Fearless (11 page)

As was I.

I bit my lip, wanting to attack him, but restraining myself from doing so. “You don’t have to live on your bartending tips,” I said, perhaps too quickly. My wheels started turning, and, to my utter dismay, turned to Nottingham.

Nottingham, who Alaina told me owns “more than a few galleries.” He apparently was a patron of the arts. How much of a patron, I knew not, as I hadn’t yet dug into researching the man. I apparently had Nottingham wrapped around my finger, though, for whatever reason. His constant phone calls and texts to me after our encounter told me this. Might I be able to subtly persuade him to give Luke a platform for his work?

Or would that be too risky? After all, I was feeling very strongly for Luke. It wasn’t simply that I was wildly attracted to him, more than I had ever, and I mean ever, been to any other boy or man before. But I also was feeling a strong emotional and intellectual connection with him. His art spoke to me on a visceral level, which spoke volumes about his depth as a person. I was so anxious to get to know him on these deeper levels.

And Nottingham was infatuated, if not obsessed, with me. He might not take too kindly to me promoting Luke to him, especially if he would be able to tell exactly how I felt about Luke.

It certainly would be threading the needle, trying to get Nottingham to be Luke’s benefactor, without Nottingham knowing exactly the reason why I would want this. I couldn’t just come right out and tell Nottingham, obviously, that I was falling in love with this magnetic man Luke. That wouldn’t be good at all, to say the very least.

I would have to think about this one. I would obviously have to be deceptive to Nottingham to get what I really wanted here, and deceit was never something that had come naturally to me. Too bad I didn’t have more of Alaina in me.

I vaguely became aware that Luke was staring at me. “Dalilah,” he said. “It’s your deal.”

“Oh, yes, sorry,” I said. I couldn’t concentrate, though. My mind was whirling with how to help Luke find his audience, which would come, I knew, if he could get a few showings. And, truth be told, my mind was also whirling with thoughts that were not so pure. Specifically, I was thinking about how much I really wanted to see what was underneath that sweater and jeans he wore.

I cleared my throat and started to deal some more cards. My hands started shaking again, and I said “you know, it’s getting really warm in here, isn’t it? I have no idea why. I don’t have the heater up all that high, and the atmosphere outside certainly isn’t warm.”
It being October, the night air outside was hovering in the low 50s, and I knew that I hadn’t cranked my ancient old-school heater high enough to make the room feel as muggy as it was feeling to me right at that moment.

But Luke apparently was also feeling warm. “You know, I didn’t want to say anything, but I know what you mean. I hope you don’t mind if I take off this sweater.”

“Not at all,” I said, trying to ignore the inner voice that was screaming
take off your button down too! In fact, take off those jeans and everything else!!!!!

He took off his sweater, and he was now just in his white button-down, which had the top two buttons unbuttoned. I could see his sculpted muscles now, which were peeking out under his shirt, and I also could see more of the outline of his hard chest and abs. His strong arms were also more on display.

I took a deep breath, trying very hard to tamp down the feeling that I was getting, which was that I wanted to rip off that shirt with my teeth. Instead, I tried to concentrate on his hands, which were gripping the cards. But even that failed to quell the burning sensation that I was feeling, because his hands were as sexy as the rest of him. They were strong, yet delicate, with well-kept nails and long narrow fingers. It struck me that they were artist’s hands. Don’t know why that thought occurred to me, but that was what popped into my head at that point.

And then he put his cards down, and his beautiful hand was on my cheek again, and his lips were on mine once more. This time the kiss was soft, feathery and light. I closed my eyes, wanting to drink him in. Wanting to devour him, and for him to make me want to
scream out in pure ecstasy. I had never yet had an orgasm, except for the orgasm that I had with Nottingham’s sex games, and that one didn’t really count. Because it wasn’t an orgasm that was healthy. It was just an orgasm that happened because I was woken up.

But, with Luke, I knew, I just knew, that he could bring me to orgasm in a more tender and healthy way.
In fact, I was feeling something like an orgasm happening already, just with him kissing me. I was becoming flushed and warm, and my body was radiating with pleasure.

My heart was pounding again, but Luke pulled away. “Dalilah, it’s getting late,” he said, as my heart absolutely sunk into my shoes. “I have to pull a double shift at the bar tomorrow, so I need my rest. And I’m sure you need your rest, too. But I’ll be seeing you tomorrow morning for your sitting?”

I nodded my head silently. I attempted a smile, but I wasn’t sure if I pulled it off.

He smiled and got his sweater and put it on his arm. “I’m sorry we didn’t finish the game,” he said. “Next time, huh?”

“Next time,” I said, praying that there would be a next time. “We left off on the eighth phase, so just two more to go, and you’re well ahead,” I said, glancing at the score sheet. Indeed, he was smoking me on points.

He tousled my hair a little bit. “I’m sure you’re letting me win.” And then he leaned down and kissed me again. “Good night, Dalilah. Sweet dreams.”

“Sweet dreams,” I said, as he opened the door and let himself out.

And, just like that, he was gone.

But I didn’t go to bed after he left. In fact, I stayed up all night.

I stayed up all night painting, my fingers furiously digging into my watercolor set, the brush stroking across my canvas.

I had never in my life felt so goddamned alive.

Chapter
Fifteen

Luke

As I made my way down Dalilah’s stairs, and into the cool night air, I thought about how I could never tell Dalilah why I had to leave so abruptly just now. It was that I felt that I couldn’t breathe, yet I had a raging hard-on that quite frankly embarrassed me. I knew for a fact that I had never quite had a hard-on like the one I had in her apartment. She was quite discreet in not looking at my crotch, thank god, because if she did, she definitely would have seen it. Because it was tent-like in its proportions.

So, I had to go to the diner that was just down the street, and hit the bathroom the first thing. Two minutes later, I emerged, feeling much more in control of the situation.

And, of course, I had to buy something there, because using a diner’s restroom without buying anything was just plain rude. So, I sat down at the corner and ordered a cup of coffee. As I sipped the coffee, I pondered the evening.

I felt excited as I realized that Dalilah was definitely feeling something for me. It was in her words and in her body language. She wanted me as much as I wanted her. That much was perfectly clear.

But it just wasn’t as simple as all of that. I wished that it would be. But it wasn’t. I couldn’t give her what she needed. At that moment, I just wasn’t able to give any woman what she would need. I wasn’t established. Dalilah deserved somebody who could monetarily afford to treat her like the platinum that she was. Yeah, Nottingham was allegedly going to be giving me $5000, but the contract stipulated that it was to be paid after the project was over. I had just noticed that the other day when I was reading the fine print. So, in the meantime, I was broke.

And Dalilah was like a bottle of
Domaine de la Romanee-Conti Grand Cru, Cote de Nuits
, which was recognized as the finest wine in the world. She was unique, rare and well out of my league. That I was increasingly feeling that I was falling for her, and I was feeling that more and more, every time I saw her, was a non-factor. I simply couldn’t have someone like her, and that was that. As frustrating as that was.

I doodled on the napkin front of me, and then, just like that, song lyrics started pouring out of my head. That wasn’t something that usually happened for me, because inspiration for my lyrics constantly eluded me. But being up there with Dalilah - feeling her warmth, seeing her extraordinary beauty, and sensing her even-more-extraordinary intelligence – somehow did inspire me as nothing else ever had.

So, for the next hour, the lyrics poured out of me. What came out was a sappy love song like the kind that I used to make fun of when I heard it on the radio. With the exception of The Beatles
Something
of course – there was no arguing with that classic. But, usually, when I heard a love song, I rolled my eyes. Because there wasn’t such a thing as the kind of pure love that these songs conveyed.

Or so I thought. But I was increasingly seeing a glimpse, but just a glimpse, of what these songs were talking about when I looked into Dalilah’s eyes.

I finally decided to walk to the subway station, which was a few blocks away from her apartment, around 3 AM. I did have a double-shift at the bar the next day, which was going to kill me, I knew. I was going to be dead-tired. And Dalilah would be coming to my studio at 8 AM, too. For that, I knew that I would be wide awake.

I tried very hard to tamp down the feeling of absolute excitement that was bubbling up as I anticipated seeing her again in just a few more hours. For she was still untouchable to me in so many ways. I was amazed that I had the nerve to kiss her, but, then again, that was how I was feeling about her. I couldn’t not kiss her. I couldn’t not fantasize about making love to her. I had such an
absolute passion for her that touching her and kissing her almost seemed like it was second nature to me.

But my brain said that what
had happened up there with her – the kisses – was going to be as far as it ever could go. She was my muse, of that I was sure. She inspired me to write a rather kick-ass love song, if I do say so myself, and she also inspired my art. I was finding myself increasingly incorporating her, in some way, in everything that I was composing, even if it was as an abstraction of some sort. Like I would be painting a picture of people in a café, and there she was, popping up at one of the tables. Or I was doodling a sketch of a busy city street, and Dalilah was there in the crowd.

And, of course, there was the portrait of Dalilah that I was creating for that wealthy bastard, a portrait that I was suddenly feeling proprietary over. Which was a dangerous way for me to feel, because I didn’t own this portrait. Nottingham did. I was just the instrumentality for getting the portrait done. Just the same, the entire project was turning into one that was a passion project for me, moreso than anything else had ever been. How I wished that I could keep it for myself after it was finished!

Yes, she was my muse. And she might always be, even in the near future when I would inevitably be forced to jettison my art and make it just a hobby, while I found a “real” job that would pay the bills. She was my muse, but she could never be my lover. I hated to think that I just wasn’t worthy of her, but that was what went through my head.

I might have been falling in love with her, but I still couldn’t imagine being with her.

Nonetheless, I looked forward to seeing her again with breathless anticipation.

Chapter
Sixteen

Dalilah

After Luke left, and after I had feverishly completed my first painting in 8 long years, which was not something that was in my previous chosen genre of urban expressionism, but was, rather, a simple and straightforward realistic portrait of Luke himself – hey, it was a start – I found that I simply couldn’t sleep. I was too anxious to get down to Queens and see Luke again at 8 in the morning.

I tossed and turned and tossed and turned. I knew one thing for sure – he had awakened in me something that was powerful and couldn’t quite be put into words. It wasn’t just sexual, although, I had to admit, that was a really big part of it. I wanted him, sexually, more than I had ever wanted anybody. In.my.life. But, no, what he awakened in me was a burning passion. It was as if these past
nine years, where I went through life in a kind of twilight fashion, didn’t even exist. There was color in my world again, so much more than there ever was.

I saw a movie once, long ago, when I was a very young child. It was kind of an old movie, even then, but it was called
Limitless.
Some of the movie was in grey, drab tones – that was the part of the movie that showed how the protagonist was seeing the world during that period. But he took some kind of magic pill that caused him to use 100% of his brain, and, at that moment, the world suddenly had color. Lots of bright color.

That was how it was with me. Suddenly, I felt like being engaged in the world again. I was seeing things again that made me want to take to my canvas
, and put aside the fear that I had been carrying around with me for so long. To finally just say to hell with the haters, I was going to paint what was in my heart. There were going to be haters, I knew that. There always were. But I couldn’t listen to them. I had to go with my own muse and my own instincts and get right back to it.

And to think that this newfound passion came from just one kiss…

Nope, it wasn’t just the kiss. It was the feeling that Luke gave me. The feelings that were inside me all along, but were dormant, suddenly felt like they were about to burst forth and overwhelm me. I suddenly realized that all that I really needed in this world, which perhaps I never realized before, was the feeling of being in love. As crazy as that was, thinking that I was in love with this magnificent boy after just a few hours of talking with him and feeling his soft lips on mine, that was just what had happened.

My mind raced forward, and I knew that I also had to keep Luke in town, somehow, someway. He was struggling with his art. Why he was, I didn’t know. No, I did know. He was just like everybody else was who was wildly talented and penniless. He needed a platform, a way to introduce his artistic talent to the world. He had to have a way for everybody - art critics, art patrons and the masses alike – to know exactly how gifted he really was.

I wished that I knew somebody who was in that world. Who ran in that circle. I certainly used to. I knew all the great artists back in the day. The critics, too, and the patrons. I might have only been 11 when I was getting my recognition, but I could intellectually engage with anybody, so talking to artistic types was never a problem for me. But I had long since fallen out of that world.

Yes, I was modeling for established artists, none of whom had the kind of reach that I needed. I really needed somebody who had money to be Luke’s benefactor, and also somebody who had powerful and monied connections. The
right
powerful and monied connections.

I knew that I, myself, would soon be back in that world, and, if things went the way that they went before, I would presumably be getting showings again. I could sense that, even though I no longer would have the draw of curiosity that I had before as a prodigy. Galleries did want to work with me
back then, in part because I had such a name due to my status as prodigy. I no longer had that status, of course, as I was 20 years old, therefore nothing necessarily set me apart from others who were in my field. So, I might have to start small with my own showings, which didn’t necessarily help Luke any.

No, I had to figure out a way for him to shine.

Tapping my fingers on my desk, I got up and Googled Nottingham. For the next three hours, I found out everything I could about him. And there was one thing that was inescapable to me. Nottingham had just the profile I needed to help Luke out. He was extraordinarily wealthy – as Alaina had said, Nottingham owned many different things in lower Manhattan. He also owned no less than 10 different galleries around the city, many of them working with well-established international artists. He was a silent partner in about 20 others.

Somebody like him could make or break an artist in this city, I thought to myself. And he also had some powerful friends who were well-known in the art circles. I found this out as well in my exhaustive research. I had no idea if Nottingham himself was artistically inclined – there was nothing in my research that would indicate that was the case – but he was certainly a patron and benefactor of the arts. And he had exquisite taste in who he chose to bestow his considerable largesse.