Changing Teams

by Jennifer Allis Provost

  “I was going to offer to buy breakfast, but you are decidedly indecent,” I said. She hadn’t added a single article of clothing to herself, not even a sock or an earring.

  “Sorry, I’m used to being nude for work,” she said. “Are you working today?”

  “Yeah.” I grabbed my phone from my back pocket, and swore when I saw the time. “Work starts in ten minutes. Rain check on breakfast?”

  “Deal.”

  Britt walked me to her door, rather graciously for a girl clad in just her underwear. Once we reached it, I hesitated before opening it.

  “Last night was…well, it was a lot of things,” I said in a rush. “No matter what else, I hope we can be friends.”

  Britt stood on her toes and pressed her lips to mine. “Friends to the end,” she murmured.

  “I’ll call you,” I promised.

  “You better.”

  Chapter Five

  Sam

  After leaving Britt’s, I hailed a cab and headed straight to Nash’s studio. I was late for work, but I’d been late plenty of times before and Nash had always been cool. Hopefully, this wouldn’t be the time he blew a gasket on me.

  You see, that’s how it was with Nash: you were his favorite, until suddenly you weren’t. Anything could be the cause of your demise, from wearing the wrong shoes to being seen with the wrong person at the wrong party, or the wrong person at the right party for that matter. The only reason Giovanni had been modeling for Nash for so long was that the lunk was so dense he didn’t understand when Nash was angry with him, and he just kept coming back for more abuse.

  In addition to Gio’s thick skull, there was the fact that Nash had made a ton of money off of those cheesy romance covers. Nash might be vain and spiteful, but he wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  I arrived at the studio at exactly ten forty-three; late enough to cause concern, but not job termination. I hoped. When the elevator door slid open, I realized that my whereabouts was the last thing on Nash’s mind.

  Nash had dragged out the harem set, and two girls were draped across it wearing those glorified genie outfits he liked, incredibly tacky numbers that were nothing more than golden belts and sheer pink skirts. Only, these girls weren’t any models we’d hired recently. In fact, they didn’t look that far out of high school, and their vacant gazes made me wonder if they’d had vodka for breakfast.

  “Sam,” Nash called, striding toward me. “I didn’t know you were coming in today.”

  “Schedule said we had a shoot this morning,” I said. Nash was shirtless, and instead of his usual still camera he was recording video. Interesting. “What do you need me for?”

  “Actually, this is a closed shoot,” Nash said. “Why don’t you take the day off, with pay?”

  I glanced at the girls, then remembered something my gran had always said: not my circus, not my monkeys. “You’re the boss,” I said. “Call if you need me.”

  With that I stepped back onto the elevator, studiously not thinking about what was going on in the studio. When I stepped out onto the sidewalk I turned my face toward the sun, and wondered what I’d do with myself all day. Before I knew what my hands were doing, I grabbed my phone and sent Britt a text.

  Chapter Six

  Britt

  As soon as Sam shut the door behind him, I went to my kitchen and started throwing together breakfast. I wish we’d been able to have breakfast together, but Sam had work and work was important. Speaking as the poorest girl on the block, I knew just how important work was.

  Which is why when my phone beeped with an email alerting me to an opening for a life model at the museum’s eleven o’clock art class, I immediately accepted the assignment. Putting my breakfast fixings back in the fridge, I threw on some clothes, grabbed a granola bar and bottle of water, and ran out the door. The gig only paid fifty dollars, but that was a heck of a lot better than no dollars.

  I got to the museum with ten minutes to spare, and went straight to the glorified broom closet that served as my dressing room. After I’d taken off my clothes, I donned my black velour robe, took a seat, and tried to meditate. Sitting naked in front of twenty or so strangers was never easy, so I always took a few moments to compose myself.

  For the second time that morning, my phone trilled. I grabbed it from the pocket of my jeans, and saw a text from Sam.

  Sam: Lunch? Almost as good as breakfast.

  Britt: Can’t. Working.

  Sam: Working where?

  Britt: Life model.

  Sam: You nekkid?

  I laughed, then I turned toward the mirror and opened my robe a bit, showing off my bare belly. I snapped a selfie and sent it to Sam with the caption: “About to be.”

  Sam: Where is this class?

  I texted him the address and room number, but before I got what I was sure would be a smart ass reply, the class’s instructor, Ben, knocked on the door. “We’re ready if you are, Miss Sullivan,” he said through the door.

  “I suppose I am,” I muttered.

  I followed Ben to the studio, and saw that there were only fourteen students that day, twelve of whom were women. I shuddered; somehow, it was always easier for me to ignore male eyes on my naked flesh. I mean, I knew how men were going to react to the sight of me standing in front of them naked. Women’s reactions could range anywhere from appreciative to jealous to downright nasty.

  At least these twelve women seemed polite, for now. I ascended the dais and turned toward Ben. “Pose?”

  “Just sit and get comfortable,” he said. “This is meant to be a relaxed session.”

  I nodded, then I dropped my robe and sat on the cold, hard wooden chair. I stared at the clock on the far side of the studio, willing the hands to move faster. Twenty-two minutes into the session, I heard the studio door open and shut. That was unusual; Ben had a strict closed door policy during nude sessions. I, and a few of the students, glanced toward the door. When I saw who had entered I almost laughed aloud.

  Sam was leaning on the wall next to the door.

  “Her expression changed,” whispered one of the students. I realized I was grinning at Sam, and he at me. “Can you have her change it back?”

  “Life is fluid,” Ben said. “Adjust.”

  The student grumbled something about unprofessional models, but I couldn’t find it in me to care. With Sam smiling at me I felt like I could handle anything, including a miffed second-rate art student. I almost completely ignored that little voice inside my head, the one wondering why I was letting Sam affect me so.

  You’ll never have a future with him.

  So what? He’s nice.

  You’ll just end up alone again.

  Yeah, but maybe I won’t be alone right now.

  Eventually the forty-five minute session ended, and I slipped my robe over my shoulders and fastened the sash. While the students packed up their supplies, Sam met me at the base of the dais.

  “Good show, darlin’,” he greeted. Lower, he added, “You do a lot of these?”

  “A girl needs to pay the bills,” I replied.

  “Exactly how much are they paying you?” Sam demanded.

  “Fifty,” I replied. Sam’s brow furrowed, but I ignored him as Ben approached.

  “Lovely as always, Miss Sullivan,” Ben said as he handed over the envelope with my sitting fee.

  “Thank you,” I said, stashing the envelope inside my robe pocket. “I’m surprised you let Sam join us.”

  “You know I wouldn’t normally let a non-student attend,” Ben said. “However, I could hardly say no to your boyfriend.”

  “Boyfriend,” I repeated, giving Sam a look. “Yeah, we wouldn’t want to keep my boyfriend waiting outside.”

  “Come on, darlin’,” Sam drawled, “let’s get you dressed. We’ve got that lunch date to keep.”

  Sam guided me out of the studio with his hand on the small of my back, then I grabbed his wrist and dragged him inside my dressing room. Once the door was shut behind us
, he hissed, “Don’t you know the first rule about these gigs?”

  “Always demand payment in cash?” I quipped.

  “No, always bring a friend.” He looked at me, his brow furrowed and lips smushed into a crooked line. “Anything can happen at these places, Britt. Best have a friend nearby in case anything goes south.”

  “I know, but…”

  Sam stepped forward, grasping my elbows. “But what?”

  “I don’t really have anyone to come with me,” I confessed. “I mean, I’m sure Astrid would, but she has real, paying work to do. Ben’s always been real chill, and the museum is close to my apartment, so whenever they need a life model I sit in if I can.”

  “For a measly fifty bucks?”

  “That fifty bucks will buy me a week’s worth of groceries,” I said. “Not everyone pays as well as Nash.”

  Sam’s frown transformed into a smile. “Then I’ll just see about getting you more gigs with Nash,” he said. “In the meantime, I’m coming with you to these sessions.”

  “Don’t you have your own work with Nash?”

  “I’ll make time.” He released me and made a twirling gesture with his hand. “Get your clothes on. Lunch is waiting.”

  “Why are you buying me lunch?” I asked as I turned my back and dropped my robe. “Not that I don’t appreciate the offer.”

  “A gentleman always buys a lady lunch after spending the night with her,” Sam replied. “Breakfast would have been better.”

  “About that,” I said as I stepped into my jeans. “I thought you had work today.”

  “I have learned that today’s shoot is a private session,” Sam said, “Nash has no need of me.”

  It might have been my imagination, but Sam’s voice seemed a bit strained. I pulled my shirt over my head, then I sat and slipped on my boots. Sam had his back to me, arms folded across his chest while he stared at the door. His butt looked pretty good in those jeans, and I remembered something from earlier that morning. “Hey, boyfriend,” I said with a smirk, “still going commando?”

  He glared at me over his shoulder, eyes narrowed. “Fresh,” he admonished. “Come on, I’m starving. Are you in the mood for Thai?”

  ***

  Lunch was all kinds of terrible. Thai isn’t really my favorite sort of food, what with all the weird spices and abundance of fried dishes. However, it was what Sam wanted, and since he was paying I went along with it. I made the best of things and ordered a bowl of miso soup and a green salad, while Sam went for some kind of hundred-course midday feast.

  “Hungry?” I asked Sam as the waiter deposited the first few plates before him.

  “I haven’t eaten since breakfast yesterday,” Sam replied. “I was busy with the shoot, then I went straight to Michael’s and on to Astrid’s.”

  “You had all that booze on an empty stomach?” I asked. “No wonder you were crawling into a strange woman’s bed.”

  “Hush,” Sam admonished. “You were the one who decided to bring me home with you.”

  “Someone had to look after you.” I started on my soup, which was the hot salty goodness one would expect from a cup of miso. When my salad arrived, Sam expressed his displeasure over my selections.

  “Are you really eating nothing but broth and leaves?” he demanded.

  “This is what I usually eat for lunch,” I replied. “I need to watch my weight, you know.”

  “What you need, darlin’, is a healthy dose of protein.” With that, Sam carved off a portion from one of the dishes before him and plopped it onto my salad. “Try that.”

  “What is this?” I asked, poking it dubiously.

  “Fried duck, and it’s amazing.”

  I sliced off the smallest sliver, and hesitantly placed it on my tongue. The skin was crisp perfection, while the meat was moist and succulent, almost decadent. No, it was definitely decadent. “It’s okay.”

  “Okay?” he repeated. “No one thinks roast duck is just okay.”

  “I don’t really like meat,” I demurred.

  “You’ll eat a thousand kinds of shellfish, but unfamiliar poultry skeeves you out?”

  I shrugged. “What can I say, I’m a pescetarian.” I ate some more soup, then asked, “So tell me, Sam MacKellar, do they eat a lot of duck where you’re from?”

  “I’m from Iowa,” Sam replied. “You know what Iowa’s got? Pigs and corn.”

  “Pigs means there’s bacon.”

  Sam gave me a look that made me shiver in all the places I liked to shiver. “I thought you didn’t care for meat.”

  “Bacon is in a class of its own.” I finished the duck, all the while ignoring Sam’s smug grin, and asked, “What made a nice boy like you leave Iowa for the big bad city?”

  “I came because the city is big and bad,” he replied. “Everything in Iowa was so…safe. Boring.” He chewed for a moment. “I knew that if I wanted to make it as an artist, I needed to get the hell out of there.”

  “So you came here,” I said. “Why New York? Why not Chicago, or Los Angeles, or Europe?”

  “Because, New York is where everything happens,” he replied. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  “I’ve always been here, or nearby at least. I’m from New Rochelle.” I chewed a slice of cucumber, and amended, “Well, I’m really from this nowhere town in Massachusetts. But after my mom married my stepfather, he moved us to New Rochelle.”

  “Was New Rochelle nice?”

  “I’d have preferred staying in Massachusetts.” I took another bite of my salad, and added, “I would have preferred keeping my original last name too, but my stepfather went and adopted me. Something about making me feel like part of the family, yadda yadda yadda.”

  “Seems like a nice thing to do,” Sam said. Oh, yeah, my stepfather was always doing nice things for others while secretly plotting out people’s lives for them. “At least you ended up with a nice Irish name.”

  I laughed. “I’ve always been Irish. My last name used to be Cavanaugh.”

  “Your father’s name?”

  “No, my mother’s. My father’s surname is O’Rourke. Irish all around, you see.”

  “That I do.” Sam’s brow furrowed. “Forgive me for asking, darlin’, but is he still around?”

  “My father?” I asked, and Sam nodded. “Yeah. I talk to him all the time. Why?”

  “Just wondering why a man would allow his daughter to take her stepfather’s name.”

  Since that was a complex situation, I gave Sam the simple version. The full version would take approximately one year to tell, and only if I skimmed over most of the details. “My father agreed because it was what my mother wanted. He’s always done everything he could to make her happy.”

  “Sounds like a good man.”

  “He is,” I said. “Best man there is.”

  We ate in silence for a time, then Sam asked, “Tell me, Britannica Lynn, are you one of those jaded New Yorkers? The seen everything, done everything type?”

  I laughed through my nose. “Hardly. My stepfather was so strict I wasn’t allowed to come to the city except with him or my mother. I couldn’t even attend school trips to Rockefeller Center.”

  “Maybe he was concerned for your safety.”

  “No, he just didn’t want me to do anything that might embarrass him. I spent years plotting how I’d escape from him.”

  “Escape?” Sam repeated. “Was he really that bad?”

  “You have no idea.” I finished my salad. “My opportunity came after I got accepted to a college in the city. Stepdaddy didn’t want me going to school there, but my mom put her foot down. Told him he had no right interfering in my education.”

  “Do you really call him stepdaddy?” Sam asked.

  “I’d stick a fork in my eye before I said that to his face,” I replied. “Anyway, once I hit twenty-one and my trust fund matured, I dropped out of college to concentrate on my art.”

  “Those canvases in your apartment are your work?”

 
I hadn’t realized he’d seen them. “Yeah. They are.”

  “They’re great. You’ve got a great sense for color and composition.”

  People had complimented my work before, but it had never made me blush. Now, my face was so hot I could have fried an egg on my forehead. “Um. Thank you.”

  Sam looked at his food, giving me time to get my face under control. “What’s a fine artist like you doing modeling for romance novels?” he asked.

  “Modeling wasn’t really part of the plan,” I admitted. “Since the term starving artist is around for a valid reason, I picked up some modeling work. I’d modeled a bit when I was younger, and my agent is an old family friend. My mother’s family,” I amended.

  “What did your mother and stepdaddy think of your career change?”

  “Mom was cool, but according to stepdaddy, artists are too lazy to find real jobs,” I replied, remembering his red face as he screamed about me throwing away a perfectly good future as an accountant or legal assistant. “As for modeling, he says it’s a scandalous way to make a living.”

  “That’s my Britannica Lynn—scandalous,” Sam said. “If you don’t mind my asking, if you’re a trust fund girl, why do you sit for art classes?”

  I gave him a wry smile. “That trust fund was just north of fifty thousand. It got me my down payment on my current apartment, a year’s rent, and held me over while I built up my portfolio. My paying modeling gigs picked up just as the money ran out.”

  Sam nodded. “It would seem that in your mad scramble to thwart your stepfather’s plans for you, you might have missed out on some of the best, cheesiest parts of New York City.”

  “What, like the tourist traps?” I asked. “I’ve been to Times Square, just like everybody else.”

  “Not Times Square.” Sam signaled for the check. “Finish up, darlin’. I’m taking you to the Mecca of tourist traps.”