Текст книги "Reckless"
Автор книги: Devon Hartford
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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 26 страниц)
Shudder.
I texted Madison to see if she was awake. When I didn’t hear back from her, I called Christos. No answer from him, either.
I did have ice cream in the freezer.
I walked into my kitchen and opened the door. It was like a winter wonderland inside. Icicles everywhere, surrounding creamy, sugary escape. I could spare the calories. I’d been good. I’d barely had any ice cream in weeks. And I didn’t think I’d had a single spoonful over Winter Break with Christos.
I opened up the container of Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough. There was hardly any ice cream left inside. I mean, it was almost half gone. Or some amount less than half-gone, but nowhere near a full pint. Because two good spoonfuls already gone was at least a half pint, according to my math. Anyway, it was going to get freezer burn sooner or later, then it would go to waste, and I was not one to waste food. Not when there were children in third world countries who never got to eat ice cream. Ever.
I would eat it for their sake.
I swear I would’ve shared, had any of those children been present in my apartment. I sort of wished they were, because I think the joy on their faces would’ve filled me up better than the ice cream. But I was all alone, and had no choice.
No ice cream would ever go to waste on my watch.
Chapter 14
SAMANTHA
My same pattern of school, homework, job hunt, and no Christos continued for the next several days.
Lame!
I managed to actually hook up with Madison on campus a few days later. It was the first time I’d seen her since I’d dropped Managerial Accounting.
We met for lunch in the Student Center.
“Mads! So good to see you!” I said.
Madison wrapped her arms around me. “I totally missed you, girl!”
“Me too. You wanna get fish tacos?”
“Hells yeah,” Madison said.
We walked into the food court and got in the long line. I worried about spending the extra money, but I couldn’t ask Madison to have protein bars for lunch with me. Meh.
“So, how’s Dorquemann?” I asked.
“Doctor Dorquemann is the greatest sleep aid known to man. I think the medical school on campus has researchers in the lecture hall recording the sound of his voice every day, trying to pin down the exact pattern of frequencies that Dorquemann uses when he lectures. I hear they’re trying to get FDA approval already.”
“That good, huh?” I smiled sympathetically.
“No biggie. If I’m ever going to run my own company, I have to learn this stuff sooner or later.”
“You want to run a company?”
“Yeah,” Madison said, “Jake and I have been talking about it. He wants to start his own line of surf clothes, maybe even open a shop here in San Diego. If he wins a few more competitions and gets some good endorsements, he’ll have enough of a name and enough extra cash that we might be able to do it.”
“Look at you,” I smiled, “Miss Go-Getter. That’s awesome, Mads. I totally think you could pull it off.”
“I just wish I was taking more of the upper division Marketing classes for my major. I need to learn all that stuff, like, yesterday!”
We finally made it to the front of the line and ordered our fish tacos. I tried to pay, but I’d already told Madison about my job hunt, and she refused.
“It’s on me,” Madison said. “When you’re a world-famous artist, you can pay.”
“Thanks, Mads.” I went and filled up salsa containers for both of us. I’d grown increasingly accustomed to hot sauce, and couldn’t seem to get enough. Plus, extra hot sauce was free, unlike extra guacamole. Sigh.
We took our trays outside to eat. It actually started to sprinkle, so we found an inside table.
“So, how’s the new major coming along?” Madison asked.
“Other than my sculpting professor hates my ass, and my looming financial ruin, I couldn’t be happier.”
“Do you want to move in with me?” she asked seriously.
“Is one of your roommates moving out?”
“No, but I have a big room. We could share.”
I smiled at her, almost in disbelief. I couldn’t get over how supportive she was. I’d never had friends like Madison in high school. I didn’t realize friends could be so generous. My eyes watered, but I did my best to keep my tears to myself.
“What about Jake?” I asked, trying to hide behind my napkin. “I don’t want to cramp your style.”
“Oh,” Madison groaned, “my cramps have been cramping my style since Wednesday.” She folded over and clutched her belly. “I’ve been having a bad case of the Monthlies all day today.”
“See,” I giggle-sniffed, “you don’t need me adding more blockage to your hoo-ha than you’ve already got.”
She shook her head. “I’m serious, Sam. If it becomes a problem, and you need a place, you’re welcome to my apartment. Jake and I can always go to his house.”
“Wow, Mads, I totally appreciate it. Based on the way my job search has been going, you may have more than one monthly visitor in February.” I hoped my joking would disguise my imminent tears of gratitude.
“As long as you don’t make my cramps any worse, I will consider it a blessing,” she groaned. “I feel like I’m going to give birth to a tampon baby.” She grunted. “I think it’s going to be a redhead.”
Grimacing, I set the remaining half of my fish taco on my plate. “Well, I’m done eating.”
Madison cackled with laughter, “Sorry!”
SAMANTHA
Christos and I had dinner on Sunday night, but that was it. Groan. Had my predictions been right all along? Was he going to always be too busy with his burgeoning career to find time for a relationship with me? I hoped I was wrong.
On Monday, I went to the campus art museum after History class to report for my first day of work.
Mr. Selfridge turned out to be totally cool. He showed me how to operate the cash register and explained the ground rules. This job was going to be cake.
“We don’t get a lot of traffic during the week,” he said, “mainly art students like yourself. They come in to study the paintings and sculpture, and they get in free with a valid Student ID. But you do have to punch them in.” He showed me how on the cashier’s computer. “When it’s slow, feel free to do your homework behind the counter. Just make sure that you set your work aside for any customers.”
“Got it,” I smiled.
“Well, that about covers it. I’m going back to my office. If you need anything, ring my phone. But I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
“Thanks, Mr. Selfridge,” I smiled as he walked back into the museum.
The museum didn’t have a gift shop, but there were a number of books behind the counter for sale. Since no one was coming in, I perused the shelves. One of the books was ‘Retrospective: A life outdoors, the art of Spiridon Manos.’ I picked it up and flipped through it. So much beautiful work. I’d seen a few of these paintings in Spiridon’s home, but most were new to me. He was truly an amazing landscape painter. I flipped to the back of the book and saw that most of his paintings were on display in major museums around the country, even a number in Europe. Wow, Spiridon was a total art rockstar.
And his grandson was on the way to being one too.
Over the next several hours, three people came into the museum. All of them were art students, two I recognized from Life Drawing and Oil Painting class.
This job was super easy, which was perfect because I had homework to catch up on.
During a lull, I texted Christos.
Thinking about you. <3
I hoped for an instant reply. Nope. It took about ten minutes before he texted, I’m always thinking about you, agápi mou. Miss you.
I replied, I miss you more ;-) What are you doing right now?
I didn’t receive a response. Sigh.
I opened up my Sociology reading and did my best to read through the assignments I’d fallen behind on. I kept checking my phone, making sure I hadn’t missed an incoming text. After half an hour with no response, I made sure my alert volume hadn’t somehow been turned off, or that my battery hadn’t died, or that aliens or hackers hadn’t hijacked my phone and changed my phone number.
Nope, everything was fine.
Except Christos was too busy to text me back. Should that have bothered me? I don’t know, but it did. Was I being too needy?
Eye roll.
When it came to being needy, what was the official demarcation between “too” and “the right amount” of needy?
Groan. I didn’t want to be the pathetic desperate girl who clung to her boyfriend’s knees everywhere they went.
Maybe I needed to conduct a poll and figure out a hard number regarding appropriate levels of neediness. Whatever that number turned out to be, I was pretty sure with all of my time apart from Christos, I fell on “the right amount” side of the needy line.
My phone bleeped.
Christos: Sorry, agápi mou. In the middle of things. Ran out of painting medium, had to run to art store. Miss you love you need you. :^*
I sighed contently. Not because I was “too” needy and needed to hear from my boyfriend right at that moment to set me at ease, because I had already established that in all likelihood I fell into “the right amount” category when it came to neediness at all times; no, my contented sigh was appropriate for any woman with the “right amount” of neediness. Because I knew it was “right” that I should be pleased to receive such a text from my boyfriend.
Telling me he needed me.
I wasn’t needy at all.
Nope.
I was normal.
I texted Christos back, I miss you too, my love. Can’t wait to see you tonight! <3 <3 <3
Was three text-hearts too needy? No. Four text-hears would definitely have been too needy, but I’d only used three, so I was good.
Too bad I ended up alone in my apartment that night and fell asleep cuddling my history textbook because Christos had too much work to do and told me it was best I not come over.
Was I disappointed? Of course.
Was I being “too” needy?
NO!!
It was “the right amount.”
No more, no less.
Sigh.
SAMANTHA
On Saturday morning, a knock at my front door woke me up from my lonely bed. I dragged myself out from under my snuggly covers and trudged to the living room. Wow, my week must have been harder than I’d thought! I needed coffee badly.
I opened the door.
Christos held up a big cup of coffee for me. “Morning, sunshine!”
“Christos!” I was so glad to see him. It seemed like forever since we’d been together.
“I thought you could use some TLC this weekend, agápi mou.” He leaned in and kissed me before walking inside my apartment. “Venti Americano, half coffee, half half-and-half, right?”
“Perfect,” I smiled, taking the cup in both hands and inhaling the wonderful aroma before sipping some.
“I brought appetizers,” he said, holding up a bag of apple fritters. It turned out, Christos had known all about Thai Doughnut and their awesome apple fritters long before I did. “I also brought breakfast,” he said, holding up a bag from the grocery store.
I grabbed a plate from the kitchen and set one of the apple fritters on it. Christos and I pulled pieces off and nibbled on them while we sat at my little round dining room table and sipped our coffees.
“You ready for an omelet?” he asked.
“Sure!”
“Okay, you sit, and I’ll cook.” Christos went about dicing onions, tomatoes, and mushrooms, chopping up a bell pepper, and heating up some butter in one of my skillets on the stove. He cracked eggs into the pan and put some bread in the toaster. When the eggs were solidified into a spongy yellow disc, he sprinkled cheese and vegetables on top, then folded it over before serving it up with buttered toast and strawberry jam.
“Wow, Christos. You cook better than I do. You got everything ready all at the same time. That’s an art form.”
“Practice,” he smiled as he set the plate in front of me. “Dig in, before it gets cold.” He poured me a glass of orange juice, then he cooked an omelet for himself.
“Are you going to make yours with a dozen eggs? Like at The Broken Yolk?”
He smirked. “No, I’m good with six today.”
“What’s the plan for our mentor date?” I asked.
“You want to hit up the library? Show the kids your newfound crayon skills?”
“Oh yeah, Crayons with Christos!” I smiled.
He smiled back. “Why didn’t I think of calling it that? It was ‘Drawing with Christos,’ but I like your name better.” He held his hands up and spread them apart, like he was picturing a huge sign, the kind with the changeable movie-theater marquee letters. “We should call it ‘Crayons with Christos and World-Renowned Master Crayon Artist Samantha Smith’.”
“Would it be up in lights?” I pondered. “Our sign, I mean?”
“Totally. Like forty feet tall and two hundred feet wide. Right over the library. You’d be able to see your name from space.”
I giggled at the thought.
“Don’t laugh, you’re going to be famous one day.”
“You’re going to be famous,” I parried.
“Don’t doubt yourself, Samantha. In twenty years, people will be calling me Mr. Samantha Smith.”
My brows knit together while I smiled. “Wait, what? That was like a hundred things all rolled into one.”
“I was suggesting that as your skills develop and you make a name for yourself, people will forgot about my work, and I’ll just be along for the ride while your career goes into outer-space.”
“That’s crazy,” I said dismissively.
Christos poured himself a large glass of OJ and took several swallows. “Not at all,” he said, grinning wide. “You have the raw talent, which you’re going to develop in the coming years. Then you’re going to take over the art world like wildfire. Everyone will want to buy your work. By then, I’ll have retired because we’ll be able to live off your earnings alone. I’ll be kicking back at home playing Mr. Mom while you’re busy schmoozing with clients and creating masterworks in oil on canvas. Or, who knows, maybe you’ll revolutionize the art world by resurrecting the medium of crayon. Anyway, my job will be to make sure our house is clean, diapers are changed, and dinner is waiting for you every night when you get home from being famous. You’ll walk in the door and our kids will dog pile all over you while I kiss you on the cheek and ask you how your day was.”
I smiled, picturing it. “That sounds pretty good. Will you be wearing an apron?” I sipped on my orange juice.
“Well, before the kids are born, I will only be wearing an apron when you come home. You know where that kind of behavior will get us…at least three kids. After they come along, I’ll be wearing daddy clothes with spit-up on them, and the apron.”
I was really getting into this fantasy of his!
“After we spend each evening playing with the kids and put them down for the night, we’ll sit on the couch together and I’ll give you neck, back, and foot rubs until you fall asleep. Will that work for you?”
“What if I miss you and the kids?” I asked. “I mean, maybe I don’t want to be gone all the time.”
“No problem. You can work in your home studio, sort of like I do now at my grandpa’s house. While you’re painting away, I’ll be home-schooling the kids, either in the next room, or in the studio. Me and the kids’ll be around as much as you desire,” he grinned. “However you want it, agápi mou, we’ll make it happen. We can build the perfect life together.”
I smiled. I was about to open my mouth when sudden panic lanced through my belly. He was practically proposing marriage to me, living together, having kids, everything. It all seemed so perfect. But would it be perfect? Would it really happen like that? If it did, OMG, I couldn’t imagine a better life.
Christos sat down at the table with his own giant omelet and toast. He gazed into my eyes with his impossible blues, casting a spell of love and fulfillment I’d never known before.
In moments like this, Christos’ eyes made me believe that the impossible came true for him every day. And today, he was sweeping me into his fantasy life with him.
Was it possible that the impossible fantasy Christos was proposing would come true for me too? I dove into his gaze and let the magical feeling of certain joyful bliss fill me up.
Life with Christos. A family and a successful art career with the most amazingly beautiful, thoughtful, kind man in the world. I shivered thinking about it, barely conscious of my breakfast as I indulged in our loving daydream.
After finishing our food, we drove to the library for Crayons with Christos and World-Renowned Master Crayon Artist Samantha Smith. Christos must have called it that twenty times on the way over. I was starting to like it quite a bit.
Mrs. Elders greeted us when we walked through the main doors. “Good morning, Christos! You too, Samantha! What a pleasure to see you both. Some of the kids have been asking about you two since Christmas.”
“Hey, Mrs. Elders,” Christos said, hugging her. “I missed you, too.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Elders said, patting his back. To me, she said, “Isn’t Christos such a nice boy?”
“The nicest,” I said.
“Well, the children are waiting for you,” Mrs. Elders smiled.
Christos and I walked into the room where the kids waited. As always, they erupted with excitement when they saw us.
Some of them chorused, “Christos!” while others hollered, “Samantha!”
Christos winked at me. “See, you’re already famous.”
One of the little girls, named Abby, ran up to both of us in a frilly pink dress. “Did you go on a honeymoon together?”
I knelt down beside her, smiling. “What do you mean, Abby?”
“When I didn’t see you and Christos since forever, I told my mommy you got married. She said when a daddy and a mommy got married, they go on a honeymoon.”
I smiled at her while thinking about everything that had happened since my trip to D.C. with Christos. Despite both our crazy schedules and all the ups and downs, the last several weeks of my life had felt like a honeymoon to me. Especially when I compared them to the last few years of my life.
Bitch. Slut. Whore…
Emo. Goth. Suicide Watch…
Yeah, compared to my past, my present was most definitely a paradise. I repressed a shudder and closed the lid on my old demons before they could pull any tears from my eyes today. As much as I wanted to sweep away my past forever, it still haunted me.
Looking into Abby’s beaming, joyful eyes made it easy to focus on the present. I smiled my biggest smile at her, “That’s so sweet, Abby,” I sniffed, “but Christos and I aren’t married.”
“Why not?” she asked innocently.
I looked up at Christos, surprised by the huge grin on his face. My eyes were watering.
“That’s a good question, Abby” he smiled.
Gulp.
I totally needed a tissue.
“All right!” Christos bellowed to the roomful of kids. “Who wants to draw today?!”
“We do!!!” the kids chorused.
Oh well. Tissues later, kids and crayons now!
SAMANTHA
The drawing lesson with the kids was a blast. Afterward, we said goodbye to the children and walked outside.
“That was so much fun!” I said. “I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed those kids.”
“Yeah,” Christos smiled, “I never get tired of them.”
“So, what’s next?”
Christos suddenly looked nervous, and ran his hand through his hair. I think this was the first time I’d ever seen Christos nervous. “Would you be bummed if I had to work today?”
Of course I would be, but I didn’t want to say it and sound like a complaining baby. So I half-smiled and shrugged my shoulders.
“I really have a lot to do at the studio today,” he said regretfully. “I’ve got a model coming in half an hour.”
“Oh.” I think my disappointment bled through into my voice. I couldn’t help it. I knew what “a model” meant. It meant a nude woman sitting in front of Christos while he stared at her for hours. I wanted to be the only nude woman he ever stared at. But I knew he couldn’t make a career out of painting portraits of me in the nude, over and over again. Who would buy them? Probably no one. Lame.
Besides, I didn’t want to be painted in the nude anyway. It would almost be like I was getting lumped into the same category as all his other trophy nudes. I felt special because he had not painted me nude. Best to keep it that way.
“Agápi mou, I know last year we had mentor dates every Saturday, but with all the work coming in from Brandon, I don’t think I can swing it today. Maybe next weekend? I promise I’ll make it up to you.”
I sighed. We hadn’t seen much of each other since classes had started. All I wanted to do was spend the day with Christos, but we both had lives and commitments to attend to. I really was determined not to be “too” needy. “It’s okay,” I said softly. “I really need to look for a job today anyway.”
“That’s right,” he said, sounding relieved.
I hoped not too relieved. Stupid nude models.
“I wish I could help with the job search,” he said with genuine regret, “but I don’t have time.”
“It’s fine,” I said, wishing he could too, but I knew his work was important right now. Just like my job search. It had to get done. Meh. “At least Romeo is coming with me.”
“Awesome. He should liven things up.”
“Yeah,” I said apathetically. Romeo would add some spice, but why did I feel like something was ending between me and Christos? Maybe little Abby was right. Maybe my honeymoon with Christos was behind us, and it was back to the usual daily grind from here on out. Maybe Christos’ rosy fantasy was nothing more than that. A fantasy.
“I should drive you home,” Christos said, “or I’m going to be late for my model.”
“Yeah,” I sighed. Wow, this sucked. I was going to hunt for a job at the first fast-food joint that would have me and my boyfriend was going to hang out with a hot nude model the whole time. Was there something wrong with this picture, I mean, other than the fact that my boyfriend’s portion of it sounded like a double-page spread in a nudie magazine?
Christos dropped me off at my apartment and kissed me goodbye.
I clomped upstairs and called Romeo. Time to start looking for work as a fry cook or burger flipper. I was not looking forward to it.
“Sam!!!!!” Romeo answered. “Are you ready to hunt for a job?”
“If I must,” I groaned.
“It’s going to be so exciting. We’ll be like jungle explorers, beating through the bush looking for the Lost City of Gold!”
“Totally,” I grimaced to myself. The only gold I could imagine we’d find were Golden Arches. But at this point, working at McDonald’s sounded better than going back to Accounting.
“I’ll be over at your place in twenty minutes,” Romeo said.
“Okay. See you then.”
When Romeo arrived we walked westward, toward the downtown area a few blocks from my apartment. We hit up every possible place we could find. Coffee shops, a dry cleaners, a used bookstore, a furniture store, a chocolate shoppe, a bicycle store. Half of them told me to fill out an application or bring back a résumé for future reference.
We even tried a head shop, err, I meant, “An establishment that sells tobacco accessories and smoking paraphernalia.” And black-light posters of Bob Marley smoking a huge joint. Did they think they were fooling anybody with their convoluted tagline? I knew it was for legal reasons, but seriously, did anybody buy a tobacco pipe from a head shop and use it for tobacco?
Maybe I could find out when I went door-to-door conducting my “needy” survey. I bet I could even get paid to do it! Didn’t the Census collect information like that every ten years?
I could totally picture myself holding a clipboard and asking a house-wife with curlers in her hair and a baby on her hip, “Ma’am, do you consider yourself:
A) ‘too’ needy or
B) ‘the right amount’ of needy?
“And, do you use your tobacco pipe for:
A) tobacco or
B) marijuana?”
It was genius. I needed to call the Census Bureau and tell them to add those two questions. They’d hire me on the spot because I wasn’t afraid to address the important issues John and Jane Q. Public were dying to know.
Or not.
Back to my job search.
The restaurants Romeo and I visited needed wait-persons, but they wanted people with experience. Did putting Mom’s cooking on the dining room table and clearing it after dinner count? No? Oh well. Next.
I tried a bar with a HELP WANTED sign out front, but they only hired people over 21.
Two hours later, we were back where we started. I had a thin bundle of worthless applications under one arm.
“We didn’t find the buried treasure,” I sighed. I wasn’t ready to bite the fast-food bullet yet.
“I swear that golden city is around here somewhere,” Romeo said. Even his spirits had sunk. “What do we do now?”
“Drive to the mall?”
We went to the UTC shopping center, just east of the SDU campus. We went from store to store to store. Nothing. The restaurants in the food court were no better.
“You still haven’t tried Hot Dog On A Stick,” Romeo suggested. “They have those awesome primary-colored uniforms. You’d totally look cute in one.”
“You’re kidding, right? I don’t want to wear one of those corny uniforms,” I quipped.
Romeo chuckled at my pun. “I wish I was, but beggars don’t get to choose their uniforms,” he winked.
“Okay, let’s try them. I think I’m that desperate.”
Both girls behind the counter wore those red and white and blue and white and yellow and white and red and white and blue and etc., etc., etc., striped uniforms. While I talked to one of the girls, Romeo ordered a fresh lemonade from the other. She filled him a glass from one of the giant square lemonade jugs.
“Do you guys have any job openings?” I asked the other girl, sounding as enthusiastic about the prospect as I felt.
“Sorry,” she wince-smiled.
“No worries,” I said, glad to be spared the opportunity.
Romeo and I found a table in the middle of the mall’s food court and plopped down.
“Want some?” Romeo asked, proffering his lemonade.
“No, thanks,” I sighed.
Romeo took a long sip on his lemonade.
“I think we tried every single store within a five-mile radius of my apartment,” I said.
“You could be a bootblack,” Romeo offered.
“What the hell is a bootblack?” I scoffed.
“A shoe shiner.”
“Do people even do that anymore?”
“I have no idea,” Romeo grinned. “How about street walking? I hear pimps are always hiring.”
“Tempting. But I wouldn’t work for just any pimp. I’d need one who offers medical and dental,” I grinned. “Can you recommend any good ones?”
“No, but I’ve always wanted to be a pimp myself. Drive a Cadillac, wear cool Zoot suits, and smack my bitches around.”
I chuckled. “You’d be the best pimp ever. I can totally picture you in a pink chiffon Zoot suit. But you’d have to be willing to hire me without sampling my merchandise.”
Romeo frowned, leaned over to me and whispered conspiratorially, “In case you haven’t heard, Samantha, girls are gross.”
“Cool! I’ll start work on Monday!” I laughed. “I just have to buy some six-inch hooker heels first.”
Romeo chuckled and took another sip of his lemonade. “So, how are things with Christos?”
I sighed. “Good.”
“Hmmm. That didn’t sound good.”
I rolled my eyes. “He’s busy. I was hoping to spend the day with him today, but he has to paint some nude model or other. I feel like I’ve barely seen him since New Year’s Eve.”
“You’re not worried about him, are you?” Romeo said uncertainly. “I mean, you don’t think he’s sampling his merchandise, do you?”
My stomach knotted at the thought. “Christos isn’t like that. He’s totally in love with me.”
Romeo had an apologetic look on his face as he sipped more lemonade. “You’re probably right,” he said. “I guess I just worry because gorgeous women are always throwing themselves at him. Heck, I throw myself at Christos every chance I get.”
I smiled. “I’m not worried about you, Romeo.” But I was worried about all the other women. Especially the nude one in his studio right now. I’m sure she looked like a super model and was thrusting her breasts at Christos this very moment.
I sighed and looked around the food court. “Is there any place around here that sells ice cream? I think I need a sundae. Extra fudge, extra whipped-cream, extra ice cream.”
“Let’s go find out,” Romeo offered. “You look like you could use an ice cream pick-me-up.”
He had no idea.
CHRISTOS
“Can you arch your back just a bit more,” I asked the model.
“Anything for you, Christos,” Isabella said breathily. She tossed her hair back and smiled at me seductively through her alluring lashes. She was naked from head to toe and reclined on a divan a few feet in front of my painting easel.
“Perfect,” I said. “Hold that pose.” When it came to Isabella, perfect was an understatement. She was a gorgeous Brazilian girl from L.A. Brandon had found her for me at one of the big modeling agencies in Hollywood. He wasn’t kidding about finding fresh faces.
She winked at me right before I turned my attention to my palette.
They didn’t get any fresher than Isabella.
Facing my palette, I dabbed my brush into the pile of burnt sienna, then mixed it into the smear of flesh tone I had on my palette. I needed to richen up my mixture if I was going to capture Isabella’s caramel skin tone.
My mind wandered as I mixed.
Brandon hadn’t been blowing smoke when he’d said everybody wanted a piece of me. I had a list of commissions as long as my arm. It was good to be loved.
Too bad the checks only came after I delivered the paintings. I had lawyer’s fees to pay. Russell Merriweather was far from cheap, but he was worth every penny if he kept me out of the big house. Maybe I needed to talk to Brandon about pre-sales, get some cash flowing.
The only down side to the influx of business was finding time to fit everything in: Samantha, painting, school, working out, eating, sleeping. Something had to go, so I took the term off from SDU. No surprise. Who needed a graduate degree when people were throwing money at you?
Besides, canning my class schedule was the only way I could make any time for Samantha. As it was, I had what seemed like thirty minutes a day for her. Not my preference.
Not even close.
But the iron was hot, as Brandon had said. Six-figure hot. Which meant the painting had to be my main focus for now.
Samantha was totally busy herself with her classes and work schedule, so it worked out. Sort of. I don’t think either of us were truly happy with our schedules.
But there was work to do.
I had several canvases of various L.A. models in progress. Different women came in throughout the week. Jacqueline on Mondays and Thursdays. Becca on Tuesdays and Fridays. Isabella on Wednesdays and Saturdays. I never had a break.
I’d only finished one painting so far. The model’s name was Avery. She was an actress in L.A. struggling to get work. I don’t know why her face wasn’t plastered on magazine covers already. The painting of her was drying in the rack against the back wall. The in-progress paintings of Jacqueline and Becca sat on smaller easels in the studio.
