Текст книги "Painless"

Автор книги: Devon Hartford

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

“I’m sorry to hear that. Can I see your Student ID?”

I pulled it out and handed it to her. She typed my info into her computer. “It looks to me like you’ve reached the maximum federal loan amount already, based on your parents’ income and your calculated financial need.”

“But I need more money,” I scoffed.

She folded her hands on her desk. “I’m sorry, Samantha. But you have to understand, the federal government and the university consider it your parents’ responsibility to pay for college. The loans are intended to subsidize whatever amount your parents can’t cover. And you’re expected to work to help pay for anything left over. I see on my computer that you have a work study job?”

“I do, at the campus art museum, but it doesn’t come close to making up the difference I’m going to owe for Spring tuition.”

“Have you considered finding a second job off campus?”

“I had one, but it didn’t, uh…work out. It was at a convenience store. I smelled like hot dogs every time I came home from work.”

She grimaced, “Hot dogs?”

“Yeah. I’ll never eat one again. I’m traumatized,” I giggled. “It totally gets in your hair, worse than cigarette smoke.”

“Sounds like you’re better off without that job,” she winked. Sheri was nice.

“Anyway,” I said, “I’m looking for another job. But I haven’t found one yet. It may take awhile. Jobs are scarce.”

She nodded sympathetically, “The job market is tough right now.”

“But even if I do find one, I know it probably won’t cover the rest of my tuition.”

“How did you cover the difference Fall and Winter Quarters?”

I frowned, “My parents paid.”

“Aren’t they going to help pay for Spring?”

I held my palms up in frustration. “It’s complicated, but…no.”

Compassion knitted Sheri’s brows, “I’m sorry to hear that. It happens more often than you might think.”

“So what can we do? Without my parents’ help, there’s no way I can pay my tuition on time.”

“You could pay in monthly installments,” she offered. “Would that help? It’s three equal payments with the first one due in March.”

I did the math in my head. “With the loan money I’m supposed to get for Spring, I’ll have enough to cover the first payment. But I won’t have enough to make the second and third.”

“At least that gives you some time to find another job,” Sheri said hopefully.

“Yeah,” I sighed, “but I’m not going to make thousands of dollars by April, and thousands more by May.”

Sheri winced, “That sounds like a problem.”

“You’re telling me,” I groaned and clapped my hands on my knees. “I don’t know what else to do.”

“The first step is talking to your parents. Try to work through whatever it is that’s coming between you and them.”

“Believe me, I’ve tried. It’s been an ongoing discussion since I started at SDU last fall.”

“But you’re still talking. That’s something, right?” she smiled optimistically.

“Maybe ‘discussion’ is too strong a word,” I sighed. “More like them giving me orders that they claim I refuse to obey.”

Sheri rolled her eyes. “I know how that goes. I was there once myself. My mom and I had it out all the time when I was a teenager.”

“So you know what I’m talking about?” It felt good to have someone who could relate.

“Do I ever. But that doesn’t mean you can’t get through to your own parents.”

“Believe me, I tried.”

She took a deep breath while nodding her head. I half expected her to keep pushing me to talk to my parents, but she didn’t. Instead, she said, “If you absolutely can’t get your parents to understand where you’re coming from—”

I shook my head emphatically no.

“—and nothing is going to change their minds, there is the option of overriding your dependency status.”

I sat up on the edge of my chair hopefully. “Really?”

“Yes. But you have to meet certain criteria,” she cautioned.

“What criteria?” I was sure I could meet something or other. Criteria and me were besties. We went way back.

“Are your parents incarcerated or presumed dead?”

Maybe me and Criteria weren’t as close as I’d hoped. But the idea of my mom or dad in jail was hilarious. I couldn’t decide if my mom would rule her cell block or be shived in the shower because she was such a bitch. My dad would probably be like Andy Dufresne in The Shawshank Redemption and do everyone’s taxes while outsmarting the warden. As for presumed dead, did it count that they were dead to me? At least it felt that way. I sighed. Probably not.

“No to both,” I said.

Sheri’s friendly expression suddenly went serious. “This is difficult to ask, but were you physically or sexually abused by either one of your parents?”

“No. But does mental abuse count?” I joked.

I could tell Sheri didn’t find that funny.

“Sorry,” I said.

“That’s okay. Don’t worry about it. I know you’re probably very stressed dealing with all these money issues when all you’d rather be focusing on is your studies.”

“You can say that again,” I sighed.

“Next criteria. Are your parents unable to be located?”

I had no interest in ever seeing them again, but that wasn’t what she meant. “No. I mean, yes. They’re in Washington D.C.”

“And you weren’t adopted?”

“No.” But sometimes it felt like I was adopted by robots.

Sheri sighed heavily. “Well, unfortunately that means we won’t be able to override your dependency status.”

My shoulders sank and I slumped down in the chair. “Oh.”

“But you might qualify as independent already.”

“Oh?” I smiled.

“Yes. If you are twenty-four, you would automatically be considered independent, but I see here on the computer that you haven’t yet turned twenty.”

“No,” I sighed. “Not until next school year.”

“And you’re not an orphan, or ward of the court?”

“Do you mean a ward like Robin is a ward of Batman’s?” I asked hopefully

She grinned. “Well yes. But you don’t happen to know any superheroes, do you?”

“One,” I grinned, thinking of Christos. “But he doesn’t have a costume. He has tattoos. Does that count?”

She chuckled, “Sadly, no. Maybe if you got him to wear a costume?” she winked

“Probably not,” I sighed.

“Any chance you’re a veteran?”

“No.”

“A graduate student?”

“Still an undergrad. Geez, I’m nothing, aren’t I?”

She smiled. “I wouldn’t say that. I’d say you’re a bright young woman with a financial hiccup. We can work through it. You don’t have any legal dependents, do you? Any children or aging grandparents you care for?”

“No. But I could get pregnant, if that would help,” I said sarcastically.

“I wouldn’t advise it,” she said with amusement. “Besides, even if you got pregnant tomorrow, you wouldn’t have the baby until Fall Quarter, so your dependent status wouldn’t change until then. That wouldn’t help you pay your Spring tuition, now would it?” She winked at me.

“I guess not.”

She leveled a serious but compassionate look at me. “Don’t get pregnant, Samantha. If you think working two jobs is tough, having a child is ten times harder. I know what I’m talking about.” She picked up a photo from her desk and spun it around for me to see. It was her smiling with a little boy and girl. Both kids were grade school age. “Don’t let their cuteness fool you. Like toads, lizards, and demon spawn, the second they realize they’re larger than you, they will try to eat you,” she grinned.

“Got it. No kids.”

“Gosh,” she sighed, “there’s only one other option.”

I winced. “What? Do I have to be a member of the clergy or something? I’d totally become a nun if it would pay for school.”

“No,” she smiled, “just the opposite. You’re not married, are you?”

A bullet of surprise knocked me into the back of my chair. “Did you say married?”

“Yes.”

“As in, wed? As in, hitched?”

She chuckled, “I did. Can I take it that you have a husband? I only ask because I didn’t see a ring on your finger.”

I didn’t see a ring on my finger either, but the idea made me woozy in the best way possible. I leaned forward in my chair and rested my elbows on Sheri’s desk. My brain and heart swirled with possibilities.

What if Christos and I were married?

What if?

I suddenly wanted to do the happy dance on Sheri Denney’s desk. But it wasn’t like I could ask Christos to marry me, could I? No. Such things weren’t done. I could hint. I could hint like crazy twenty times a day. But Christos had to do the asking, assuming I didn’t scare him away with all the hinting.

Sheri raised her eyebrows expectantly. “You are married, aren’t you?”

“No,” I sighed. “Not yet, anyway. But I have a serious boyfriend.”

She deflated a little. “Don’t rush into anything, Samantha. I don’t want you coming back in here tomorrow with some adventure story about how you drove to Las Vegas tonight and got Elvis to marry you and your boyfriend at a drive thru wedding chapel for a hundred dollars. Marriage is a serious commitment. Don’t take it lightly.”

“I know,” I sighed.

Sheri rested a hand on my forearm and looked me in the eye. “I’m not saying don’t get married, I’m just saying don’t rush into it. Get married because you love each other, when you’re ready. Not because you need some financial aid money.”

I really liked Sheri. She wasn’t so hard core like my parents, trying to control everything I did. Maybe Sheri could adopt me? No. She had two kids already.

“In the meantime,” she said, “try talking to your parents again. It’s your best bet.”

“I don’t know. Ever since I changed my major to art, they’ve been flipping out. And my mom thinks my boyfriend is a bad influence.”

“I see,” she nodded. “I argued with my mom about boys all the time when I was your age.”

“Really? What happened?”

She grinned conspiratorially at me and leaned forward to whisper, “I married the boy we argued about the most.”

“See! Maybe I should marry my boyfriend!”

She rolled her eyes. “I know it sounds like getting married will fix everything. It doesn’t. There’s more problems, just different ones. Now, you said something about changing your major. What was it before?”

“Accounting. But that’s just what my parents wanted. I changed my major to art because that’s what I’ve dreamed about doing since I was a girl.”

Sheri smiled, “I wanted to be a dancer when I graduated from high school. Getting married and having kids put a stop to that. Don’t get me wrong, I love my husband dearly on all the days he isn’t driving me nuts, and I love my kids more than anything. But I never got to move to New York to be a dancer like I had always dreamed.” She gave me a serious look. “Samantha, you have to choose. If you want to be an artist, you might have to wait on marriage.”

“But my boyfriend is an artist! And he’s successful too!” A sudden rush of optimism and hope swept through me. It felt like my life was suddenly coming together, despite everything my parents were doing to stand in my way. “Maybe I can have my boyfriend and an art career and get married!”

“Maybe you can,” Sheri smiled. “But please, please, don’t rush out and tie the knot. Try talking to your parents first. If they helped you before, it’s because they love you.”

I wasn’t so sure about that. Loved me like fire loved to burn things, maybe. Groan. But I bet not like Sheri loved her kids. They were lucky to have her as a mom.

She continued, “Maybe if you explain to your parents how serious you are about art?”

“I have. They don’t think I can make any money doing it.”

“Can you?”

“Yes. My boyfriend makes tons of money selling his paintings.”

“Then you need to show your parents that you can make money as an artist too.” Sheri had stars in her eyes, as if she were suddenly living my dream with me. “This is your chance to be the dancer I never got to be. You go be an artist, Samantha. Live your dream. You’re young, and there’s no better time.”

“You’re right! I’m totally going to do it!”

She laughed, “And maybe you’ll even marry your artist boyfriend someday.”

“Someday,” I swooned.

I think it was already spring time in my tummy because I could feel flowers blooming and an army of butterflies spreading their wings inside my heart. That, or every cell in my body was getting ready to explode with sudden happiness.

For the first time in weeks, I felt honest to goodness hope.

I was dizzy as I walked drunkenly out of the Financial Aid offices.

Everything was finally falling into place for me!

All because I had Christos in my life.

Chapter 11

CHRISTOS

“Mmmm, Christos, my neck is so stiff. Can you massage for me?” Isabella asked in her broken and accented English.

Never in my life had a naked hottie sitting five feet away from me asking for a massage been so utterly fucking annoying.

Since I’d taken the last five days off from painting, I was way behind, and I had to juggle all the models’ schedules. Hence, Isabella being in the studio today instead of her usual Wednesdays and Saturdays. I could have had Isabella here last Saturday, but I’d wanted to spend the weekend with Samantha. Not some random model, no matter how hot she may have been.

Isabella made a blatant show of rubbing her neck and working a hair toss into the mix. “You rub my neck, Christos,” she insisted, “so I feel much better.”

The pose she was holding was an easy one. Any other model I’d worked with wouldn’t have been complaining.

Isabella was up to her usual games. She was looking for any excuse for me to touch her, especially when she was naked and vulnerable. Any normal man on the planet would’ve taken Isabella’s cue and had their hands all over her luscious caramel skin and dark mane of hair a second later.

I wasn’t any normal man.

I sighed and set my brushes down. “Why don’t you take a break?” I suggested. “Put your robe on and walk around for a while. It’ll help you loosen up. Maybe do some jumping jacks.”

She frowned. “What is jumping jack? Is Jack a friend of you?”

I reminded myself that Portuguese was her first language. I cracked a smile. It was kind of funny when I thought about it. How had the word jack met up with jumping in the first place? I had no idea.

“What is funny?” Isabella smiled coquettishly.

“I’m sorry, it’s nothing. Try doing some neck rotations. Like this,” I demonstrated moving my head in circles. “And some shoulder shrugs,” which I did.

Isabella stood up, revealing her naked body from head to toe in all its perfect glory. “Massage is better,” she moaned, taking a tentative step toward me.

“I’ve gotta take a leak,” I lied, hoping it would ruin her mood.

She cocked her head, not understanding.

Subtlety was not going to work with the language barrier.

“Bathroom,” I said, “I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”

“Oh.”

“Walk around while I’m gone. Neck rotations will help.” I raised my eyebrows while rolling and nodding my head. “Got it?”

“Yes,” she pouted.

Instead of using the bathroom in the studio, I went into the furthest guest bathroom at the back of the house. I passed by my grandfather’s office on the way. He was sitting at the computer. I stopped and leaned against the doorframe.

“That girl never quits,” I sighed.

“Who? Isabella?” my grandad asked.

“Yeah. She keeps throwing herself at me.”

My grandad leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. A sly smile spread across his mouth. “Want me to handle her?”

“Go for it,” I chuckled. “I’ll be back in an hour?”

“An hour! I’ll need at least three,” he joked.

“Deal. But you have to finish my painting for me,” I joked. My grandad was fully capable of doing the work and making Isabella’s portrait look awesome. But he hadn’t picked up a brush in a long time.

“Hah!” he chuckled. “If I have to work for it, forget it, paidí mou.”

“All right, Pappoús. You’re off the hook for now. But if she throws herself at me one more time, I’m carrying her in here and dropping her in your lap. Naked. Can you handle that?”

He blurted a laugh as I walked out of the room.

Instead of going to the guest bathroom, I went out on the balcony attached to my bedroom to enjoy the view for a few minutes. I hadn’t needed to take a leak in the first place. While I was standing outside, my phone rang.

Brandon.

I rolled my eyes. He probably wanted to bitch about my unfinished paintings.

“What’s up, man?” I answered.

“Christos!” Brandon said enthusiastically. “I was beginning to worry about you. You haven’t answered my calls for the last five days.”

“I was busy painting.”

“Excellent. Can I assume you were busy completing some of your existing paintings?”

“Totally.”

“Which ones are done?”

“Most of them,” I said evasively.

There was a pause. “Okay…ahhh, it doesn’t matter which ones. Hey, are you at the studio right now?”

“Yeah. I’m painting Isabella today. Why?”

“How’s it coming along?”

“Great.”

“Mind if I come take a look?” Brandon asked, “and bring a prospective buyer with me?”

Great. The last thing I wanted was an audience while I was working. “Who is it? Mrs. Moorhouse?” She was always trying to stick her nose into art studios all over San Diego. It made her feel special. Whatever.

“No. It’s Stanford Wentworth. He flew in from New York to see your work.”

I grunted out a sigh. Stanford Wentworth was one of the richest art patrons in the world. He owned a vast collection of world renowned artwork ranging from the Pre-Renaissance iconography of the 14th and 15th centuries, to the Impressionists like Monet and Degas in the late 19th century, to living masters like Chuck Close and Julian Schnabel. Wentworth was always on the hunt for new talent. If he bought your work, he could make your name and your career for life.

I’m not surprised Wentworth wanted to investigate my work, considering that he’d bought a number of my dad’s paintings and my grandad’s over the years.

“Couldn’t you have warned me Wentworth was coming?” I asked.

“I didn’t know,” Brandon pleaded, “the man literally called me from the airport an hour ago. He flew in on his private jet and told me he wanted to see you at work. What was I supposed to tell him? Fly back tomorrow?”

I chuckled. I couldn’t blame Brandon. If you were an artist, getting a call from Wentworth was like getting a call from the President, or maybe the Queen of England. “Fine. You can come by whenever. When do you think you’ll be here?”

“Within the hour. Wentworth is already here at the gallery. He’s getting antsy. And you know the drill. What Stanford Wentworth wants…”

“Stanford Wentworth gets,” I finished. “Yeah, yeah. We’ll be here. I’ll leave the door unlocked. Oh, Brandon, one other thing?”

“What?”

“Did you kiss his right shoe or his left when he walked in today?”

“Both,” Brandon chuckled. “I’ll see you shortly.”

I ended the call. The thing that amused me about Brandon was that he was never predictable. Never entirely an asshole, but never your best friend. It worked well for a business relationship. The long standing, vaguely personal relationship between his family and mine never got complicated. It was always business first.

I went to the office to warn my grandad that Wentworth was coming.

“No shit,” my grandad said. “I haven’t seen Stan in years.”

“Yes, shit,” I quipped. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to say hello.”

I went back to the studio.

Isabella stood in front of one of the French doors, bathed in soft light. She truly was ridiculously beautiful, even in her short butt length robe. Her hand rubbed her neck as she did neck rolls. Maybe she actually had a stiff neck. “Christos,” she murmured, “you massage now?”

“No time, Isabella. We’re going to have some special visitors.”

“Who?”

“Brandon is bringing a famous art buyer to the studio in an hour. Guy’s name is Stanford Wentworth. He’s going to want to see me working.”

“I work better after massage.”

Poor thing. Weren’t there any eligible men where Isabella lived in Los Angeles? Maybe I’d have to turn her loose on Lucas or Logan Summer. I owed them a solid after they’d help me move Samantha into the house. That gave me an idea. “Isabella, you know I have a girlfriend, right?”

Isabella pouted, but nodded acknowledgment.

I walked up to her and pulled my phone out. “Check this out.” She watched expectantly as I thumbed through my photo gallery until I landed on a picture of Lucas and Logan smiling like idiots. “See these two guys?”

Isabella’s face lit up in a smile. “Oooh, handsome. Are they friends of you?”

“These guys are brothers. Lucas and Logan Summer. Both of them are single. I’ll make you a deal. You do what I tell you while that guy Wentworth is here, and I’ll set you up with Lucas or Logan. Take your pick. Or pick both,” I snorted a laugh, “it’s up to you.”

She frowned, but was still smiling at me. “For true?”

“Yeah. For true. Deal?” I held out my hand for her to shake.

She slid her tiny hand into mine and shook. “I meet your cute friends?”

“Totally.”

“Ok.”

“Awesome. I gotta get stuff ready before Wentworth gets here. Hang tight. And do more neck rotations and shoulder shrugs. It’ll help.”

* * *

When Stanford Wentworth arrived with Brandon, my grandad answered the door. I could hear them chatting in the foyer from the studio where I was painting Isabella. It sounded like Wentworth had brought someone with him. I didn’t recognize the voice.

I wanted to look busy working when Stanford walked into the studio, so I left them to their small talk and concentrated on painting Isabella.

You couldn’t miss Wentworth’s voice. He sounded like he belonged behind a podium with a teleprompter and an audience of five thousand adoring constituents.

“Spiridon Manos,” Wentworth said. “Always a pleasure. It’s been years, if I’m not mistaken?”

“It has,” my grandad said.

“Mr. Wentworth just flew in this morning,” Brandon said.

“Oh, then you must be tired from traveling,” my grandad said. “Would you like something to drink, Stanford?”

“Since my assistant Fredrick will be doing all the driving today, I think I’ll indulge. What have you got with some tooth?” There was a tinge of amusement in Wentworth’s voice.

“Let’s stroll over to the bar and see,” my grandad said.

I heard some shuffling around and clinking of glasses in the living room. I knew that Stanford Wentworth was in his seventies. The story went that he’d made his fortune investing in computers before it was the obvious thing to do, and he’d gone into cable television big in the 1980s. For the last 25 years, he’d devoted all of his time and money to the world of art, where he’d enjoyed further financial success.

“I don’t believe I’ve seen any of these paintings before,” Wentworth said. He was referring to all of my grandad’s landscapes hanging in the living room. None of them had ever been displayed in any gallery shows.

“No,” my grandfather answered. “This is my private work.”

“It all looks fabulous. Have you considered selling them?” Wentworth asked. “The Private Collection of Spiridon Manos?”

There was a long silence while I pretended to work in the studio. Isabella was posed naked in front of me, but I was too worried about what Wentworth might do or say to get any real painting done.

“I’m too old for the art business,” my grandad sighed. “It’s a young man’s game.”

“Balderdash,” Wentworth said. “I’m older than you, Spiridon, and I’m still in it.”

“But we’re on opposite sides of the game board, Stanford.”

“Touché. I’ll make it easy for you. I’ll give you seven million for everything in the room.”

I think I could hear Brandon gulping all the way from where I sat at my easel.

“Thank you, Stanford,” my grandad said, “but no. The memories in these paintings are worth ten times that. Many of them were painted when I was a young man, or when my son was but a child, or when I had my grandson sitting on my knee. I couldn’t part with them.”

“If you change your mind, give my office a call. But I promise, my offer will have changed, and not to your advantage, I assure you.”

Nice. I hadn’t yet met the guy, and already I didn’t like him.

“Enough of that,” Wentworth grumbled. “Now, shall we see the young artist at work?”

“If he’s not too busy,” my grandad said a bit defensively.

“I’ll go check,” Brandon said. He rushed into the studio a moment later, a pained expression on his face. “You ready for the dog and pony show?” he whispered.

“Do I have a choice?” I mumbled.

“No,” Brandon said sharply.

Fan fucking tastic.

Stanford Wentworth ambled into the room, flanked by his assistant Frederick, Brandon, and my grandad.

Wentworth was a large, tall man with a thick head of tightly maintained aerodynamic silver hair. He wore an expensive suit and imposing tie.

Frederick was similarly slickly suited. Wire rimmed glasses were attached to his face and a cellphone earpiece was attached to his ear. He raised his hand to his earpiece and pressed a button. “Frederick Whitlock speaking?” After a pause, he said, “He’s busy at the moment.” Pause. “I’ll check. Mr. Wentworth, it’s Couteux Galerie in Beverly Hills. They want to know if you’re coming by this afternoon?”

“Tell them I’ll come by if I come by,” Wentworth barked.

Nice. Wentworth sure had a winning personality.

Frederick relayed the message over his earpiece way more politely than Wentworth had said it. I had no doubt Frederick more than earned whatever Wentworth paid him.

I pretended to paint as they walked toward my easel, mixing paint on my palette. Isabella briefly glanced at them, but maintained her pose. I had explained to her earlier in detail that we should continue working while everyone walked in and watched.

I noticed Wentworth blatantly eyeballing Isabella’s nakedness. He positioned himself to get the best possible view of her exposed breasts. His overt desire was as subtle as a volcano. He slid his hands into his pockets and arched his back, thrusting out his pelvis. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he started jingling his change like he had a jackhammer running in his pants. Total douche. I liked him better and better. Not.

I would’ve thrown the guy out except for the fact he could ruin my art career with the snap of his fingers. The one downside to selling paintings for ten grand or fifty grand or more was that you were always dealing with rich shitheads.

Whatever. It’s not like the guy had his hands on Isabella. If he crossed that line, I’d break his fingers. But Isabella was a big girl, and I’m sure this wasn’t the first time she’d been ogled by an old dude. She worked as a model, after all. I could only hope she’d learned how to deal with it.

Wentworth let out a big sigh and pulled his hands out of his pockets. I’m sure by now he’d come in his pants. Fucking perv. He walked around behind my easel to see what I was doing.

I nodded at him.

“Don’t mind me,” he said. “Please continue.”

The way he said it sounded dangerously close to a command. I’m sure he was used to telling people what to do 24/7. I rolled my eyes before glancing at Isabella. She seemed relieved that I was now positioned between her and Wentworth like a shield.

I had been in the process of painting Isabella’s hips. The joint where the leg comes out of the pelvis was always tricky. Beautiful women had a softness, but you had to give it just the right amount of subtle structure or else it looked like carnival balloons stuck together. I’d always believed that softness was the secret of feminine beauty. Not hard muscle. All that modern shit about women having eight packs and guns for arms was ridiculous. If you wanted to fuck a guy, go fuck a guy.

I loaded up my brush with a mixture of burnt sienna and a hint of burnt umber. I swept the brush across the canvas at the hip joint in an elegant curve.

“Mmmm,” Wentworth nodded.

I ignored him.

I needed to hit one of the planes on the front of the pelvis with a lighter mix, so I went back to my palette and added a hint of zinc white.

As I was about to apply the paint to the canvas, Wentworth went, “Hmmm.”

Was it going to be like this all day? I almost turned and tossed him a glare, but decided it was a bad idea. So I scumbled the paint onto the canvas instead. Then I took out a clean brush and used it to soften the edge between the light and dark areas.

“Uh huh,” Wentworth mumbled.

Oh man, this was killing me. I set my brushes down and wiped my hands on a rag. I took a step back from my easel.

Wentworth immediately stepped in, getting his nose inches from the canvas. A simple “May I?” would’ve been nice. Nope. What Wentworth wanted, Wentworth got. He inspected the hip joint I’d just painted like a jeweler. Somebody give that guy a loupe so he could examine the molecules in the paint mix a little better.

He stepped back to view the whole painting and nodded thoughtfully. I couldn’t tell if he approved or what. Then he lunged forward, getting in close on the portrait again.

This guy was a nut.

He continued lunging in and out for several minutes, examining different parts of the painting in detail. When he was finished, he stepped back and stood beside me.

“I like it,” he said thoughtfully, “but it needs work.”

Was he kidding? We hadn’t even been introduced. Yeah, he knew who I was, and I knew who he was. But, fuck, there was this thing that had been around for thousands of years called common courtesy. I guess when you got rich enough, shit like that went out the window.

I glanced at Brandon, who gave me a sympathetic look that said, “Yes, he’s crazy, but he’s a hundred times richer than he is crazy, so suck it up.”

I shook my head minimally and rolled my eyes for Brandon’s sake.

He shot me a warning glare.

I sighed. Time for me to behave.

“Yes,” Wentworth said, “a few revisions and I think this will be serviceable. The head is good, but have you considered altering the pose?”

I raised one of my eyebrows at least three inches.

My grandad chuckled and walked out of the room. I could tell he was offended for me by the way he laughed.

I guess I’d missed the part where Wentworth had been hitting the crack pipe like a high class hooker after a blow job bender. The guy was a lunatic. Oh, I forgot. Wentworth did what Wentworth did.

He said, “This is good work. It’s not great. I wouldn’t pay more than fifteen thousand for what I see here. But I believe if you were to change the pose to something more elegant, you could get it up to fifty thousand.”

More elegant? Was he blind? Everything Isabella did was elegant, and my painting captured that.

Before I had a chance to tell Wentworth to go fuck himself, he asked, “What other paintings do you have on hand?” He turned away to investigate, and the second his back was to me, I rifled a glare at Brandon.