Burn

by Dawn Steele

  That part is certainly embellished.

  “Do you know anything about ceramics? In particular, vases?”

  Only those her grandmother collected.

  “Whatever I don’t know, I can learn. I’m a very quick study. I’m resourceful and I do a lot of research via the Internet.”

  “So if I’m a customer walking into the store, how would you approach me?”

  Abby thinks for a while. “I would let her browse around first, because there is nothing so annoying as to be approached by a salesperson the moment you enter a store. The customer might opt to leave, deciding that the merchandise is not to her liking or is out of her price range. But if she lingers for a while, I would approach her and say ‘Can I help you, Miss?’”

  Rachel nods. “Miss, not Ma’am?”

  “I have always found ‘Ma’am’ to denote someone older by default. Although most women say they don’t ascribe to being called ‘Miss’, it does confer a psychological advantage.”

  She is going by what her grandmother prefers while shopping. When someone called her ‘Miss’, her grandmother tittered and beamed like the moon.

  Rachel seems impressed.

  “Go on.”

  “Most people go for aesthetics while collecting vases, unless they are really serious collectors. I would ask the customer what she is looking for. Most of the time, she is looking for a decorative piece to fit in the décor of her living room or whatever space she has in mind. She is usually going by the color and contrast it would make against all the other pieces she has.”

  Abby pauses, thinking furiously.

  “She is less concerned about where the piece comes from most of the time, unless it has a unique history and if it’s from a country that suggests a certain exoticness. If she’s looking for a conversation piece, we will have to give her enough information to deliver to her friends. Kind of something in a sentence or two that she can reel off to sound knowledgeable and important.”

  “Very interesting,” Rachel says, nodding. “Those are my sentiments exactly. So tell me, how did you get to know so much about selling vases?”

  “I had a grandmother who collected them. And you’re not really selling the vase. You’re actually selling bragging possibilities. It’s up to us to make the customer see those possibilities.”

  Rachel keeps nodding, a light in her eyes. Their blue color is deeper than her brother’s and she doesn’t look so forbidding.

  “You’re hired.”

  Abby is stunned. “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.” Rachel smiles. “I wasn’t advertising for a person with a degree in rocket science.”

  “Ah.” Abby has always thought getting a real job was a lot tougher than that. Groupon certainly gave her a tougher time than Rachel Krieg.

  Rachel outlines the pay package and commissions. There are no medical or dental benefits, but then, Abby doesn’t expect any for a job like this.

  “I’d like you to start tomorrow,” Rachel says. “I like you, Abby Novak. I think we will work well together. Between you and me, my little brother needs a firm hand and an eye on him in the store – to make sure he doesn’t doctor the books, if you know what I mean?”

  Abby hesitates, and then nods.

  “Good. Come tomorrow at nine, and I’ll teach you more about the business.”

  “I’ll bring my resume then.”

  “No need.” Rachel chuckles. “This isn’t exactly a big, multinational corporation here. I have been hiring college students who want to earn a wage in the summer. The last salesgirl I had left us in the lurch last week when she had to go back to Canada.”

  They exchange a little more information, and then Abby stands up, promising to come back tomorrow. As she leaves ‘Zipangu’, she can feel the baleful eyes of Richard Krieg moving over her body like hands.

  SIMMER

  “You’re looking chipper tonight,” Devon greets her as she waltzes through the door.

  “Chipper?” She laughs at the Britishism. “You’d be so proud of me. I just landed a job today.”

  “Get out of here!” He throws a rag smudged with different colored paints at her.

  She catches it, grinning. He is in his painting overalls, and his hair is mussed up.

  “We should celebrate,” he says. “We should go for dinner. You’re paying.”

  She agrees. It’s about time she paid him back for his kindness.

  “What kind of job is it?” he asks.

  This is when she has to decide how much to tell him. She has to assume he is the kept lover of Rachel Krieg and that he knows everything there is to know about her.

  “I’m the proud salesgirl in a store that sells home décor.”

  “Cool. Who’s your new boss?”

  Her temperature rises a notch. “He’s the owner of the store that sells home décor.”

  “Ha ha. What’s his name? What’s the name of his store?” Devon puts his paintbrushes away. He is not looking at her.

  Abby thinks for a while.

  “Dick,” she says.

  “Dick.” He pauses in collecting his paint tubes and gazes at her. “You’re blushing.”

  “I am not.”

  “You are. I should know. That color looks good on you. Is he young?” He suddenly seems super-interested. And is that a touch of jealousy in his voice?

  “Yes, he’s young.”

  “Is he hot?”

  She is becoming chagrined at his line of questioning. “Yeah, some people would say he’s hot. But he’s not interested in me, Devon.”

  Something tells her that she shouldn’t be so sure about Richard Krieg.

  “Why shouldn’t he be? You don’t give yourself enough credit.” He averts his face so that she wouldn’t see his expression.

  She pauses for a bit before saying casually, “The store is called ‘Zipangu’. Do you know it?”

  Devon frowns. “No, can’t say I do. Why don’t you show it to me next time we’re out?”

  “OK,” she says, relieved. So he doesn’t know what Rachel does for a living. “Shall we go out? It’s my treat, remember?”

  “But first, a little present from me to you.”

  “You got me something?” She’s amazed.

  “It’s an outfit for your next portrait.’

  “Really?”

  He plucks a Saks Fifth Avenue paper bag from the couch and hands it to her. There is a translucent tissue wrapped package inside. She eagerly takes it out and tears at it.

  “Real ladylike,” he observes, laughing.

  Inside the folded tissue is a dress the color of a robin’s egg. She holds it up in awe – not because it’s one of those expensive second tier designer brands you get on the rack, but because the dress itself is exquisitely feminine. The material is chiffon, with embroidered lavender flowers and leaves sewn in intervals. The neckline is a plunging ‘V’.

  “Wow,” she says.

  “Wow is right. Why don’t you wear it when we go out tonight?” His suggestion is mild, but she catches the undercurrent in his voice.

  “OK, but only if you dress up too,” she says with sudden cunning.

  “Me dress up? I don’t have a tux.” He laughs.

  “No. I would like you to dress up like you’re going out with one of your friends.” She says ‘friends’ with a loaded significance.

  He flinches. “Sure, I can do that.”

  She sighs, wondering why she did that. Why does she want to bait him when things are going so well? Maybe it’s because she cannot contain her ire about his being kept on a leash by women like Rachel Krieg.

  But this is the strange thing. She wanted so much to dislike Rachel Krieg when she met her, but she doesn’t. She finds herself admiring the entrepreneur in the woman. Even if Rachel is from old money, she is enterprising enough. It only goes to show how many layers there are to a person.

  Of course, Abby is only assuming Rachel Krieg is the aggressor because of Devon’s body language towards her. She
could be dead wrong. It could have been the other woman who is the dominatrix.

  “I have news of my own,” Devon announces to change the subject.

  “Oh?”

  “I started painting that mural for Padraig’s today.”

  “That’s great.” She is genuinely pleased.

  “Thanks to you, I’ve found my muse.”

  Smiling, they go into the bedroom to get dressed in their respective outfits. She discreetly goes into the bathroom to put on the dress. When she finishes, the vision in the mirror stuns her. She has almost forgotten what she looks like in a dress.

  A knock comes on the bathroom door.

  “Ready?” says Devon in a muffled voice from outside.

  She is a little anxious when she unlocks the door to let him in. He sees her standing there in front of the bathroom mirror, and he does a double take. His eyes widen and his lips part in a grin.

  “Oh wow,” he says, frozen to the spot. He can’t stop staring at her.

  She blushes. “I’m not that pretty.”

  “Are you kidding me? You should be wearing girly dresses all the time. You look fantastic.” His smile is warm and genuine as he appraises her from head to toe, and up again. “In fact, you look more than fantastic. You’re gorgeous.”

  If he heaps any more compliments on her, she thinks she will sink into a hole in the floor. It is almost like dressing up for a prom date with the hottest boy in school.

  As promised, he is dressed in a black sleeveless shirt with clasps instead of buttons and black jeans, ripped at the knees. He looks sexy as hell. Her knees go a little weak under the asymmetrical skirt of her glorious dress just to look at him.

  “You’ll look even nicer with longer hair,” he says, coming into the bathroom and standing behind her in the mirror. He lifts her short tresses. “Maybe twice as long as this. Don’t cut your hair.”

  For you? she wants to tease him. But then, the cloud of his female patrons shadows her enthusiasm.

  “We should go.”

  “Sure.”

  Once they are on the subway, he wants her to take him to see ‘Zipangu’. She is glad that he is so interested in her job and wellbeing. When he sees the front of the store, he pauses for a bit. She searches his face for signs of recognition, but he doesn’t appear to have seen the shop or heard its name before today.

  He studies the display vases with more scrutiny than normal, as if something about them rings a bell. But of course, Abby thinks. It would make sense for Rachel Krieg to have such vases in her apartment.

  “I want to see your murals,” she announces when the ‘Zipangu’ danger has passed.

  “I’ve just started.”

  “I want to see them anyway.”

  “Later,” he says, laughing. “You were always too impatient.”

  “But you’re good. You’re seriously good. People from all over will see those murals at Padraig’s and ask who did them. Then you’ll be getting commissions from all over New York.”

  “Woah. One step at a time, pardner.”

  She likes the fact that he calls her ‘partner’, even if it’s in jest.

  They dine at a cozy French bistro called ‘Yeast’. She orders a canard and he has a poisson. Both come smothered in delicate cream sauces.

  “With all this cream, it’s a wonder French women stay so thin,” she says.

  “Have you been to France?”

  She hesitates. How much to tell him?

  “No,” she lies.

  “You could use a little meat on your bones yourself.”

  “Why?” she mock gasps. “I do declare you have been observing me at close range.”

  “Of course I have. I’ve been painting you, remember? I know every curve and angle of your head and body, every freckle on your nose.”

  “You don’t know everything,” she challenges. “I haven’t posed nude for you.”

  “So you haven’t,” he drawls. “But that’s not the aim of my composition of you in stages.”

  “What is your aim?”

  “I haven’t fully thought it out yet. I have an outline, but inspiration will suddenly come to me at odd times. Who knows how I might feel in two weeks’ time, or a month?”

  She glances at her purse.

  “I have a present for you too.”

  “You do?” He raises an eyebrow. “What for?”

  “For being so good to me. For taking me in and feeding me.”

  “You’re going to pay me back anyway, so I was just paying it forward for you. Like an advance on your salary.”

  She takes the little box out of her purse.

  “It’s not much,” she says, embarrassed at the size of her gift compared to his, “but I saw it somewhere in TriBeCa and I thought of you.”

  He seems touched as he opens the little box. He takes out a little bracelet made out of cowrie shells.

  “Like I said, it’s really not much.” Her embarrassment is sinking deeper and deeper. She feels like sliding down her chair to hide under the table.

  “No, I like it. It’s great. I don’t get many presents.” His face is tinged with pleasure as he puts it around his left wrist. “I’m going to wear this.”

  She watches him as he fumbles with the clasp. “Let me do that for you.”

  He holds out his wrist while she fastens the clasp on its underside.

  “There. It looks nice on you,” she pronounces.

  He smiles. In the soft yellow lamplight, his chestnut hair is lighted into a rich gold and his green eyes take on a shimmering cerulean hue. He has never looked more beautiful.

  They finish dinner and he reaches for the bill. She stops him.

  “I have a little cash.”

  “You don’t have any money other than what I’ve given you.”

  “That’s what I mean. Let me get this.”

  He sits back, amused, as she spends almost all the money she has in her new wallet on the dinner they ate tonight.

  They trudge back into the subway, and then it’s a ride back to his apartment. As soon as they are inside, she turns to him.

  “Devon, I know what you’re doing to sustain yourself, and I think you are so much better than that. You have so much more self-worth than you think.”

  “What exactly do you mean?” His face grows hard.

  “I’m talking about what you do for a living.”

  “I’m an artist.”

  “Yes, you are, but it doesn’t pay the bills. At least, not yet. I’m talking about what you do when you go out by yourself at night.”

  The atmosphere is suddenly charged. Her heartbeat starts to quicken, but she knows she has to confront him with this someday.

  “What do you think I do when I go out at night?” he demands.

  “I think you’re a hustler.” She is sure of it now. She doubts he has any emotional involvement with the two women she saw him with. “Am I right?”

  She searches his face carefully.

  He is silent for a long time.

  Then:

  “Yes, I am.” He doesn’t meet her eyes. “Do you think less of me for it?”

  “No. You are who you are.”

  “Yeah,” he says bitterly, “and I’m the choices I make. You’re probably thinking . . . why do I do it? The world’s oldest profession. Well, it isn’t exactly something as noble as survival. It isn’t as if ‘I have to eat, so I live off the streets’. It isn’t even that loan sharks are after my family or someone I love is toting up medical bills and so I have to pay for her cancer treatment.

  “In truth, I can probably make a living off doing other things. I can paint, for one. But I wouldn’t get to live in this nice apartment. I wouldn’t even get to have my own studio like I do now. So I took the easy route out. I became a whore. Happy?”

  She doesn’t say anything.

  He takes off his leather jacket and throws it onto the back of the couch. His arm muscles flex and tense, and his skin is golden in the light. Sighing, he throws himself on t
he couch.

  He says, “It’s funny how it becomes so easy once you get started. The first time you do it is always the hardest, of course. You have a lot of issues you can’t quite let go of, not least the perceived sleaziness of the profession.”

  She slowly moves to sit beside him on the couch. He continues to speak, not meeting her eyes.

  “I was doing a portrait commission for someone. She wanted to pose nude for me.”

  His eyes glaze over at the memory.

  SALE

  Devon was finishing a touch-up of Claire’s arm when she said, “You are a very handsome young man.”

  His pulse quickened.

  “Thank you.”

  A flush nourished the back of his neck. No matter how many times he heard this, he would never get used to it. He was quiet and shy by nature, and he didn’t go out of his way to make waves.

  Claire was lounging naked on a glass table. He didn’t know why she wanted herself painted on such an uncomfortable surface, but he was just the hired help, so he didn’t question her. She was a pretty woman. Mid-thirties, he reckoned. They talked while he was painting her, but he didn’t venture into such private things as her age or her husband’s bank account.

  Neither did she venture to talk about her husband. Devon knew she had one though. When he came into the house, there were photographs of them all over the lounge and on the piano. No kids.

  “You really are,” she said, flexing a leg. “Very, very handsome indeed. You must get that very often.”

  “Not really.”

  He didn’t dare look up from his canvas. Painting someone nude was a very intimate endeavor, especially when they were the only two people in the apartment. She had mentioned that her husband was away. He could always tell when someone was coming on to him, and it was doubly discomfiting when it was a client.

  “Do you find me beautiful, Devon?”

  His throat went ever so slightly dry. “Yes.”

  “Do you want to sleep with me?”

  She angled her foot and twirled it suggestively.

  “You are a happily married woman, Mrs. Barker.”

  “You’re avoiding the question.”

  He pulled in a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Barker, but I’m just trying to earn a living here. I don’t want to come between you and your husband and I don’t want any trouble.”