“Stef…” The warning in Ben’s voice was clear.
“It’s okay.” Her eyes were on Evan.
Ben was thrusting deep, grunting as he came, and Evan watched his wife’s beautiful climax, her face twisted into an expression that could have been mistaken for pain out of context.
Her hands pulled the covers, her back arched, and she shuddered against Ben.
Evan could hear her whispering, “Oh, oh, oh,” over and over as she came. And still she never stopped looking at him. He knew she was coming for him-with him-somehow.
When he looked down, he saw that his hand was gripping in vain at his own crotch, as if he could feel something there.
“Jesus,” Ben whispered, sitting back on his heels.
Stef let out a breath, stretching out on her belly on the bed and hugging a pillow.
There were tears slipping down her cheeks as she mouthed, I love you, again to her husband.
“Are you okay?” Ben touched her thigh, moving to stretch out beside her. He looked over her to Evan, his eyes a question. Evan nodded, wheeling his chair slowly over toward the bed.
“Stef?” He stroked her hair.
She leaned up to kiss him, and he tasted her tears.
“I love you,” she whispered. Glancing back at Ben, she held her hand out to him, and he took it, looking dazed. She kissed his palm. “Life is so fucked up.”
“It’s okay.” Evan wiped at her tears with his thumb. “I’ll be your superman, remember?”
“You are my superman.” She smiled, shaking her head at him, her tears falling onto his hand. “Don’t you know that? You always were.”
PAINTED INTO A CORNER
Inara never would have made the bet if she hadn’t been so completely sure of winning.
What a cliche, she thought to herself making her way up the white pebbled path to pay her forfeit. No doubt that was the first thought of every fool who lost a bet.
Thinking back, she realized she’d let herself be spurred on by the crowd-that and her own foolish pride. It was so out of character for her, so why did she do it?
Friday night at La Luna Bar, challenges flew thick and fast amongst the eclectic artistic crowd. No simple games of chance played here-no bets made on cards or pool. At La Luna money changed hands over Shakespeare quote offs, sketching contests, word jumbles and the fastest completion of the New York Times Crossword.
Inara, while loving the frenzied betting, was more of a watcher than a joiner. She was happy to sit on the fringes and rarely, if ever, became involved in any of the games of forfeits and bets. It was Laney, her best friend, who issued the challenge on her behalf.
Inara could have backed down, she could have said no, but foolish pride and greed made her agree.
“Inara is the best! The best here,” Laney called out.
Buzzed on two margaritas, Inara found herself nodding even though she had no idea what Laney was talking about.
“Really?”
In her alcohol fogged brain a little warning signal went off as Inara saw who was speaking-Sara Graeme.
Sara was an amazing artist. She’d sold out two showings at the prestigious Latham Gallery and was rumored to be about to stage a third. She’d been asking Inara to pose for months. Inara had no objection to being an artist’s model. With her mix of Swedish and Korean genes, her exotic looks had attracted many an artistic eye. Inara thought she looked weird-eyes too far set apart, chin too pointy, nose too freckled and her mouth duck bill wide- but artists saw something in her odd mish mash of features.
She’d posed several times before for both painters and photographers and was always happy to be paid scale, but there was something about Sara-a prickling feeling she felt whenever she was near-that kept her saying no.
“If Inara’s the best then she wouldn’t mind a wee bit of a challenge would she?”
Sara’s photographer husband Niall spoke, moving behind to cradle his wife against his broad chest. If Sara made her skin prickle, Niall made it smolder. Dark curly hair, classic black Irish looks-he had an aura of dangerous sensuality.
Around them the cries of, “Challenge! Challenge!” started up.
“She can. She’ll whip your butts!” Laney cried out over the crowd.
“I can. I can what?” No longer just nodding, Inara wanted to know exactly what was going on.
“Your friend here says you have the best photographic memory,” Sara said, nodding her head at Laney.
“I’m pretty good,” Inara countered, feeling herself to be in pretty safe territory.
“Would you be willing to wager on that?” Niall asked in the sing song tones of his luscious Irish brogue.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll go against you. Tell me what you want if you win,” Sara said, moving closer.
Her long blonde hair brushed against Inara’s arm, shooting wildfire goose pimples across her skin.
“If I win…Niall photographs my catalogue. For free.”
Inara was a knitting designer. The last collection of woolen work she’d photographed herself. It had sold well online and with the money she’d made she was hoping to expand. Her photography, while passable, was not up to a professional standard. With professional presentation she was sure she could get the interest of major department stores. Niall’s quote for photographing her collection was sitting in a depressing pile with all the others she couldn’t afford. If she won this bet it would be worth thousands of dollars of free work. No way would he agree.
Niall nodded and laughed. A reaction Inara hadn’t expected.
“All right then, my pretty, what would we want in return?” Niall tilted his head to ask his wife.
“Oh that’s easy. A no brainer. If I win then I get to paint her.”
“Do you agree?” Niall asked.
“Yes,” Inara said and the terms were set. The bar owner Michael Drury would choose the items. Fifteen items, thirty seconds viewing time. One minute to write the remembered items down.
Her photographic memory was a party trick she’d brought out on many a drunken occasion-a trick that had never before failed. The heat of the bar, the press of Niall against her side, the noise and how very much she wanted to win all combined to seize 197
her brain. When it came time for pen to hit paper Inara’s mind blanked at ten items.
Around her the crowd chanted down the time.
“Ten…nine…eight…seven…six…five…four…three…two…one!”
It was pens down and Inara had lost-lost the unloseable bet.
Now here she was, walking through the immaculate Japanese garden up to the front door of Sara and Niall’s brownstone.
The studio was like the rest of the house. High ceilings and white walls. It was a large room divided in two by painted Japanese screens. One side housed Sara’s easel and her paints and the other, large box lights and a multitude of other photographic equipment.
When she was led through the door by Sara, Inara started towards the side with the easel. She looked back in surprise when Sara pulled on her arm and tugged her towards Niall's side of the room.
“Umm…I thought you were going to paint me?”
“I am.” Sara’s smile was enigmatic. A prickle of unease snaked down Inara’s spine. Sara’s hair was pulled into a high pony tail that sharpened her perfect Nordic features. High cheekbones were dusted with pink and her blonde lashes darkened, but other than that her skin was bare. Standing this close to her Inara could see that her skin was flawless peaches and cream unmarred by even a freckle.
“Don’t you need me near the easel?”
“You’re my easel, “Sara said, “I’m going to paint you.”
“Paint me,” Inara repeated, sinking fast out of her depth.
“She’s going to paint you and I’ll photograph you.”