He felt like an utter prick.
Greg closed his eyes and leaned his elbow against the desk, resting his forehead on his fingertips as the sun rose slowly in his window and flooded his studio with light.
He would see her again tonight, and have to deal with his feelings again. But for now, it was time to set his work aside and take a much-needed nap. He knew who would occupy his dreams.
Even when he slept, he couldn’t escape his desire.
* * * *
"Hey, Nicky, you okay?"
"Hm?" She looked up from her coffee, blinking. She hated it when Linda called her "Nicky." It made her sound like some eight-year-old boy. But she’d never quite had the guts to tell Linda that. She was her boss, after all. "Oh ... yeah. I’m fine."
"You sure? You seem really spaced out today," said Linda.
"Didn’t sleep well." She closed her eyes and rubbed them with one fist. "I just need to have some coffee."
"Insomnia, huh?" asked Linda. "You should try some sleeping pills. My husband was having trouble sleeping a few years back, and the pills worked wonders for him."
Her bright, perky voice sounded unusually shrill this morning, though Nichole knew it was just her fatigue. She wanted nothing more than to put in some earplugs, lay her head down on the desk and take a nap. "I don’t think I need pills. I just had a lot on my mind last night, that’s all."
"Oh. Stress, huh? Well, if you need to take the day off, I’ll understand. Don’t want you drifting off in the middle of a call, and you haven’t used up any of your sick days yet." She placed a hand on Nichole’s forehead. "You sure you don’t have a fever or anything, honey?"
Honey. Normally, Linda only used that word on people who were much younger than her. Sometimes, she seemed to forget that Nichole was her own age. Hell, nearly everyone in the office treated her as if she were fifteen. She guessed it was her appearance: just over five feet tall, and slight, with big, brown eyes. Some mornings, she considered wearing something scandalously low-cut to work, something that showed off her breasts, if just to remind the world that she had breasts. But of course, she’d never do any such thing.
"I’m fine," Nichole insisted, pulling away from Linda’s cool, dry hand.
Linda shrugged. "If you say so." Then, mercifully, she left.
The hum of the office filled Nichole’s ears: phones ringing, fax machines spitting out paper, voices saying "How can I help you?" and "Please hold." Nichole tuned it out as best she could, her head sinking toward the desk as she slipped into a daydream of making love to Greg in the middle of a lush, green field sprinkled with dandelions. The phone on her desk rang, distracting her from her reverie, and she picked it up. "Coleman’s Gifts, this is Nichole speaking. How may I help you?"
Somehow, she managed to get through the day, although she nodded off a couple of times during slow hours. At five, she took a cab home, where she immediately curled up on her couch with a blanket wrapped around her and turned on the TV. The commercials were a low, soothing drone in the background of her thoughts. Her eyes drifted shut.
Just then, the phone rang.
Nichole sat up, turned off the TV and picked up the receiver, heart pounding. She felt suddenly wide awake. "Hello?"
"Hey, Nichole."
"Oh. Hi, Greg." Damn it. Her voice sounded so ... squeaky. She was mousy enough without sounding like one. She cleared her throat. "What’s up?"
"I wondered if you could come over and model for me this evening. They shortened the deadline for this commission. I need to get it done as soon as possible."
"Oh...."
"If you’re busy, I’ll make do," he added. "I’ve already made a small model from the preliminary sketches. I know this is short notice. I don’t want you to cancel anything important for me."
God, he had such a sexy voice. So deep and confident. Kathy had been insane to leave him. "No, I’m not busy. I--I’ll be over around six. Is that okay?"
"That’s fine. Have you eaten yet?"
"No."
"I’ll make some dinner, then. Do you like spaghetti?"
"Sure. That sounds great."
"All right. See you then." A soft click.
Slowly, as if in a trance, she hung up and dried her sweaty palms on her slacks. "Relax," she murmured. "This is no a big deal. It’s not a date or anything. He’s just making dinner." She tried to remember if he’d ever done that for her before. They’d gone out for plenty of casual dinners at restaurants, but she was pretty sure Greg had never cooked.
She took a shower, wondered briefly if she should wear something a little fancy, and then nixed the idea. She’d be taking it off soon anyway. She put on her usual jeans and T-shirt instead, and left her apartment. She didn’t bother to hail a cab. It was only a half-hour walk to Greg’s apartment, and the weather was warm and sunny. Walking, however, gave her a long time to work herself into a ball of nervous energy. By the time she got there, her stomach was aflutter.
Forget butterflies. It felt as if someone had turned a flock of sparrows loose inside her.
What was the big deal, anyway? She’d always had a crush on Greg, but they’d been out together plenty of times as friends, and she’d never felt like this.
But then, in the past, he’d always been dating Kathy. She’d always known he was off limits. That made him somehow more comfortable to be around. She could safely fantasize about him, knowing he was inaccessible. It was almost like being infatuated with an actor or a pop-star, except that she could talk to him and spend time with him ... even touch him, if she wanted. The memory of those seemingly casual, friendly touches had kept her warm on many long, cold nights.
Nichole sighed. Was she really such a coward? Why was she so threatened by the idea that he might actually return her feelings? Was it the fear of disappointment? Knowing how much it would hurt if she dared to hope and then had those hopes crushed? Or was she just afraid to step out of her safe, comfortable, passionless little world?
She walked up the steps to the apartment door. Greg’s apartment building was old and run down, the bricks faded from red to the dull orange of autumn leaves. To the building’s right was a basketball court covered with cracked pavement and surrounded by a wire fence. A few gangly adolescents were shooting hoops, and the dull thud-thud of the bouncing basketball, the soft swish of the net, echoed through the silence. The wall beside the court was scrawled with graffiti. Beside the door was a set of doorbells with the last names of the building’s occupants next to them on peeling brown tape. She rang Greg’s bell and stood, clutching the strap of her purse in tight, nervous fingers. The door opened.
Nichole’s stomach did a somersault. Greg stood there in a pair of tight jeans, faded to white at the knees, and an old, worn shirt, stained with splashes of dried slip the color of coffee with cream. The first few buttons were open, and a bit of chest-hair peeked out. He smiled at her and pushed a hand through his wavy brown hair. The fading daylight brought out the coppery undertones.
No matter how many times she saw him, she never got over how handsome he was. It made her ache.
"Hey," he said. "Come in. Spaghetti’s almost done."
She followed him inside and up the stairs, which creaked beneath her feet and were covered in stained, faded, blue-gray carpet. As they neared the top, Nichole caught a whiff of something spicy. "Smells great," she said.
"Thanks. It’s my mom’s recipe." He chuckled. "She taught me how to cook. Said women love it when men cook for them."
"She was right."
Greg took out a key, unlocked the door to his room and held it open for her. Nichole entered. The windows were open, flooding his studio with the orange light of sunset. He pulled the curtains shut, giving them some privacy. The naked bulb overhead provided more than enough light.
The armature--the wire skeleton of his sculpture--stood in the middle of the room. All that remained was to add the clay, the flesh. Already, Nichole could see the sculpture’s spirit emerging. It seemed to reach triumphantly
toward the sky with its long, graceful arm. She could only imagine how beautiful it would be when it was done.
"Would you like to see the model?" Greg asked.
"Sure." She wished she could think of something wittier to say. It seemed she was always reduced to monosyllables around him, these days.
"It’s pretty rough," said Greg. "It’s just to give me something to work from when you’re not around." He took a clay figure, about a foot tall, off the table.
Nichole’s eyes widened. The figure was pretty rough--the features were just shallow indentations--but somehow, he’d captured her perfectly. "It’s wonderful!"
"You’re too kind." He set the model down, but his fingers lingered on it for a moment, touching its back almost lovingly.
A shiver traced its way up Nichole’s spine. It was almost as if he’d touched her.
Greg glanced down at his splattered, half-open shirt. "Sorry I’m so messy, by the way. I’ve been working all day."
"It’s okay." She set her purse down on the table. She found that rumpled, messy look indescribably appealing. There was a light shadow of stubble on his face and clay drying under his nails.
He rinsed his hands in the sink and dried them on a faded blue towel. "You want dinner before or after work?"
"After. I had a late lunch."
"All right. Go ahead and take off your clothes. I’ll get my things ready."
She nodded and slipped out of her shirt. She’d thought it would be a little more comfortable now that she’d done it before, but she was still every bit as conscious of his eyes on her naked skin. She was also very aware of her own arousal. Every nerve was unbearably alive, her flesh almost painfully sensitized.
"Chilly?" asked Greg.
"I’m okay," she said. "Why?"
"Well, ah--" He gestured vaguely toward her.
Her cheeks reddened as realization dawned. Her nipples were hard as bullets. Quickly, she crossed her arms over her chest.
"I’ll turn the heat up, if you like," he said.
"No, it’s fine. Really." She stepped onto the wooden block and stood with her feet apart and one arm stretched toward the ceiling with the palm cupped. The final sculpture, she knew, would show a bird flying from her palm. It made her think of the old saying: if you love something, set it free.
"That’s good," he said. "Hold that pose."
She watched from the corner of her eye as he set up his things, unwrapped a large block of the soft, gray clay, dipped his hands into the bucket of water nearby, and tore the block in half, his long fingers making deep indentations. He slapped chunks of clay onto the skeleton, joining and smoothing the pieces with slip. The sculpture took shape slowly beneath his gentle, skilled hands. From the shapeless clay emerged the soft roundness of calf, buttock and breast, the gentle slope of the shoulders, the curve of the spine.
Greg worked for several hours, adding thinner layers of clay, building up the contours of muscle and tendon ... until at last, a complete--if somewhat rough--figure stood there. Nichole knew, from watching him work on past sculptures, that this was the easiest part. The detail work would take much longer.
He wiped his brow with one sleeve. He glanced at his watch and raised his eyebrows. "Didn’t realize how much time had passed. The spaghetti’s going to be cold."
"It’s okay," she said. "We can heat it up." She stepped down from the block and slipped into a soft, cotton robe.
"You make a great model," he said as they walked into the kitchen.
"Th-thank you." There was that squeaky voice again. Damn. Why couldn’t she be cool and confident for once? Why did she always turn into a shy thirteen-year-old when Greg complimented her?
"I just wanted you to know that I appreciate you doing this," he added.
"No problem." She fingered the sash of her robe. "I’ve always wanted to. I just never thought you’d be interested. That, and I was worried that Kathy might get the wrong idea."
"She was always a little weird about that," Greg said, ladling spaghetti noodles onto a paper plate. "She never liked me to work from female models. She never outright told me not to, but I could tell she didn’t like it. She asked me questions about them all the time."
"That doesn’t seem fair."
He shrugged, spooning sauce onto the noodles, then put it in the microwave. "I guess it’s for the best that we broke up. Still hurts like hell, but we just weren’t compatible. Different interests, different lifestyles. All that."
"She wasn’t good enough for you." The words slipped from Nichole’s mouth before she could stop them.
Greg turned to look at her in surprise. "What?"
She lowered her eyes, biting her tongue. "Never mind. It’s none of my business."
Greg said nothing, but he kept looking at her.
Nichole swallowed. She found herself speaking again, against her better judgment, as if her tongue had developed a will of its own. "She was wrong to try to push you into another career. She knew from the beginning that you didn’t want that sort of life--the ladder-climbing, the back stabbing, and all that corporate bullshit--but she couldn’t accept you for who you are. She asked you to give up your work, your passion, for her own convenience. And when she found out you weren’t willing to change your life and personality for her, she dumped you. She didn’t give a damn about how much pain she caused you. You deserve so much better than her."
For a long moment, Greg was silent. He finished heating the spaghetti and set the two plates on his small, rickety kitchen table, along with plastic forks and knives. "I’ve never had very good luck with women," he said at last. "I remember how upset my mom was when I told her I wanted to be a sculptor. She said that if that was what I planned to do with my college education, they were wasting their money on me. So I paid for my own education. Seems like that set the pattern for the rest of my life. Come to think of it, the only woman who’s ever been happy with me as I am is you." His eyes met hers, and he smiled, a surprisingly young, almost shy smile. "You’ve always been there for me, when I needed to talk, or just be with someone who wouldn’t tell me that I had my priorities wrong, or that I should be thinking about a real job at my age. You’ve always understood my choices."
Nichole was dimly aware that she wasn’t breathing. At the moment, it didn’t seem important. She was aware only of his eyes, those clear, light gray eyes, with their unusually thick, black lashes that made their color all the more striking. "I wouldn’t change anything about you," she said.
"I can’t think of anything I’d change about you, either." He got a beer out of the fridge. "Well ... maybe one thing."
She frowned slightly. "What’s that?"
"You could use a little more self-confidence." He smiled. "Once you relax, you’re a totally different person. But you’re so quiet most of the time. If you’d just show your real self more, I think you’d be a lot happier."
"I wish I could. But sometimes it’s hard." She sat at the table and stared at her plate, twisting a fork around in the noodles. "You wouldn’t think it would be so hard, just to relax."
"Normally, you’re relaxed around me," he said. "But not tonight. Tonight, you’re all tense and closed up, and I can’t figure out why. I know that this is how you get when you’ve been hurt, so now I’m wondering if I’ve done something to hurt you without realizing it."
"Oh, Greg ... it’s not like that," she said quietly. "You haven’t done anything wrong."
"Then what?"
She bit the inside of her cheek. "It’s hard to explain. But it’s not your fault."
"I wish you’d just talk to me." He paused. "Want something to drink? A beer, maybe?"
"Water’s fine. Thanks."
He filled a glass from the sink, dropped in a few ice-cubes and handed it to her.
They ate their spaghetti in silence. Nichole couldn’t seem to meet Greg’s eyes. She was worried her own eyes would give away her feelings.
They finished their dinner, and Greg cleared away the plates. "Are you up
for another few hours?" he said.
"Sure." She walked back into his studio. The blinds had been drawn over the windows, but she could tell that the sky outside was dark. She stepped up onto the wooden block and took off her robe.
She didn’t know how long he worked. She watched as his hands made flesh out of clay, and time seemed to melt away. Only when her muscles began to stiffen did she realize how many hours had passed. "Hang on," she said, stepping down from the block. "I’ve got to stretch."
"It’s getting late, anyway. Maybe we should call it a night."
"Okay," Nichole said, feeling a small twinge of disappointment, and slipped into her robe.
He washed his hands, then walked over to her. "Drive you home again?"
"Sure." She looked up at him. "Greg ... you’re not upset with me, are you?"
"Huh? Why would I be?"
"Earlier, when you asked what was bothering me, I couldn’t tell you. You’ve always been so open with me. It doesn’t seem fair for me to keep things from you."
"Don’t be silly. You’re not obligated to tell me anything. You--"
She hugged him, suddenly, and felt his breath catch. Her breasts, still tight and sensitive, pressed against his hard chest.
Slowly, his arms surrounded her. She could feel the hardness of his muscles through his T-shirt, could feel his big heart pounding inside him, where her cheek was pressed against his chest. His warm, salty-sweet smell enveloped her. "The truth is that I couldn’t tell you because I was afraid of what you’d think," she whispered.
Without Shame Page 2
