Laughing to herself, she wished Claire had come, since there was no one here with whom she could share a witty repartee. She scanned the crowd again. There were some hot guys here for sure. Suits and ties, the kind she liked. The ones who had their shit together. Or at least who had daddy’s credit card and someone to pay to tell them what good taste is.
She noticed a man ordering a drink beside her. He was one of those artsy types. Wearing all black, a bunch of weird necklaces and big silver rings. Had that roughened, I’ve been in the studio all day don’t mind the mess look to his hands. They were nice hands, though. Strong looking.
“What do you think?”
He must have sensed her attention. Maybe she wanted him to. “That this place is filled with insufferable douchebags, including you.” She cocked an eyebrow at him.
He chuckled, unphased. “I mean about the sculpture.”
She made a wide sweeping gesture. “Which one? There are so many priceless pieces of shit to consider.”
He only smiled at her, taking a sip from his drink. Waiting, like he’d told her a riddle she needed to figure out.
The words of that woman passed through her mind. The artist is here, you know. Her head rock back every so slightly in surprise. “Oh,” she murmured, suddenly embarrassed. “That sculpture.”
So he’d seen her contemplating it. Did he know she revisited it? Was he watching her the whole time?
“Let me guess–you’re the artist?” she said, rolling her eyes.
“Colin,” he said, nodding as he extended a hand. “Pleasure.”
“Is all mine,” she finished, but immediately regretting her attempt at being clever. She shook his hand with a strong grip. It was one of her policies to never let a man crush her hand bones.
“Don’t you need an NC-17 warning on that or something?” she asked.
“Well, no galleries have bitten on them yet,” he said wryly.
“So you’ve made more than one? What are you, the vagina guy?”
He smiled, looking down at his drink for a moment, before meeting her eyes again. “I didn’t start out as the vagina guy. I used to do watercolors. I still do. But I’m an artist, and sex sells, and watercolors don’t, as it turns out.”
“Did you need an arts degree to figure that out?”
He held up his drink, pointing in the sculptures’ direction. “That one went for thirty grand.”
She nodded coolly, deftly hiding her surprise. “You might be a better salesman than an artist.”
He smiled again, giving her what she wanted. “I am definitely a salesman,” he said thoughtfully.
She liked the way he smiled with his lips closed, one corner tugging up. Like he wanted to say something, but was holding back. She liked how his teeth would show when he laughed at things she said. Take off those weird chains and lose the mysterious attitude, and he might even be the kind of guy she would be into.
They chatted, eventually moving to one of the deep, plush couches that must have cost a fortune. She told him about her life, moving to the city eight years ago, making a go at being a career woman. He told her about his fancy arts college, how he grew up in the city. He didn’t mention a trust fund, but she decided it was implied.
They both silently wondered at each other’s age, surmising she to be a little older, maybe a few years.
The conversation was natural, flowing. She was clever, snarky. He liked that. He also liked her body, which he snuck glances at whenever she wasn’t looking, and sometimes when she was. Measuring, assessing. He could tell she was aroused by him by the dilation of her hazel eyes, the way she licked her lips. The way she’d lingered at his sculpture; gone back for a second look. The telltale sign.
She was hungry.
Soon they were three drinks deep. He wasn’t much bigger than her, lean but muscular, so unless he was some raging alcoholic, she knew he must be feeling the buzz just like she was. At least they were on equal footing. The part of her–admittedly a quiet part–that would tell her to slow down, be alert, stranger danger and all that, was effectively silenced. She was having fun. She might leave the party with him, if he asked. Why not? She wondered what those talented hands would feel like on her.
Wherever their bodies met, there was electricity. Thighs touching, his hand over her shoulders on the couch, standard fare. But when he placed a hand ever so lightly on her knee, she knew it was over.
And he knew he had her where he wanted.
“Have you ever thought about modelling?” he asked.
“Please,” she said dismissively, with a giggle. “That’s like the worst pickup line ever.”
“I’m serious,” he said lightly. “I’m looking for models.”
“Oh, so you want me for one of your watercolor studies?” she said, pointing at herself as she giggled.
He didn’t reply, allowing his meaning, and his sincerity, to sink in. He moved his hand on her knee ever so slightly, reminding her of its presence as he let his gaze fall between her legs. When he looked back up, he had to suppress a laugh at her sudden, furious blush.
“No way,” she breathed, the mood of their conversation, and, he hoped, their relationship, forever altered. The party ceased to exist around them both–hadn’t it ceased long ago, really?–as they gazed at one another, a world of possibilities unraveling before them like a plush carpet.
In a smooth motion, he pulled a wallet from his pocket, producing a white card, holding it out to her with two fingers. “I pay five hundred for three hours,” he said. “There’s a contract to sign, and an NDA, which stipulates that I never reveal your identity to anyone. It would just be our little secret.”
She accepted the card, looking at it without seeing it. “No way,” she said again, shaking her head. But she was smiling. Grinning, even. “How many of these cards you give out a night?”
He pulled open his wallet, showing it to her, revealing no other cards. “Usually none.”
She tapped the card against her fingers. No way, she said again to herself. Absolutely not, never in a million years.
“Get in touch, if you like,” he said as he stood, straightening out his shirt. With a wink, he walked away, high on booze and a sense of victory.
He had a good feeling about this one.
She couldn’t really focus on work. Okay, she couldn’t focus at all on work.
Normally she didn’t mind the open-concept floor plan of her office, which seemed to her to be designed for the wasting of time with her work wife Chloe and work husband Matt. But now it felt like the panopticon, and all she wanted to do was creep.
His card was sparse: his name and a phone number. But he was easy to find online. His Instagram had eleven thousand followers. More than enough to be pretty intimidating. She thought about deleting her own account before he found her, with its measly four hundred followers. But he didn’t know her last name, and besides, how repugnant was it that she was already rehearsing an explanation of herself, as though she should be judged by some fucking app metrics? I don’t put much effort into it. It’s only for friends and family. Bla bla bla I hate social media kill me now.
His insta was mostly photos of himself going to events, hanging at the coast with friends, doing cool-boy shit. His art was conspicuously absent, including the alleged watercolors. How did he manage so many followers with such a basic bitch account?