by Ava Lore
He visibly calmed himself and wiped his eyes. “Oh!” he said. “Oh, wow. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to, er, give you that impression. What I meant was that I am an amateur artist, and I find you quite lovely as a potential subject for a piece.”
...Okay, that threw me off balance. There's probably something wrong with me in that I seem to jump to the serial killer explanation for people's weird behavior instead of considering other viable explanations, but really. An amateur artist? This guy? From what I'd heard of him, his greatest talent was getting the media spotlight on him.
My incredulity must have shown in my face, because his smile grew. “You don't believe me?” he said. “It's true. I dabble in the arts.”
“Oh,” I said finally. “That's... great.”
“In fact, it's the main reason I bought you.”
Does... does this guy want art lessons? I wonder. “It is?”
“Oh yes. I knew from the moment I saw you from across the ballroom that I wanted to paint you. Or take your picture. Or perhaps sculpt you...” He took a step closer, and my hands tightened on the bar stool. He was so tall, and I caught a whiff of a very masculine scent underneath his aftershave. The hard muscles of his body filled out his tux, and I found myself praying that he was telling the truth, because if he tried to kill me I'd be no match for a barrel chest and biceps like the ones he was sporting.
“Wow,” I said. “You, uh, work in a lot of mediums.”
“I'm quite versatile,” he assured me. “And that is what I have planned for our date. Or rather, for our several dates.”
I scowled. “Excuse me? I never said anything about several dates.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Oh? Well, I paid nine thousand dollars for you. I feel that I have procured your services as a model, or perhaps I should say as an inspiration, for as long as it takes to complete one masterpiece featuring you.”
For an artist, this guy sure talked oddly about it. “I... I suppose we should see how it goes,” I said cautiously. Nine thousand dollars weighed pretty heavily on my conscience, but I wasn't about to let him see that. “Let's stick with one and if I'm comfortable with you, then we can maybe negotiate more.”
“A woman who drives a bargain,” Ward said. “I like that. I knew you were different just looking at you.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I bet you did.” He gave me a strange look and I shook my head. “Okay, fine. But here's the deal. No nudity unless we discuss things first. I won't have you doing that shitty creepy thing some male photographers do when they say, 'oh, just take a little more off, show me some nipple,' because that shit is gross and we are both professionals.” I caught myself. “Well, I am, at least.”
“I'm professional in many things,” Ward interjected, sounding almost hurt.
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Well, since you yourself said you're an amateur, you'd better read up on the rules of engagement first.”
In the dim light, I saw his eyes gleam and harden. He seemed to think I was presenting a challenge to him rather than giving him the benefit of the doubt and kindly instructing him on how civilized people behaved toward each other in situations such as these. “Hey,” I snapped. “I'm not joking around here. This is how professionals behave.”
“Of course,” he said smoothly. “And I vow I shall behave quite professionally.” From the depths of his jacket he produced a white card and held it out to me, pinched between two elegant fingers. Gingerly I reached out and took it, trying to ignore the sudden dark hum of my blood in my veins when our fingertips brushed together. I ripped the card from his grip as I snatched my hand away. His eyes glittered down at me, but he said nothing about my reaction.
“My home address and phone number,” he said instead. “Are you available tomorrow afternoon?”
I swayed on my feet. I doubted I'd be available for anything tomorrow other than to try out any and all hangover cures, for science. However, a modeling gig wasn't so bad, and the sooner it was done the sooner I could cut ties with this guy. “Yeah,” I said, tearing my eyes away from his and pretending to study his card under the dim blue light. “Yeah, I think I'm free.”
“Excellent. Are you allergic to ferrets?”
My brain clunked.
“No?” I said. “I don't think so, anyway.”
“Oh good.” He beamed. “Because I have many ferrets. I might, perhaps, wish for you to pose with them. Nothing sexual, I assure you, but I think I could make an interesting composition from those elements.”
Ferrets. Really.
Maybe this guy wasn't a PR juggernaut, using eccentricity to his advantage. Maybe he didn't have an unfortunate coke addiction. Maybe he really was as bugfuck nuts as I'd heard, and I suspected that I, virtuous woman that I am who owns no television, had only scratched the surface of his crazy.
I liked this deal less and less all the time. I don't like crazy. Crazy brings drama. Drama brings tears brings screaming brings fighting brings slamming doors brings makeup sex and the cycle begins anew. And I'd had enough of that bullshit to last me a lifetime. Longer than a lifetime. When I get reincarnated into, say, a deer herd, I'll totally be a loner deer who doesn't interact with the other deer just to avoid bullshit drama about who rutted with who, and who saw who rubbing antlers with who, and so forth.
That's probably why I stuck with my current job. It was a steady paycheck, and the drama was minimal, and always involved other people when it was there, people I could brush off and ignore and then when I got home I could just read a book and not think about it...
Oh, I thought. Oh, crap.
Am I getting boring?
I looked at Malcolm Ward again, really looked at him this time. Yes, he was quite handsome, extremely well-dressed, and very well-formed. But aside from that there was a certain... something... about him that called to me. A little thrill of attraction, stretching from him to me. I'd felt it when our eyes met across the room. I'd felt it when he had demanded I submit myself for auction.
I was feeling it now.
I won't lie. I've been a magnet for drama in the past. I'm used to handling it. The drama of my current job is piddling compared to the shit I've had to deal with in the art world. But I had to admit, life was getting rather dull...
I'm bad at avoiding drama. I'm good at resolving it, but I guess I've had a lot of practice.
“Great,” I heard myself saying. “I'll be there tomorrow afternoon, ready to pose with ferrets. What time?”
“Shall we say four o'clock? That way we might catch an early dinner afterward...”
A date. Of course he wants a date from this. But whatever, if it took care of this, if it resolved this drama, I could do that. And it probably wouldn't be torture.
“Sure,” I agreed. Because I'm an idiot who makes the same mistakes over and over again. “That sounds fine.”
“Excellent!” He beamed at me, then reached out and put his delicate, long-fingered hands on my bare shoulders before leaning in to kiss my cheeks, European style.
The moment his skin met mine, a wave of dizziness swept over me, a slipping, falling sensation dropping straight through the center of my body. The warmth of his touch spread out over me, dripping along my skin like golden honey, and the scent of him, rich and masculine, invaded my head as he leaned in close. His cheek brushed mine—slightly rough with the growth of a day's beard—his lips barely grazing against my face before he moved to the other side.
As in a dream, I saw his mouth pass by my eyes as he traveled from one cheek to the other, and in that instance I saw his lips twisted and drawn, not in a devilish smile as I thought he might be wearing after wringing concessions from me, but in misery. Then the moment passed and he kissed my other cheek before drawing back, beaming once again, his hands still heavy on my shoulders.
“Tomorrow!” he bellowed, then swept past me, leaving me reeling.
Dazed, I watched him weave through the crowd, clapping his hand on backs, leaning in for more kisses. My face burned with his touch, my hea
rt racing like a rabbit's in my chest, and long after he disappeared through the door to the ballroom I stared after him.
What a weird guy, I thought. And I was going to spend more time with him. The most interesting character to come out of these terrible events, and I'd pretty much fallen into his lap. A neat disruption to my dulling life.
Despite my better inclinations, I was looking forward to it, ferrets and all. But what I was most looking forward to was a chaser for my chaser.
I signaled the bartender and settled back in my chair, preparing to forget this stressful night ever happened, with the help of my good friend alcohol.
*
My bid to contract amnesia didn't work, sadly. It only made me wake up at ten the next morning with dread and bile in my stomach, last night's clothes on, and one of my false eyelashes stuck to my forehead. Looking at the clock, I realized I had to be clean, presentable and preferably not sick in slightly under six hours. I didn't know if I was going to make it, so I did what I always do when I wake up with a terrible hangover and guy problems: I took a cold shower and dragged myself over to Felicia's house.
“So,” I said, when Felicia opened her door to my incessant knocking,“what do you know about Malcolm Ward?”
Felicia crossed her arms, and through my hungover haze I realized she was wearing only a waist cincher, a garter belt and some stockings. I clapped my hands over my eyes and lurched forward until I was well inside the house and she closed the door behind me. “Must you?” I demanded blindly from the middle of the foyer. “Must you insist on destroying my brain with your perversions?” It was mostly faux-outrage by now, but man. She and Anton just did not let up.
“Oh, come on,” she said, “you know I do it all for you.”
“Put a robe on. I can't look at your tits and think straight.”
“I'm glad I have that effect on you,” she said, and I heard her waltz off and ascend the stairs.
With a sigh, I lowered my hands and staggered into her kitchen for coffee. By the time she came back down wearing a black silk robe, I was feeling a little more chipper and ready to assess my contracted modeling gig-slash-date with her. She sat down across from me at the breakfast table, propped her chin in her hand, and grinned at me.
“So,” she said, “you like Malcolm Ward?”
I glared at her. “I didn't say that. I asked you what you knew about him.”
She shrugged. “Not much besides the stuff he does to get himself in the news and on the gossip blogs.”
“But... he was on the list for your party,” I said. “And you must know him well enough to have asked for him to participate in the auction... right?” Given my level of idiocy regarding the current state of who was in and who was out in the worlds of business, finance, and high society, Anton left the invitations to Arthur and the organizing to me. I had assumed that Anton would know the guy, and that Felicia, by virtue of being married to Anton, would sort of absorb the information by osmosis.
Felicia waved a hand. “Oh, you know, I don't have a lot of control over that stuff. I hate those functions. If you want to ask someone about Malcolm Ward, ask Arthur. He clearly thought Ward was a big enough player in the business world to invite him.”
I groaned. “I don't want to ask Arthur. He hates me. Or likes me. I can't tell with that guy. He's always smiling.”
Felicia laughed. “I think he's a really nice guy.”
“That's because he has to be nice to you. You guys pay him lots of money to be nice.”
She pursed her lips. “I suppose that's true.” Abruptly she stood and walked across the kitchen to where her cellphone sat, plugged in and charging. Turning it on, she selected a contact and held the phone to her ear.
“Who are you calling?” I asked her.
“Arthur,” she said, though in a chirpy voice, and I knew that was my cue to lie low. “Hi! Sorry to call on a Saturday, but I was wondering what you knew about Malcolm Ward and why you invited him last night.”
She listened as Arthur spoke on the other end of the line.
“Well obviously I'm concerned about Sadie,” she said. “She's my best friend and she got sold off to him.”
She listened for a while, nodding occasionally, then rolling her eyes at me. Finally she said, “Okay, well, that's all I wanted to know. Yeah, see you on Monday,” and hung up.
“So?” I said as soon as she set the phone down. “What did he say?”
She shrugged at me. “Not much. Malcolm Ward is a self-made billionaire. He's thirty five. Comes from a good New England family, all that jazz. Before this past year he was known for being very severe and withdrawn, though he took insane risks with his businesses and he was a really brutal taskmaster for himself and his employees. That stuff paid off, which was good, but over the last year people have been saying he's going a little... crazy.”
Ferret-crazy, I thought. “Yeah?”
She nodded. “He's still insanely rich and an incredible connection to have, so Arthur put him on the list and solicited a donation. He didn't actually expect Ward to show up, much less put something on the auction block. I think Arthur was hoping he was crazy enough to spend a stupid amount of money on something at the auction.”
“He did,” I said. “He bought me, remember?”
“I think Arthur was hoping more for something in the area of fifty thousand dollars. Nine thousand is still pretty good, though.”
“So that's it? Nothing about what he likes or don't likes or is famous for?”
“Other than being crazy and rich? No. I'm under the impression that up until last year he was extremely bland. I don't even know if he had much of a personality, to be honest.” At my curious look she blushed. “I spent some time last night researching him on the internet for you.”
I wanted to smack myself in the head, but I didn't because I was afraid I might cause myself to be sick. Looking shit up and handling things like that was usually my job. I'd been too drunk from my vodka chaser's chaser's chaser to even drunk-text an ex, much less actually do something useful, like research. “Anything interesting at all?”
She shook her head. “Not that I could see. Mostly it seemed like he was a workaholic for ages and now he's gone a little loopy in the head. Or so they say.”
“Yeah, I bet,” I muttered. He hadn't struck me as particularly nuts when I was talking to him, except for the ferret bit, but he was... well, definitely a little off. I sipped my coffee. “You don't think he'll, like, try to skin me and wear me as a hat, do you?”
Felicia laughed. “No. I totally don't. I met the guy last night after he talked to you at the bar. He was really... outgoing.”
“Hmph,” I said. I've known plenty of outgoing guys. They were all jerks.
“So what kind of date is he taking you on?” she asked.
“It's not a date. I don't think. He wants me to pose for him.”
Felicia blinked. “Pose?”
“Like for pictures.”
A horrified look crossed her face. “Oh, Sadie—” she began.
I made an irritated noise at her. “It's nothing illicit. He said he's an amateur artist and he wants to use me as a subject.”
Felicia looked puzzled. “I'd never heard anything about him being an artist.”
“I only know what he told me.”
“Huh.” She thought for a moment. “What kind of artist?”
We both knew what she meant, but unfortunately I had no idea what to tell her. “He sort of implied... everything?” I thought back on what he'd said. “Photography, sculpture, painting...”
Felicia frowned. Like me, she knew a lot of artists. There certainly were people who did all sorts of different things in different mediums, but in our experience people tended to find a focus and hone in on it. Yeah, it was great to take classes in other stuff and see what you liked, but usually something called to you. You didn't end up doing more than two things, and usually the two things were related if you did. Photography and design, for instance.
We both sat there and puzzled this out for a few minutes before Felicia heaved a sigh. “Well,” she said, “don't do anything I wouldn't do, I guess,” which was really funny, considering.
“Yeah,” I said. “I'll get right on that.”
“Take a long bath and just try to be a little less surly than you usually are,” she advised me. “I think Anton was wanting to do some business with Ward at some point in the future.”
“Oh no,” I groaned.
“You don't have to put out or anything like that,” she said. “Just don't... you know.” She gave me a little smile.
Don't try to shock him or scare him off, is what she was saying. Well, shit. There went my escape plan.
She pinned me with pleading eyes until I finally gave in. “Fine!” I said. “I'll try to be an adult.”
“Thank you, Sadie. And try to have fun. I worry about you. This job seems to be stressing you out.”
What? That was totally not true. I was, if anything, bored, and I opened my mouth to tell her so, but just then a heavy thump came from above us and Felicia looked up.
“Oh,” she said. “It sounds like Anton might have gotten out of his restraints. Can you see yourse—?”
“Yes!” I snapped. Of course they were in the middle of some weird sex thing. Of course. “I will see myself out, please don't bother yourself on my account.”
“Well, who else will?” Felicia asked, giving me a grin.
Ouch, I thought. Felicia and I have known each other for years. We're best friends. We can say shit like that to each other. But sometimes, I wonder if we really should.
It was time for me to go in any case. Felicia crossed the room and hugged me and I tried not to think about how naked she was under her robe, and then she skipped out of the kitchen and up the stairs. I sighed, drained the last of my coffee, and let myself out of the house.
Outside, the cold slap of damp wind smacked me full in the face. It was February, and I'd been over a year on the job with Felicia as my boss. Pulling a cigarette from my coat pocket, I stuck it in my mouth, lit it, and took a long drag, willing the nicotine to cut through the hangover fog. This had to be my eight thousandth cigarette since starting this job as Felicia's personal assistant, and I was beginning to feel it. The cold rattled my bones and the smoke burned my lungs.
