Devon Hartford - Painless

“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.

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.”