Devon Hartford - Reckless

“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.

These next few months were going to be insane. The good thing about the hectic pace was that it kept my mind off my fucking trial.

I did my best not to think about it.

The current painting of Isabella sitting on my main work easel was life-sized, which meant the canvas was huge. One thing was a constant in the art world: bigger work meant bigger money. I was up for it.

Time to turn the money crank.

I turned to look at Isabella, assessing her lines and forms, the lights and darks, and the overall composition of her pose. She was so beautiful, you’d think painting her would be a slam-dunk. Just paint what you see, and you had a masterpiece, right?

Nope.

Portraits didn’t work that way.

I didn’t know a thing about Isabella, other than she was hot, which ironically served only as a distraction. Her flirtatious behavior wasn’t helping either, because I knew she was repressing her authentic personality when she was coming onto me.