Model Position Read online

  Model Position

  Kitsy Clare

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, places, or events is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Model Position

  Copyright © 2014 Kitsy Clare

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13 (ebook): 978-1-939590-25-1

  Inkspell Publishing

  5764 Woodbine Ave.

  Pinckney, MI 48169

  Edited By Tara Chevrestt

  Cover art By Najla Qamber

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. The copying, scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions, and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  PRAISE FOR MODEL POSITION

  "Kitsy Clare paints a provocative picture with words - a sexy montage of art, beauty, lust and love as colorful as any artist’s canvas." -Share my Destiny, romance book blogger

  "A captivating and sensual work of art!" -Jaycee DeLorenzo, author of The Truths About Dating and Mating

  “Model Position is sexy, suspenseful and oh, so hard to put down. Kitsy Clare mixes a skillful, fast-moving story as Sienna, a talented but uptight art student takes on the trendy New York art scene. She’s caught between the pull of ambition and the possibility of steamy, but true-blue love in the form of Erik, a delicious male model with no connections. Or is he true? And is Erik really all he seems to be?”

  -Helen Mallon, author of Indecent Exposure & other short stories; Book Reviewer, Philadelphia Inquirer

  1 CHAPTER ONE

  I prop my canvas on the easel and squeeze oil paints onto my palette. I’ve been looking forward to this last new class of spring semester. It’s so different from what I normally do: computer art—neat, digital prints. But oil paint is buttery and sexy, with a warm pinesap aroma that I could inhale all day. I make sure my paints are in a perfect color-spectrum line, from cadmium yellow and permanent rose, all the way to the darkest ultramarine blue.

  I’m like that. At home my shoes are arranged from lowest to spikiest heel, and the dresses in my closet are color coordinated. Order is good. Chaos is scary. I’ve known that since my mom went through her third divorce. Three hubbys done in by her sinkfuls of dirty dishes, mountains of wrinkled clothes, and hoarded bags of dresses from shopping sprees she couldn’t afford! No mess in my life. Not happening. You could eat off my apartment floor.

  So far in class we’ve only done charcoal drawings, so oils will be an interesting change. Though I don’t have high hopes for today’s model. The live models have been a motley crew: a guy in a clown suit and Medieval court jester’s hat, a dowdy lady in a diaphanous gown, and a skeletal girl in a bikini who bit her nails and paced during breaks.

  Where are all the sexy male muses?

  “Hey, Sienna!” Dave Hightower saunters in and chooses the easel next to me. He hands me a steamy cappuccino.

  “For me? Thanks, Dave.” This is why I like Dave. Well, that and his passion for expensive Italian sweaters, leather dress shoes, tight black denims, and the body to work them. I sip my drink and look around at the other guys in class, all dressed in the arty grad-school uniform of paint-spattered jeans and T-shirts with slogans. I shake my head and return to the more pleasant sight of the well-dressed man next to me, who’s flashing me an array of professionally whitened teeth. I can’t help but admire Dave’s perfectly coiffed black hair, longish but combed back neatly. He has chiseled features and a strong brow, as if he’s carved out of marble. Intimidating, really. I’ve never dated a guy as put together as Dave.

  But I feel like I should.

  Don’t get me wrong; I’m not a snob. Dressing like a slob is fine for freshmen, but we’re in our twenties now.

  This summer after I graduate, I’ll be pounding the pavement, searching for a lucrative arty job to replace my part-time gig retouching perfume ads for Chanel. Artists have to present well in the real world. They have to pay their car loans, credit cards, and apartment rents like anyone else.

  Dave Hightower catches me admiring him and grins. “Ready for our date later?”

  I just met him two weeks ago, and he asked me out during our last class. I’m looking forward to it and to getting to know him—and his family’s gallery—better.

  “Sure, where are we going?”

  “I’ll take you over to Studio Hightower, my aunt’s gallery,” Dave suggests offhandedly, as if I am not already completely aware and awed. It’s been all Merry, Harper, and I have talked about since we found out Dave was in this class. My two best friends here share charcoal sticks, drawing paper, and essential buzz. “There’s a show at Hightower you’ll like,” adds Dave, “of wildly painted neon environ-scapes.”

  I nod. Sounds off-putting. I prefer the order of photorealism and crisp digital art, but I keep my mouth shut. After all, it’s Dave Hightower.

  Anyone who has talent and ambition would kill for a solo show in Studio Hightower. It’s on West Twenty-Second Street in the heart of Chelsea, the hottest gallery district in Manhattan.

  “Hey, always up for new art,” I say. “I like wild art done by a loose hand.”

  “Manually manipulated is the way to go,” Dave says suggestively as he waggles his eyebrows and puts his fingers into plastic gloves.

  Plastic gloves for painting? Germaphobe. I’m a clean freak, and even I don’t do that. I quickly ease my judgmental cringe into a fetching grin as I search for a funny comeback. “I wonder who our next model will be. Do you think Mr. Court Jester will make a repeat appearance?”

  “I’m betting on Nightgown Lady.” Dave squeezes out his last color with an oozy splot.

  The teacher, a soft-spoken man in faded corduroys and wire glasses, announces that the model will be out momentarily. From across the room, I exchange anticipatory glances with my friends, Harper and Merry, and pantomime a fake drum roll. They snicker and do drum rolls back. The class turns its attention to the small stage in front of our easels. It’s been set up with risers and a red velvet curtain, as if it’s a Broadway production.

  Then the model emerges, and I almost spill my cappuccino on Dave’s shoes.

  The sexiest male muse I’ve ever laid eyes on pads out, all oiled coordination and sleek muscles. He’s at least six-four, and every chest muscle ripples and cuts in the right place. His hair’s sandy and shaggy, and his jaw is square and resolute with a gold-dusted five-o’clock shadow. But it’s his eyes that strike me most; they’re emerald green with a slight upward slant toward each cheekbone, as if he hiked all the way here from a northern land of sun and wind.

  He arranges himself on a leopard-skin rug, wearing only a suede thong, and glances around at us artists. As I adjust my canvas and flip my hair back, his smoking green eyes settle on me. I could swear they’re looking right into me and seeing my fascination. I’m melting and hyperventilating all at once.

  In the corner of my vision, I see Dave Hightower lean toward me for my reaction, but I can’t look away from the model—I don’t want to. I’m imagining myself on that leopard-skin rug, doing some private poses with him, and the fantasy has me blushing as permanent rose as the paint on my palette.

  Across the room, Harper and Merry cock their heads toward Blond Adonis and give me the thumbs-up. When Dave looks away, I give them one back as subtly as I can.

  Taking a deep breath, I collect myself enough to mix some pigment and dilute it with turpentine and linseed oil so I can start to sketch in a likeness. It’s great having an excuse to sta
re as I fill in all the angles. I work hard not to linger too long on his suede loincloth. It occurs to me that maybe that’s why the instructor usually gets ugly models—so we horny artists can keep our minds on our drawings. Epic fail! At this thought, I have to laugh.

  Dave leans over. “Care to share?”

  Not in a million years.

  “Let me guess,” he says. “It’s that model’s incredibly cheesy Tarzan getup, right?”

  Cheesy? That’s not how I would describe his, um, exotic package.

  “Yup, I figured as much.” He chuckles without waiting for my answer and goes back to scratching out a torso, holding his brush the wrong way. Even I know you’re only supposed to stroke the brush in one direction. Otherwise, you’ll tear out its delicate sable hairs. But I’m not about to chastise a Hightower. A Hightower can afford to buy dozens of expensive sable brushes.

  I turn away from Dave’s canvas and back to my own. For the next hour I lose myself in the lines of the guy’s slim hips and how they veer wider as they connect to his broad, tanned shoulders. I note how his sandy hair tickles one solid shoulder as he leans on his arm. I want to get it just right. The relationship of deltoid to clavicle and clavicle to sternum has to be perfect but also smoldering and soulful. Again, my eyes migrate up to his. Oh my God, he’s looking at me again. The air between us seems to catch fire—a molten fire of cobalt green as I paint in his eyes. What is he thinking and why is he staring at me? Do I have paint on my nose or what?

  The next thing I know, the instructor’s called break, and the model leaps up as easily as a giant jungle cat. He slips behind the velvet curtain.

  “We’ll work on this model all week,” our teacher explains.

  Hot damn! That’s just fine with me. I glance at Merry and Harper to see if they’re as enchanted by the muse as me, but they’re already flirting with Sammy, a guy friend of ours who’s into writing graphic novels. I know Merry has her heart set on Sammy, and Harper’s just along for the flirt. I’ll compare notes tomorrow night. They come to my apartment to cook dinner and gossip once a week. We sauté veggies and sip fine wines while we talk shop, art exhibits, and rate the guys in the various classes.

  “Earth to Sienna,” Dave teases. I jolt upright. How long have I been sitting there with my mouth agape and my dripping brush in hand?

  “Oh, yeah, how’d you do?” I babble at him.

  “Pretty good, considering the guy’s an overgrown gorilla,” he scoffs.

  Guys jealous of each other crack me up. “Can I see?” I put down my brush.

  “Sure.”

  Leaning over, I survey Dave’s work. Not bad, but he’s got the perspective skewed. The head’s too big for the body, and the legs are wooden. Clunky toes, like sticks of gum. Toes are a bitch to draw, but really, all you need is a hint of them. I nod thoughtfully and pick out the thing that is working. “Intriguing color palette, Dave. The misty-blue tones are cool and so are the shadows behind the figure.”

  “Thanks, Sienna. They call me a colorist,” Dave brags. I want to ask who calls him that, but I don’t. Dave’s a decent guy, as much as I know of him. And it was nice of him to bring me that cappuccino.

  I clean my brushes while I struggle for what to say next. I’m not usually this shy. It’s just that I’m so in awe of Dave’s status in the art world. He’s already got a classy place to exhibit…if he wants it. “So, um, do you intend to show your work at your aunt’s gallery? Or, what’s your dream for the future?” I manage.

  “Painting’s okay, but I’d rather own the gallery,” Dave says point blank. “I’ll get a show too, probably in China. My aunt says the field’s wide open in Shanghai these days. She has connections there.”

  “Great. Wow.” He’s not committed to painting, yet he can just up and get a show across the world. Must be nice to have a hooked-up aunt. I guess if that’s how the upper crust rolls, I should learn how to play too. Maybe he can teach me how.

  I’m arranging my paints in their canvas bag when a low voice sounds from behind me. “Nice! You have a lot of talent.”

  What? I spin around and gasp.

  It’s Green Eyes. And he’s only wearing a slippery silk bathrobe, loosely tied. Before I can readjust my line of vision, I get an eyeful of tight abs and taut loincloth underneath it.

  “Um, you r-really think my painting has promise?” I stutter, forcing my gaze upward. “It’s my first real attempt at oils. Mostly I do computer art.”

  The model smiles and reaches over me with a strong arm that emits warmth and a spicy lime scent. He points to the shoulders I worked on. “You’ve gotten the perspective just right. That’s hard with the way I was torqueing my body. Most people get that all out of whack.”

  “And you know that because what…you’re the model?” Dave demands.

  The model is nonplussed. “I paint on the side.”

  “Really?” I can’t help it; I gawk at him like a teenaged schoolgirl. He looks even better close up. He’s still leaning in. I could reach out and caress his thigh under his robe. The thought has me heating up. What’s wrong with me? Dave is sitting right here, and I’m going out with him later. Pull it together, girl. “What kind of things do you paint?”

  “Women, the most beautiful things in the world,” answers the model. As if it’s the only thing worth painting, as if everyone should aspire to it. Normally coming from a guy that answer would sound so incredibly skeezy—a greasy, obvious pick-up line. But something about this guy’s earnest tone tells me he means it. I just hope he doesn’t profess that to every pretty girl whose work he looks at. “I’m Erik, by the way. He reaches out a calloused hand. “You?”

  “Sienna,” I purr.

  Just then a classmate in a low-cut dress waltzes by. She must’ve heard Erik’s line to me because she leans in toward him and says in her husky voice, “Ooh, will you look at my drawing too? I’d love to get the model’s take on it.” She punctuates the word model with a wink. Her name is Taffy, of all things, and she’s got huge melon boobs and fiery red hair that billows around them. Totally annoying.

  “Just for a sec,” Erik says as he gives me another enticing grin. “Got to get back to the pose.”

  “It won’t take long.” Taffy leads him to her easel. I hear her giggling at whatever he says about her drawing, and I roll my eyes. Erik swings back toward me on his way to the stage, but he’s gone behind the curtain before we can talk any more. Does he really think I have talent for painting? It’s so different from doing computer art that I’m second-guessing my approach. I can still hear Erik’s encouraging bass voice in my ear, complimenting my art, when I notice Dave looking over at me with a mixture of aggravation and frustrated longing. I’m surprised. Does this mean Dave actually likes me?

  He looks at my work, and I sense him mentally gathering his ego together. “Sienna, you do have talent—lots of it. You need to get right over to my family gallery and let me help you get a solo show.”

  For a woman who would give her right arm for a solo show in Chelsea, in Studio Hightower, no less, Dave’s just said the one thing guaranteed to tear my attention away from Green Eyes.

  2 CHAPTER TWO

  Erik, Erik, Erik.

  This is what runs through my head as Dave and I walk to Studio Hightower.

  I can’t get those toned thighs, those ripped chest muscles, that lanky body out of my mind. And Erik said he was a painter! I can’t help wondering what his paintings look like. I find myself imagining what it would be like to pose for him. To feel his gaze studying my every curve. He paints women. I’m a woman. It would rock to be someone else’s muse.

  Stop it, Sienna, I scold soundlessly. You’re with Dave freaking Hightower. This is the chance of a lifetime, so quit thinking about the model, even if he is a handsome devil.

  But I’m still feeling those smoky eyes delving down right into my soul. I still smell his lime cologne and feel his warm, encouraging words in my ear. I give myself a stern, silent lecture: a model is a model is a model. E
ven if the guy paints on the side, he’s not one of my peers in grad school. He hasn’t trained professionally. I need to stop this silly daydreaming and convince myself that Dave’s right. I can’t afford to hang out with people who won’t push me forward in my career. It’s way too scary out there. I need to move up the ranks fast, or I won’t make it in New York. Plus, Erik probably has every art-school tart flashing her perky boobs in his face with his sexy pick-up lines. I would only be one of many.

  Besides, I tell my rebellious brain, I can be Dave’s muse. Somehow, this thought isn’t nearly as appealing. I glance over at Dave and smile. He returns it. It is nice to walk with Dave. He feels solid next to me. I glance at our reflection in the shop windows as we go and decide that we look good together, his dark presence and firm step to my blond lyricism and floaty gait. People turn to stare, which makes me blush with pleasure, even if it feels premature. Insincere. Relationships, they’re so confusing. My mother certainly messed up a number of hers, so what’s to say I’ll do any better?

  But when we get there and zip up to the fifteenth floor, my thoughts dart straight to my own work and career.

  I’m not confused about that!

  This is the chance of a lifetime. I’ve been in Studio Hightower only once before, ogling the space, which is dripping with money. The ceilings are lofty, and one floor-to-ceiling glass wall overlooks a to-die-for view of the Manhattan skyline and farther out, the East River with its picturesque sailboats. Expansive, splattered canvases on the white walls overwhelm me, and I’m almost afraid to look at them. The fame vibe is so thick I could cut it with a knife. I’d bet every artist here shows in that famous star-making spring show, the Whitney Biennial, and gets his or her work in Sotheby’s Auctions.