Rich Bastard

(Skye)

“Who was that?” Ava asks as soon as I’m in her car.

“Someone I met at the restaurant.”

“Have you been seeing him long?” Ava’s making me feel like I’ve been transported back to my parents’ house during high school. Or at least how I imaging my parents would’ve been, had I dated.

“We’re going on our first date on Friday,” I say, shifting in my seat.

“Oh, you looked pretty comfortable with him for someone you haven’t even been on a date with yet.”

There’s no way I’m entering into this type of parent-child discussion with Ava. We ride in silence for the remainder of the way home.

The whole time, I’m buzzing. I’ve been commissioned for a huge job with Kelso, I’ve sold out of my paintings at Gordon’s gallery, and I’m going on a date with Lawson. I don’t know which of those three things excites me the most.

“I have to get some ideas down on paper while they’re fresh in my head,” I say when we arrive, leaving Ava in the living room.

On my way to my bedroom, I stop in my studio and grab my laptop. The lingering feel of Lawson’s arms around me has inspired me to come up with the plan for Kelso’s hideous bedroom erotica painting. While I’m in the right frame of mind, so to speak.

Friday. That’s three sleeps. Three sleeps until the day I might finally give away my virginity. For him, for Lawson, I’ll do it. Assuming, of course, that he wants to. And judging by the bulge digging into my side tonight, he wants to.

Stop it, I scold myself. I feel like such a child right now. Not the proper honest-to-goodness adult I’m finally about to be.

I grab my sketchbook and pencil set and open my laptop. After a deep breath, I hop off my bed and barricade my door with a laundry hamper. It won’t stop Ava, but it will slow her enough for me to hide what I’m about to do.

If Kelso wants a realistic spread eagle, I have to find out what one looks like. It’s not an image I think I can stomach under normal circumstances. But right now I feel like I’m drunk on Lawson and selling my art. Put those two things together, Lawson and art, and you get one frisky Skye who can handle a bit of full frontal.

The search bring up pages and pages of results. Of course. There are all sorts, from amateur to professional to just plain nasty. I pick one that seems artistic-ish: a woman propped up on her elbows with her knees bent. At least I can get some height on the canvas.

While I sketch, I wonder what Lawson will think of me. Or if I’m being too presumptuous. Just because he kissed me, with a big erection digging into me, doesn’t mean I should assume where the evening will head.

Maybe he’ll be freaked out and turned off by the stupid artist who’s clearly desperate to finally have sex. I need to manage my expectations.

The buzz of the evening doesn’t wear off for hours, and I keep on sketching until just before two. I’d had enough foresight to pick up an extra canvas, so I’ll do all the early work at home and only take it to his creepy bedroom when I have to. I just need to make sure Ava doesn’t come across it while it’s still here; that would be awkward, in the extreme.

In the morning, I hide the sketches in the bottom drawer of my dresser and delete my internet history, just in case.

As I arrive at the colonnaded monument to the absurd, butterflies start in my stomach. Please don’t let me see Kelso. Or at very least don’t let me see him alone. I’m here to paint as fast as I can and collect my money.

The workmen have left the front door ajar, and I tiptoe into the entrance lobby. My canvas is still propped on the easel off to the side. Good, no one has moved my stuff. I like everything to be organized in a certain way.

I’ve decided on an ancient Greek temple scene for the lobby, to echo the columns on this oversized house. Except I’m depicting the temple as it stands today: in ruins. Will the irony be lost on Kelso? Probably.

Using the image of the temple that Gordon printed out for me, I go over it one last time with my pencil. My goal is to crank out one of these paintings a week, and it’s already Wednesday so this one is late. Though, to be fair, I didn’t get much done Monday or Tuesday because of Kelso.

It’s nearly ten and I still haven’t seen any sign of another person. Which suits me just fine.

Enough with the sketching, I decide it’s time to slap some paint on this canvas. The dollar amount hits me once again: five-whole-thousand dollars for this one painting! The mere thought brightens my mood, and I hum as I go about getting my paints laid out.

The doorbell rings, though the door is still ajar. I ignore it and carry on preparing my paints. Kelso will no doubt appear, and with any luck he’ll be too busy answering the door to hassle me.

A few moments pass and no one comes. Should I answer it? I wouldn’t know what to say to the kind of person who would want to come here.

A few seconds later, there’s a firm knocking, which pushes the ajar door all the way open. My mouth drops.

Lawson stands in the doorframe, dressed in a dark blue suit tailored to his muscular frame. Wow. For a moment I forget about the oppression of the workers that the suit represents and enjoy the view. He looks seriously hot, made hotter by the fact that I know underneath the material is all that ink.

His brow furrows and he looks at me sideways. He appears as confused as I am.

“Hi,” I say, half greeting, half questioning.

“What are you doing here?” he snaps.

“Yeah, I’m wondering the same.”

“Why are you here?”

“Nice to see you too.”

“Huh?”

“It’s what you usually say when you run into someone?”

Lawson peers around, but no one else has come.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says in a hushed tone, walking toward me.

“I’ve been commissioned to create paintings for Kelso Wilson.” I take a step back, my hands on my hips.

“Kelso Wilson is scum. You need to stay away from him.”

“I’m here to do a job. An artist job for good money, plus a funded gallery show.”

“So?”

“So, this is what I want to do! It’s been my dream since I was five years old.”

“Kelso is nothing but trouble.”

“How do you know that? How do you know him? What are you even doing here?”

He holds my gaze with his and says, “He used to be my business partner.”

My arms drop to my sides while I struggle to understand what he said. I give up and say, “I don’t understand.”

“We were business partners. I’m Lawson Heywood.” When he utters his name an explosion goes off in my head.

Lawson Heywood. Of the worldwide hotel chain Heywoods. Even I know that.

A rich bastard.

Fuck.

And I trash-talked the rich right to his face. Repeatedly. Mortified, my cheeks burn and my stomach twists. I step backwards, knocking over my paints. The crash echoes around the entrance hall.