His Canvas (4 page)

"I didn't know you could sing," I said stupidly.

He held a hand up and tilted it back and forth, indicating that
of his panoply of talents, singing merely fell into the fair to middling range.
I watched the hobo counting his haul, his eyes wide as saucers. "How much
money did you give him?" I asked in a low voice.

"A little over a thousand," he replied.

I backed away and stared at him. "Are you serious?" I
said at last.

"Why shouldn't I?" he said. "What good is it
doing me?"

I had no idea. Probably buying me lunch, but that was selfish.
"And the singing?"

He shrugged, a little one-shouldered affair, self-deprecating.
"Allah will not show mercy to the unmerciful," he told me.

Of all the things I had expected him to say, that certainly
wasn't it, but when I opened my mouth and tried to comment on it, we arrived at
our destination. The train screeched to a stop and he stood up again, holding
his hand out. "Let's go eat," he said.

Without thinking, I put my hand in his and I felt the zing of
attraction spark between us. Then he was pulling me to my feet and we were out
among the press of people, jostling through the corrals of the underground
until we reached the surface, all together, and streamed out into the city.

*

"So are you Muslim?" I asked him finally as the waiter
wandered off to the kitchen with our order. The Indian restaurant he'd taken me
to was a little out-of-the-way place that I'd never heard of before, and the
proprietor seemed to know Malcolm, though he only said, "Welcome
back," before ushering us to our table—the best in the house, though that
was a dubious honor.

We sat together in the booth, as though we were boyfriend and
girlfriend. Where our knees had touched on the subway train, here Malcolm
pressed his entire thigh against mine, and I had to remind myself not to swoon.
The food also smelled amazing, and Malcolm insisted on ordering for us. I let
him. His thigh may or may not have had something to do with the allowance of
that liberty. And, well, I know what I like and what I don't, and he hadn't
ordered anything that would send up alarm bells for me. Such as too many
chickpeas. I like chickpeas, but one of my friends used to live on chickpeas,
and they made him gassier than a heifer.

Malcolm looked at me with surprise. "Am I Muslim?" he
said. "Why would you ask that?"

I tried to suppress the eyeroll that welled up within me, but
like a force of nature, it could not be denied. I rolled my eyes. "Because
you just spouted some line at me about Allah's mercy."

"Oh, that," he said, as if people quoted the surahs or
the hadiths or whatever that had been all the time in casual conversation.
"I just think of that line whenever I see someone who needs help."

"Really?" I said. "Why that particular
phrase?"

He appeared to think about this for a moment, and then shrugged.
"I'm not sure," he said. "I think it resonated with me during
the time of my life that I heard it."

"What time was that, if you don't mind my asking?"

"I don't mind your asking," he said. Then he
hesitated. "But I think I might mind telling. Please excuse me. That was
was an excellent question and I had to shoot it down like that."

I held up my hands. "Don't feel bad on my account," I
said. "I'm just trying to get to know you better. Things you say and
things you don't say are all part of that."

He smiled. "That's a very interesting way of looking at it.
Very eastern, or possibly Khabbalistic."

I had to admit to myself, Malcolm Ward got weirder and more
interesting the more he talked, which was the opposite of most of the people I
had run into. Usually the mysterious people you meet are only mysterious up
until the moment they admit to growing a shroom farm in their closet or confess
they are bipolar or something else that explains their behavior. So far Malcolm
had listed off Shinto and Muslim thought to me. And also reincarnation. "You
know a lot about religions," I said. "Did you study them in school or
something?"

"I know very little
about
religions, but I know
of
a lot of them." He smiled. "It's a hobby of mine, studying
religions."

I noted he didn't answer the question about school. "That's
a strange hobby for a really rich guy to have," I said. "All the rich
guys I know are all about making business deals or picking up hookers or doing
blow or golfing until their hands fall off."

"I know," he said. "I don't find the society of
people I belong to to be particularly suited for my temperament." His
mouth twisted, somewhat ruefully. "But I can't very well move downward to
socialize. I don't really fit in anywhere right now."

"Fitting in is overrated," I said. "Especially if
you're going to be an artist. You need to cultivate that individuality."

"You think so?" he asked. "But if what I say
doesn't mean anything to anyone but me, what point is saying it?"

Holy shit
, I thought. This conversation was getting far
more existential than I was used to. I'd had plenty of conversations about
the
nature of art, maaaaaaaaan,
but they had usually been while I and my
friends were high as hell, and they didn't make sense afterward. "Personal
satisfaction?" I hazarded.

"Is that why you do it?" he asked me.

I sat back in the booth, not sure how to answer that. Part of
art was a fundamental LOOK, LOOK AT ME desire, but essentially you wanted
people to look at you because you thought you had something unique and
interesting to say. I wasn't sure if I had ever managed to do that. My sales
certainly didn't indicate that I resonated with many people. Usually I soothed
myself by hoping I had merely transcended human consciousness and touched the
realm of the divine or some other such garbage, but I knew it was because I
wasn't communicating clearly. Or I was alone.

Not like Felicia. Felicia's art was stunning. Raw and exposed,
she peeled back the niceties of society and revealed the emotional muscle and
bone and sinew beneath. Her art was nothing like mine. And besides, I hadn't
really put paint to canvas in the past month. Or two. Or was it three...?

Horrified, I thought back, trying to remember the last time I'd
done any sort of artwork, and I couldn't remember. I gave a bitter little
laugh. "I don't know why I do it. Or did it. I don't do art so much any
more. I'm usually pretty tired after work." That sounded ungrateful.
"I mean, my job is a great job and all and I love working for Lis, but I'm
so drained by the time that I get home that I don't have much to say."

The waiter brought our naan and rice, the prelude to our meal,
but when he retreated Malcolm put his hand on my knee. Warm ripples of
sensation spread out over my skin, and I swallowed, hard. I'd been trying not
to think about how close he was, about how every cell in my body seemed
magically attuned to his presence. His hand wiped all that pretense away and I
caught my breath. "Isn't that something to say in and of itself?" he
asked me. "Isn't weariness an emotion?"

I shrugged, feeling silly. "Yeah, but everyone feels that
way."

"Then that should resonate with your audience."

I hadn't quite thought about it that way. Yes, saying the same
thing over again wasn't
new,
but that didn't mean I couldn't try to say
it in a new way.

Of course, how I was going to do that with paint and bits of
flotsam found in Central Park was the question. I liked my mediums. I probably
just didn't know how to use them.

"I don't know," I said. "That seems like a long
time ago for some reason.

The waiter returned with our meals—the lamb shahi korma for
Malcolm, and the saag paneer for me—then retreated, and Malcolm, to my
disappointment, removed his hand and began to apportion the dishes. "May I
see some of your art some time?" he asked me.

"Yeah, I guess. It's all at my apartment, stored in the
spare room in the back. And some of it is in galleries around the city."

"Any nearby?"

I thought. "I don't think so. Not here anyway. Maybe closer
to your house. Anton has a piece of mine, I know that."

"I would like very much to see some of it, to witness how a
professional does her work." He tore off a bit of naan and used it to sop
up some of the sauce before wrapping it around a chunk of lamb and delicately
popping it into his mouth. His whole body relaxed when it hit his tongue.
"Aaaah," he said. "There is nothing like knowing the peace of a
well-seasoned meal."

The expression on his face was one of pure bliss, and I found
myself strangely jealous that it should be a hunk of dead farmyard animal that
had made him so happy. Our sexual encounters so far had been entirely
one-sided, although I suppose Malcolm got quite a bit of pleasure from eating
me out, if his straining erections afterward were anything to go by. I felt
rather annoyed that I hadn't yet reciprocated, but it made sense. In his
studio, in his room, I was the object of study, of worship by the camera lens.
But out here in the world, we were two equals. Well, not equals, but we were at
least on neutral ground. I slipped my hand under the tablecloth and placed it
on the inside of his thigh.

His flesh burned through the fine fabric of his slacks, and the
muscles tensed and jumped at my touch. It gave me a wicked, illicit thrill to
touch him this way, unseen by anyone else. Serenely I sopped up sauce with my
bread and chewed it without comment, but under the table I let my fingers
wander over his thighs, dipping between them and then back up, as though I were
climbing mountains and fording valleys with my hand. Above the table, his eyes
showed no emotion other than bliss. His lids were half closed, and he ate with
gusto, commenting here and there about various spices he could taste in the
sauces.

Then I slipped my hand up to his groin and his breath hitched in
the middle of saying the word
turmeric
, and I couldn't repress the wicked
smile that sliced across my face.

"Sadie," he said, "what are you doing?

I let my hand go still. "Just returning some favors I owe
you."

He scowled at that and I wondered if I had misread the
situation. His hand on my leg, his thigh pressed against mine... I mean, we'd
already been pretty close... didn't he want this?

"You don't owe me any favors," he said. "If you
do not want me in the same way, I'd really rather you didn't."

His voice had gone stiff, as stiff as his cock was growing under
my palm. I'd messed up somehow.

"That's not what I meant," I said. "You just
seemed so happy eating that food, like it was some kind of rare pleasure... I
kind of wanted to be the one to put that look on your face." Ugh, it
sounded so hokey when it came out of my mouth. Not at all playful the way it
sounded in my head.

But he relaxed a bit, and a smile curled the corner of his
mouth. "Is that so?" he asked. "Have you ever done anything like
this in public?"

I had to think about that. I didn't think private parties counted,
and everyone had been doing things and no one noticed because we'd always all
been drunk beyond belief... "No," I said.

His hinted smile grew into a real smile at that. "Then let
me guide you at it."

I licked my lips. "You've done it?"

"I know what I like," he replied evasively. Propping
his elbows on the table, he hid my arm from the view of the rest of the
restaurant. "Please, continue."

For some reason, doing it at his direction made it even hotter.
I did as he told me, letting my fingers wander up and down, around his crotch
and between his legs, feeling the heat growing there. What sort of underwear
was he wearing? Boxers? Briefs? The devil wears nada? I wanted to find out, but
there was no way for me to draw his cock out into the open without making it
completely obvious what I was doing.

"Keep eating," Malcolm reminded me. "Otherwise
someone will suspect something is wrong. There's no reason to go wasting a good
korma just because you're giving a handjob."

My cheeks flared and I ducked my head, reaching for the bread. I
ran into a problem here. How was I supposed to tear the bread with only one
hand.

I should have known Malcolm would have the answer for that.

"Turn toward me, just a bit," he said. His voice was
remarkably steady, and I wanted to push his boundaries a bit, so did as he
bade, and ran my fingers up to his cock again, where I let them stay.

His thick erection burgeoned in his pants, a hard, aching swell
against the fabric, and I cupped my hand over it, giving it a little rub.
Malcolm let out the tiniest grunt, but just the sound of it made me wet and hot
and eager. I glanced around, making sure no one was watching us. The lunchtime
crowd had definitely started to fill the place up, and though we were in a
corner booth, one would only have to glance over at us, take note of my hand in
his lap, and deduce what we were doing.

It was so dangerous. Illegal. How long had it been since I'd
done something illegal?

Granted, I was with one of the richest men in the city and
riches tend to make legal troubles go away, so even if we were outed there
would probably be no reprecussions. Except perhaps in the papers, or the gossip
mills.

His cock felt good against my palm.

I licked my lips as Malcolm tore off a piece of bread for me,
but when I extended a hand to take it, he held it just out of my reach.

"Food for favors," he said. "If you do exactly
what I say, you'll have the best meal of your life."

I pressed my lips together and let my hand go still.
"Okay," I said.

He smiled. "Good. Hike up your skirt."

My breath caught. He was turning the tables on me. I rather
thought I might like it. Reaching down, I lifted the hem of my skirt, just as
he had done about an hour before, in his bedroom, the precursor to giving me
the sweetest head I'd ever received. I shivered at the memory, the echo of
pleasure sending hot spears of desire through my body, my pussy growing wet and
slick with the thought. As I lifted the skirt past my thighs, Malcolm dipped
the piece of bread in sauce and wrapped up a cube of cheese in it. "Open
your mouth," he instructed.