Fearless (5 page)

So, I decided to give in a little. If only to try to please my father. My mother would never understand me, as much as she had always tried. But my father was a different story, so I wanted to try to please him.

“Okay, I’ll have dinner with you every month,” I said, conveniently ignoring my father’s earlier plea for me to once again realize my gift and try to get over Henry Jacobs.

My mom looked happy. “That would be wonde
rful, Dalilah. That’s all that we ask. We can keep up on your life so much better if we can have regular contact with you face to face.”

My dad put his hand on my shoulder, and brought me to him in a big hug. To my surprise, I found myself crying as I listened to his heart beating. He stroked my hair and said “shhhhhh, Dalilah, you’re okay. You’re going to find your way, baby girl. Your mom and I love you very much. And we always believe in you. Always.”

I nodded my head and said nothing.

But the tears kept coming, and it felt like they would never stop.

Chapter Six

I woke to my phone buzzing incessantly. It was then that I realized that I had turned off my phone after my Seth brush-off, not wanting to deal with the reality that he would be blowing up the phone, as he always did when I blew him off. I had turned the phone back on after I went to bed at 4 AM. I had stayed up with my parents, talking late into the night about everything under the sun. My father was still trying to reach me in his way. My mom, too, but sh
e tended to go about it in a manner that pushed me further away as opposed to bringing me closer.

They had already left, as they had a hotel room, because they knew that there was no way that they could stay with me in my studio apartment.

Now, here it was 7 AM, and my phone was ringing. I was in no mood to talk to anyone, as I was once again hung-over and talking with my parents had emotionally drained me. But I picked up anyhow.

“Dalilah Gallagher,” said a familiar voice on the other end. “I have been trying to get ahold of you. Why haven’t you been picking up your phone and returning your messages?”

I was incredulous. Whoever was speaking was a pushy little bastard, and I didn’t like it one bit. “Who is this?” I asked.

“This is Blake Nottingham. You met me a few days ago. I need you to pose, and I need this in one hour.”

Blake Nottingham. The creeper from the sidewalk bench. Fuck that, I wasn’t going to pose for him or anybody else in an hour. “Mr. Nottingham, I’m very sorry, but this is short notice. I’ll have to take a rain check.”

“You will not take a rain check. I have already arranged for the artist to meet you at
12667 Roosevelt Avenue in Queens.”

I recognized that address, and I suddenly knew that there was no fucking way I would ever go down there. It was in the industrial area of Queens, known as Willets Point, and it was a cesspool.
There was little there but junkyards and waste processing plants. And abandoned warehouses. Somehow, I got the feeling that 12667 Roosevelt Avenue would probably fall into that category.

I laughed. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Nottingham, but posing there is out of the question. I generally don’t leave Manhattan for a job, and I certainly am not going to go to an armpit like Willets Point for anybody.”

“I’ll pay you $1,000,” he said.

My eyebrows rais
ed. Suddenly, I was interested. I could use that money, because I realized that Seth probably was going to cut me off, and there was just no way that I was going to go to my parents, hat in hand. That would be the nail in my coffin, having to beg for their financial support.

“I’ll be there at 8,” I said.

“Thank you,” he said, and hung up.

I didn’t have time to think about how this man got my personal phone number. I mean, a lot of established artists had my phone number, because I had been making the rounds and I had become somewhat in demand. But how this Nottingham person managed to get my phone number was beyond me.

I didn’t have time to think about that one, though. I had to rush to get the bus and the right subway, and then more bus transfers to this little hell-hole in Queens.

Chapter
Seven

Luke

I actually did end up at my “studio” a little bit early, as I didn’t want a repeat performance of the other morning. So, I didn’t get baked the night before and actually got some sleep for once in my life. I knew that getting to the studio would be tricky on the bus, because I was going to have to carry my tools and my canvas on there. I really should have outfitted the studio with what I needed, but I used the place so little that there was never in point in doing that.

So, I packed up my stuff and took off on the bus to the Willets Point district of Queens. This was a depressing area that resembled a war zone, really, and I felt a little bad that a classy woman, as this Dalilah Gallagher seemed to be, would have to be subjected to such an indignity as coming to an abandoned warehouse in the middle of a post-apocalyptic landscape
like Willets Point. But, it couldn’t be helped. It was either here in this studio or in my studio apartment. And I had finally resorted to having bars installed on my windows, and the guys were coming today to install them, so painting this Dalilah in my apartment was out of the question. I never thought that I would have to resort to having bars on my windows, but being constantly robbed was getting old indeed.

My heart was pounding as I got to my warehouse and set up shop. I started the generator, which powered the lights a
nd a space heater, which was necessitated by the fact that it was always cold in this place, for some odd reason. I set up my canvas and carefully inventoried my tools. I had gotten the contract that was sent over by courier, and it specified that I was to paint a nude portrait of her that was to be delivered in three month. The payment would be contingent upon the buyer being satisfied with the work, which would mean that I wouldn’t be paid until the end of the project. Until then, I guess, I would live on Spaghetti-O’s and Ramen Noodles, as usual.

There was even an addendum that specified that, if the buyer was satisfied with the work, I could exercise an extra $10,000 option to sculpt her. He would supply the marble. That was more than exciting to me. I was an excellent painter, but an even better sculptor. I just never really got the chance to sculpt, as I couldn’t afford the materials.
If I chose to exercise that addendum, I could take up to six months to deliver it.

I set up the pedestal for her to pose on. I was given rather detailed instructions on the pose that she was supposed to assume in this first session. I was
also sent a fainting couch for her to lay on. The couch was royal red, and very traditional. I would assume that he wanted the final product to be in keeping with the look of the couch, which would mean that I would paint her in more of a classical style, as opposed to attempting something more
avant-garde.

This guy seemed to be a micro-manager and a control freak, but, no matter, I was going to do what he said. Far be it for me to breach the contract in any way, which would mean that I wouldn’t be paid the amount that we agreed to. I had a working knowledge of contract 101, and realized that the terms were not absolute. It depended upon my following the instructions that I
had agreed to, to the letter.

I finally got everything set up and ready to go. I looked at my watch. It read 7:55. Dalilah was supposed to arrive around 8. I tapped my toe nervously, hoping that she would show. I needed the income, for sure, but, truth be told, I also was looking forward to seeing her. From the short time that I saw her on the bus, I could tell that she was radiant. Incandescent. She just exuded a certain kind of sensuality that emitted from her very presence. It was difficult to describe. All that I knew was that I was drawn to her, as if I was being pulled in by a tractor beam.

It occurred to me that my benefactor had obviously felt the same way about her, which would be why he was so eager for me to take this project. In which case, I probably shouldn’t bite the hand that feeds me, which is what I would be doing if I started a love affair with her. But, then, I immediately put that thought out of my head, because a girl like that was out of my league anyhow. I was obviously going to have to make do with fantasizing about being with her. And there wasn’t any way that I was going to not fantasize about being with her.

At the same time, I had to be professional. That was going to be exceedingly difficult, considering the circumstances, but I was going to have to look at h
er as just another model. I had painted many nudes over the course of my career, both when I was a student and a few times as a professional, whenever I had been able to score commissioned work before. I typically couldn’t afford to hire them on my own, but there had been a few commissioned projects that featured nude models, and I never had an issue being a consummate professional with them.

The minutes ticked by slowly. I kept checking my watch, and started to feel the anxiety build. What if she couldn’t make it? Wouldn’t Nottingham call me and let me know about that? I started to feel just a bit foolish, coming down here and setting everything up. If she didn’t show, I would just be the chump.

The anxiety built, as the time got to be 8:30, and then 8:45. I kept checking my phone, too, to see if Nottingham had contacted me, but there was never a message or a voice-mail from him. I tapped my foot impatiently, and started to feel let down by the whole thing
. I probably shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up.

Finally, around 9, there was a knock on my door. I took a quick peek in the mirror before I went to let her in. My hair was behaving, and I was dressed as professionally as I could be, as I had chosen a yellow sweater
with a white button-down, jeans and oxford shoes. I had even bothered to spray some cologne and used after-shave. All in all, I felt at least a bit presentable.

My heart pounding, I opened the door. She was standing on the other side of the door, wearing jeans, a longish cashmere sweater and boots. Her gorgeous red hair was tied up behind her head, and she wasn’t wearing any makeup. But even in her casual attire, with her unadorned face, she still glowed from within. The same heat that I felt from her as I admired her on the bus was still burning, white hot. It was something that I could feel, especially since she was so close, and she actually was going to interact with me.

She smiled, her teeth perfect. I had a hard time taking my eyes off of her lips. Her perfect, full, sensuous lips. I self-consciously licked my own lips as I fixated on hers. She held out her slender hand, her nails perfectly lacquered in a dark blue color that was almost black. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Dalilah. And you must be Luke.”

I took a deep breath, determined that I was going to be cool. “Yeah, Luke,” I simply said, shaking her hand. I willed my hand not to tremble, which would belie my outer attempts to be casual. To my delight, my handshake with her was steadfast and unwavering.

She just kind of stood there, after I shook her hand, and looked around. “Well, I guess I have to disrobe for you. Where can I do that?”

I pointed wordlessly to the divider that I had set up in the middle of the room. She nodded and went behind it. I could hear her back there, humming a tune that I didn’t quite
recognize. Her singing voice was melodic and sweet. It seemed higher-pitched than her speaking voice, which was low, throaty and sexy as hell. Her speaking voice fit her image, which was that of a classy lady who exuded intelligence and breeding. As Fitzgerald might have observed, her voice was full of money. Which made her even more out of my league, it that was even possible.

I gasped a little, trying to cover that up as well, when she emerged from behind the divider. She was completely nude, of course, and her body was sheer perfection. Creamy white skin. Perfectly round breasts. Tapered waist and gorgeous, well-toned
legs. I tried very hard not to stare, and had to remind myself, over and over again, that I was a professional and she was just another model. Just another job to do. As difficult as that was to do, considering the fact that Dalilah was as physically perfect as anybody I had ever seen, let alone painted, I simply had to suck it up and pretend that she was like one of the zaftig women that I usually ended up portraying.

“Where do you want me?” she asked, obviously not shy or demure. Of course, this was just another job for her too. I had to remind myself of that fact.

I pointed to the fainting couch. “Right there would be cool,” I said.

“Oh, how nice. A fainting couch. I’ve always wanted to pose in one of these. So much nicer than the usual chair or hard surface.” At that, she laid down on the couch, and assumed a rather provocative pose. She had a long tendril of flaming-red hair draped over one of her breasts, and she cocked her head ever so slightly. “How is this?” she asked.

I suppressed a smile and said nothing. And then I got behind my canvas, and started to lightly sketch her outline. I would fill in with broad brush-strokes after I composed her basic form. That would be the easy part. More difficult would be the minute details. That is the part that would take months. And, to really get to her essence, which was important if the portrait was to accurately portray her, I would have to get to know her. Her passions, her thoughts, her feelings, her sense of humor. That would come with time, of course. For now, for this session, I wanted to get a quick assessment of her form, which would come from my sketching her and also shooting her with my camera.

She saw my camera, which was sitting on a table next to me. “Are you going to shoot me, too?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I try to get a quick sketching down first, though. I know, it seems ass-backwards, but that’s how I roll.”

“I know that I should have asked this of Nottingham when he called me this morning,” she said. “But I might assume that this is going to be an on-going project. How long will I have to be here, and for how many hours a day?”

“I would say around two hours a day, and the project is due in three months. I hope that isn’t a problem.”

“Not at all,” she said. “But, of course, I’m going to have to renegotiate my fee with Nottingham. He’s only paying me for today, I presume. But, then again, perhaps I
am being presumptuous. At any rate, that isn’t your concern. Carry on.”

I smiled, and then started to concentrate on getting her form exactly correct. I had little self-doubt when it came to my artistic abilities. I knew that I was good. That was why it was so frustrating for me to have to struggle so much, while lesser talents managed to win commissions and showings. To think that I was thisclose to becoming a street artist. Not that being a street artist was necessarily a bad thing, but it was beneath me.

I sketched and brush stroked her broad form for about two hours, and I could tell that she was becoming a little bit uncomfortable. I expected that. Frankly, I couldn’t imagine having to lie still for hours on end. I think that I would get antsy after having to lie in the same position for a half hour.

“You look like you could use a break,” I said. “I’m sorry that I didn’t offer you this earlier, but would you like a bottled water?”

“I’m dying for one,” she said.

I went to the little fridge that I had for my bottled waters and pops. It was a mini-fridge, like one would have in a dorm roo
m. I got a bottled water out and gave it to her. She sucked it down in record time and asked for another one.

“Looks like you’re thirsty,” I observed, stating the obvious.

“Dehydrated, actually,” she said, but didn’t elaborate on why she was dehydrated. “How much longer do you think you might need me?”

“About an hour more. When can you come back?” I hoped that I didn’t say that in an
I really want you to come back because I’m dying to get to know you better
way. In other words, I hoped that my tone did not belie my extreme eagerness to see her again, under any pretense possible.

“I’ll have to check my calendar and get back with you,” she said. “Let me get your card. I assume that your email address is on there?”

“You assume correctly.”

“Good. I’m ready to pose some more, if you’re ready.”

“Good to go,” I said, and sat down and painted some more. I wouldn’t start on the details until later. As I said, I had to get to know her, in order for her essence to imbue the work.

After about an hour, I stretched and let he
r know that I was done with my sketching and painting, so I needed to take some photographs of her.

I took about fifteen photographs in rapid fashion, and let her know that she could get dressed and leave if she would like.

“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll just get dressed and show myself out.”

“Okay,” I said, feeling like a jerk that I wasn’t going to be able to show her out myself. But I had to get everything packed up, and I didn’t want to keep her. She seemed rather eager to be on her way, and I assumed that she had something important to do. She appeared to be somebody who generally had important things on her agenda.

She got dressed and then came out from behind the dividers. “Well, it was good to meet you,” she said, holding out her delicate hand again.

I sh
ook her hand and nodded. Felt like a jerk again. Truth be told, she might have thought me laconic, but I really was tongue-tied. I had never been around a woman who captivated me quite this much. I just hoped that she didn’t think that I was some kind of a quiet loser type.

She smiled and opened the door and disappeared through it.