Painless (39 page)

Not guilty!

I swear!

I mean, I swear.

No exclamation points or question marks that time.

===

The hot yellow sun rolled across the surface of the Pacific Ocean as I parked my VW in the driveway of the Manos house. I walked to the front door with my keys jingling in my hand. I always felt a sense of relief wash over me when I came home. As I was about to slide my keys into the lock of the double front doors, the door was ripped open from the inside.

“Thank god you’re here!” Sophia blurted, standing in the doorway. Sophia was one of Christos’ other models. I’d met her several times before. She had Eastern European eyes and full lips. Normally she was quite beautiful, but at the moment worry cut her face into ragged lines.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, immediately frightened by her panic.

“Christos is passed out,” she said nervously, pulling me into the house, “I didn’t know what to do. I was about to call 911.”

My heart tripped into overdrive. “Is Christos hurt? Did he fall?” He’d been drinking so much lately, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had. I knew drunk people were supposed to be so relaxed they were less likely to get hurt if they fell down or whatever, but that didn’t matter if you fell through a window and landed on shards of glass or off a balcony onto cement.

“Sort of,” Sophia winced.

“Sort of fell?”

She shook her head, obviously worried. “I don’t know how to explain…”

“What happened?” I did my best not to lose my cool.

“Maybe I should show you,” she grimaced.

 
I was suddenly thinking Christos had had a seizure and his mouth would be covered with foamy blood. Could alcohol give you seizures? Or was it something worse?

As we stepped into the studio, Sophia said in a low voice, “I think he’s drunk.”

Shit, was that all?

Sure enough, Christos sat slumped over in a chair in front of the painting of Sophia he’d been working on. There was a huge red streak running across the canvas, cutting down the middle of the face and across the chest. A brush loaded with the same red paint dangled from Christos’ hand.

He was snoring.

“He just fell onto the painting while he was working about an hour ago. I’d told him this morning maybe he should stop drinking, but he ignored me. Who was I to complain? I’m just the model, and I need the job.”

I could relate to that.

“I didn’t know who to call,” she said, “and no one else was here. I almost left, but I thought I should stay until someone showed up. I didn’t want him choking on vomit or whatever.”

“Thanks, Sophia,” I said sincerely. “I totally appreciate your hanging around and keeping an eye on him. If you want, you can take off now. I can handle it from here.”

“Oh, uh, I’m supposed to stay and model until six.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said dismissively. “I’ll tell Christos you were here the whole time,” I winked. “Either way, I don’t think he’ll know when you left.”

She nodded nervously. “You’re sure?”

“Yes,” I smiled, “I promise.”

She heaved a huge sigh of relief, “Thank you SO much! I was starting to worry no one would show up and I’d be stuck here until whenever he woke up. I’ve got a photo shoot in L.A. tonight, and with traffic, I’m probably going to be late as it is. If I get a head start now, I might actually make it. Do you need any help moving Christos before I roll?”

Sophia’s arms looked like pencils. Despite her compassion, I didn’t think she would be much help in the lifting department.

“I think I’m going to need a crane,” I joked. “Or I can just wait until he sleeps it off.”

“Totally,” she grinned.

After Sophia left, I took a good look at Christos. I wanted to make sure he kept breathing and didn’t choke on vomit. Considering he was snoring like a saw mill, I think he was fine. But if the saw mill shut down operations, I’d slide him out of the chair and onto his side.
 

In the meantime, I took the brush with the red paint out of his hand and folded his arms into his lap so he looked more comfortable.

I examined the red streak on Christos’ painting of Sophia. I dabbed at it with my pinky finger. It was oil, so it was still wet. Should I wipe it off? I can’t imagine he’d be mad. It looked like an accident. Considering Sophia said he’d fallen asleep while painting, it probably was.

Unless he’d intended to ruin the painting? Like the way he’d trashed the painting of Isabella the day my parents had arrived? Oh well. I was going to wipe the red off, just in case it was an accident. If he had meant to ruin it, he could ruin it again in the morning with a clear head.

First, I cleaned off the brush with the red paint on it. Then, I found some clean paper towels and carefully wiped away at the red slash until it was completely gone. I stood back from the painting and examined it from a distance.

Good as new.

Then an irrational fear seized me. What if Christos had meant to put that red slash there? What if it was some genius breakthrough he’d finally discovered and I had gone and cleaned it off?
 

Oh no.

I remembered that Christos had become frustrated with his paintings of all the models and he was trying to find a way to spice them up. What if that red slash was the first step in a new creative direction that I was too dense to fathom? Maybe he’d had a flash of brilliance and decided to combine abstract art with his realistic portraits in a whole new way? Considering I still didn’t know much about the history of art or how new styles and art movements developed, and I didn’t know the first thing about abstract art, it was entirely possible.

Oh no.

What had I done?

Had I erased the only mark of his newfound genius? I didn’t even have a cell phone picture of it in case he wanted a reminder.
 

Oh no.

I eyed the glob of red paint still on his palette, and the now clean brush that had been loaded with said red paint. Should I load up the brush with more red, try to recreate the red slash, then stick the brush back in his hand?

He’d totally think my red slash was his red slash. I mean, it was just a slash, right?

Who would know the difference?

Who was I kidding. I knew people liked to say that a baby or a monkey could paint abstract art, but I’m pretty sure that was an exaggeration and one abstract artist could tell his or her work from another’s. When Christos sobered up, he was going to recognize that my lame red slash wasn’t his genius red slash.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

My panic level was up to my eyeballs. I was swimming in panic. I needed a panic snorkel or I was going to drown in it.

Deep breath.

I took another breath, and another. I reminded myself that Christos had been so drunk, he’d fallen asleep. That wasn’t how a genius worked, was it? Then I gasped as I remembered all those famous artists and writers and poets who had been alcoholics. What did I know about genius?

What had I done?

Where was my ice cream?

RED ALERT! RED ALERT!

I needed to strategize. What was I going to do when Christos woke up in the morning and asked me where his red slash had gone?
 

I know! I could squeeze some red paint out of the tube right onto the canvas, then push Christos in his chair into the painting, and lean his face into the glob of red. It would smear the paint, he’d have red paint on his face as proof, and he’d never know what I’d done! He’d assume he’d ruined his genius red slash himself! It was genius! I was genius!

Oh, wait. What was it I’d said earlier about guilty people ending their sentences with exclamation points? Christos would figure out something was wrong, especially if he woke up tomorrow and I answered all his questions about the red slash with exclamation point sentences.

I needed a better idea.
 

I looked at the pile of red stained paper towels in the trash can. His red slash was on those towels. What if I carefully unfolded them and pressed the red slash back onto the canvas, like a sticker? Who was I kidding. The slash was ruined. Christos’ genius was smeared beyond recognition.

I felt like a complete idiot. Like I’d just walked into Picasso’s studio the day he’d decided to leave behind the realistic painting style of his early days and began his legendary blue period, and I was the idiot who had the nerve to say, “No, no, no, Pablo. This is way too much blue. You need to use more color. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.”

Yeah, right.
 

I had the sinking feeling that today Christos had embarked on his own journey to worldwide acclaim, and the painting of Sophia would have been remembered forever as the very first painting of his legendary Red Slash period, had I not wiped it away.

I was the worst girlfriend of all time.

I could only hope Christos forgot all about it when he sobered up. If he said anything about red slashes, I would suggest it was the liquor talking, and maybe it had been dancing red elephants he had seen?

Except for the mountain of dirty red towels in the trash can. I needed to bury the evidence somewhere quick.

Why did I feel like a murderer?

Oh, yeah. Because I’d just murdered Christos’ burgeoning art career.

I swiveled Christos around in his chair so his ruined painting wouldn’t be the first thing he laid eyes on when he woke up. I didn’t want to shock him into a heart attack.
 

Two hours later, when he finally blinked himself awake, I led him upstairs before he could ask me any incriminating questions about his missing red slash.
 

When I dropped him into bed, I noticed he smelled like a bourbon distillery. His sweat must’ve been at least sixty proof.

When he was safely asleep, I dashed downstairs and stashed the dirty red towels in a neighbor’s garbage can down the street. Did the soiled towels look like bloody rags used to mop up after a stabbing? Err, I meant, slashing? Mmm, kind of. But DNA testing would not reveal a match with the corpse of Christos’ dead career.

No one would ever know I was the killer.

Except me.

I had nightmares about red slashes all night long.

===

I was awake before Christos.

I tiptoed to the kitchen and quietly made us breakfast in bed. After we finished eating, we made love for two hours, despite the remnants of his hangover. Did I orgasm multiple times? Of course. Did I exaggerate my screams in an attempt to keep Christos in the bedroom longer with more sex? Maybe a tad. But I didn’t want him to go down to the studio and see his slashless painting.
 

After Christos came for the fourth time, he said he wanted to get back to work on his painting of Sophia. Desperate for another distraction, I suggested we stay in bed and experiment with some light bondage. Not that I was into S&M, but I needed an excuse to tie Christos to the bed so he couldn’t leave the room.
 

“Tempting,” he smirked, “maybe next time? I really need to get back to work.”

“Oh wait! You haven’t seen the new lingerie I bought!” I jumped out of bed and grabbed it out of my chest of drawers. I ran into the bathroom before he could object. “It’ll only take a second for me to put it on!”

“When did you buy lingerie?” he called from the bedroom.

“Last week,” I hollered as I tried not to trip over myself while I hastily threw it on. “I went shopping with Mads.”

I walked out of the bathroom decked out in a black lace babydoll tied at the throat, black thong, and black thigh high stockings. I’d planned on saving it for a special occasion. Sparing Christos the tragedy of his missing red slash seemed as good as any.

“Holy shit!” Christos blurted. “Why didn’t you tell me you had sexy lingerie!”

The lingerie was good for another hour of love making. But I couldn’t keep Christos in our bedroom forever, as much as I wanted to.

While we showered together after sex, I considered sneaking out and calling in a bomb threat on Christos’ studio. But I was pretty sure you weren’t supposed to tell the police the bomb threat was in your own house.
 

I was out of options.

When Christos was dressed, he beelined for the studio. I followed him, ready for disaster. I kept an eye on my exits in case I needed to beat a hasty retreat.

He stood in front of the canvas.

Moment of truth.

If he murdered me for ruining his painting, I wouldn’t press charges. It was the least I deserved.

“You’re frowning,” I said nervously, “Why are you frowning?”

“I’m not sure,” he said absently. “Something about the painting of Sophia…”

Crap. I’d been right all along.

I’d ruined it.

Christos was going to dump me and kick me out on the street for ruining his career. I’d end up one of those broken old homeless women with leathery skin who kept all her possessions in a grocery cart. I’d tell anyone who was kind enough to give me spare change or a half eaten sandwich that I’d once been in love with the greatest artist on the planet, until I’d ruined his life and his career.

Christos picked up a brush from the work table beside his easel. “It’s not really working for me,” he said thoughtfully. “What do you think?”

I walked around and stood beside him. “Oh, no! It’s perfect! I mean, this is a work of genius! I’ve never seen anything more amazing!” Wow, were my exclamation points as obvious to him as they were to me? I figured I was four seconds away from being covered with red slashes after Christos stabbed me to death with the blunt end of a paintbrush for what I’d done. I wouldn’t put up a struggle, no matter how much it hurt. I deserved a slow painful death.

Christos set the brush down and smirked at me. “Okay,
agápi mou
. You can be honest with me. You don’t like it, do you?”

Did he mean the painting as it was now?

He hadn’t said anything about the red slash.
 

“Err, no?” I said with what I suspect was an incriminating degree of guilt. “I mean it’s really good? What’s not to like? I can’t imagine anyone not liking it? Can you?” I stopped myself before I used any more guilty question marks.