Page 12 of Four on the Floor: A Menage Romance

“It’s close enough,” Cash says.

“No, he had multiple personalities in that movie,” I say, popping a chunk of chicken into my mouth.

“What? I thought Brad Pitt was scamming Edward Norton the whole time, wasn’t that the point?” asks Dalton.

“I haven’t seen that movie in ages but that is absolutely not what happens in it,” Gavin says, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You sure you’ve seen Fight Club, mate?”

Dalton just laughs.

“Not anymore,” he says.

“Anyway, Slate’s real,” Cash says, interrupting. “He just needed some space, and when he needs space…”

He shrugs. They all look at each other and shrug, so I end up shrugging too.

Slowly, I’m getting used to these guys. After that first baffling, exhausted day I’m way more able to handle their sheer hotness, and besides: they’re nice. They’refun.I like sitting back and listening to the three of them banter with each other.

They’re not just sexy, sexy pieces of meat. They’repeople, and they’re people whose sex appeal I’m going to have no problem resisting — especially because I don’t think any of them are interested in me.

* * *

I getto work right away. If all I’ve got is three months, I’m not going to waste a week figuring out which room has the coziest light or how the coffee maker works.

I set up in one of the many conference rooms downstairs, and Cash helps me pull all my painting stuff in there — not that I really need help lugging an easel and a bunch of canvases, but he seems to like lifting things, so it’s fine with me. I like watching him lift things. It’s a win-win scenario.

The room has high windows, and only the bottom half of each window is shuttered, so the light can still get in. I put dropcloths over the entire wooden floor, set up my stuff, and get to work.

I’ve decided that the first week or two here, I’m going to practice some basics. I’m worried that my brushwork and eye for color are getting rusty, so it’s back to still-lifes for me. I paint the classic bowl of fruit. I paint a stack of books, a knickknack of a cowboy riding a horse, and a strange crystal-type ball that was sitting on a side table in the main lobby and is clearly some sort of mining memento, I think.

After a week, I feel better already, away from the usual grind of the city and my day job, away from worrying about anything except painting and what’s for lunch.

I can hear the guys practicing sometimes at the other end of the hotel, if I’m not wearing my headphones, though I don’t mind it at all. Every so often they pop in to see what I’m working on, and to my credit, I haven’t asked any of them to pose nude yet.

Do I want to see them nude? Yes. I would very muchnotmind seeing one of them in the buff, given the fact that I’m wearing out my vibrator nightly thinking about exactly that.

Am I going to ask? Doubtful. How awkward would that be?

Eight days after I get here, I’m stuck. I’m in my studio, diffuse gray light streaming in from the high windows, a gleaming piece of rock on a table to one side. It’s a chunk of fool’s gold that was on a stand in another of the conference rooms, and it’s flummoxing me.

The fool’s gold is all angles and shimmer, the light in here both reflecting and not reflecting off of its medium-shiny surface. Every time I try to paint a little bit, it comes out looking allwrongand I just can’t put my finger on why.

Finally, I toss my brush down and decide to go for a run. When I was in college — the last time I had unstructured time like this to justpaint— that tended to solve all my problems, so I head up to my room and put on running gear.

The Centennial has a gym, so I go there and hop on a treadmill, headphones blasting, and after a mile or so I’ve lulled my brain into a peaceful rhythm. The treadmill is facing a window, so I can watch the snow falling softly outside, the steaming hot springs somewhere off to the left.

After three miles, I feel better. I’m also drenched in my own sweat, but I feel cleansed, like my brain’s been wiped clean by the sheer physical effort. I grab the towel I brought, wipe myself off, and am just heading back to my room when I see the sauna.

I love saunas. I mean, whodoesn’tlove saunas? They’re great, so I head inside and turn the thing on, then sit on the wooden bench and wait for it to heat up, letting the smell of the wood and the stone wash over me.

After a while, it’s hot. I start sweating again, andthat’swhen I get uncomfortable in my running gear. It’s sticking to me in weird ways, especially my sports bra — great for holding the girls still when I run, way too compressive when I’m sitting around, trying to relax.

There are no windows to the sauna. The guys are all practicing at the other end of the hotel. I’m safe.

So I strip my sweaty, disgusting running gear off, layer by layer, and toss it into the corner of the wooden bench, then wrap myself in the towel.

Or, I try. The towel’s not quite big enough, so there’s a strip of my hip and thigh showing. Apparently, the tiny hotel towel is universal — even somewhere designed for turn-of-the-century millionaires has tiny towels.

Doesn’t matter, though. After this I’ll make a quick run up the back staircase to my suite, put on some new clothes, and get back to my painting.

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