I take a wrong turn and up in a short hallway by an ajar door. Kelso and another man's voices spill out of the room and I turn to flee before Kelso sees me. Before I take a step, Kelso's voice becomes clear.
"This lawsuit is killing me. I'm going to have to cut my costs everywhere I can."
"Florida is your best bet," the other man says.
"Agreed. I'm flying out there tonight."
My eyes widen. Shit, am I one of those costs? I hurry away, though my feet are heavy and it's a struggle to be silent.
There's no point in trying to generate new ideas right now, my head is swimming. I find my way back to the entrance and carry on with my destroyed temple. This painting might turn out to be more prophetic than I thought.
Now there's an even greater sense of urgency to get these pieces finished. I have to collect my money from Kelso before he runs out of it.
I bite the end of my brush, trying to decide where the line is between quality and speed. Is anyone other than Kelso ever going to see these paintings? What if I sign them with a different name?
The minute the natural light drops too much to work, I grab my things and get out of there. Thankfully Kelso didn't make another appearance that day. After what I heard, I don't think I could look him in his beady eyes.
Besides, he might fire me on the spot. If I can finish, he will at least owe me for the work completed.
When I get home, I head straight for my studio. Since the Kelso job, my salvation, might fall through, I want to finish other pieces to try to sell them through Gordon.
I finish the evening dress on the beach painting. It's the first of the three in that series that I've finished.
It's after eleven. Exhausted, I brush my teeth and flop into bed. The events of the day churn in my head.
Lawson Heywood. The man whose touch fuels the desire within me. The man who I'm supposed to be going to dinner with on Friday. The man who put on a suit and turned into a rich bastard.
How dare he think he can tell me what to do like that?
I try clearing my mind by thinking of the temple, and what stage I need to get it to tomorrow so I can be finished by early next week. My mind runs.
From the ruined temple, to Kelso and his lawsuit. Hold on. He's going to Florida tonight. He didn't say when he'd be back. But with him gone, this is definitely the time to paint his bedroom erotica.
My biggest nightmare would be him walking in while I'm in there painting it. If he made all those disgusting comments just talking about it, I can't imagine what would he do if he found me actually painting it. My skin crawls just thinking about it.
Lawson would never behave like Kelso.
Not in that way, anyway. But he's still a billionaire, and still against everything that I've ever stood for. The man would make me a sellout. I think. I should ask Ava what she thinks. She'll know what I should do.
In the morning, I lay my completed painting in the trunk of my car, wrapped and protected by dust sheets. I'll drop it to Gordon after I leave Kelso's this evening.
My plan had been to save it for the gallery show Kelso is funding, but now that I know about his money problems, I need to secure any income I can get.
It'll just mean working late every night to create enough paintings for my show.
I dig the sketchbook with the full frontal image out of my bottom drawer, chuck it face down on the passenger seat and leave for Kelso's.
The plan is to finish is as fast as I can. Even if it means the quality suffers. I can always claim any rushed brush strokes are artistic license. Really, I hope that the painting will be ruined in a fire. No one can ever see it, or know that I painted it.
The sketch is transferred to the canvas in record time. If I hurry, I should be able to finish in a couple of days.
My easel is alongside Kelso's round bed. The canvas is only a few feet from where it will hang. In amongst all the animal print.
What will women he brings back here think? Though, having met the creepy man with the glandular problem, I've got to think any woman getting to this point is only interested in his money anyhow.
I bet even Lawson's first date, Freya or whatever her name was, would come this far. So long as he gets her a quinoa salad beforehand.
The alarm on my phone goes off at six. I set it to make sure I don't get caught up in my painting and lose track of time. I've got to get to Gordon's before he leaves for the night.
Not that I needed to worry about losing track of time. Each stroke of this painted woman's folds is a painful reminder of what I'm doing.
And how no one has ever stroked mine.
I've got to go on the date with Lawson tomorrow. I need to feel his touch. My body craves it.
Having made the decision, I feel much more settled. Much more at ease with everything. I'll deal with anything else later.
I get in my car and head for Gordon's. Traffic is light, and I make it in no time. As usual, there's no parking in front of his store. A spot opens up a reasonable distance away and I take it.
The Examination
(Lawson)
I hang my car back, not wanting to be seen. Yet. Skye parks her car and gets something out of her trunk. It looks like a painting, which makes sense, I assume she's dropping it off at the gallery.
While I wait for her to go inside, I send a note to my assistant telling her to check with the gallery to see if they have any more pieces available to buy yet.
When Skye vanishes inside the gallery, I pull my car past hers and find a spot a little ways down.
From here I have a clear view of the gallery. I wait in the car, watching for Skye to come out. The plan is to intercept her on her way back to her car and convince her not to return to Kelso's.
She's been inside for what seems like too long. For all I know, the gallery owner lives upstairs and she's having dinner with him.
Relaxing back in my seat, I occupy myself by sending work emails while at the same time keeping an eye out for her to return.
I worked from my home office today, which I do as often as I can, so I'm just wearing jeans and a black T-shirt instead of the suit she thinks changes me.
Twenty minutes later, she comes out of the gallery, balancing a pile of items and struggling even more than when she went in.
I hop out of my car into the noise of the passing cars and rush her.
"Skye, let me help you." Her arms are overloaded with supplies and I start taking them off her.
"Hey, fancy seeing you here," she says.
"I was just picking something up and saw you come out of the store."
"Sure you weren't stalking me?" My eyes widen briefly but when I look at her, she's smiling. I breathe a sigh of relief to see she's only joking around.
"Maybe I should, then I'd be here to help whenever you get into trouble."
"Oh? Do I get into trouble often?" The packages redistributed, we walk toward her car.
"I don't know, do you?"
"Not until I met you."
"Oh, it's all my fault, is it?"
"Guess it is."
"Must be because of all my money." Skye stops walking but I keep going.
"I … about earlier … I didn't … "
"Didn't know who I was and would've kept your beliefs secret from me if you'd known?"
"No," she says, hurrying to catch up to me.
We reach her car and she opens her trunk. She loads her items into it, lining them up neatly.
"Is this car roadworthy?"
Skye stops what she's doing and looks at me. "Excuse me. It's the best car I can afford."
"I know, I know. Some people can't afford a Maserati."
"You drive a Maserati?"
"Primarily. Out of all my cars, I think it sounds the best."
"You pick your car based on how it sounds? You're a real piece of work, you know?"
"I can't help it, my money makes me a prick. What am I to do?"
She sighs as she takes the last package from me. "Your money doesn't make you a prick. I'm sorry I said that before."
"Does that mean we're still on for dinner tomorrow?" Skye stands aside and I close her trunk.
"If you still want to have dinner with an anti-poverty artist like me."
"Skye, I like that about you. You're a million times better than someone like Freya."
"You mean someone who's only after your money?" She spins around and leans on her trunk, her arms folded across her chest.
"It's more than that. You tell me what you think instead of what you think I want to hear."
A smile spreads across her face and she tilts her head. "Really?"
I shrug. "Sure, it's refreshing."
"Let me see your arms. I've been dying to look at the art."
"It's kind of dark out, you probably can't see much," I say, but I offer her my arms anyway.
Skye reaches out and takes my left hand, touching me delicately, as if I'm hot from the oven. My fingertips rest in her left palm. Her eyes squint in the dim streetlight and her fingers trace the various designs on my arms. Her light touch tickles, but I don't let on.
By the time she reaches my bicep, her chest is rising and falling rapidly with her breath. She reaches the edge of my T-shirt, glances up at me, and runs the fingers of both hands over my pecs.
I sense some trembling, but I remain motionless, watching her as she examines me.
When she reaches my right arm, she edges her body closer. Even outside, I smell the mix of flowery shampoo and paint on her. I close my eyes and inhale.
Skye holds my arm with one hand and resumes her exploration of my tattoos with the other.
"Is this the Laughing Cavalier?" she asks, pointing to the top of my forearm, "I can't tell in this dim light."