Page 31 of Taming His Rockstar

Chapter 15

Pizza and wine. I’ve been on worst dates and even fewer sexier companions.

“So, what do you do when you’re not serving drinks at the club?” I ask as I collect my slice of pizza and lean back against his couch. We’re sitting on the floor of his living room with the pizza box and bottle of wine between us.

“When I’m not in the club? Well, mostly I work on my paintings. I do some commission work, visit art galleries to see if they’re willing to carry my works and stuffs like that.” He chuckles and waves at the paintings on the wall. “As you can see, very few people think I’m as good as I think I am.”

“Of course you’re good,” I reply. And that is not a lie. Some of his work caught my eye enough that I wonder how insulted he’d be if I ask to buy them. “Sometimes I think it’s just about waiting for the right opportunity to come along.”

“I was just teasing you, Katie,” he replies with a smile. “I know all about opportunities. I did go to art school, and trust me, there is no group that knows more about waiting for the right opportunity than a room of starving artists hoping to be the next Banksy.”

I knew Banksy and would have to say I’m not particularly fond of his art. Of course, giving I’m in the presence of someone who seems to idolize the guy, I should know better than to let my feelings show. But they must, because I hear him chuckle.

“You don’t like him?”

“I won’t say I don’t like him. Uhm, how do I put it . . . ?”

“His art doesn’t speak to you?”

I point and nod. “That’s it.”

“I’d be surprised if it did.” He turns his head to the side as if he’s studying me. Then points to a painting in the corner I hadn’t even noticed yet, given that I’ve spent the better part of the time I’ve been in his apartment moaning in pleasure. “I think you may like that one.”

I turn around and have to admit the picture of the silhouette of a woman, head thrown back as she stares of into the distance, piques my interest. There’s something about the jagged edges that form the backdrop of the pictures that reminds me of mountain peaks and sharp corners.

“I like it,” I say with a nod.

“I call it orgasm,” he says, grinning when I turn to him and roll my eyes.

Looking at the picture again, I have to admit it really does look like a woman right on the cusp of an orgasm, head thrown back, falling off a peak.

“So, you own all these paintings?” I ask him. There’s an impressive number of paintings on the walls. About eight or so.

“Not all of them. Just these three.” He points at his paintings, and I see the similarity in the styles.

The rest are so diverse I wonder if he really thought of a team before he bought them. From erotic to portraits to abstract paintings. I immediately wonder what Franco, my decorator, would think of it.

“Most of the rest I bought while thrift shopping. I have a small collection of them in a storage unit. You never know when you could uncover some hidden treasure.”

“So, you plan on selling them?”

He shrugs. “I guess if the right price comes along. Funny fact, someone once offered to pay three grand for that painting.” He points to the erotic painting I had been admiring the first time I came to his apartment. “I couldn’t sell it.”

“How much did you pay for it?”

“Five hundred dollars at a friend’s exhibit? Yeah.” He nods at my facial expression. “That’s the look my credit cards gave me the next time I opened my wallet.”

“Sorry, it’s just . . .” I grin ruefully.

“Don’t worry, I understand.”

Suddenly interested in his story, I tentatively decide to ask something that may be kind of personal.

“So, when did you decide you wanted to be an artist?”

“About six or so. My dad owned this knockoff painting of Monet’s Sunrise, and I remembered some nights he would just sit down staring at that painting. It was the best time to talk to him too, because he’d get really introspective and stuff.” He takes a sip of wine and stares into the distance. “I used to wonder how it would feel to have that kind of power. Make people introspective and stuff. Started drawing when I was ten. Got a little serious with it in high school when I learned girls dug guys who could make them look beautiful on paper. Decided it was easier making money as an accountant than an artist when I wanted to enter college. Then two nights after a particularly grueling semester in my second year, I dropped out of college and got into art school. Some people say it was the worst decision I’ve ever made.” He grins when I laugh at that, and I can’t help but laugh because of the way he said it. “Yeah, I think fuck those people. Imagine if I had not gone to art school. I wouldn’t be working at a club. I wouldn’t have met you, and I wouldn’t be wondering how else I’m going to make you scream tonight.”

It feels kind of nice being able to validate such an important life choice, even if he only said it to be funny. I instantly want him to start trying out all the ideas he has come up with. But since he does nothing more than give me a sexy smile, I force myself to concentrate on wiping my hand with the paper napkin.

---