Becoming His Muse, Part Three (8 page)

“And eat each other?” he says, playing along.

I nod, trailing my fingernails across his recently revealed pecs until he shivers. “Because you are the most delicious thing I’ve ever
tasted
.”

I unbutton his slacks and slide my hands around back so I can grab his glutes. I pull him toward me, pressing his growing erection against my pubic bone. He tips his head to kiss my lips. Both of his hands dig into my hair and hold my face tight to his. At the end of the kiss, he pulls away and whispers.

“Oh, Ava, what ever did I do to deserve you?”

“Why would you have to do anything to deserve me?”

With my hands still on his ass cheeks, I bend my wrists and push his loosened slacks off his hips. The soft fabric falls quietly to the floor. My knees soon follow as I kiss my way down his chest to his abs and his belly button. My hands cup the front of his boxers, one hand rests along his hard length, the other palms his balls through the thin jersey fabric. He moans lightly as I slide my hands up his legs and under his boxers. I grip his shaft of warm, hard skin, letting my fingers trace the ridge of his glans. The fingers of my other hand feel the soft tender not-quite-roundness of each ball.

“I’ve done less than nothing to deserve this,” he says hoarsely.

“Do you want me to stop?” I look up at him as I pull the back of his boxers down. His cock falls forward slightly and brushes my lips. His breath catches as he looks down at me. He’s shaking his head. “Please, don’t stop,” he whispers.

I take him in my mouth, my eyes still on his. I know how much he loves this and yet his eyes look rather pained. I kiss and suck gently, lovingly fondling his balls and letting my fingers occasionally caress his ass and thighs. When I look up at him again, his eyes look dark and haunted… and a little wet.

At first I think he’s disappointed, and I’m about to grip him firmer and suck faster and deeper, but then I feel his finger on my chin, and I hear him say the word, “Stop.”

He drops down to the floor beside me, kicking off his shoes and the slacks and boxers bunched at his ankles.

“Didn’t you like it?” I say, wiping away the saliva that’s gathered around my lips and chin.

With a slightly choked voice, he says, “I love it. I just…” Logan is not someone I’ve ever known to be at a loss for words. He reaches for a tendril of my hair and stares me in the eyes, unblinking. His erection hasn’t faded but the ardor’s gone out of him.

“You didn’t lack for anything growing up, did you?” he says quietly.

“I guess not.”

“Your parents adored you and gave you everything you ever wanted.”

I’m not so sure about that, but it’s true that they doted on me. Still do, in away that’s irritating and inappropriate at my age. I settle beside him and wrap my arms around my knees.

“Did they ever hit you, Ava?”

I shake my head quickly. “Never.”

My father had a slight temper, but my mother was always there to curb it.

“Not even a spank?”

I don’t remember any. “I’m pretty sure not.”

Logan and I sit on the floor facing each other. The pale winter light from the windows reflects off the bare skin of his chest. I stare at the scar near his collarbone.

“Spanking’s mild compared to what my father did to me.”

I wince at the thought. I don’t know the details but I can imagine, and it hurts to think of Logan as a young boy in pain. I wish I could take that pain away.

He takes my face in his hands, turns my eyes up to his.

“You’re lucky to have been so loved,” he whispers. “You deserved that.”

“So did you,” I say, feeling tears begin to prick behind my eyes. He closes his eyes and shakes his head.

“The past is over, gone. I try not to let it haunt me now. But sometimes…”

I reach up and touch his scar, ever so lightly. I feel him start to tremble.

I take his hands away from my face so I can lean in and kiss his chest. His arms slide around my shoulders and he draws me close.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go to that dark place,” he says.

“It’s all right.” I say. “I’ll go there with you.”

His arms tighten around me. He buries his head in the crook of my neck. “No,” he says. “Be
here
with me.”

“Yes,” I say.

To myself, I add,
always
.

It’s getting chilly on the floor so I guide us up to the couch. We spoon together under a cozy blanket. Logan’s arms around me feel so warm and protective, as if anything bad that has happened or could happen can’t ever really hurt me. We lie like this, napping lightly, until it’s time to go to the art opening.

On our way to the art gallery I try to talk to Logan about his father.

“If he was so awful, why do you wear his old hat.”

“I told you, it’s a reminder.”

“Of
bad
things. Why does anyone need to be reminded of bad things?”

“Everyday each of us is standing at the edge of the worst and the best of what we could become. As much as we aim for our aspirations, we must remain aware of the demons that could pull us down.”

“What demons?”

“You’re too young to have them.”

“That’s not fair. You’re not
that
much older than I am.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Old enough so that most of the bad stuff that happened
to
me happened before you were born. What happened after I did mostly to myself. And others.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and doesn’t offer more.

“Stuff happened to me, too, you know.”

“Like what? Let me guess. Plenty of good meals, a warm cozy bed, the love and praise of your parents. Probably ballet and music lessons, summer camp, and I bet you even went to Disney World. And probably not just once.”

“Three times,” I mumble, frowning. “Do you really hate people who haven’t suffered as much as you have?”

He chuckles. “Not at all. You give me hope. Though, I admit, hope is pretty fragile in my hands.”

I reach for one of those hands. I love his hands. I remember that I want to paint them.

“Everybody suffers Logan. Even people who get to go to DisneyWorld. And everyone needs hope. True hope is resilient, not breakable. Like true love.”

He squeezes my hand snuggled tight in his. “Like I said, no demons.”

“If the demons you’re referring to take all the lustre out of life, I don’t want them. And if that hat represents your demons, you should ceremoniously toss it off the Brooklyn Bridge.”

He rubs his thumb along the Fedora’s brim. “I can’t now. It’s part of my look.”

“It’s part of your
act
, I know, but you’re allowed to revise it. Why hang on to something that reminds you of someone who caused you so much pain?”

“I’ve already nearly given up smoking. Isn’t that enough?”

“You really don’t like change, do you?”

Quietly, he says, “Sometimes an old familiar pain is easier to live with than sudden unfamiliar pleasure.”

When Logan talks like that I know he’s moved into his writing mind, and sure enough, he pulls out his pocket notebook.

We walk a few more blocks and then turn a corner and find ourselves across from a brightly lit gallery. Music thrums inside.

Despite the cold, gallery visitors spill out of the glass doors onto the sidewalk to chat and sip wine and light up an occasional cigarette. Logan moans when he sees that. “I might have to have one tonight.”

We cross the street. I’m surprised by the number of people here. We politely shove our way in the door and hand over our winter coats. I feel underdressed compared to most of the women, who, in addition to dresses and tailored pantsuits, wear perfectly applied make up and shoes to die for. I’m at an art opening in New York! I let my excitement outweigh my feelings of inadequacy. This is my sneak peek anyways. I don’t belong here yet, but one day I hope I will.

Logan steers me toward the middle of the room picking up two champagne glasses from a passing waiter with a tray.

“I want you to meet Lowell,” says Logan. We stop in front of a cluster of people. A man who could easily be mistaken for George Clooney’s brother smiles wide when his eyes land on Logan. “You made it,” he says, stepping forward to shake Logan’s hand. “And this must be Ava.” He turns to me and somehow manages to show a few more perfect teeth when he smiles my way.

“Logan tells me you’re a painter.”

“More like a student of painting.”

“She’s an artist who happens to still be trapped in college,” corrects Logan.

An elegant woman peels herself away from the social cluster and stands beside Lowell.

“Who pray tell is still in college?”

Lowell says, “This is my wife, Lisle. It’s her friend Hannah Doyle who owns the gallery. We thought you’d enjoy meeting the featured artist, Surika Lyn. She’s around here somewhere.”

I’m having trouble keeping up with all the new names coming at me but I nod as if I’m following everything.

Lisle shakes my hand. She has a firm grip. She looks me up and down. “You’re studying where Logan is teaching? Has he gotten himself into trouble yet? He has a bad habit of it. Runs from one pot of trouble into another.” She gives him rueful glance.

“No need to exaggerate, Lisle.” Logan slides a possessive arm around my waist.

“And when’s the last time you saw—”

Lowell interrupts. “—Hannah’s waving to you, Honey. I think she needs you.”

“Nice to meet you, Ava,” she says before excusing herself.

I’m introduced to a couple of Lowell’s agency associates and friends who are art buyers. I can’t keep track of anyone, but they seem friendly enough. They all seem to know who Logan is and say they’re waiting with anticipation for his next book.

“I think you’ll be happily surprised,” says Lowell. “I’ve only read the first few pages— I only got it yesterday— but it’s promising so far.”

Logan tries to hide his smile. The people listening to Logan nod and say a word or two amongst themselves. Lowell’s a good agent. He’s already creating buzz.

I excuse myself from the conversation, telling Logan I’m going to look at the paintings. I’ve only seen glimpses through the tightly packed groups of patrons and I want to really look at each canvas. I start at one edge of the gallery and move down the wall, painting by painting. I’m impressed with the color choices. While I’m not as familiar with abstract styles, I respond immediately and positively to the tones and textures. Halfway through the exhibit, I reach a corner of the room. Standing there, in a dress of yellow silk, is an Asian woman of indeterminate age and depth of beauty. She has just stepped away from a conversation group and turned her back to them to stare at a painting, or perhaps the wall corner, as I don’t see her eyes focused on a particular canvas. I’m about to pass her when she turns to me and says,

“So what do you think?”

Her dark eyes are penetrating and her berry-colored lips look like they are about to curve into a smile.

“I’m trying not to,” I say.

I’ve been immersed in the subtleties of color and texture, light and shadow. The experience has dropped me into a light artistic trance, the kind that allows my own painting process to flow or new ideas to form. It also pushes the details of reality— like the fact that I’m in a crowded gallery— to the background, so that my response does not quite fit the situation. It does, however, elicit a smile from the woman.

“The only honest answer I’ve heard all night. I’m Sukira Lyn.” She holds out her small hand.

“Oh, the artist.” I say.

Then, feeling a little embarrassed, I try to explain what I meant, and what I’d just been experiencing. We chat at length about the painting process and she tells me about how she works and what she strives for. What she has to say is even more inspiring than her work, and she invites me to her studio in Hell’s Kitchen next time I’m in New York. I’m thoroughly thrilled.

At one point, as we talk, I glance toward the front window of the gallery and see Logan smoking on the other side of the glass. Several people are out there doing the same thing. I see him talking to a tall brunette. He looks serious and she leans toward him, speaking intensely. I wonder who that is… I turn away and focus on Sukira. I’ve asked her what’s it’s like to be a painter in New York, to have her own show with so many people in attendance.

“It’s a lonely vocation, but sometimes these events feel lonelier. It’s not the number of people who warm the chill of loneliness, it’s the
presence
of their hearts in the room with you. The problem these days is that people don’t bring their hearts along for the ride very often anymore, especially in this city. Just heads and guts. And that makes for lonely crowds. That’s essentially what this exhibit is about, but I don’t think anyone here knows that.”

“Is there any point in telling them?”

“If you tell them then they’ll
know
it, but the point is that they
feel
it.” She taps her heart for emphasis.

“But if you don’t think they get it, does it mean the show’s not successful?”

“Success has many definitions. More than half the paintings have sold tonight. For many, that is successful.”

“To you?”

She shrugs. “An artist can only show the way. Art is my attempt. I succeeded in my intention. I’m not responsible for what happens beyond that. You see,
understanding
is subjective, too.”

A tall woman with short cropped blond hair beelines for Sukira and hands her a glass of champagne. She’s the woman that Lowell had pointed out earlier, Hannah Doyle, the gallery owner.

“Wonderful turnout, Sukira. You must feel so proud.”

Sukira shrugs again and takes a sip of her champagne. “Have you met Ava Nichols? She’s my new friend. An up and coming painter.”

I feel myself blush as Hannah gives me a more serious appraisal. “You’re a friend of Lowell’s and Lisle’s, right?”

“Actually, I’m here with Logan O’Shane.”

Sukira raises an eyebrow. “Don’t hold it against her, Hannah. She’ll be needing representation one day.”

As I’m wondering what that means, Hannah digs out a card from the clutch tucked under her arm. “Take this,” she says. “When you’re ready, bring me your portfolio. We’ll talk.”