“Do you really think you can resist him?” her lips were smashed together. She knew she just asked a loaded question. I must have looked at her with venom, because she held up her hands in surrender, “I come in peace, Ab!” she laughed. “I’m just thinking about you—about the life you chose—does Jack fit into it?”
Swallowing hard, I wanted to answer her, and bite off her head, but Kate was right. I looked down at the water. “As a friend, he fits perfectly.”
“And as something more?”
I didn’t look up at her, “There can never be anything more. I’d have to turn my back on everything I believe, and I already know Jack’s not the guy for me. I didn’t tell you this when it happened, but Kate—I almost kissed him once.”
Her green eyes were as big as saucers, her jaw hanging open as she stared at me. “When! How could you not tell me?”
I shrugged it off like it was nothing, even though it wasn’t. “I didn’t tell anyone. It was kind of embarrassing. Before I left, I nearly kissed him. We were so close, but he didn’t kiss me, Kate. When I touched his face, he froze, like I disgusted him. It was horrible, like I completely misunderstood him. I’m not making that mistake again, so you don’t have to worry about Jack, and neither do I.”
CHAPTER TEN
My opinion of Jack was soaring. I couldn’t believe what he did—that his success was from doing what he thought was right and helping the poor. It blindsided me, revealing another facet of Jack Gray that I didn’t know existed. I couldn’t even get my congregation to tithe ten percent, and they still pitched a fit when we didn’t spend the tithes on the church building. But Jack, he seemed to have a fundamental sense of right and wrong. When he thought I couldn’t see that, he was angry—hurt. But now, after working together for several days, I couldn’t see anything else.
I went to the studio, night after night for over a week. Jack was always smiling, excited at the start of every session even though I could tell he hadn’t really found the look he was after, not yet. That didn’t affect his mood. When Jack was painting, he was in his element and happy. Once he started, his concentration kicked in and he didn’t speak until he was giving directions at the end of the session. The process Jack created made the paintings extraordinary, even if he didn’t finish most of them. A few lucky paintings would be pulled from the pile and completed. At any given time Jack had about a dozen paintings in his collection. It was this collection that patrons could browse and purchase from. One of the gallery girls said Jack sold them quickly, usually within a year or so. It gave him the means to own this pricy plot of land and pay his employees very well. Jack seemed to donate a lot of his fortune as well. He didn’t say anything, but I saw one of the letters on his desk thanking him for his generous contribution with way too many zeros to be real—but it was. And Jack was real, no matter how fairytale-like he seemed.
As I sat and watched him paint model after model, I expected the feeling in the pit of my stomach to subside. There was something about watching the movement of the brush on bare skin, and the look in his eyes when he did it—like nothing else existed—it was alluring. I found that I wanted to watch him paint, that those moments were both awkward and exciting.
The images strewn across the paint took my breath away, not only because of their beauty but because of their raw, evocative nature. In short, the paintings were hot. The way in which he achieved those sensual pieces of art was so far from the dirty things that people thought. Jack’s art was hauntingly beautiful. The images were burned into my mind, and seeing how he made them only made it more incredible. His directions were so cold and mechanical, the total opposite of what I’d thought he’d be while creating.
Just as I found my groove and wasn’t concerned about dropping the models anymore, I dropped a model. It wasn’t really my fault, but it was completely my fault. It was about two weeks after I started, Jack and I were at the studio alone with a model. That part was normal. What wasn’t normal was the hollering lunatic that came barging in just when we were stamping the model, Rose, onto the canvas. Rose had her hand stretched out behind her, ready to do what Jack wanted. I held her other hand firmly, and was using my butt as a counterweight. My feet were slipping toward the canvas as I tried to hold her still and lower her at the same time. Jack’s eyes flew to the door when he heard the voice outside. His eyes blazed with fury when the woman threw open the studio doors and came traipsing in like she owned the place.
“Jonathan Gray,” she snapped her fingers at him, commanding him to come like a dog. Gus appeared behind her with an apologetic look on his face. The witch snapped twice more.
That’s when it happened. The model turned her head to see what was going on, and the tiny movement made my already slick hands lose hold of her. The model went crashing down onto the canvas, as I fell backwards onto my butt. All the air was forced out of Rose’s lungs as her back hit the hard floor. Knowing Jack couldn’t touch the naked, painted, girl, I scrambled over to help her up—my sneakers getting covered in paint.
Jack was furious, “What are you doing here, Belinda? The Galleria is closed and I’m working.”
A designer suit clung to her body, revealing every ample curve. Her long hair was elegantly plated into an elaborate hairstyle at the nape of her neck. The dark suit made her sandy hair seem darker. She sneered at him. “Yes, I see.” She made a disgusted face at me and Rose on the canvas. “Looks more like porn than art. Two girls wrestling on a slick canvas? Jack…” She tutted him, waving a finger at him like he was a naughty puppy.
Jack practically growled, “Get out before I throw you out.” He turned his back on her, ready to storm away, but her words stopped him.
“It’s only a matter of time, Jack.” The tone of her voice was sharp. Her meaning wasn’t clear to me, but it was to Jack. He turned and glared at her. The woman smiled, “When you change your mind, let me know.” She pressed a card down on the counter, turned on her heel, and sashayed out with Gus on her heels.
Still helping Rose up, I asked, “Are you okay?”
The girl nodded. Paint dripped from her hair, rolling down her breasts and splattering onto the floor. She rubbed the back of her head where it hit the ground, “I’m fine. She just startled me.”
Jack turned back to see both of us covered in paint, standing on the canvas. He closed his eyes, and raked his hands through is hair. “Rose, we’re done. Go change. I’ll call your manager and reschedule.”
The girl looked disappointed, but nodded and headed toward the back of the studio to shower. I watched Jack as he tried to ignore me. The tension that straightened his spine when that woman walked into the room hadn’t abated. He was still on edge. Jack moved to his paints, slowly covering them. I walked over and grabbed a lid, hammering it back on. When I reached for another lid, Jack was still kneeling next to me. Reaching out, he covered my hand, stilling me. There was paint everywhere. The model tracked it across the floor, and so had I. Somehow, Jack never had a drop on him, save his sneakers. But, when he placed his hand on top of mine, he brushed his thumb over my hand once, smearing the paint. He sat down hard on the floor after releasing me.
His legs were pulled up to his chest, his arms draped over his knees. Jack’s gaze was downcast, “Thanks for helping her. I haven’t had a model fall in... well, not since I first started. What a fucking nightmare.” He shook his head, and looked up.
Gus came running in spewing apologies, “I’m sorry, Jack. I tried to keep her out, but she wouldn’t have it. I haven’t seen her this pissed-off since you turned her down.”
“What the fuck got her so riled up?” Jack asked, eyes burning with rage as he glanced up at Gus. I swallowed hard. I hadn’t heard Jack angry like that, ever. I expected the harshness of his voice and the venom of his words to make me like him less, but it only made me more intrigued.
Gus shrugged, “The hell if I know,” then he looked at me, nodded, and added, “Sorry, Abby.”
People did that to me all the time. When they did something that they felt was wrong, they looked at me and apologized, like I could put in a pardon for them or something. The truth was that I didn’t care that they swore. I still had that wicked tongue inside of me, but I tried to control it. They didn’t. Jack stared at me, an unreadable expression on his face. It was in response to Gus’ comment. Jack got to his feet and stormed out of the room. I don’t know what I did.
Gus still stood in the door way. He walked inside and threw himself into a chair, running his fingers through his light hair. “I didn’t think it was possible, but I just pissed him off more. Fuck.”
Watching the man, I asked, “What are you talking about?”
Gus sighed, his hands dropping to his sides, “I don’t know. I can just tell. I lived with the guy for four years while we were in college. After being around someone that much, you know when you just dumped gasoline on a fire. Believe me. I just made it worse.”
The model appeared in the back of the studio, her hair dripping wet. She looked down at the ruined canvas. My sneaker prints were all over it along with a hard mark where her butt hit the canvas before slamming her head into the floor. Rose’s expression was cold, and directed at me. “Tell Mr. Gray that he needn’t bother rescheduling. I’m not coming back here, not after this.” She glared at me. Where did that come from? She didn’t think we invited Belinda inside to wreck her session, did she?
Gus jumped to his feet, following the girl as she stormed from the building. Shaking my head, I tried to understand what happened. I got who Belinda was, at least I thought I did. My guess was that she was the shrew who insisted on being the patron covered in paint. No one came back into the studio, so I cleaned up by myself. By the time I’d recovered all the paint cans and cleaned the brushes, it was already past midnight. I grabbed a sponge and started to wipe the foot prints off the floor when Jack came back. I was singing softly to myself, on my hands and knees, scrubbing my sneaker marks away.