willing an answer.

  She looks at me after a moment and says, “You’re a moron. All I did was type in ‘Skye artist Santa Barbara’ and this gallery came up.”

  I grab the computer out of her hands and look at the screen. It’s says Piek Gallery and has a photo of Skye along with photos of some of her paintings and a bio. The bio reads:

  An exciting new artist, Skye is inspired by the increasing wealth divide and the plight of the ninety-nine percent. At first glance, her work often seems to be intriguing landscapes, but a deeper look usually reveals her hard stance against the one percent.

  I can’t help but laugh. So my sweet Skye is against the one percent. It certainly lines up with all the anti-rich comments she made to me when we first met. At least I know I’ve found the right Skye.

  “Is it her?” Julie asks.

  “It’s her all right.”

  “Sounds like there’s no point in you pursuing her, given she hates the rich and all.”

  I snap the lid shut and set the laptop on the ottoman.

  “You know I like a challenge.” I take another pull of my beer.

  Julie unmutes the TV and we sit staring at the screen. I don’t know what she’s thinking about, but I’m figuring out a way to speak to Skye.

  When I get home that night, I bring up the Piek Gallery website again for a closer look at her paintings. I don’t care if they are anti-me, they’re beautiful. And I haven’t even seen them in person.

  I pull out my phone and type a message to my assistant:

  First thing Monday morning, go to the Piek Gallery and buy all the paintings by the artist Skye. I also need you to get her contact details.

  Now all I have to do is sit back and wait for my assistant to come through.

  ***

  On Monday morning at one minute past nine, my phone beeps with a text.

  Sorry Lawson, the gallery is closed on Mondays.

  Okay, first thing tomorrow morning.

  I didn’t like having to wait two days, I don’t exactly want to wait another.

  Spread Eagle

  (Skye)

  On Monday morning, I switch off the engine of my rust bucket in the driveway of Kelso’s mansion. Mansion, ha. It’s big enough to house all the homeless people in a twenty-mile radius.

  This is my first look at it. When I’d met Kelso to hash out our deal, it had been in Gordon’s gallery. Ava had suggested it, so that Gordon could overhear the arrangements and make sure Kelso wasn’t taking advantage of me.

  I count eight massive three-story columns lining the front of the house, as if it’s some kind of Greek temple. It’s ugly and riles me. He’d better not expect my paintings to be so tacky.

  I make my way to the door, with nothing but my purse over my shoulders. Gordon runs an art supply store beside his gallery and arranged for every supply I’d ever need to be sent to the house. All I have to do is show up. And try not to puke at the ostentatious display of wealth when there is such suffering in the world.

  The front door is already open. I take a deep breath and step into the entrance. Or I should say lobby. Kelso and a workman are talking near t
he bottom of one of the two sets of staircases. Yes, the lobby is so big, two staircases start at either side of the lobby and wind their way up the three floors. Disgusting.

  “Skye, welcome.”

  Kelso stops talking to the workman and waddles over to me. Sweat droplets follow the line of his receding hairline, even though it’s cool in here. As he waddles, he wipes the sweat away with his hand, then offers the same hand to me to shake.

  Feeling nausea, I take his offered hand in mine.

  “Good morning, how are you?” I ask in my waitress voice.

  “Let me give you a tour of the rooms I want pieces done in. The first one will be for here, right by the door. And make it nice and big so people notice it.” The rich bastard couldn’t even be bothered with an ‘I’m fine.’ Smile and nod, I remind myself.

  “Do you have a subject matter in mind?”

  “I’ll leave that up to you, after all, you’re the artist.” I’m surprised he doesn’t demand something in the Rococo style. As least I can choose what I want to paint.

  “Great, I’m full of ideas already.” Though I doubt he’d appreciate them.

  “Let me show you the rest of the rooms. Just watch out for the workmen. The house should’ve been finished by now, but the work got behind. I’ve already moved in so have a few rooms I’m living in, but the rest is still a work in progress.”

  Kelso leads me through room after room on his ground floor. Most of the rooms are empty, but a few are furnished and appear to be fully finished.

  On the ground floor, he wants paintings in the entrance, family room, dining room and office. Plus three in the hallway and two in the living room.

  “That’s nine, did you say you wanted ten?”

  “Yeah, another upstairs, but I don’t have time to show you now. Start the one in the entrance now,” he says, his voice stern. Okay, guess I’m just another employee here. That’s okay: for fifty grand and a gallery show, I can deal with him.

  I spend the morning in the entrance, examining the space and light and generating ideas in my notebook. My plan was to knock out these paintings as fast as possible and never have to come to this shrine of wealth again.