“Charlotte, one more thing.” His tone of voice low and his grin devilish this time. His eyes still in intensity. “Don’t touch yourself tonight.”
My eyes go wide and I gasp. I start to stutter in some sort of protest. “That’s not something for you to—, I mean, that’s not…”
He lifts his chin and looks down at me. “Trust me”—he winks—“it will be better.” I’m speechless. He kisses the top of my head and rounds the corner himself, leaving me there, flabbergasted.
Who does he think he is and what does he know?? To turn me on like that and then tell me what to do? An incredibly successful artist, I guess. …Whose art focuses on female pleasure… Ugh.
I sigh, and I sigh, and I sigh all night. I don’t touch myself, not in the way he implied at least. I do cup my breasts and squeeze them, wishing they were his hands instead of mine.
I dream that Botticelli’sBirth of Venuspainting has come to life, and I ask the goddess what it’s like to be trapped in one of the most famous paintings in the world. She just winks and laughs like music on the wind.
Chapter Three
DOWN AND DIRTY
I wake up with pounding temples and bleary vision. I’m meeting Harper at 11:00 AM to help shoot a “collab” with her and one of her influencer friends—an aspiring fashion blogger. I lurch upright and immediately regret my decision as my head reels. The heel of my hand finds my forehead. I grab my phone and see it’s 10:17—plenty of time to get myself together and be at the location of the shoot in reasonable order.
Thus, I fall back onto my pillow as my body protests my plan to be responsible. The events of last night come rushing back to me in quick succession. Scenes of a tongue on the back of my hand, a warm grip on my thighs, my wrists… my back up against the wall.
A shiver goes down my spine as I remember the matching signature test and snippets of Devo’s parting words. “Don’t touch yourself” is the phrase that comes back to me first. It hits me like a truck. I can’t believe I followed instructions.
I’m already starting to feel the blood rush to all the wrong... or right places while replaying moments from last night. God, that wall kiss was hot…
I could touch myself now…why am I listening to a virtual stranger?I think back through all our letters and part of me startsto make an argument that we’re not total strangers. Temptation begins to crack open the door before I force it closed with an ungraceful flip out of bed. I have no time for these wanton thoughts. I have to get going.
As I change my underwear, I notice evidence of my, uh, arousal and I can’t help myself. I slide just the tip of my middle finger up my center and my whole body shivers again. I want what Devlin didn’t give me last night, and for some reason, I stop at that one touch. I’ll try it his way… just this once. I don’t even have to tell him I listened to him. I’m experimenting.
I leave the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens with an additional $430 in my digital wallet. Not bad! Harper and her friend had both paid me for pictures this morning. “We’re lucky to have your artistic direction, Char!” Harper responded when I’d thanked them both for the generous amount. Over $200 an hour, earned while very hungover, is no small wage! While Harper has clearly been doted on by her parents and presents as a bit spoiled and naïve, she always treats me well. I actuallylikeher… even if I don’t think we’ll ever be close friends.
The two-hour shoot with the leggy blondes among sun-dappled walking paths and exotic flowers had been a helpful distraction. I was able to think about whether we should drape a coat over a shoulder or if Harper’s friend looked best holding her purse with one hand or two. Nothing that reminded me of the steamy make-out last night or a man’s hand grazing the apex of my thighs. I wasn’t reminded of stubble against my check or his piercing gaze, or even our upcoming “collaboration.”
Well, the thoughts are back.
I make my way over to Copper Works in a haze. I try my best to focus on the scenes I pass: a man feeding pigeons from a park bench, a woman pushing a tiny dog in a stroller, two kids perfecting a secret handshake. However, as I near my destination,I can no longer distract myself from the butterflies beginning to crowd my stomach.
Will he be there? I assume so. If this is where he’s hosting his next micro-residency, he must be working on his next project. A project that I seem to have volunteered to help with. “What’s in it for me?” I’d asked him in that last letter. He’d never actually answered. If I’m helping him paint in some way… I’d hope to get credit. But I’d never seen a Devo collaborator revealed officially and I’m not sure how his process works.
A jolt of energy shoots through me, helping the Advil and Gatorade I’d downed earlier cut through my hangover. I can’t tell if I’m nervous or excited. Probably both.
I cross the threshold of Copper Works and scan the surroundings. There are a few folks milling about or focusing on their artwork. I don’t spot the brown-haired, light-eyed boy who’d partially ravaged me last night. My heart drops and the adrenaline dissipates. I take a deep breath and let my muscle memory carry me through my normal routine of preparing to work at my canvas in the corner.
Alex sees me and waves from beside whatever abstract sculpture he’s making in his usual spot across the large room. I muster a smile and wave back. Once I don my smock and grab my supplies from my locker, I head to my unfinished painting of the girl in the mist. My eye catches on a white envelope resting on the corner of my easel, leaning on the dry paint. A small paint splatter crosses the front of the envelope. It almost looks like I missed my canvas; it almost looks like a mistake. Once again, I know it’s not. The butterflies are back, and they are flapping their wings,hard.
I pick up the envelope and look around the room again, to see if anyone’s noticed the blush creeping up my neck and cheeks or if Devo is watching me open this from some dark corner of the room. But no—no Devo in sight. No one’s eyes are on me. We’re all in our own little worlds. I slip my finger under the flap of the envelope and pull it open. The note withincontains the same handwriting I’d seen in Devo’s correspondence for months—but this letter is quite brief.
My name is at the top in bold, angular cursive followed by a dash. Below is a note simply saying:
If you still accept, meet me here tomorrow, noon.
— D
P.S. I’d hold off for another night.
My eyebrows knit together. Is he implying that I still don’ttouchmyself for another 24 hours? Who does he think he is?? And he didn’t sign off with his full name this time. Why would he do that? Do I still want to sign up for our “collaboration,” as he calls it? An uncomfortable feeling claws its way up my chest, and I run a hand through my hair. I have the urge to stomp my foot like an insolent child, but refrain. Instead, I delicately slip the note back in its envelope and put it in my back pocket. I don’t have to decide anything now, even though I can tell my body is already anticipating seeing him again. My mind wants to focus onmywork, right here in front of me. The girl in the mist. What journey is she on?
Without much to work with from Devo’s note, I focus on my art and get lost in the next few hours of added detail and story. By the time the natural light starts to fade from the windows, I think I’ve realized the girl is on a journey of self-discovery. I go home that night feeling satisfied about the progress I made on my piece, and pretending that I’m undecided about whether I’ll show up tomorrow.
Our radiators hiss as I pull a sweater down over my head and warm socks on my feet. The temperature outside just dropped to the legal minimum before our building is required to provide heat. I brush my teeth with one hand and mindlessly scroll social media with the other.
