Katherine
Agreeing to come to the gallery is one thing, but actually making my way there is proving a point. I’m not going to become another Blake statistic.
That’s right, after I met him I did a little digging on him…Blake has a serious reputation (fast cars and women), and he isn’t just Instagram-famous. He’s a heavyweight in the world of art – and he has the bank account and lifestyle to prove it.
But I’m still getting over having my heart broken by that two or three timing prick Dale, and I’m not about to stumble right into the next disastrous relationship. No, thank you.
When Blake asked me to show up at his exhibition, I was getting ready to say ‘no’ when I remembered Robin’s words – this might be the inspiration I need. If it hadn’t been for her, I wouldn’t have come at all.
But I promise – I’m not going to fall for any of the usual one-liners from men like Blake, particularly the ‘please model for me, you inspire me.’
As if.
It might work on the blonde, big busted, cleavage-revealing models Blake seems to be typically photographed with, but not on me. Besides, I have to focus on getting my creative juices flowing and to write my next bestseller.
The unfortunate reminder of my unfinished work unleashes thousands of butterflies in my stomach and little beads of sweat form in the palm of my hands.
“Someone got dressed up,” a familiar voice from behind interrupts my thoughts.
I pivot and smile at my friend, hoping I haven’t turned red like a tomato.
“Just because I’m not interested doesn’t mean I can’t look my best.”’ I defend myself, pleased to push thoughts of current failings aside.
To feel good you should look good, I’ve read somewhere.
“What are you not interested in?”
Blake has materialized next to me. He’s so close to me that I can’t help but be acutely aware of his maleness. Broad shoulders, rugged features, a partly open shirt to reveal a body honed to the point of perfection, and well-fitting pants. Despite my best endeavors, my eyes take in the full package and betray me.
To regain my composure I take a step back, only to have my heel find a crack in the pavement of the footpath. I lose my balance and instinctively reach for something to hold onto so as not to fall.
A strong hand steadies me.
Each and everyone one of my nerve cells starts to tingle. He pulls me toward him. My heart races a million miles an hour and I have to fight a sudden desire to melt in his arms. Images of two naked bodies entwined flash through my mind.
“Shall we go in?” Robin’s voice penetrates my foggy brain.
“Thank you,”’ I mutter and pull my little black dress down a little, desperate to regain composure.
Blake links arms with me, pulling me in close, in a possessive manner.
“I think I better hang on to you.” He smiles brightly at me.
My skin is burning where he’s touching me and I curse the weakness of my flesh.
Inside Out Art is not the small gallery I was expecting, the grey bland concrete exterior betraying the vast, expansive treasure hidden inside.
As soon as we enter, I catch my breath.
Waiters in black suits and white shirts balance trays of champagne, weaving their way expertly through the large crowd of attendees.
I notice all the envious stares most of the women aged eighteen to eighty shoot in my direction as we try make our way to a less busy part of the exhibition. Of course the stares are because at Blake, not me.
“Wow,”’ Robin exclaims and stops in front of a smaller painting.
I am swept away by the beauty of the young woman in the work of art. I tilt my head to the side and glance at Blake, acutely aware of his intense gaze on me.
“You should model for him,” Robin says loud enough for everyone to hear before she moves onto the next painting.
I would have liked to hit her, best friend or not. It is as if all eyes are suddenly upon me. The women shoot poison arrows in my direction and if looks could kill I’m sure I would be a pile of ashes on the floor beside playboy Blake, who ‘s clearly enjoying the spectacle.
I decide not to reply and instead follow my ex-best friend. Oh, I’ll have some words for her next time we were alone. I feel conscious of the sound of my stiletto heels echoing on the concrete floor and I wish I had chosen different footwear, something less attention-drawing.
As I walk from painting to painting I cannot help but be impressed. Art isn’t exactly my forte, but I know enough to appreciate good paintings when I see one.
Most of the subjects are women, of course. But they’re not the nudes I had expected. There are nudes apparently, but they’re not in your face. Most are surprisingly discreet.
“I still want you to model for me. You’re the perfect combination of beauty and sex appeal.” I can hear Blake speaking softly in my ear and those butterflies have come back in millions. My knees wobble a little and I hope they won’t give way.
I can’t remember the last time Dale said I was pretty, sexy or beautiful.
“I bet you say that to all the women you want to have your way with.” The words are out before I can stop them.
Moving on to the next painting my eyes feast on a young woman who is leaning on a windowsill. She has a faraway look in her eyes. Blake has captured the longing of the woman perfectly.
I focus on the finer details. Her arms folded. Pink lace of a bra is just visible with her white blouse unbuttoned to just above the gap between her breasts. It is suggestive, but not offensive.
“You’re jumping to conclusions.”
His voice brings me back to reality, as does the gesture of his left index finger stroking my cheek.
“Um,” I’m lost for words.
“Will you at least have dinner with me?”
I feel my resistance crumble and desire sweep through me.
Before I can stop myself I nod.