Page 111 of Girls Night
“Please, come right in.” I shut the door behind us when she stepped into the studio, carefully setting the alarm back in place with a touch of a few buttons. A soft beep alerted me that all was set.
“Tight security, huh?” she asked. Her voice was tinted with a husky tone, and for an instant I wondered if she sounded like that when she was having sex.
Blushing, I watched her glance around the place. She was wearing skinny jeans, a brown leather jacket that looked well-used and worn, with low heeled boots. Her silken hair, a rich gold, fell down her back all the way to the top of her apple-shaped bottom.
“Yeah. Can’t be too careful here in the city.” I stood beside her and surveyed the room as if I were seeing it through her eyes.
I had two floors of the studio’s four-thousand square feet to myself, the first floor being an open-plan setup, with a kitchen, office area, and plenty of space for two sofas and my blue, crushed velvet recliner. Bookshelves lined all three walls from the kitchen onward, the other wall covered in floor-to-ceiling windows—with their high-tech shutters, of course. My art studio was in the back, partitioned off from the kitchen, offering plenty of space for my backdrops and special lighting, my work area, and equipment. And not that she’d see it, but upstairs were my bathroom, bedroom, and a spare room that Dad used when he visited. Right now it was filled with all my work to-date; frames, paintings, crates, things I’d sworn to myself I’d send off to art dealers but never brave enough to do it.
Whistling, Devon walked over to one of the bookshelves. “Wow. Lots of books.” She kept her hands in the pockets of her jacket, and I could see the fists she made through the leather, as though she was holding back from touching anything.
“You read?” I walked over to where she stood and straightenedThe Bell Jar, making it flush with the other books, a detail that stuck out like a sore thumb.
She turned around and gave me a look. “Of course I can read.”
Shocked at her reaction, I took a step back.
Her eyes widened. “Shit! I’m sorry. That’s not what you asked, was it? I mean—”
Understanding hit me, and I held up a hand, offering her a rare smile. “No, it’s okay. I know what you mean.”
She grinned back, then let out a big sigh. “I’m nervous, can’t you tell?” Laughing, she walked away to the center of the room.
“Perfectly normal. Guess we should talk about what I’m looking for?”
She turned toward me, her shoulders dropped, her dander down once more. She seemed relieved. “Yes, please. And I’m sorry for flipping on you. Rough day.”
“It’s okay, really.” I waved her over to the kitchen. “Would you like some tea?”
She shrugged, so I filled the kettle with water from the tap and turned on the burner. While we waited, I filled her in on what kind of work I did and what it would entail. She listened intently, relaxing with each word I spoke. I didn’t ask any questions about her life or how she lived. I just knew her profession and that she gotten my number from one of the girls at Magdalene House. I never asked my clients personal stuff. I just needed their bodies. Some were more talkative than others, though, but generally they just came in, sat for me, and took their pay.
Devon was different, though. Already I could tell she had a natural curiosity, a genuine interest in the things around her. I’d never met anyone like her before, so open and lively, like a live wire. I sensed that if one got too close, they’d get burned.
I showed her my art studio after we finished out tea—which, she admitted, she rarely drank, if at all—explaining where and how we’d be doing all the shoots, briefly reiterating what I needed from her.
“So you’re basically taking my picture and making the finished product into an art piece?” She studied some of my proofs hanging on a line of string on the far wall.
I nodded. “Exactly.”
“Cool. Okay, so when can we start?” She set down her bag and shimmied onto the stool I had set up in front of a tropical backdrop.
I couldn’t help but smile at her. I was so used to models either being the hired professional, aloof with their matter-of-factness, or the amateurs, shy and fragile.
“Well, first, I just need you to sign this, agreeing that you’ll let me take your likeness and all that it implies.” I reached over my desk and grabbed a pen and the form.
“And the pay? That’s after or upfront?”
“It’s five-hundred to sit—”
“Whoa. Hold on. Did you just say five-hundred?Dollars?” She looked like she was about to fall off the stool, her mouth open in shock. She looked adorable.
I nodded. “Yes. Each session.”
“Wow. Okay, and how many sessions will you need me? I thought it would be just one or whatever.”
My eyes roamed her features, taking in the lines, the shadows, the possibilities. “Atleastfive.”
“Five. Well, shit.” Her hands cupped her cheeks as if they were hot. Shaking her head in disbelief, she took a deep breath and sat up straighter. “I’m definitely down with that.”
