"How... how do you manage this every day?" she asked, panting.
"I carry twenty pound cans of paint up and down it each day. For strength," he said, straight-faced, making a feeble attempt at a bulging bicep.
She stared at him for a moment before realizing he was joking. "And you have to walk ten miles in the snow to get canvas, right? Uphill both ways?" she said breathlessly, still recovering from the quick trot up the stairs.
"That's it. C'in," he said, turning on the weak entryway lights and letting her go before him.
He sighed to himself. Why do I do this? Am I really so lonely that I've been reduced to picking up women at gallery openings? She stepped into the room, gingerly; he studied her face searching his memory as she passed him. Her name was... Kay? No, Kelly? No... Kylie! That's right.
Kylie was staring around the room, her eyes huge. "It's... amazing. It's a real loft." The studio was a one big room glued on top of a sewing factory, right in the middle of SOMA. Floor to ceiling glass panes made up the walls, except for one small corner that had a bathroom and small kitchen. The view was tremendous; Sutro Tower blinking to the west, downtown looming like glass mountains bright with lights, Potrero Hill to the south, and the Bay Bridge glistening to the east, the two decks afire with the red and white streams of traffic leaving and entering the City. She slowly walked to the middle, turning around, drinking it all in.
He smiled. "Yep. This is probably the last one like it in all of San Francisco. Every other loft space has been turned into overpriced yuppie condos, with people who can afford $400,000 for a two-bedroom apartment lounging around at Brainwash and wondering where all the artists went."
She looked at him. "So, where did they all go?"
"They're the ones behind the bar, slinging lattés at Brainwash. They live in Oakland or Emeryville."
She shook her head, walking to the first row of his paintings. "How can you possibly afford this place?"
"Luck. The owner has no idea how much it's worth. I signed a ten-year commercial lease for $1,200 a month."
She started gently pulling the canvases back, one at a time. "Live alone?"
Joshua came up behind her. "Yeah. No one else could put up with me as a roommate. Eccentric artist, you know."
She wasn't listening, though; she was squatting down, examining a painting. "Uh, what, you print photographs directly onto the canvas? Oh, I see! You, like, put emulsion on the canvas and then..."
He sighed. "No. No photography. It's painted. Oils. I only paint from life," he said to her, examining her very short red hair.
She turned her head around. "You're shitting me."
"Nope. Here, look." He picked up the canvas she was studying, a street scene in North Beach. He took it over to his easel, and flipped on the light. "Right... there. Brush strokes," he said, pointing with the tip of a very fine brush.
Her eyes grew large. "Wow. That's amazing. The colors, the whole thing seems to just glow. How do you do that?"
Joshua smiled. "Many, many layers of paint. Most of them nearly transparent. Gives the thing depth."
Kylie stared off into the middle distance, her face thoughtful, green eyes contemplating something invisible. "But... well, isn't realism kind of..."
He barked out a laugh. "Passé? Yeah, I suppose." He sat down in his chair in front of the easel, placing the picture on it, turning the light on it. The bright light made the easel and painting seem like an oasis of light in the middle of the dim loft. "But I'm not trying for realism. It's sort of like... well, hyper-realism? Magical realism, only in painting instead of in literature?"
She shook her head. "I don't get it."
Joshua said, "It's like this. When you look at a landscape... not a painting, but a real one, and it's very beautiful, and you tell your friends about it, what do you tell them? 'The air was so clear, and the sky was so blue, and the trees, they were such a vivid green...' Like that. Your memory intensifies the reality, and you remember something different from what it really looks like. You remember an ideal version of it. You remember, well, its essence, what it really is, what it really meant to you."
He looked back at the painting. "That's what I want to do. Capture the experience of the scene, not just the scene itself. The same idea as Impressionism, but the other extreme."
Kylie nodded, and laughed, not mocking, just friendly. She wandered away, looking at the other paintings leaning haphazardly against the few bits of furniture in the room; a futon bed, a futon couch, a dresser, a few tables. She stopped at a stack leaning up against the drying rack, and started flipping through them, carefully. "Do you ever paint people?" she called over, not looking up.
Joshua blinked, confused. "Well, there are people in the one you're looking at now, right?"
The redhead put the paintings back, and walked towards to him, slowly. Joshua studied her as she approached. Black turtleneck, black jeans, black tennis shoes. Black underwear, no doubt. In uniform, he thought. But she's very cute, and that turtleneck is certainly filled out nicely...
Kylie's voice brought him back. "No, not like that. There are people in the picture, but the picture isn't of those people. Do you do portraits?"
"Uh, no. I mean, in school, and in other styles, sure, but I've never used this technique in a portrait," Joshua replied, trying not to stare at her breasts.
"Would you?" she said, getting closer. "Would you paint me? Now?"
Joshua looked up, staring into her eyes. "Now?" The offer she was making was clear enough, even to someone of his limited social acumen. He took a deep breath, let it out, and tried to sound like he wasn't all that interested. "Ah... yes, I'd love to paint you. I'd be honored." So much for diffidence, Joshua Tostig, he scolded himself. Next time, just go for, "Oh, please, I beg you, anything if you'll let me touch your boobs." It will sound much cooler.
She smiled, shyly, and looked around the room. "Where should I change?" Not waiting for his answer, she started walking towards the bathroom.
"Uh, change?" Joshua asked, her train of thought a receding speck as he stood on the platform.
"Of course," she said, stopping, looking over her shoulder, a wicked smile on her face. "I'm certainly not posing in this." She walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.
Joshua shook his head, and found a blank canvas. He started getting the pencils for the first sketch ready, and turned the easel around, towards the couch. Great, he thought; I'm so horny that I'm willing to play the paint-me-and-I'll-fuck-you game. Well, fine, there are a lot sicker things in the art world. And getting laid once every other month is a good solid minimum for a neurotic artist.
A few minutes later, he was so engrossed in mixing up a particularly good fleshtone base that he didn't even hear her walk past him. "Uh, Joshua? Where do you want me?" she asked, softly.
Joshua looked up. Kylie was in front of the couch, nude, dropping her bag next to the futon sofa. Her figure was as lush as he thought it would be, very voluptuous and enticing; just watching her full breasts as she bent over was starting to get him hard. He tried to give his regard an aura of painterly detachment, although he knew he was just leering. Thick black pubic hair, he noticed; well, everyone dyes their hair in this town. The bright blue streak in your hair, Joshua thought to himself, isn't the result of a radiation leak.
"Um. Let's see." He collected himself. Well, dear, he thought, I suppose that "I want you here, now, bend over, spread your legs and I'll fuck your brains out while holding onto your big tits" isn't the answer you're looking for. OK, Joshua, time to play artist. What works for her?
He noticed a small black lacquer fan lying on a table near the bed. He grinned, stood up, and grabbed it. He tossed it to her with a smile. "Here. Let's do an odalisque."
She giggled, and flopped down on the couch, arranging herself on her side, facing him, a young love goddess with punk hair. She snapped open the fan, and hid her face below the eyes. "Like this?" she said, flirtatiously.
"Perfect. Hold it," he commanded, starting to sketch in pencil on the canvas. There are advantages, he thought briefly, to doing nudes; you get to tell naked women what to do. There are worse things in life.
After a couple of minutes, not turning around, he said, "Uh, Kylie, do you want a robe? It gets chilly in here, up in the wind like it is."
He could feel her shift slightly, lean in closer. "Why?" she asked, her voice soft and throaty. He could feel her warm breath up against him, and her lips grazed his ear as she spoke.
He turned around, meeting her eyes. "I'd just have to take it off," she whispered, leaning down to kiss him. He closed his eyes, feeling her lips slowly open as he slid his tongue between them, sliding his arms around her, stroking her back, feeling her body press against him. The pencil fell forgotten to the floor. One of his hands slid around to her front, stroking and fondling a breast, feeling its weight, caressing the nipple.
He stood up, breaking off the kiss, and took her hand, leading her back to the couch. She sat down, and then reclined, slowly opening her legs invitingly. He smiled when she saw that, yes, she did have a piercing, just as he suspected: a small-gauge silver ring through her clit hood. She ran a hand down over her pussy as he watched, stroking it, watching him back as he pulled his clothes off. He sat down between her legs, and then slid, nearly off the couch, as he leaned over to taste her, run his lips over her wet cunt. He closed his eyes as he buried his tongue into her slit, her moans and writhes guiding him, teaching him about her...
After she had come once, then again, bucking her hips up, grabbing at his head as she cried out, he had lifted himself up, giving a soft bite and gentle pull at the ring, to gratifying effect. She smiled widely at him as he straightened, reaching down to her bag and tossing him a condom. Clever girl, he thought, ready for anything. He quickly pulled open the package, and slid it on his hard cock, watching her stare at his dick, writhing her hips impatiently.
"Ready?" he asked lightly, smiling, stroking himself, feasting on curve of her hips, her waist, her breasts. She slowly stroked her nipples, teasing him by pushing her tits together for him.
"Very," she replied. She stretched, arching her back, opening her legs, raising her hands straight out over her head, grabbing the rail at the side of the couch. "Please, now," she added, closing her eyes.
He bent over her, sliding in. "Oh, oooh, yess..." she sighed, her hips bucking up to meet him. As he started to fuck her, slowly, in and out, in and out, he looked down to meet her eyes, and was struck by how gorgeous she looked, a work of art herself. And then he thought only about how wonderful her cunt felt around his cock.
He sat up, and looked around. Her bag and clothing were gone. He fell back with a flop, swore, and then rose out of bed, a bit stiffly. Well, if she had been winded by that walk up the stairs, she certainly had enough stamina later, he thought, looking around the apartment for a note, a letter, a card, anything. She had left her bra in the bathroom. Otherwise, nada. Joshua picked up the black lace bra, shaking his head, studying it for a moment. He gave in to his urge to examine the label. A 38DD memento? he wondered, puzzled. He stuffed it into his sock drawer.
He sat down at the kitchen table, staring mournfully at the coffee brewing. I didn't even get her last name, he thought. Was I that wretched a lover? Did I say something? As he poured his first cup of the morning, he decided that, no, he was just a character in a fantasy of hers: pose in the nude, seduce the artist, disappear into the night. Leave behind some black lace to mark your passing. OK, fine. Thanks for the romp, Kylie, wherever you may be, he thought, lifting the cup.
After his shower, he examined the painting he had started of her. I can't deal with this now, he thought with a grimace. Later, he concluded, putting the canvas back into the pile of unfinished work. Later.
As he pulled the stack apart, the unfinished canvas of Kylie skittered out of the pile, the corner slamming into his unprotected left foot. With a curse, he snatched it up, and examined it balefully. He took it back to the sofa, and rubbed his offended toe, the picture propped up next to him, a silent tableau of painter and sketched girl sitting on the couch together.
Joshua sighed. "I should finish this," he said to the canvas, which did not reply. Not really knowing what else to do, and the search for the National Guard Armory having been largely forgotten, he carried the picture over to the easel, and started finishing the sketch. Memories of the night with Kylie ran through his mind. Odalisque, he thought. Slave girl. Slave to fashion? he thought, with a laugh. OK, I can do that. He reached up, and touched up the eyes; more hooded, more lustful, more... well, more submissive. He sat back, feeling strange, guilty, and more than a bit turned on. He rough-sketched tennis shoes and jeans, and added a recognizable logo to both... there, fashion. He shook his head, giggling, and leaned over for a brush.
It was the small hours of the next morning before he finished the picture.
When it was done, he carried it over to the drying rack. I like what I
did with her, he thought; she really does seem to glow.
He opened the letter, and nearly had to collect his jaw from the none-too-clean floor:
Fassil Galleries would like to invite you to submit three recent pieces to their annual, exclusive, closed selling show, "Fassil Judgments." Please only submit work that is currently for sale. Fassil Galleries will act as your agent for all transactions in this show. For information, contact...He blinked, and reread it. Fassil Galleries. Paul Fassil owned the high-end San Francisco art scene; when Wells-Fargo Bank wanted to drop some middling five-figure sum on art and not look stupid for doing it, he's the one they called. This event was Fassil's way to making everyone see that he had his Pulse On The New Artists of Today. Round up a bunch of the local Great and Good (not an opening, no, no riff-raff at this one), line up a bunch of Art, insert the tubes, suck out the money. They'd spend $5,000 for an old cover of Industrial Safety Today Magazine, if Fassil stuck it in a frame and told them it was from a promising young talent.
Joshua nearly skipped out of the lobby of the post office. This could be big, he thought. Very, very big...
That evening, he was sitting dejectedly in the middle of the studio. This is going nowhere; six hours, and I have, what, 22 possibilities. Narrow it down, narrow it down. What will this crowd like? Screw that, what will Fassil like? He'll tell them what they like, they have no idea when what their tastes are when they walk in. That's Fassil's job. Joshua surveyed the paintings, propped up against chairs in a ring around him like Zodiac symbols. He turned himself around on the floor, examining each one in turn.
OK, what do I know about Fassil? he thought. What's he going to like? I know that he's rich, he's straight, he's been married about twenty times, and he's divorced now. Big scandal the last time, dumped the Mrs. for a top-heavy art groupie from Wisconsin, who promptly dumped him for the CEO of a software company, Harlan someone. Hmmm, Joshua thought, and stood up, walking over to the portrait of Kylie. I didn't get a release from her, but there's no way anyone could recognize her from this painting, he thought; the fan covers most of her face, and I painted her with lots of black hair on her head to match her pubes, covered by brand-name jeans in the picture. Fassil wouldn't push a painting just because it's cheesecake, he thought, staring at Kylie's ample bosom. A gallery owner of his stature couldn't be that shallow. Joshua laughed. "Yes, yes, he could be," he said out loud with a grin, scribbling "Odalisque to Fashion" on the submission form.
He looked around the room, and sighed. Shows. A 80s meat market, a 90s power lunch, and a 30s Mafioso family gathering, all in one truly delightful package. And, since this time it was his shows (well, among others; he was one of five artists who had received this particular blessing from Fassil the Magnificent), he couldn't even run and hide. He knew that it was great for his career, and since the check from "Fassil Judgments" arrived three months ago, the stream of painting sales had picked up nicely. He hadn't had any trouble paying the rent. But still.
Joshua disengaged himself from La Matron, whose name he was pleased to note that he had forgotten, and wound his way towards the bar. He was starting to reconsider his lifelong aversion to getting drunk. Artists throughout the years haven't drunk to unlock their creativity or to silence their inner demons, he thought; they drank so they could face the Art World without suddenly going nuts and firing off a clip of ammo into the crowd at one of these things.
Suddenly, as the crowd parted, he collided with a woman. It took him two blinks to realize that it was Kylie. He almost didn't recognize her. She was no coffeehouse habitué now, with full warpaint makeup and heavy jewelry. She had grown her hair long; heavy black curls were hanging around her pale face. It took him two more blinks to realize that the man on whose arm she was dangling was Paul Fassil. What few graces he possessed immediately fused into a solid, useless lump; he would not have been surprised, later, to hear that smoke was pouring out his ears.
Fassil reached down from the heights (literally, the man was 6' 8" if an inch), and shook Joshua's hand. Kylie was not a short woman, and Joshua was not a short man, but Fassil towered over both of them. "I'm glad to see you. I know these kinds of events aren't really your thing," he said, in a friendly bass rumble. Fassil's craggy face, with its full head of white hair, looked down on Joshua like a clean-shaven Old Testament patriarch. "Have you met my friend? Kylie Ibermann? Kylie, this is Joshua Tostig. I'm sure you've heard of him."
Given a moment to get back into gear, Joshua's mind spun through all manner of witty retorts. He was debating between, "I still have the bra" and "I didn't recognize you with your clothes on," when he looked down from Fassil and met Kylie's eyes. For a split second, he thought she was just playing very cool; but he realized that, no, she didn't recognize him at all. He stepped hard on the momentary feeling of pain that flitted through him at that. Then, he looked again, directly into her eyes, and realized that yes, she knew just who he was, because there was something there... a promise... a plea, maybe?
Kylie extended her hand, tossing a lock of glossy blue-black hair out of her face. "It's a pleasure," she said, with the interest reserved for a conversation with an ATM. What's going on with her? Does Fassil realize that she's the model for "Odalisque"? Is she asking me to keep it secret?
Joshua touched her hand, in the briefest of handshakes. Fassil, looked across the room, and resumed pushing through the crowd. "Ah, Kylie, there's Raymond Dasser of The Gap. I need to talk with him, and you need to meet him. See you, Joshua," Fassil said, pulling Kylie away. Joshua noted that she was wearing a bright red strapless dress, her cleavage obscenely emphasized, but he couldn't bring himself to scope her out; his blood felt like it had congealed. He wasn't aware that he had stopped breathing until she disappeared into the crowd, and he was able to continue to work his way to the bar, unsteadily.
"Kylie, it's not an option. Dasser is an important person, no matter what you think of his looks."
Kylie's voice was soft, strained, like she was having to force it out of her throat. "Paul, you can't do this to me. I'm not..."
Fassil cut her off. "You are. You have a job with the gallery, just like I do. I need you to do your job, right now."
Joshua put a hand out to balance himself. Stepping up very, very carefully, he could see Fassil and Kylie in profile, reflected in a large mirror in the office. Kylie was staring up at Fassil's face, her eyes huge and scared; Fassil was looking down with an expression that mixed affection, amusement, and condescension in equal parts.
Kylie reached a hand out, touched the lapel of Fassil's tux jacket. "Paul, please. Don't."
Fassil shook his head, amazed. "Kylie, enough of this nonsense. Now, I'm going to go over it one more time, and only once. You are going to go with me in this, do you understand?"
She seemed to collapse slightly, her eyes growing blank. No, thought Joshua, not blank. Resigned.
Fassil nodded, his smile broadening. "Good. You are going to go back downstairs, and flirt with Dasser. Heavily."
Kylie took a deep breath and slowly nodded.
"He will, undoubtedly, try to pick you up within the first half-hour. You will agree to go home with him tonight. I will, of course, play the innocent in all this, and will not even be present when you two leave. You can tell him that I don't mind such behavior on your part, which is hardly a lie." Fassil smiled, not pleasantly.
Kylie took her hand away, put it over her heart, like she was pledging allegiance to the flag. "Go home with him."
"Do whatever he wants. Make sure that he thinks you love it."
Kylie closed her eyes, for just an instant. Joshua was sure he could see a shudder. "I'll be sure. I... I'm very good at that. You know that, Paul."
Paul smiled, nodding at her, a teacher whose pupil has finally learned a difficult lesson. "Good girl. You'll do wonderfully, I'm certain." He paused, taking a sip on his drink. "Since you're not going to be home tonight, there's something else I want you to do."
Kylie took another deep breath; Joshua couldn't help but notice the effect each of those had on her chest; he wondered how the dress stayed up.
"Here? Now?" she asked. No argument, no challenge, no surprise. Just a question.
Paul smiled. "Yes. Be neat, we both have to go back downstairs afterwards."
Kylie nodded, and dropped to her knees smoothly. She unzipped Fassil's pants, and slid her hands into the fly, carefully pulling out his cock. Joshua's eyes widened, just a bit; he's certainly... proportional. The phrase "like a horse" sprang to mind. There's no way she'll be able to...
But with eyes closed, full lips parted wide, Kylie leaned forward and started to suck. All of it.
Joshua stepped back, nearly falling. He shook his head, and quickly stepped down to the restroom. This, he thought, is definitely not my problem. And I'm glad for that. Shit, and why did that make me so horny?
His bladder relieved, he came back down the corridor. As he passed the office, he couldn't help but peek in through the door, but all he saw was Fassil, standing, taking a sip from a drink, and the fall of Kylie's hair as she knelt before him, her head moving in and out, in and out. Joshua couldn't see her face, but his imagination supplied all the details. He hurried back downstairs.
He was nearly free of the crowd, right at the door, when Kylie breezed by, laughing and giggling, on the arm of a short, round man in a gray suit. Kylie saw Joshua, and stopped. She leaned over to her escort, saying, "Ray? Just a moment." She walked towards Joshua, a purposeful, slow step. His blood froze again; what now? He glanced at her cleavage, and wondered insanely if she could have hidden a knife there.
Kylie stopped about three feet away, hands at her side, slowly clenching and unclenching, her posture ramrod straight. "Mr. Tostig?" she asked, her voice casual, almost a bit flirtatious.
Joshua swallowed. "Yes? Uh, Kylie?"
Kylie looked up at the ceiling, then down. "There's something I need to talk to you..." The man holding the door called her name, and she turned on her 3" heel, spun around as if by an invisible hand.
Joshua was frozen for a few seconds, watching her leave. He bolted for the door, into the busy city street. Kylie was nowhere to be seen.
Joshua was by nature even-tempered and unflappable, but he was getting quite odd-tempered and flapped by the way the very light blue transparent glaze, one of the most critical parts of his style, was turning into something that would be more suitable for sealing the bottom of a swimming pool. As he launched into a string of particularly virulent curses, the door buzzer and phone rang simultaneously. This set up an even more livid stream of invective, as he disengaged himself from the trough, limped over to the wall, and pushed the intercom button with his elbow, leaving the phone to the answering machine.
"YEAH?"
"Josh, it's Ketan."
"Fuck, Ketan, listen..."
"Buzz me in, OK?"
"I'm right in the middle of mixing paint."
"That's OK, I've thrown up once today already. Push the damn button."
The answering machine clicked on. "Mr Tostig, I'm calling on behalf of Harlan Nachez. Could you return my call at..." With a maneuver that would not have been out of place in a comic book, Joshua managed to dump his gloves into the sink, push the door-release button with one hand, and snatch up the phone with the other, all in the space of two seconds. He reflected that in the last few months, he'd been called "Mr Tostig" more often than anytime since his many visits to principal's office in grade school.
"Hi, it's Joshua."
Pause. "Oh, hello, Mr Tostig. I'm the assistant to Harlan Nachez, of Dynamic Solutions?" Female, cool, professional.
"Uh, yes, of course. What can I, uh, do for you?" As he spoke on the cordless phone, he wandered over to unlock the door for Ketan when he managed to come up the steps, which, depending his level of drug use today, might be a few days.
"Harlan would like to meet with you about a commission."
"Oh. Well. Yes, of course..." he started. One of the four richest men in the world wants to give me money, he thought; the word "coy" is not in my vocabulary right now.
"He'll be coming back from Malaysia tonight, and wondered if you could meet him down here in Menlo Park at 10am tomorrow?"
Joshua started to reply, and stopped. Fuck. Carless. Ketan wandered in at that moment, his wide, dark, friendly face poking through the door. Joshua waved him in, trying to come up with a public transportation route to Menlo Park.
"He'll send a car, of course," The Competent Voice continued. Damn, she's good.
"That would be great, thanks." He muttered out his address.
"Thank you. I'll see you then." Pleasantries, and a click.
Joshua sat down, heavily, on the beanbag chair behind him. "Hi, Ketan."
Ketan was already sifting through Joshua's fridge. The contents clearly did not meet his standards of hospitality. "Man, you're a famous artist now. You could at least keep some beer around."
"I don't drink beer, Ketan. It tastes like piss."
"How would you know what piss tastes like?" said Ketan's voice from behind the refrigerator door.
Joshua sighed. "Don't go there. Anyway, if I don't drink it, why should I have any?"
Ketan emerged from his mining expedition with a 7-Up. "Because I do, loser." He sat down on the couch, examining Joshua. Joshua examined him back, thinking that Ketan was one of the most brilliant people he knew. This was either a valuable moral lesson on the difficulty of judging people, or a hint that he needed to get more friends.
They studied each other in silence for a minute. "So, what do you know about Harlan Nachez?" Joshua asked, sinking deeper into the chair.
Ketan sank almost as deep into the couch, one of his many talents. "His software sucks." He sucked on the soda.
"Great, I'll mention that to him."
Ketan raised an eyebrow, which Joshua took as a small victory. "You're going to meet him?"
Joshua nodded. "I assume he wants me to paint something. Maybe a grand triumphant mural for the lobby of his building, starting with Gilgamesh, through Alexander the Great and Julius Cesar, and ending with him. But simple and tasteful. 'And big hooters on the nymphs,' in the immortal words of Gary Trudeau."
"Probably not," Ketan said, thoughtfully. "He'd just have some facilities bozo do that. I'm sure he wants something more intimate, like a group portrait of his girlfriends."
"Whatever. I'm sure we can reach an understanding in the high five figures."
Ketan nodded. "Sounds great. Would you?"
Joshua laughed once, sharply. "Fuck yeah. Why not?"
Ketan shrugged. "That's selling out, man," he said, his voice containing no value judgment whatsoever.
"Your point?"
"You might lose cred."
"I have no cred, Ketan. I'm Maxfield Parrish with graffiti and pubic hair. The Art Scene can fuck themselves."
"Speaking of which, getting any lately?"
Joshua sighed. "You're such a charmer."
"No, listen, what about it? What happened to that redhead with the boobs?"
"Kylie," Joshua replied, flinching. "Ships in the night. And that was, what, five months ago, Ketan; you need to stop taking stuff that fucks with your time sense. But you will not fucking believe who she's with now."
"I'll fucking believe it. Who?"
"Fassil."
Ketan raised an eyebrow again. "Really? Fassil's trying to get back together with his wife." For some sort of incredibly well-paid computer person, Ketan stayed very well apprised of the San Francisco scene.
"Apparently he's not trying that hard. I saw Kylie blow him at a show."
"Woo, performance art."
"Not in public, stupid."
"If it wasn't in public, how did you know about it?"
"And then she went home with some exec from The Gap," Joshua continued, ignoring the question.
"So, she's a slut. A slut at one of Fassil's shows. I'm shocked."
Joshua sighed, deciding that the rest of the story could wait. "Why do I bother trying to explain things to do you?" And why does his calling Kylie a slut bug the shit out of me?
Ketan shrugged, waving the soda can. "My penetrating insight. Listen, are you doing anything Friday night?"
"I need to mix more paint."
"Oh, great. Give it a rest until the hazmat squad has cleaned the place up. Come over."
"Yeah, sure, I'll come over," Joshua said, resigned, thinking of the swamp that awaited him from the failed pigment adventures of today. "Did you come all the way out here to invite me over in four days?"
"And why not? 8pm. Meera's dying to see you again. Listen, thanks for the beer." Ketan stood up, and strode purposefully towards the door.
"It's a 7-Up," Joshua pointed out.
Ketan turned, pointing his finger at Joshua; he smiled, and disappeared down the stairs, leaving the door open. Joshua called, "Say hi to Meera for me" down the stairs, receiving an incoherent but friendly-seeming reply back up.
Joshua started to close the door, but decided that the ventilation was slightly better that way. He returned to the trough, and scanned the collection of glass jars containing the stuff he made pigments from. Urea, charcoal, bug bits... Yuck. Well, I'd use eye of newt and toe of frog if it would get me a good vivid green, he thought. For a moment, Kylie's vivid green eyes floated in front of him. I'm going to fucking kill Ketan for bringing her up, he thought sourly; I was doing a great job of forgetting about her. He turned the water on to run the old batch down the drain, and start again.
The woman behind reception, middle-aged and friendly like a good small-town librarian, watched him approach. "Good morning. May I help you?"
"Uh, I have an appointment with Mr Nachez for 10am."
"Of course," she said, her demeanor not changing in the slightest, even though he was sure she thought him quite mad. Just toddle on up and ask for the CEO. "Your name?"
"Joshua Tostig."
She clicked a few keys on her black keyboard, examined her black LCD monitor. "Ah, yes. Please just fill this out, and do you have some ID?" She slid a card across the desk to him.
And just like that, a security card issued to him, he was up on the 17th floor of the huge glass cylinder, waiting in the antechamber to be summoned into the Presence. He had expected to find some bombshell behind the assistant's desk, but the assistant looked like an executive herself: steel-gray hair pulled back, glasses, conservative but flattering blue pants suit. The art on the walls was original and expensive enough, but the standard Inoffensive Corporate Abstract Art style, late period. What, thought Joshua, could he possibly want me to do?
The door (expensive hardwoods, light tones) opened, and a man in a dark gray suit emerged. He walked directly up to Joshua, smiling broadly. He was tall, black hair combed back, pale, nondescriptly handsome, his dark eyes sparkling as if he were about to deliver a particularly good joke to a friend. He extended a hand as Joshua rose, his heart racing. "Joshua? Harlan. Come in, I'm sorry I kept you waiting." It was still two minutes to ten. Joshua just followed behind him, into his office. Cavernous, light wood, nice furniture, many books, even a small fountain. A view out over the bay.
They sat down, at some chairs around a table in front of Nachez' desk. Coffee was brought in. Small-talk exchanged. Joshua had been perfectly prepared, in fact looking forward to, being abused and patronized by this man who had eaten so many companies for lunch, and disliking him intensely in return. Nachez' casual and friendly manner utterly threw him, and he found himself at a loss for things to say. The conversation lagged.
"So, Joshua. I know you're busy, so let's get to what I wanted to talk to you about."
"Um, sure, ah, Harlan. A commission?"
Nachez rocked back, took a sip of his coffee, and nodded. "I'm friends with Paul Fassil, and I was over at his place, and saw something you did for him. 'Odalisque to Fashion,' it's called?"
Joshua blinked. "Uh, yeah, he owns that one. It's one of mine. I didn't actually do it for him..."
Nachez shrugged. "I suppose not. It's strange that he would have a picture of his girlfriend hanging on his wall and not realize that she's the model, but since he doesn't know, I'm enjoying having a little secret on him. It was certainly obvious to me. The girl owned up to it when I quizzed her about it." With a broad smile, Nachez invited Joshua into the secret as well, and Joshua decided that, right then, it was a good idea to go with it.
"Anyway, you paint wonderfully. I'd like you to do a portrait of my friend Hannah." Nachez, suddenly serious, pinned Joshua with his eyes.
Joshua found himself nodding without even realizing it. "Of course. I'd be honored."
Nachez waved his hand, and sat back. "The honor's mine. Hannah is very excited at the idea, too. So, can you start Friday?"
I have another show in three weeks, and that stupid architectural due for Schwab, and I'm even on the jury for that show at Newspace Gallery, I can't start something now, Joshua thought. "Uh, that would be great. Could she come to my studio?" Joshua said, before his thoughts were even complete.
Nachez nodded, as if that had been clear from the start. "Of course. She'll be there at noon on Friday." He rose, and clearly the interview was over. "Tell Vivian up front how much you think it will be, and she'll make all the arrangements." He reached out his hand, the other hand on Joshua's shoulder, guiding him towards the door. "It was good to meet you. Thank you, again," he said, utterly sincere. The door opened, then closed, Joshua outside, Nachez in.
The assistant, who must be Vivian, looked up expectantly. "So, shall we go over terms?" she asked, as Joshua stared at the door.
Joshua looked up at Hannah, who was sprawled on the couch, leaning on one elbow, her head in her hand. Her long blonde hair tumbled down over her chest and small breasts, catching on her perky, pink nipples. She was young, probably not much more than 22, and her skin radiated vitality, from her painfully pretty face and big blue eyes down to her long legs. Joshua scanned her for a moment while choosing a reply.
"I really hadn't thought about it."
Hannah made an impatient little noise. "Like, sure. Of course you think so. Well, I'm not."
Joshua nodded. "OK, you're not," he finally said.
She did not seem completely satisfied with the answer. "I'm sure he thinks that I'm going to, but I'm still not going to. I mean, he's like old enough to be my father. He's more than twice my age."
Try as he might, he couldn't find a way to say that he was a painter, not a relationship counselor, so he kept fussing with the pencils. "He must like you if he wanted to have your portrait done," he attempted.
She shrugged, her hair swaying beautifully. She must practice that, Joshua reflected. "I like him, but not that way. He's, like, kind of like a big brother or a father, y'know?"
Yeah, I know, and I know that someone who feels unerotic fatherly affection for a 22 year old blonde bimbo does not pay $17,500 to have her nude portrait done, even if that's less than his weekly dry cleaning bill, Joshua thought, but did not say. My job is delivering a painting, not the chick, so let's get on with it.
"OK, you're going to be in this position for an hour or so, so make yourself as comfortable as you can," he said. He flipped open his sketchbook, and started doing the rough.
God, I reek, he noticed, and it's not even keeping me from getting crowded on the bus. There was a reason that the drivers called it Mission Impossible, and every strange person in San Francisco, a city known for strange people, seemed to be crowded onto this one bus. Traffic was stopped dead, typical for a Friday evening. He tried sketching some of the interesting characters to pass the time, at least those that he thought would not try to explain the voices in their heads to them if they noticed. No room. He sighed, notebook back in backpack.
As he watched, the doors to the bus hissed open. An SF cop got in (much to the dismay of many of the riders, who quickly hid illegal things). The cop exchanged sharp words with the driver, and stalked off. The PA came on a moment later. "Uh, the police told me that Mission Street is closed ahead, and may be for a few more hours. You might want to get off the bus and take the Metro subway or BART or something." The doors popped open, and the driver flew off the bus, trying to stay ahead of the mob.
Joshua sighed, collected his backpack, and joined the crowd pouring off. Ketan won't care if I'm late, he thought, whatever "late" means to one of his events. He walked down Mission, under the Central Freeway overhead; several fire engines, an entire ladder company, raced up Duboce towards some event. Busy night. He crossed the street.
He didn't get far; there was another row of flashing lights, of all varieties, blocking Market: cop cars, fire trucks, ambulances. He stopped and stared, finally asking the traffic cop what was going on.
"It's the old National Guard Armory. It collapsed."
Joshua blinked. "Collapsed? Just like that?"
The cop nodded, waving off another angry yuppie in a BMW. "Yeah, completely. Just a pile of bricks now. Can you believe they built a brick building in San Francisco?"
Joshua just nodded numbly, and turned to walk up Duboce. Yeah, he thought, there was brick, but that was just the façade. The structure was built from reinforced concrete over a steel frame. It could have survived an 8.0 earthquake. I wonder if someone bombed it or something, he thought, as he approached Valencia Street. Good thing the building was unused and deserted; it was so solid even squatters couldn't break in.
Joshua blushed as he hugged her back, enjoying her slim body in his arms. Meera was all earthy groundedness to Ketan's chaotic willfulness. Meera stood back, and cocked her head, one hand on her hips. "You've been working too hard, friend. Come in, come in."
"Where's Ketan?" Joshua asked Meera's back. She just waved her hand, bracelets clattering, meaning, Like I can keep track of him? He followed her into the living room, full of cushions, low tables, brass lamps, pictures on the walls, fabric hangings, candles. There was no one else home. Meera sat down, and began pouring two cups of tea.
Joshua joined her. "Uh, am I the first?"
Meera nodded. "And only." She passed a teacup to him.
"I thought it was a party."
Meera took a sip, and leaned back. "I'm not entertaining enough?" He laughed. "I'm just worried about you."
Joshua sipped at the tea, and collapsed back into the cushions. "Worried about me? Why?"
Meera took another sip, and sat up straight again. "Dreams about you. Bad ones." She looked at, and through Joshua.
Joshua blinked. Oh, right, Meera claims to have some kind of Strange Psychic Gifts, he remembered. He had deliberately forgotten that, because he found the whole idea absurd, and it was easy for him to forget things about friends that didn't fit with his positive image of them.
"Meera, really, I'm fine. I've never been better. I'm getting tons of work done, and that huge useless pile of paintings in my studio is finally getting smaller from sales."
Meera cocked her head, listening.
"In fact, Harlan Nachez himself is paying me to paint his girlfriend. Well, some little blonde he'd like to be his girlfriend. I'd go the dinner and wine and a nice fur coat route, but whatever..." he trailed off, uncomfortable under Meera's gaze. They regarded each other in silence for a moment.
Finally, Joshua spoke. "OK, so what do I do about whatever you're worried about?" Regardless of the more woo-woo aspects of Meera's belief system, she was also one of the wisest people he knew, and if she was worried, he shouldn't be stupid about it.
Meera continued to look at him, studying him. "I don't know. But would you do a ritual with me to find out?"
Joshua blinked. "Uh, well, um..." He stopped; her manner made being superficial or skeptical impossible. "All right. Sure. What do I do?"
"Wait here," she said, rising gracefully. She put more incense in one of the burners, and left the room.
Joshua looked around, confused. Great, I'm going to have to hop backwards in a circle or something stupid. Why do I let myself get talked into these things? he sighed to himself. This is not going to be the answer to my problem. And what is my problem, anyway? he thought. Why is Meera looking at me like I'm in denial about some skin condition? I'm not getting laid enough, but that's not a reason for an exorcism or something.
His reverie was broken off by the soft sound of her coming back into the room. He turned; she was naked except for her jewelry. Her slim brown body was glistening with some kind of mint oil, filling his senses. "Uh, Meera..." They had slept together before; Ketan was as amused and unconcerned by this as he was by everything in life. But there was something different now. Something that made him just a bit scared.
"Undress," she said, lightly. "I'll get ready." She sat back down facing him, legs crossed, and closed her eyes, taking deep breaths. Joshua rose, and quickly undressed, watching her. He sat back down, crossing his legs as well. She opened her eyes.
Without a word, she reached across, and began sliding her oiled fingers over his cock; she looked into his eyes, and he matched her breathing, very deep, in and out, in and out. Her rhythms were magnetic, they pulled everything into alignment with her. He was already getting hard just from watching her, and her touch made him even harder, bringing him to readiness. He reached across to stroke her as well, but she shook her head slightly, and he put his hands back down.
With a quick motion, she opened her legs, wrapped them around him, and pulled herself into his lap; his cock slid neatly into her pussy, already wet and ready. Her elbows pushed at his sides, her arms up his back, her hands in his hair. They gasped together at the sudden penetration, and he looked at her face; she put her head back, her eyes closed. Her hips began to grind down onto him, her cunt clenching and unclenching around him.
They coupled slowly, her pussy milking his cock into her. His hands pressed into her back, sweaty with the oil and the residue of the paint that he hadn't had a chance to wash off. For just an idle moment, he realized that Kylie was the last woman he had been with before now; he forced the image of her green eyes down one more time, and focused on Meera, on her musky scent, on her hands on him, on his hands on her, on the feeling of her small, firm breasts pressed up against him, on the erotic, deep hoarseness of her breathing.
He could feel the orgasm building inside of him. Apparently, she could too; she opened her eyes, met his gaze, and nodded. "Let it build," she said, softly, "don't hold back. Just let it build, let it come... let it come..." Her pussy started clenching faster, her hips grinding more insistently. "Don't hold back," she whispered, leaning forward, her breath in his hair. "Don't hold back, let yourself come inside of me, let your come flow into me, share your essence with me..."
With a sudden burst, he could feel himself spray out into her, again and again; it felt like a whole river of come ran out into her waiting cunt. Her pussy clenched and grabbed, hard, as she gave a soft cry and came herself, pulling his body close to her, as he grabbed her and held her tight.
As the shuddering slowly stopped, he felt his naked cock deep inside her, and gasped, "Oh, fuck, Meera, I didn't use anything..." She responded with her body, her gentle pressure against him telling him clearly that he should stop worrying about it.
As they calmed down, he murmured, "So, any conclusions, doctor?"
"I," she panted, "I'm not sure. Something is happening to you, though. It's like you're poisoning yourself."
He sighed. "It's just the paint. It gets into everything. But I'm not eating it for lunch."
She slowly disengaged, standing up directly from him. He watched her pussy come up to eye-level, and then her lovely ass, as she turned. She slid a folded white cloth between her legs. "I know, Joshua, but something bad is happening to you or around you. It's not a physical poison, it's a spiritual one."
He closed his eyes. "I think you're worrying too much about me." He could hear her add more incense. He took more breaths, enjoying the mixture of her scent, the oil, the incense, the perfume of their fucking. "I'm just working too hard; I'm not used to actually being successful." He took another deep breath, opened his eyes.
And screamed.
Meera was squatting down, her back towards him. There were two handprints, lurid blood-red, on her back. Not just blood; it looked like she had been flayed, the skin removed and the muscle and bone and organs exposed like an obscene anatomy diagram. Gore from the wounds was starting to trickle down to her ass. He lurched backwards, threw himself against the pillows, grabbing one to him as Meera turned. "What is it? What's the matter?" she said, rushing to him, taking his hands.
"Your... your back... I, I did something..." he said, trying to keep breathing, his vision starting to tunnel with terror.
She reached behind herself, ran a hand down her back. She pulled it away, clean. "I'm fine. You didn't even grab that hard." She turned around; her sculptured back glistened undamaged in the candlelight. She turned to him, gently taking his head in her hands. "I think you should spend the night here tonight. Ketan's at a conference. And let's do some purification work together now, OK?"
Joshua just nodded, as he sank into her arms.
She opened the address book on the computer, scrolled down to TOS, looked up Joshua's number. She picked up the phone, started to dial, put it down again. Why should I call him? she thought. What could he possibly do for me? Paul has no idea why I'm sleeping with him, as if we ever actually sleep, what if Joshua doesn't either? Fuck, she thought, Joshua has to know, he has to be the reason that I'm a blowup doll with my own bank account. And if he is the reason, he can fix it. She picked up the phone, put it down again. She saw a shadow against the frosted glass of the door, and sat up straight.
Fassil flew through the door to the gallery office, his face darker than she'd ever seen it before. For a horrible moment, she ran through everything that she might have done to offend him, came up with nothing.
"Paul?"
He shook his head, as if to clear it. He closed the door behind him. "Yes, Kylie?" he asked, not unkindly, but not looking at her, either. He sat down in the chair next to her desk, filling it up.
"Uh, is something wrong?"
He nodded, slowly. "Yes. Very."
She knew what was expected of her. She stood up, came around in front of him, and knelt down. As she reached for his belt, he put a hand on hers to stop her. "Thanks, but not right now."
She blinked. "Uh, OK. Is there anything...?"
He shook his head, leaning back. "No, uh, thanks." He stood up. She did, too. A moment of fear ran through her. She'd never seen him like this, not that she'd known him very long. "Paul, what is it?"
He turned, and looked at her. Not at her chest or legs, but straight into her eyes. "Big trouble. Thakka Data Systems and those lithographs by Prud'homme."
She thought back. That was their, his, big score last quarter. "The ones you bought from Heinmann Galleries in Paris, right?"
"Right."
"And you sold them to Thakka."
"And made a huge profit. Heinmann let them go for almost nothing. They're off hanging on the walls of New Delhi or Bombay or wherever the hell Thakka's headquarters is."
"So," she said, not wanting to know the answer, "what was the problem?"
"Heinmann let them go for a song because he didn't own them. They were there for a show, not for sale."
She put a hand out to the desk to steady herself. "But we just need to pull the confirmation from Heinmann that they had title or representation, and then it's Heinmann's problem?"
Fassil sat down again. "Problem one: Heinmann has disappeared, leaving an empty gallery and about ninety artists without work or payment."
She nodded, slowly, her heart pounding.
He continued, his voice even lower. "Problem two: I never got the confirmation from Heinmann. I let the prints go without it. I trusted him when he said that they'd send it later, and Thakka wanted the prints right away, and was willing to pay a premium for them fast."
"So, Prud'homme wants his money or his lithographs. He can't go after Heinmann, because there's nothing there. So he's going to go after me. I was at lunch with their lawyers and ours. He's got me. He could probably make criminal charges stick if he pushed hard enough, saying that I was in collusion with Heinmann. Prud'homme wants enough to retire on, fuck whatever the 'graphs where actually worth, and he probably could get it from a court."
He sighed. "I'll have to unload most of my collection to buy him off. I was an idiot for trusting Heinmann." He sighed. Kylie relaxed, a bit. He has a hundred pieces he doesn't even look at; he won't notice most of them are gone. At least he won't be angry for long, she thought, slowly calming down. I hate it even more when he gets angry.
He walked to the door of his office, and turned. "Let's get started; they're only going to give me so much time. Call Harlan Nachez' admin, and let him know that I can get him some great deals. He really liked 'Odalisque'; make sure that one goes into the package. Thanks, you're great," he added, closing the door behind him.
Kylie collapsed onto the floor, sitting; she realized how obscene it
looked, short skirt ridden up and no panties, but she didn't care. She
felt one garter snap off of a stocking. If I cry, she thought insanely,
my mascara will run and I'll just have to fix it, but she started to cry
silently anyway. She reached up, grabbed the phone, and pulled it down.
She started to dial Joshua's number, memorized from the hundred times she'd
pulled it up. Her long hair tangled into her eyes, making it hard to see,
but she managed it.
Nachez examined the sketch in his hand as if it were covered with characters of a dead language. A long moment passed.
"Yes, bigger."
Joshua looked at the sketch. "Um, Harlan, I think she is pretty much that size." He looked at Nachez, then back at the drawing. The morning sunlight, if the sunlight could still be called morning at 11am, poured in through the many windows. Joshua had raced out of Meera's at 9:30 with just a long kiss and a promise to send her the list of what he was putting in his paints. He had managed to get here just as Nachez' car pulled up. No coffee. No shower. On his best behavior. This day was not off to a promising start.
Now, he was standing with Nachez, going over the sketches. After the usual pleasantries of how wonderful the sketches looked and how much he was looking forward to the painting and how much Hannah was looking forward to the painting and how much Hannah enjoyed posing and on and on and on, the subject had quickly shifted to Hannah's tits. Joshua, still back on how much everyone was enjoying everything, was having trouble focusing on the mammaries at hand.
Nachez flipped the sketchbook closed. "No, you're absolutely right, that's just how big they are. I'd like them bigger in the painting."
Joshua nodded, slowly, trying to make sure his voice stayed casual and even. "OK, bigger. How much bigger?"
Nachez thought for a moment, then held his hands out in front of him, cupped back. "This big. Big."
Well, I'm learning more about you that I wanted to, Joshua thought. "OK, got it. Anything else you'd like done, while the hood's open?" Joshua hoped that his sarcasm would be written off to general artist bad attitude, or an attempt at humor. Bad attitude he had aplenty right now, humor in very short supply. Fortunately, Nachez ignored it; unfortunately, he seemed to take Joshua seriously.
"Yes, just a few things," Nachez said, walking to the window, stroking his chin thoughtfully. Joshua sat down with a pen and a napkin to write on. Coffee, he thought. Must get coffee immediately after this. He glanced over at his answering machine; it was blinking disconsolately to itself. I'll deal with you much later, he thought to the machine, writing down Nachez' requests.
He looked around at the rest of the crowd in the café, what there was of it. A few yuppies slurping at lattés, a few members of the corona of service industries that the yuppies required for daily life (baristas, cell-phone salesmen, performance artists). Joshua sighed. When my lease is up, I'm moving to Arizona, he thought, sourly.
The girl behind the counter kept glancing over at him. Short bleach-blonde hair, black cats-eye glasses, brown eyes behind them, slim figure in a blue tank-top. Cute, he had to admit, and refreshingly real, especially after the refined, surreal, abstract prettiness of Hannah, at which he had been staring all day. She noticed him noticing her, and turned away. She stuffed things into her bag, getting ready to leave. He sighed, swallowed more coffee.
He examined the passing traffic for a while, enjoying the play of colors, when he felt someone nearby. Turning around, the barista was standing across the table, smiling hesitantly. "Um, hi. Ah, you are Joshua, ah Tostig, right?" she attempted.
He sat back, entirely unsure how to react. "Yeah, c'est moi. What can I...?"
She sat down with a thud, as if asking the question had used all of her strength. "I'm, I really like your work. A lot. You have such a cool and unique style, and so much incredible technique..."
Joshua blinked. I have fans, he thought. Not just patrons, agents, and dealers, but fans. Or one fan, at least. This, he thought, is very cool. "Thanks... no, really, thank you," he said.
"Listen, um, hi, I'm Dana, I mean, my name's Dana, and I wanted to, um, show you something, if you've, um, ah, got time?" She was already reaching into her canvas bag for a sketchbook. Joshua, feeling oddly embarrassed, turned so as not to look down her tank-top as she leaned over. She deposited the sketchbook on the table, closed.
I suppose this is a landmark in my career, he thought; I'm being pestered by aspiring artists just like I used to pester. Well, fair's fair, and at least this one is cute. He took the sketchbook at her nod, put on his best really-I'm-interested face, and flipped it open.
Minutes passed as he flipped from page to page, his eyes large. My god, he thought, this girl's good. No, this girl is great; she's a better draftsman that I'll ever be. This still life looks like I could just eat it, and it's just in charcoals. And this nude looks like it should be warm to the touch...
He put the sketchbook down, and looked across at her. She looked back, crestfallen, but trying to be brave. "I know, uh, I know that it's still pretty rough, well, it's just a hobby and I probably should stop wasting time on it... uh, anyway," she stuffed the book back into her bag, "thanks for your..."
He lifted a hand, and sat up. She stopped. "Dana, you've got a lot of talent. You're very good. Very good."
She blinked. "You mean that?"
Joshua blinked in turn, as if she had just said the sky was purple. "Yes, of course, I do! Whatever you do, don't stop," he stressed, blushing as he realized it sounded like he was in bed with her.
She just stared for a second. "OK... OK, I won't. Thank you!" She blinked again, and Joshua realized that she was starting to cry. He lifted a hand to reach out to her, but she was gone, running out of the café. He followed her with his eyes.
She's not running, he realized; she's skipping.
With a smile, he sat back, and finished his coffee. It was a few minutes before he realized he hadn't even asked for her phone number.
I want a bonus for pandering, and I want to wash my hands of this thing, literally and figuratively, he said, holding it up to the light.
He gently carried it to the drying rack, and started the water running. As he soaped up, he looked at the list of paint ingredients for Meera, tacked above the industrial washbasin, and reminded himself to go to the copy place and fax it over to her. I'm fucking my best friend's wife, who's an Indian witch with a fax machine, he though wryly. Only in San Francisco.
He snapped his hands into the sink, and looked over at the answering machine. Still blinking. OK, OK, he thought, drying himself off, I'll put you out of your misery. He punched the button.
No message. Beep.
No message. Beep.
Words came tumbling out, piling on top of each other. "Ah, Joshua, ah, Joshua, hi, this is Kylie? From Fassil Galleries, you know, I modelled for you a long time ago, and, listen, I really need to talk to you right away, it's really really important, but don't call me at the gallery and please god don't tell Paul I called, OK? I'll call you back." Saturday, 2:25pm, the machine told him. Beep. It continued.
No message. Beep.
No message. Beep.
No message...
Five more calls, all no message. Joshua's heart pounded. Why would she call me? What about? Fuck, he thought, I have no idea how to get in touch with her except through Fassil. What's wrong? He looked at the clock: 3:32am. He slumped into the couch, grabbing the phone. Directory assistance? He tried. No, of course not, no one is listed in this town; the whole fucking White Pages could just say "A-Z: Who's asking?" He shook his head, put the phone down on the floor. First thing tomorrow, I have to go to Fassil's, he thought. He closed his eyes, but sleep did not come for a long time.
Hannah, you are so smooth, she thought as she slid down between the smooth cotton sheets and put out the lights. Sleep came quickly.
Sleep did not last. She tossed and turned, dreams full of bizarre colors and lights and having to squeeze her way through tight passages which scored her skin, took off parts of her, left her misshapen and bleeding. She woke up with a short scream, bolt upright. She put her hands out, feeling wetness all over the bed. "I'm bleeding," she sobbed, before she touched again. No, it's not blood. It's just sweat. I've been sweating. She could also feel her thighs and pussy, throbbing, and realized that the moisture soaking the bed was not just sweat after all.
She reached for the light as she levered herself out of bed, but her hand missed and fell onto the alarm clock. 4:02am. She pushed herself out of bed, and nearly fell over; she felt weak, dizzy, and completely off balance. Her back hurt. Oh, good, she thought, ballet since I was four, and now I can't walk. She staggered to her feet, and put a hand out, feeling her way along the wall.
She stopped, and collapsed into an armchair. I feel weird, she thought. I feel so strange. I can't think at all... I'm sick, I have the flu, I'm dying from some fucking disease and Harlan isn't even fucking home he's out with Mimi or Yvonne ... God, he's probably still doing it to them now, he probably has Mimi bent over and is fucking her hard even though he's come five times already and it's past four in the morning and she's got this incredible pair for an Asian girl and her boobs are swaying and his cock is going in and and out in and out...
She spread her legs, wide, and slid down in the chair. Her fingers feebly reached for her cunt, and started stroking frantically, noticing that she was clean-shaven, but barely stopping to think of it. I've never been this fucking horny, she thought, fucking horny fucking fuck fuck fuck god his cock buried in her pussy I bet he's huge god I've never even seen his cock and Mimi is getting it and I'm not and I bet her mouth still tastes like his come if I kissed her it would be like him shooting in my mouth god I'm hot come come come... shit why don't I have a dildo I've got to get something in my cunt... She shoved as many fingers in as she could reach, could fit. She reached down to play with one of her nipples, found her breast, touched it.
Her scream was audible half-way down the empty house. She launched herself out of the chair, grabbed for the light, turned it on. She looked down, and then in the mirror by the side of the bed.
Her breasts were huge. Freakishly huge. She'd never seen natural breasts as big as hers, and not many fake ones, either. She had a flash of utter panic. She grabbed the nightstand, feeling she might faint, her head swimming, her blood pounding. What the fuck is happening to me? I look like a cartoon character. I'm bigger than Mimi, she thought, her panic slowly draining away as the fuzziness and arousal returned in a flood. I'm even bigger than Alexandra, that cunt, and he's always going on about how big her boobs are. The nipples looked larger, too, a bit puffier, and they were...
Fuck.
Fuck.
She collapsed back into bed, her brain lighting up with orgasm from the pinch she had given one. They're so fucking sensitive I could just play with my boobs for hours and come and come and come and then Harlan could fuck me between them and come all over them and in my mouth and on my throat and I'd love it god I want it when's he coming home I need him to fuck me...
She finally fainted at dawn, one hand on her pussy, the other on her breasts, her scent filling the room.
He walked towards the back, barely noticing the pieces on the walls. The door to the back office was open, and he stuck his head through, looking around. No one. He walked through to the next door, also open. Fassil looked up with surprise. Joshua took a quick glance around; nothing on the walls. An art dealer who doesn't own art, Joshua thought; OK, sure, whatever.
"Oh, Joshua. Hello, please, come in," Fassil said, coming around the desk, removing a pile of papers from the one other chair. "I'm sorry the place is in such a mess, but we've been moving so many pieces these days..."
Joshua sat, looked around. "Thanks, Paul. Um, is Kylie around?" he said, trying and failing to be causal.
Fassil didn't seem to notice the tension. "No, sorry, Joshua, she's off delivering some paintings." He paused, smiled falsely. "Including 'Odalisque'! Harlan Nachez bought it for a very pretty sum."
Joshua grimaced. Great, Nachez'll just snap up all the big-titted realism in the country, he thought. I should get a gang of models and do an assembly line. Kylie delivering it will give him tremendous leering opportunity, since Nachez has a brain and can see that she's the model.
Paul glanced over his desk, saw something that reminded him of something. "Oh, Joshua, I'm sorry I didn't think of this when you came in. This is horrible, but one of your pieces was destroyed."
Joshua sat up, suddenly afraid, but not sure why. "Which one? It wasn't..."
Fassil continued, still reading the slip. "'National Guard Armory, 1999.' Claire Baumgarten's house burned to the ground on Friday. She had just taken it, too."
He shook his head, put the paper down, looked across at Joshua. I had forgotten about that one, Joshua thought as he returned Fassil's polite gaze. It was hardly one of my favorites. He looked away, and shrugged. "Thank you. Uh, is everyone...?"
"Yes, no one was hurt. They were all at the Opera," Fassil smiled. "Thank you for asking." Another long moment of silence.
He offered Fassil some information about his current work; Fassil listened distractedly, clearly ready to get back to his computer. Joshua took the hint, stood, walked to the door; Fassil didn't rise to see him out. He stopped.
"Uh, Paul?"
Fassil had already forgetten Joshua was there, poring over a spreadsheet. "Oh, yeah, what is it, Joshua?"
"I found this great new realist artist. She works in charcoal..."
Fassil waved, not even looking away from the screen. "Realism doesn't sell, Joshua. You know that."
Joshua looked Paul up and down, and walked out, leaving the door open.
Meera waved back, showed her 2pm client (large, friendly) and attached patient (small, yappy) into the examination room, and came over to collect the fax. Humming softly to herself, she flipped over the cover sheet, and traced one nail down the list.
"Bad lab report?" the receptionist asked, looking with concern at Meera's expression.
"Ah, yes. Sort of." She thought. "Could you get one of the techs to do an initial on my 2pm? I need to make a phone call."
He stood up, stretched, and looked out towards the southwest. His eyes traced the streets down, one by one: Bryant, Harrison, Folsom, Howard, Mission... A thought crashed into him, sending him staggering; he grabbed onto one of the beams for support.
Mission.
The National Guard Armory.
I painted it, he thought. The painting burned on Friday. The building collapsed on Friday. Those fire trucks, they were probably on their way to the fire at Baumgarten's house.
Joshua slid down the wall. "It has to be a coincidence," he said out loud, knowing to be utterly false. "It's just a painting, they're just paintings..."
He looked over at the table. Sketchpad, filled with sketches of Hannah. He pulled himself to his feet, and walked slowly over, picking the pad up as if it were the bomb that would end his life.
The phone rang. He dropped the pad, and grabbed the handset.
"Yyyeah?"
"Joshua. It's Meera."
"Oh, god, thank god it's you, Meera," Joshua babbled. There was no one he would have rather heard on the phone. "Listen, I just figured something out... it's..."
Meera's voice was as sharp and bright as a knife. "Joshua, I will be coming over this evening, after I am done at the clinic. I must talk to you about the paints."
He shook his head to clear it. "The paints?" Oh, right, the fax. I faxed her the ingredients. "Uh, Meera, OK, but there's something else..."
"We can talk then. I will call you as soon as I leave the clinic."
"OK, Meera. Great. But, look, there's something more, something about the paintings..."
"In the meantime, Joshua, do not use those paints. Namasté." Click.
Joshua looked back at the sketchpad. His mind whirled, and pieces came together like shards of glass in a kaliedoscope. "Odalisque." Kylie was delivering "Odalisque" to Harlan Nachez today. Paul had bought "Odalisque," and then there was that show at the gallery where Kylie had... And Nachez wanted a picture of Hannah, and he had bought "Odalisque," and Kylie had hair like he had given her in "Odalisque"...
Joshua raced out of the loft, nearly throwing himself down the stairs. He tried to remember when the next Caltrain down the peninsula to Menlo Park would leave, as he ran down towards the station.
"Thanks," he replied to the phone, and snatched it up.
"Stan, thanks for being around for me. Yeah, yeah, I know it's been a while, but I have something to talk to you about." He leaned back in his chair, painting balanced on his lap.
"What is it? I have a something that I want your lab boys to analyze. I think we may have something huge on our hands. No, bigger than that. Bigger than we can imagine. Yeah, I can imagine big, too. This may be nothing, but it's worth a shot."
"Yeah. So, what I need you to do is to take some small samples off this painting, and do the analysis. Then, figure out how to make those pigments into inkjet ink. No, Dynamic isn't getting into the fucking printer supply business. Stay focused." He turned the painting again. "You may need a buttload of colors of ink, but that's OK. We can make that work."
"Pay for it? Stan, you cocksucker, I'll buy your company if that's what you want. If this works, we'll buy whatever we fucking feel like. Yes, we. Trust me. Just set it up, and call me back. Yeah, a week's fine; I'm taking a few days off now. OK, let me know. Ciao."
He hung up, admired Hannah's portrait for a while longer. He hummed, putting it in a bag with "Odalisque," delivered not ten minutes ago itself. Today, he told himself, I'm leaving early; I have a lot to do at home.
Nachez had scared her, the first time she met him. The other men that Paul had used her to cozy up to had disgusted her, or bored her, and sometimes they weren't too terrible to be with, but Nachez... Nachez didn't look at her like a piece of meat, or a piece of property. She was a test, she was a puzzle to be decoded, a deal to be unravelled.
For once, she had wanted to get to the sex quickly. Nachez was not any great prize, but she would have been happy to have given him a five-hour-long blowjob, just to keep from having to answer his questions. She flirted, she showed off her cleavage, she made suggestive remarks, she made offers, she spread her damn legs and flashed him, and still, he just wanted to ask question, after question, after question. How she met Paul, when did she decide to sleep with him, did she always wear her hair like that, how many times did Paul set her up with other guys, what did she feel, why did she do it... And Paul had told her, "Do whatever he wants," and so she did. She answered them all.
And then he fucked her. Then he left, leaving her feeling like he was having some big joke at her expense. And now she had just walked into his company's headquarters and dropped off a painting. Not just any painting, but "Odalisque," the painting that must have started all this.
Nachez was "out," and she was glad of it.
She shook her head, trying to clear it. Fuck it, she thought. I'm not going right back to the gallery and watch Paul try to get blood out of stones because he had been a greedy piggy. The signs said "Half Moon Bay / San Mateo Bridge," and impulsively she pulled off towards the west.
I haven't just gone for a drive in months, she thought, not since that evening I made the mistake of going to Paul's gallery and ended up going home with him. She snorted. Going home with him. Right. I ended up bent over his desk being pounded like a cheap drum, and then being installed in his trick pad like his latest sculpture acquisition. Very homey.
She looked at her cellphone, and looked back on the road. Why hasn't Joshua called back? she thought. Am I a leper or something? She shook her head, again; stop thinking like you're always in heat, even if you are. He might have no idea why you called. The painting probably has nothing to do with this, and you're just trying to explain away being a sick fuck with a daddy-master thing going on. No, she shook her head, there has to be something going on, that painting must have something to do with it; the timing was so coincidental, I'd never been like that with a man before, and my hair suddenly deciding it was growing season, and Paul ending up with the painting. Everything together. Something must be going on.
She passed the 280 freeway, up into the hills. I don't know where I'm going, she realized, suddenly. She shrugged, and turned the CD up a bit louder. It doesn't matter. I'll just go, enjoy the drive, and end up back in San Francisco later. Paul can sweat it out. If he gets angry, he gets angry.
She wandered through the hills for a while, pulled off, drove south for a while, letting her mind wander. Soon, main roads gave way to smaller roads and those gave way to steep, winding roads into the heart of Woodside. Kylie had been down here a few times, parties with Fassil, but the preserve of the hyper-wealthy still felt off-limits to her. She pulled over to the side of the road, and stopped the engine.
OK, now what? she asked herself. She realized, for a moment, that she had absolutely no idea where she was supposed to go or what she was supposed to do. I've never felt like this, she thought. This is crazy. I've always known that there was something I needed to do, for months at least now. I should just drive back. I should just get back to the gallery... but that idea sounded insane, as crazy as driving off into the ocean.
The light filtered down through the trees over the side of the road, making dappled shapes on the car windows. With the air conditioning off, she realized that it was getting warm in the car. She stretched, feeling the short skirt ride up, exposing her pussy; she didn't care, it wasn't like there was anyone around. And she was getting horny anyway, a kind of unfocused, nonspecific horniness, a horniness waiting for something. She reached down, started gently stroking herself, feeling her wetness spread under her fingertips.
She stroked herself, not really trying for an orgasm. She felt very vague, very distant, just drifting along the slow river of her arousal. She closed her eyes, licked her lips, started fantasizing about slowly being fucked, or having a cock slowly slide in and out of her mouth, or both, or of two handsome men pulling up in a car behind her and deciding that she looked just perfect to be used and used and used, gently and firmly and for hours on end. Time passed, minutes, then hours.
Suddenly, she heard a car crunch through the gravel behind her, pull to a stop. She quickly yanked her skirt back down, pulled the seat back up. The door to the car opened, and a man got out. Not the cop she expected, but a man she knew. Her whole body turned to ice even as her hand, on its own, rolled down the window.
"Hello, Kylie," Harlan Nachez said, smiling, as he came up to the car.
"Harlan," she managed, gasping in quick, shallow breaths. "I... I didn't..."
"Follow me to my place," he said, turning around, eyes invisible behind expensive dark sunglasses.
His car pulled out. She started hers, and followed closely behind. She didn't know what else she could do.
But I have to do something, he rejoined. It's my fault. I have to do something.
"We're now arriving in Redwood City, please make sure you take all of your belongings with you, and thank you for riding..." the announcement scratched over the speaker.
Joshua looked off; there, to the west, were the glass towers of Ketan's employer. Without really understanding what he was doing, he leapt up, down the stairs, and off the train just as the doors closed again. He looked up and down the platform for a pay phone, trying to remember Ketan's work number.
Harlan sat a few feet away from her. Hannah kneeled in front of him, her back straight, her huge breasts thrust out, her legs apart. She was clearly trying to control her breathing, and failing. Kylie watched, her dress pulled up, slowly masturbating, just as Harlan had requested.
Kylie's eyes flicked over to the two paintings across the room, one beside the other. "Odalisque," of course, she was far too familiar with. The other, a portrait of Hannah, was clearly also by Joshua. In it, Hannah lay back on cushions, one hand pinching a nipple of her obscenely enormous breasts; her head was thrown back in an expression of utter, mindless ecstasy, as if that orgasm was eating away at her brain. Her legs were spread, and her pussy bare; you could see how aroused she was, even across the room and in the subdued light. Joshua's good, Kylie had to admit. After all, look what he did to me.
She turned her attention back to Harlan and Hannah. They regarded each other for a moment longer, before Harlan said, without turning, "Kylie, could you come over behind Hannah? Kneel down behind her."
Kylie rose, and did as she was asked. Harlan smiled.
Hannah moaned, softly. "Ppplease... Harlan, just fuck me. Please. That's what you want, isn't it? Just do it..." She ground her hips helplessly in the air.
Harlan smiled. "Of course I'm going to fuck you, Hannah, but I'm not nearly as impatient as you." He looked over Hannah's shoulder to Kylie. "Kylie, reach around and cup Hannah's tits. Get your fingers on the nipples, but not too hard."
Kylie felt the heavy weight of the tits as she squeezed them, her fingers lightly pinching the nipples. Hannah gasped, trying to wiggle away, but without real force. "Harlan... god... stop it, I don't like... girls..."
Harlan made a face. "Hannah, I like girls, and I like my girls doing girls. That's what matters. Now, Kylie, when I tell Hannah to come, give her nipples a solid pinch." Kylie nodded, slowly.
He let the robe fall open. "Hannah, come." Kylie pinched. Hannah screamed and collapsed forward, her head falling on Harlan's thigh, her eyes fixed on his cock, her legs bucking convulsively. Kylie had a hard time hanging on to her boobs, but she managed. Harlan smiled. "Now, Hannah, let's talk about what you like to do."
"... like to do ..." she murmured, still staring blankly at his cock.
He nodded. "Kylie, after I'm done, I want you to tell her all about how much fun it is to fuck girls."
Kylie could only nod, and wait for her next command, her hands still on Hannah's tits.
Joshua nodded, peering around the cafeteria, trying to make sure they weren't overheard. He liked visiting Ketan at work; even wearing a t-shirt, jeans, and covered in paint, he rarely felt underdressed. Working in the Valley was like that. Ketan himself, as befitting his lofty station here, was wearing a severe grey suit and a dark blue silk tie. I cannot believe this is the same guy, he thought, not for the first time.
"You think that if you paint someone, you do something to them."
"It's like... oh, fuck, I don't know, Ketan, it's like I suck the soul out of them and put it in the picture."
Ketan said, "The soul. Okey-dokey. So, let's go over the evidence."
Joshua nodded.
"You paint one art-chick, matching her hair color to her pubic hair, and she turns up with that color hair, all subby over the guy who bought the painting, who just happens to be a rich gallery owner."
"Yeah, but..."
"Next, a painting of yours burns up, and the building that it is a painting of falls down, on the same day."
"Right, but..."
"Anything else?"
Joshua stopped, and thought. "No."
Ketan sat back, entirely the Executive Vice President for Advanced Development that he was. Skeptical, cool, composed. "And you think you have some weird power to pop off neo-realist Pictures of Dorian Gray?"
Joshua collapsed. "OK, it's stupid."
Ketan nodded, vigorously, sitting forward; his intensity made Joshua pull back a fraction of an inch. "Yes, of course it's stupid. You'd have to make a pact with the devil or something. It's not you, loser, it's those fucking paints of yours that you've put so much time into making toxic."
Joshua just stared for a full half-minute. "Meera called you, right?"
Ketan shrugged. "We're married. It happens."
Another long pause. "So, what do we do now?"
Ketan thought. "Well, you want to get Kylie out from under Nachez?" Joshua flinched. "Sorry, bad choice of words, but true, right?"
"True. Right."
"OK, so we need leverage. Nachez is not an idiot, it's safe to assume he wanted the picture of Blondie because he wanted to run an experiment. He does not need this to get pussy... he has something else in mind."
The image of Hannah's "portrait" swam up to Joshua. He felt ill.
"OK, Ketan, right. But what would he be trying to do, besides fuck her? And what the hell do we have that Nachez would want to trade the pictures for? That kind of money makes my brain hurt just to think about it."
Ketan stared off into space. "So, if it's the paints, do you think that whoever you paint needs to be physically present? Right there in front of you?"
Joshua thought, and shrugged violently. "I have no fucking idea. It's not like this evil power came with instructions."
Ketan nodded. "Worth a try. Follow me." He stood.
Joshua grabbed his sandwich. "Where are we off to now?"
"Library," Ketan said, striding off. Joshua followed, shaking his head.
After Kylie had talked her into bisexuality (if a sex toy can really be said to have an orientation), Harlan mentioned that Kylie should have a new portrait done of her, too. I wonder what I'll look like, she thought idly, as she licked away; bigger tits, I'm sure, and that extra-subby expression that gave Harlan access to Hannah's mind. She tried to work up an emotion about it, but for some reason, it wouldn't come.
She wondered if Harlan was planning to fuck her tonight, too.
Then, she cleared her mind of thought, and focused on servicing with
her mouth. She was, after all, a slave girl, and a good one.
Joshua examined the painting. Both of his arms ached, a dull throb. His vision was fuzzy from the paint fumes. "Yeah, more brown."
Meera turned back to the sink, and started grinding up something foul. Ketan lounged on the sofa. "So, how much longer before the masterpiece is done?" he asked, not looking up from his magazine.
Nearly falling over, Joshua stood up, stretched. He looked at the painting. "Shit, I don't know. Another couple of hours, maybe." Meera put a small jar down next to the easel, and started rubbing Joshua's shoulders. "Are you sure this is going to work?" he asked, of no one in particular. He sank back into Meera's touch.
"No idea," Ketan replied. "And if it doesn't, we'll probably be in jail. Life is full of mysteries, isn't it?"
Joshua stared at him for a long time, and sat back down. He patted Meera's hand. "Thanks." He picked up his brush, and started in again.
"Nothing."
Joshua put his hand on the painting again. "Nothing. It didn't work."
Meera and Ketan stood right behind him. "How can you tell?" Meera asked, after a long pause.
Joshua turned, slumping. "I don't know. But I can. There's just something wrong with it. It doesn't... it doesn't glow like the others. It's just a painting." He stood up, collapsed onto the couch. "It doesn't even look right."
Ketan looked it over. "It looks fine to me," he said, his good humor sounding just a bit forced.
Joshua stood up, stalked over, waving at the canvas with his brush as if he were trying to punish it. "No, it's wrong. See, there in the mouth, and over there in the eyes. They're not right. I'm too tired, or I'm just not good enough. Fuck, Ketan, get yourself a real painter, one who knows how to do realism right." He threw down the brush. Meera put out a hand, but Joshua turned first, blinking, a sudden thought flashing through him. "A real painter, that's what we need." He raced to the door, grabbing his jacket.
Meera raced after him. "What's happening? Where are you going?"
Joshua turned, smiling, all fatigue erased from his face "I need a latté. I'm going to Brainwash. Want to come?"
Joshua nodded, vigorously. Dana's face was radiant, excited. Joshua thought, if I could make a lover look like this, I'd be the best damn lay in the world.
Meera and Ketan sat at a table, sipping drinks, Meera looking at Joshua and Dana having a conversation at the counter, Ketan's nose buried in a book.
"Yes, of course, I'd love to learn from you! I mean, when you said I was any good, it was great..."
Joshua nodded again, trying to stay casual and patient. "So, would you like to start right away?"
"Yes, yes! How about, ah, I don't know if, I mean, I'm sure you're busy."
"Now."
"Now?" Dana blinked.
"Yes, this very instant. My studio's right around the corner, pretty much."
"Um, but I don't get off for another..."
Joshua cut the air with his hand. "Time to start suffering for your art. Get your coat." He turned to walk back to Ketan and Meera. Without looking, he could see the scene behind him: Dana pausing, turning, saying something to her coworker, him shrugging, her reaching under the counter. He nodded to Meera; she tapped Ketan, and stood up.
Dana turned, back to the easel. She pushed her glasses back up. "Oh, sorry, this is just such a great view..."
Joshua nodded, trying to be the stern instructor. "We'll do landscapes later. You want to learn my technique, right?" Thank god, he told himself again for the tenth time, that Dana had been working today.
Dana nodded, vigorously. "Yes, of course, but..." She looked at Meera, working at the sink, and Ketan, sitting on the couch, reading. "But this is kind of weird..."
"You're an artist. Weird is expected. OK, first lesson." He pointed at the copy holder next to the easel. "Duplicate that. I'll talk you through the colors, but make it an exact copy. I want to see every pore."
Dana blinked. "But..."
Joshua shook his head. "No buts. And you have six hours to do it." He held up the hair dryer, trying to suppress the trembling in his tired arms. "Speed painting. It's all the rage." He put down the hair dryer, lifted a blank canvas onto the easel. "If you are very good, I'll give you bathroom breaks."
Dana blanched. Joshua managed a laugh. "That was a joke, Dana. Sit down, and get going. My lovely assistant Meera, Doctor of Veterinary Medicine," Meera bowed, "will be making up paints faster than you can burn through them. Ketan over here," Ketan waved, not looking up from his comic book, "will provide pithy commentary of dubious value."
She sat down, poking at the paints with a mixing stick. "Joshua, what the fuck are these made out of? They smell like hell."
Joshua flinched. "That's very apt, Dana. Trust me, you don't want to know. OK, first part, canvas prep..."
Dana wrinkled her nose, but picked up the brush.
"You did it, Dana," Joshua said, breathing out softly.
Dana looked. "It... well, yeah, it looks just like the original." She did not sound impressed with her handiwork.
"No, look. See around here," Joshua said, pointing carefully. "It's like a nimbus around it."
Dana looked again, carefully. "Yeah. It does. That's wild... I didn't paint that in, I mean not on purpose. Did the paints do that?"
Ketan and Meera looked at each other. Joshua chuckled, without much humor. "They sure did. Listen, you need some rest. Can we start again tomorrow evening?" Ketan shook his head, vigorously. "Er, maybe the day after?" Joshua corrected himself.
Dana looked around the three others, clearly convinced that they were all mad. And you're absolutely right, my cute friend, Joshua thought. "Sure, that'd be great..." she managed. She took another look at the painting, another look at Joshua, and walked over to get her coat.
"I didn't know you knew Nachez."
"I know Nachez awfully damn well. The top of the tech business is pretty rarefied air. Everyone knows everyone. He's been trying to get his hooks into me for years."
"And?"
Ketan blinked. "And what?"
"And why haven't you bitten?"
Ketan looked at Joshua, startled. "You're nuts. You know what he's like."
Joshua shook his head, slowly. "You're right, we're nuts. This is never going to work."
Ketan shrugged. "Maybe not, but at least I know how big a raise to ask my boss for. Let's go upstairs to marketing."
Joshua blinked, and stood up. "Upstairs? What's upstairs?"
Ketan pushed open his door, bowing for Joshua to pass. "The biggest fucking ink-jet printer you ever saw in your life." He grinned, broadly.
Ketan looked at Joshua, expression blank. "Maybe not, but you're going to."
"We're both going to get fucking killed."
"We're not going to get fucking killed, or even just killed. It's going to be fine."
"I can't."
Ketan reached over from the driver's seat, put a hand on Joshua's shoulder. Nachez's house sat before them, dark and malignant, like a huge spider. "Josh, stop letting things happen to you. Do things. Do this."
Joshua looked at the house, and nodded. He got out of the car without looking at Ketan. Ketan followed, carrying a large painting case. They approached the door, all leaded glass and expensive imported woods. Joshua knocked. After a long pause, Nachez answered, impeccable in a dark suit. He paused, looking surprised.
"Hello, Ketan. Joshua. I'm surprised to see both of you here."
Joshua opened his mouth, then closed it. Ketan stepped in. "Joshua and I go way back, Harlan. I thought he might enjoy seeing how the other half lives."
Nachez laughed, stepping aside. "Happy to see both of you, come in, already." He kept talking over his shoulder as he led them through the house, towards the center. "If you keep up your career, Joshua, you'll be inviting me over to show how the real rich live soon enough."
Joshua said nothing. He looked around the walls as he followed; art everywhere, expensive, superb taste. Rich things. A few yards of the corridor cost more money than most people would see their entire lives. The whole house was constructed as a mirror of Nachez' ego; it was his bright stripes, warning everyone that he was dangerous, he was poisonous, he was not to be touched.
The living room was empty, a fire roaring in the central fire pit. Joshua noticed two paintings leaning up against the wall, face away. He knew exactly which two those were. He sat, listening.
Ketan sat as well, accepted Nachez' drink, made small talk. Nachez was not in a mood for small talk, his appearance of joviality notwithstanding.
"So, Ketan, let's talk business."
"Let's."
"What is it going to take to pry you loose?"
"I'm not leaving. You know that."
Nachez paused. "That wasn't the impression you gave this morning."
Ketan shrugged. "Impressions can be deceiving."
"OK, Ketan, what the fuck is your game? If you aren't interested, why are you here?"
Ketan smiled, a friendly, expansive smile. "OK, Harlan, I played a joke on you. Joshua has a business proposition for you. I think you'll be interested."
Nachez laughed. "Fuck, he could have just made an appointment. OK, OK, OK. Joshua, you have my undivided attention. What's your elevator pitch?"
Joshua took a deep breath. "You have two paintings of mine. I'd like them back."
Nachez cocked his head to one side, as if he hadn't understood what Joshua said. There was a long pause. He burst out laughing, nearly doubling over. "Fuck. Tostig. Fuck," he gasped. "You just now figured it out?"
For a moment, Joshua wasn't sure what he meant. "Figured it out?"
"Stuff it. You know perfectly well what I mean. You finally figured out that your paintings control people?" Nachez said, recovering.
Joshua tried to keep his voice even. "Yeah, I figured it out. That's why I want them back."
Nachez shook his head. "Forget the stupid pictures. Fuck, Joshua, think. Think! You have a power that can change the fucking world. You can have anything you want. Anything!"
Joshua thought. "Anything?"
Nachez' voice was careful and measured, lecturing the slowest kid in the class. "An-eee-thing. Can you even begin to imagine what you'll be able to do with this power? I don't blame you for not seeing the potential; it's obvious this thing just fell into your lap. But there is nothing that you couldn't get with this. Nothing we won't be able to get."
"We, Harlan? Um, what 'we'?"
Nachez rolled his eyes. "No offense, Josh, but world domination doesn't seem to be one of your core competencies. I can help with that. You just need to paint, and cash checks. Really, really, really big checks."
"I don't think you're getting it, Harlan..." Joshua ventured, feeling the conversation get out of his control.
Nachez laughed. "I think I get it better than you ever will, Josh, which is why I'm who I am and you are who you are. Listen, you want the paintings back? They're yours, with all the extras." He looked at the open doorway. "Kylie! Hannah!"
Joshua stared at Nachez, trying to keep calm, feeling a lump rise in his throat. He heard motion behind him. He shifted on the couch, slightly, and looked.
Kylie and Hannah were standing next to each other. They were wearing kimonos, Hannah's green and white, Kylie's black and red. Joshua flinched when he saw Hannah's figure; the kimono had been cut for her waist, her bust spilled, absurdly full. She was shifting slightly, constantly, as if there was some itch she couldn't scratch; her expression was distant, distracted. She noticed Joshua noticing her, and smiled a slightly crooked come-hither smile, swaying her hips. If she recognized him, there was nothing in her eyes to show it.
He looked at Kylie. Kylie regarded him back, her long black hair spilling down over her shoulders, her green eyes full of... warning? Recognition? Desire? He couldn't read them, but her whole posture was slightly collapsed, pulled in. Defeated.
He turned back to Nachez. "Harlan, I appreciate..."
Nachez said, "Joshua, you have discovered something that the world has been looking for since we dropped out of the trees. And I bet you haven't even gotten to enjoy it. Hannah, our painter friend here looks tense, do something about his shoulders."
He could feel a rustle behind him, and he knew that Hannah's kimono had dropped to the floor. Soft hands began stroking his shoulders, his neck, rubbing gently and firmly. He could feel her breasts lightly grazing the back of his head.
Nachez nodded his approval. "Kylie, I think he could benefit from your stress-reduction treatment." The black-haired girl walked around in front of the couch, stood before Joshua. Their eyes met again, as she undid the kimono and let it fall. He tried not to, but his eyes scanned her body, just as lush and desirable as he remembered it. He was getting hard. She stepped closed, and dropped down onto her knees in front of him. With a last, unreadable glance, she undid his jeans, her mouth opening. He thought of all those times he had remembered their night together, masturbated fantasizing about her, wanting to have her again. Her mouth full and lush, wide open and ready, her tongue slightly extended, she leaned forward and down...
He put a hand on her shoulder. "Thanks, but that's OK, Kylie." He guided her back up, then reached down to close his fly. He reached behind him, and gave Hannah a gentle push away from him. Kylie stood up, her face a mixture of confusion and, Joshua hoped, relief. She stood to one side, and Nachez appeared again, his face dark.
"No, Harlan. No deal."
Nachez stared at him; Joshua worked up all his strength, and returned the gaze. "You are an idiot, Tostig," Nachez sputtered. "If you won't play, I can do this without you. You know it's the paints, not anything about you, and you are going to be very inconvenient. You can either take a modest little sum to keep quiet, or you can be a problem, and I don't like problems. They tend to be removed."
Joshua opened his mouth, but Nachez wasn't finished. "And you," he said, turning on Ketan, "had better be ready to play ball as well, or you and your cute little wife will be back in India trying to get rupees out of tourists, unless she ends up on her back, joining Kylie and Hannahn under me. Do you understand?"
Ketan smiled, but Joshua knew this was not Ketan's usual smile. He felt his stomach turn over. Ketan leaned back. "That all sounds just great, Harlan, but I think there's something you need to know about first." He opened the top of the case. Joshua, his legs made of lead, slowly rose, and walked over to him. Ketan reached in, and lifted up a picture; Joshua took it, turned it around, and showed the picture to Harlan. The picture was of Nachez himself, staring out grim and full of determination. Joshua gestured to it. "We took out where it said 'Newsweek' at the top... pretty good, though, don't you think?"
Nachez slowly rose, approaching them, his steps so firm that Joshua was surprised the floor did not shake. "Give me. That picture. Now." Joshua nearly recoiled, but he heard a click behind him; Ketan was next to the picture, holding a rather long hunting knife, a fraction of an inch from the canvas. "National Guard Armory, Harlan. I can move faster than you can," Ketan said, conversationally, his other hand gripping the edge of the canvas tightly.
Nachez stopped. He took a deep breath, not looking away from the knife. A long, long silence. "OK. What do you want?"
Joshua found his voice. "The paintings, Harlan. Those for this one."
Another pause. "That's it?" Nachez asked.
Joshua nodded. "That's it."
Nachez gestured towards them. "Deal. They're yours."
Ketan never moving an inch, Joshua walked up, retrieved them, and slid them into the case. He didn't look at Hannah or Kylie; he couldn't let himself lose focus. He gently took the picture away from Ketan, and passed it over to Nachez.
Nachez took it, looked at it. He turned back to the two other men with a wry smile. "What do you think? Over my desk or in the living room?"
Joshua let a breath out that he had not even known he was holding. "Up to you, Harlan. You're the art patron." As Ketan stood, he turned to Kylie and Hannah. "Could you get dressed and get your things, please?" Scooping up the kimonos, they left, Kylie looking between Joshua and Nachez briefly.
Ketan and Joshua looked for the door. "One last thing," said Nachez, and they turned. He had the picture next to him, as he sat in his chair, next to the fire. He smiled.
"Yes, Harlan?" Joshua asked, his voice breaking slightly. He could feel Ketan move a bit closer, touching him; this is it, he knew Ketan was saying to him, don't break down.
"You two are complete, utter, fucking morons." Nachez stretched, then sat back up. "Take the paintings and the girls. When I am done, I will have flattened you two into the ground, and you won't even see it coming. I'll have the girls back, I'll have whatever else I want, and I'll have both of your cocks nailed to my wall." He grinned. "Ketan, I thought at least you had a good head for business." He gestured at the painting. "Don't give away your only bargaining chip."
Ketan smiled back. "You know, Harlan, I knew you were unethical, I knew you were an utter prick, and I knew that you were a complete waste of water, but I didn't know you were stupid." He reached down, and lifted the last painting out of the case. It was an exact copy of the one next to Nachez' chair. As Nachez rose, Ketan gestured to the painting. "After all this time, you can't even recognize a bluff? Have fun with your copy... pretty cool what you can do with a color ink-jet these days, huh? You can mount it on the ceiling of the bedroom and jack off to it." He turned the painting in his hands. "This one, I think, is going to be my Christmas present to my boss. I wonder what he'll do with it?"
He slid the painting back into the case, and turned to Joshua. "Our dates are ready, Mr Tostig, and we shouldn't keep ladies waiting." He turned to Nachez. "Have a nice life, Harlan. We can find our own way out."
Nachez rose, and stood utterly still. He heard the door close. With a sudden bellow of rage, he threw the painting onto the fire.
Ketan said, "What's up?", not looking over.
Joshua stammered, "We... we fucked up, this isn't the original, this is the copy..."
Ketan's voice was cool and firm. "We didn't fuck up."
"Ketan, this isn't paint, this is the ink-jet paper."
"Right, that's the copy. We didn't fuck up."
"But we gave Nachez the fucking original!"
"I gave Nachez the fucking original," Ketan replied. "I could have handed you a Byzantine religious icon, and you wouldn't have noticed, you were so scared."
"But we're fucked if he notices... why the hell did you..." Joshua trailed off, staring wildly at Ketan.
"I know Nachez. He won't notice until it's too late," Ketan said, his voice as sharp and bright as the knife he had held less than an hour before.
Joshua just stared, unable to think of a thing to say. Ketan made himself a bit more comfortable in the car seat. "I don't like it when someone threatens Meera," he said, to no one in particular.
"I think this will do it," Meera said, staring down into the transparent, viscous goo she had prepared in a coffee can.
Ketan was gently working at the canvases, taking them off of the stretchers. Joshua looked down into the can. "OK, so we coat the paintings with that stuff, and we wrap the girls in them, and then...?"
Meera continued stirring the contents of the can. "And then we need to do a ritual."
Ketan popped out another heavy staple. "If you'll forgive me for saying so, no shit. What kind of ritual?"
Meera looked up at Joshua, ignoring her husband. "You took the soul out, you need to put it back in. You'll need to be the conduit."
Joshua nodded, trying to act like he understood any of this. "OK, fine. But what does that mean?"
"A sex ritual is probably the best path," Meera said, turning back to the mixture.
"When all you have is a hammer, every problem looks like a nail," Ketan chuckled, carefully detaching the second picture and laying it on the floor. Meera took a playful swipe at him, not looking away from her work.
Joshua looked over at Kylie and Hannah. Although neither of them could have heard the exchange, both pairs of eyes had grown very wide.
Hannah stood up, stretching; Joshua attempted not to stare at her tits. She smiled, seeing his discomfiture. "It's OK, really, Joshua. I know you're trying to help me... and it's OK that we fuck. I love sex." Joshua started undoing his robe. Hannah came over to him, body swaying. "Let me see if I can get this started..." With a smooth motion, she sank to her knees, and slid his cock into her mouth. She started sucking him expertly, soft moans coming from the back of her throat, one hand between her legs. Her full lips stroked up and down on his shaft, huge eyes looking up.
Despite his nerves, he was rock-hard within a minute. She stood, and climbed onto the bed, hands and knees, huge breasts dangling down. "My favorite position!" she giggled. She spread her legs, wide, her pussy and thighs slick from her moisture. He carefully picked up the painting, and draped it over her, wrapping it around under her; it stuck to her where it touched her.
When it was done, he knelt behind her, pausing. She turned around, smiling, arching her back. "I'm ready, Joshua. I'm yours," she said, her voice full of lust and promise; she ground her hips, her bare cunt pressing back towards him. He guided himself into her, and she gave a loud cry, her body shuddering. "Oh, GOD, that feels so good..." she gasped, as he grabbed her hips and started stroking.
"J... Joshua?" she gasped, turning around. He met her eyes. "Could you, ah... could you pinch my nipples when you get close?" she asked, panting. He nodded, and began speeding up; her cunt clenched, milking him into her, as he plunged faster and faster... He could feel himself getting close.
He reached down, squeezing hard; Hannah gave a loud scream, her hips bucking back. It tipped him over the edge, and he screamed himself, pumping into her as he felt himself spray again and again into her waiting, eager pussy.
She gave a sudden cry, and collapsed, her legs giving out, panting. He pulled out, alarmed, and unwrapped her from the painting. The paint stuck to her body, coming clean off of the canvas, a mass of mixed colors, her sweat dissolving it. She stretched for a moment, languid, her distended breasts a mass of colored swirls.
Suddenly, her eyes flew open, and she sat bolt upright, looking around. "Uh... I feel... I feel... Oh, shit..." She jumped up, looked at Joshua with wild eyes, and raced off, nearly knocking him out of bed as she ran out through an improvised curtain.
Joshua followed, grabbing his robe, delayed a few moments as he fumbled with the ties. He came out, and saw the bathroom door closed; sounds of retching were coming from behind it. Ketan and Kylie were both staring at the door, eyes wide; Meera was nowhere to be seen.
After a minute, the door opened, and Meera came out; she closed the door behind her. She looked at the other three. "It's fine. It worked." She walked to the sink, and turned on the water, rinsing her hands. "Don't worry about her being sick," she said to Joshua, over her shoulder. "All that mass in her boobs had to go somewhere. Once she's out of the shower, you take one, and then it's Kylie's turn."
Joshua and Kylie turned and met each other's eyes.
Joshua sat down, and pulled his robe tighter. "I'm sorry, Kylie. I never thought anything like this would happen. Really. When..."
She reached up, and put a finger over his lips. "I know, I know. I know you didn't. I'm just a little nervous."
Joshua nodded. "Me, too."
She looked at the painting again. "So, we put me in that, and then we..."
"... have sex," he finished, staring at the painting as well.
"Um, look, I... I'm..." she started, then stopped. She turned to him. "Listen, I need you to do something."
Joshua met her gaze, blinking with surprise. "Sure. What?"
"Tell me to do it," she said, steadily.
"I... I don't get it," he replied, trying not to look at her body.
She hugged herself tighter. "Until you fix this, I'm still that girl in the painting. An odalisque. A slave girl. I fuck when I'm told to fuck. If you want me to have sex with you, order me. That's what I need."
Joshua looked into her eyes for a long moment. "Kylie, I want you to strip naked, and then you're going to let me roll you up in that painting."
Her head bobbed down. "Yes, Master," she said, a sigh of relief escaping her lips. She stood and began undoing her jeans.
"Uh, Kylie, are you sure this is OK?" Joshua asked, kneeling between her legs. Despite Hannah, he was rock hard again; Kylie's body just did that to him.
Kylie met his gaze. "You're my Master. I'm your slave girl. You get to fuck me anytime you want. Please, Joshua, do me... please." Her voice took on a note of pleading. He nodded, and lowered himself down onto her; she took his cock into her hand, and guided him into her. His mouth found hers.
Within seconds, she had come for the first time, her hands on his ass, pulling him in. "Oh, yes, yes yes THANK YOU MASTER!" she screamed, her legs wrapping around him.
"Kylie? Are you OK?" he asked, softly.
Her eyes opened; more tears leaked out. "I... I'm fine. I'm... I'm me, Mmas..." She paused. "I'm me, Joshua," she concluded, a smile starting to form.
He returned the smile, softly. He stood up, pulling the robe on. "I'll let you get cleaned up," he said.
"Ketan. No, I haven't heard anything. Shit. No shit? When? Of what? Yeah, I think a leadership team meeting is called for. Tell Larry that I can be there at 8am. Thanks for the call... Yeah, we should do a press release. I gotta go. OK."
Joshua and Meera looked at him as he hung up. He put the phone away. "Harlan Nachez died of a heart attack. He must have gone minutes after we left his place." He looked out the window. "Everyone kept telling him that he needed to work on his temper, or it would kill him." Meera looked at him for a long moment, and went back to cleaning up the mixing area. Joshua looked away.
She picked up some of her hair, looked at it. "I think I'm going to keep it this color," she said, with a small laugh.
Joshua smiled at her, arms wrapped around his legs. "It suits you."
She looked out the window at the sunrise, then over at him. "Joshua, listen... thank you. Really."
He shrugged. "I fucked it up. Least I could do."
She smiled. "And thanks for two great times in bed."
He let his smile grow. "Thank you. Next time, maybe we'll skip the canvas. It's not really my kink."
She turned away, quickly. "Um... I'm not sure about next time."
There was a long pause. He looked out at the sunset. "That's OK. After all, you getting to decide was the whole point, right?" He hoped his voice was steady.
She looked at him; he didn't dare look back. "Yeah, I guess it was," she said, standing. "I'd better take off." She looked down at her shirt. "Fuck. I don't have a bra. Harlan wouldn't let me wear one."
Joshua turned around, pulled open a drawer. He fished out a black lace bra. "This is yours."
She took it from him, looking at it. "Oh. I'd forgotten I left it." Suddenly, impulsively, she leaned down and kissed the top of his head. "Thanks... I'll wiggle into it downstairs." She walked quickly over to the door, grabbing her bag. She turned, started to say something, but stopped. With a small smile, she let herself out, closing the door quietly behind her.
Joshua stretched out on the couch, looking at the colors of the sunrise develop. He closed his eyes, blinking away pointless tears. He opened them again, and rolled over towards the wall. "Dana, 7:30pm" was written on the wall calendar.
Despite everything, he smiled.
As an experiment, I've decided to release it in serial form, rather than the whole lump at once. I'd be interested to hear what you think of it, as it comes out piece by piece.