“I got the night off.”
“To do what?”
I shrugged. My head was fuzzy, and my throat felt thick. I guess I was high?
“It’s Saturday night, Martin.” Friday and Saturday nights were the two most lucrative shifts of the week, also the most coveted. If you passed them up, someone would jump in your spot lickety-split.
“What’s up, Melissa? How are you doing?” She was totally ruining my buzz.
“You’re not going to invite me in?”
I opened the door and stepped aside to let her pass. Her gaze roved over the studio and landed on Andre. Her face screwed up even more. Active bitch face. Contempt rolled off her in waves.
“Hey, Melissa,” Andre said, raising one hand in greeting. She ignored him.
“Are you high?” she asked me, squinting as if to see me better.
“A bit.” I pinched two fingers together.
“Painted anything lately?”
“Working on a new project,” I lied. “It’s not ready yet.”
“I see.” Her gaze swept once more over the studio, at all the blank canvases, our mess of munchies, Andre in sweatpants and a T-shirt. “Can we speak in private?” she asked loud enough for him to hear. Andre hopped up off the couch, tucked one of the unlit joints behind his ear and headed for the door. Melissa threw daggers at his back.
“Melissa, dude, you need to chill.”
She cut her gaze at me. “At some point you’re going to tire of him, Martin. His ghetto-fabulousness will wear thin, and you’ll realize that you’re better off without this… distraction. But let me make this clear: until then, you need to remain focused on your art. I have irons in the fire and when the call comes, I want a full suite of paintings to dazzle and arouse these dealers. I want them begging me to show your work. That’s how we negotiate. Understand?”
It’d be easy to write her off as crazy or domineering or a straight-up bitch, but here’s the truth. If it weren’t for Melissa, I’d still be hawking my two-bit Cuban landscapes down at the farmer’s market or I’d have given up painting entirely. Melissa had made sure that my work had been seen in art galleries of repute, that I’d sold pieces for sizable sums. When I was willing to charge fifty dollars for something, Melissa charged five thousand. I needed her, not just her business acumen and her ruthlessness, but her belief in my talent. Because I didn’t have enough faith in my own abilities.
“I’ll get started tonight,” I said.
She nodded, satisfied. “And when you want him out of here, say the word and I’ll make it happen.” She snapped her fingers like it would be that easy for her to throw him out on the street. Maybe it would be. It was strange how deeply she detested Andre, who was practically a stranger to her. And he was actually a nice guy, as opposed to some of the assholes I’d dated in the time I’d known her. Not that we were dating.
She kissed my cheek and pivoted, glancing down at her watch on her way out. Outside Andre was leaned against the boatshed, breathing smoke out of his nose like a dragon. I think he was trying to mimic the actor in the movie, which was kind of cute. Melissa breezed past him without a word. Andre lifted his hand. “See you around, Melissa.”
She started up her car and pulled out, not bothering to give us a backward glance.
“Sorry about that,” I said to Andre.
“Man, she can’t stand me.” He offered the joint to me, but I declined.
“It’s not personal. She thinks you’re a distraction.”
His head wobbled back and forth as he inspected his roach. “Yeah, I can see that.”
We walked back inside and finished the movie, though it was difficult to get back into it. When it was over, Andre shut it off and turned to me. “So, what can I do?” he asked. “To help you out? I mean, should I take off—”
“No,” I practically shouted. I didn’t want him going anywhere. I’d never painted with anyone hanging around the studio, but I was sure I could do it.
“You didn’t let me finish,” he said. “Should I take off my clothes?”
I’m sure my eyes were round as saucers. I was not expecting that offer. Maybe I was high and misheard him.
“I mean, you paint, right?” he said, like, duh. “You need a model? I’m here. I don’t haveexperienceor anything, but if she can do it….” He jerked his thumb to the painting of Melissa. “Can’t be that hard.”
I’d been itching to sketch him since the first time I saw him washing dishes in the kitchen of La Candela and a million times since then, but I didn’t want to creep him out. Still, if he was willing. “Yes.” I hardly contained my enthusiasm. “I mean, no, it’s not hard at all. But only if you want to. I don’t want you to feel like you have to.”
