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  I stood, naked, in the middle of his studio, and he stared at me as though he had never seen me before.

  Well, I thought to myself, that's what you get for trying to fuck a crazy guy.

  I tossed my tangled hair back and met his stare head on, daring him to say something. But he just took another step back.

  “I'll call you tomorrow,” he said. “Will you see yourself out?”

  My jaw clenched, but he backed away again, and I was suddenly reminded of my mother's old cat, who, after a lifetime spent in our house could never tolerate people and never wanted to be touched or spoken to. An abused cat. That's what he was reminding me of.

  Wow. Sexy.

  What the fuck was wrong with me?

  “Yeah,” I said. “I'll see myself out. No problem.”

  “Okay then,” he replied, and with that he turned and walked out of the studio, his footsteps thundering on the stairs until he stepped off on one of the floors below. His camera lay on the floor and I thought, briefly, of going over and stealing the SD card, but some artistic camaraderie stopped me. I hadn't stopped him from taking those pictures. They could still be wonderful. And he certainly didn't need money from porno pics.

  I left it where it lay, got dressed and gathered my things, then descended the stairs, my knees still weak from the delicious orgasm he'd given me. When I finally walked down the steps to the sidewalk in front of the house, I paused and looked up.

  A curtain on the third floor twitched and then was still.

  I walked to the subway station, one thought echoing in my head:

  What the fuck just happened?

  Chapter Four

  "So did you fuck him?" Felicia asked me the next morning when I showed up at the door of her studio, an unlighted cigarette dangling from my lips and a six pack of Pabst swinging from my fingers. I pinched the cigarette out of my mouth and glared at her.

  "Depends on what you mean by fuck," I said.

  "Sounds like you have a story to tell." She opened the door wide and I followed her inside.

  The place was familiar to me. It had been Felicia's apartment before she had married Anton, but now she kept it purely for her sculpture. A huge wad of clay sat in the middle of the floor on a large tarp, ringed by tables covered in tools large and small of her own devising. The only other piece of furniture in the apartment was an old mattress sitting on the floor, the bed she used to sleep on before she found a better one with the world's most eligible billionaire.

  Felicia returned to her project. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt, but padded around the studio barefoot, even though it was freezing cold. Gray clay coated her feet and arms in patches, evidence that she had been working on something real. Creating.

  God, I envied her.

  "So tell me everything," she said, resuming her sculpting. I watched her for a moment as she picked up a table leg and began to pound on the wad of clay. Wet smacks echoed against the walls. I lit my cigarette and inhaled the smoke into my lungs. One of my many vices. I just can't seem to give them up.

  "Well," I said, "I showed up. His house is a mess. Like, a real mess. It's kind of like a hoarder house. It's full of stuff."

  Felicia frowned. "What kind of stuff?"

  I thought for a moment. "Like if you crossed Sotheby's with a flea market."

  She stopped whacking at her clay. "Seriously?"

  "Would I shit you?"

  "Yes."

  Okay. That was true. But still. "Well, I'm not shitting you. And then he took me up to the top floor of his house where he had a photography studio installed that morning, and then he asked me to take my clothes off and wrap myself up in white satin so he could take pictures of me."

  "You look good in white," Felicia said, which was a very artist thing to say.

  "Yeah, I know. But then he kind of fingered me and then went down on me and when I was done he freaked out and left!"

  Felicia's eyes narrowed at me. "It went from pictures to finger fucking just like that?" she asked. She was clearly not buying it. My best friend, disbelieving my innocence.

  I sucked my cigarette down and blew a stream of smoke at her. "You know how things just happen," I said. Granted, I had sort of decided that those things would happen and then done my level best to ensure that they did, but come on. Finger fucking just happens all the time. Sometimes it just needs a little nudge.

  She studied me for a moment. "Uh-huh," she said at last, then shook her head and sighed. "You always go for the crazy ones, don't you?"

  I scowled. "Malcolm Ward is not crazy. Weird and probably damaged, maybe, but crazy, no. And I don't always go for the crazy ones, thanks."

  "You don't remember Simon?" she asked me. "Simon who thought you were cheating on him with his brother who lived in Tokyo and burned all your underwear in revenge?"

  I shrugged. "Fine. Maybe Simon."

  "And Jorge? The one who refused to look at mirrors and wouldn't enter through front doors?"

  "That was just a quirk of character," I said. "That wasn't really crazy."

  She crossed her arms. "And what was Misha?"

  "A drunk."

  Felicia rolled her eyes at me. "You have a thing for damaged guys, you nutbar. And you just said yourself that he's damaged."

  "I said probably damaged." I couldn't help but feel stung, insulted, and a bit annoyed. Before Anton, Felicia's previous boyfriends had all been dumb as rocks. The last one she'd had before she got married had called himself Steele. Steele, for Christ's sake. Where did she get off judging me?

  "Yeah, but you're so good at picking out the damaged ones that that probability is awfully high. Besides, he acts crazy in public, right?"

  I shrugged. "I don't know, you're the one who knows him."

  "I don't know him, I know of him. And yes, he does act crazy in public. If he's not actually crazy, then it's an act." She pursed her lips. "Which, ironically, would be totally crazy."

  I barely suppressed an epic eye roll. "Trust me, he's not crazy, and if he's damaged at least he's really hot." I sucked the last of my cigarette down and stubbed it out in the ceramic ashtray by the bed. Felicia doesn't smoke, so it's mostly there for my benefit. I saw that the stubs I'd left in there the last time I'd come over to her studio were still languishing at the bottom. What a sad existence. I sighed. "And he gives really good head, and that's not the sort of thing you want to just fling to the wind at the first sign of trouble."

  Her mouth pursed again, and I could see she was struggling to formulate a counterargument, but I knew she probably didn't have one. Her own husband was pretty fucked up, too, but, from what I could tell, he was amazing in the sack. You can't just throw that shit away lightly. Of course he was also madly in love with her and the feelings were reciprocated, so I suppose he had that going for him, too. All I had from Malcolm Ward was a bunch of weird interactions and one great orgasm.

  It had been a really, really good orgasm, though.

  Why is life so hard? I thought to myself.

  "You're into him," Felicia said at last.

  I wasn't quite prepared to admit that, so I made a joke. "Yeah, I was in his mouth yesterday afternoon," I said.

  Felicia made a face, but my crude attempt at changing the subject was nevertheless effective. "So that's it?" she said. "Did he take any pictures?"

  I blinked. "Oh! Yeah, he did. A ton of them, in fact." Some of which I was feeling quite embarrassed by at this point, but I couldn't do anything about that now. "He's never done anything artistic as far as I can tell, but yesterday he said he wanted to become a... a brilliant madman, connecting to the pulse of the universe through his art and that I was his 'inspiration.'"

  She arched an eyebrow at that. "Oh, really? He just decided he wanted to be a brilliant artist?"

  "That's what I said."

  She returned to her clay, giving it a few good whacks with the table leg before pausing. "I guess that's one way to go about it. I mean, don't we all decide we want to be brilliant artists at some point?"<
br />
  "Yeah. After making art, not before."

  Whack. Whack. "So? Maybe he's got a talent for it. Have you seen the pictures yet?"

  I shook my head. "Nope. He said he'd call me today."

  "Before or after he gave you head?"

  "After."

  "Well, he still wants to see you after giving head. At least you didn't scare him away by smelling bad or something."

  I lit another cigarette. "Watch out," I told her. "I've decided to be an arsonist and I'm going to burn down your studio."

  "You've already tried that a couple times," Felicia said. "You don't have the knack for it."

  Dammit. She was right. I cracked a beer and sipped it while she tried to beat her clay to death. I was just contemplating drinking the whole six pack by myself to erase my memories of the past twenty-four hours when my phone rang. I jumped and nearly dropped my beer.

  Felicia clicked her tongue. "You're really into him."

  I rolled my eyes and checked the number. Yup, that would be Malcolm. Said so right there on the screen.

  I hesitated.

  "Maybe you'll get anal this time," Felicia said.

  "Shut up," I told her, and hit answer.

  "Yeah?" I said. Totally nonchalant. I'm hardcore like that.

  "I was wondering if you would like to come over and assist me in going over these photographs," Malcolm said without any preamble. His voice was distracted and distant, and it rankled me.

  "I don't know," I told him. "Are you going to stick your tongue in my twat and then run away again?"

  "Sadie!" Felicia hissed, scandalized.

  What? I mouthed back at her. He deserved to be called out. You can't just go around treating people like things. You gotta maybe buy them dinner first or something, or at the very least don't literally run away afterward. It was part of the social contract. That sort of thing could give a girl a complex.

  On the other end of the line, Malcolm was silent, clearly impressed by my big brass ovaries. I was willing to bet no woman had ever spoken to him that way. I'd left him speechless with my wit.

  "I'm not sure," he said at last. "Did you enjoy it?"

  ...Great. Now I was the one who was speechless. I tried hard not to look at Felicia. "Yes," I said. "I did, thanks."

  A gust of air as he let out a sigh. "Good," he said. "I was worried. Please, come over and we can look at these photos. You can give me the critique of a professional."

  And I had nothing to say to that, either, except, "Okay."

  "See you soon." And he hung up without saying goodbye, like people on television do. I stared at my phone for a long moment before stuffing it back into my purse.

  "Well?" Felicia was leaning on her lump of clay, staring at me as though she knew something I didn't. A little smile played on her lips.

  "I'm going to his house to go over the photos he took," I told her. "He wants my professional opinion."

  "And is he going to stick his tongue in your twat again?"

  I'm so proud I didn't blush at that. "We left that open-ended," I said. I gulped a few more mouthfuls of beer and got up. "See you on the flip side, ladies."

  "Don't trip and fall on his cock by accident!" she shouted after me as I closed the door.

  Don't worry, I thought. It won't be by accident.

  * * * *

  I rang Malcolm Ward's doorbell about ten times before trying the knob and finding the house open. Reasoning that I'd been invited over, I let myself inside and shut the door behind me.

  Immediately the claustrophobic atmosphere descended on me again. So much stuff, everywhere. There weren't actually piles of shit on the floor, but there were so many end tables and foyer tables from the beginning of the last century piled high with junk that there might as well have been. I allowed myself to stop and inspect the incredibly valuable sculpture he had just sitting inside his unlocked door where anyone could waltz in and take it, but the press of things on all sides and the musty smell of antiques soon drove me to the stairs.

  I took them two at a time. "Mr. Ward?" I called at each landing until, faintly, I heard him from the fourth floor.

  "Come up!" he yelled down.

  I sprinted up the steps to the fourth floor and breathed a sigh of relief when I walked out into another large room like the one at the top of the house. This one was completely empty save for a luxurious bed at the back end and a desk at the front, looking out onto the street. Large windows let light stream in from the cloudy day outside, and Malcolm Ward was sitting at the desk, staring intently at the computer he had set up there.

  My God. I was in his bedroom.

  It's cool, I thought. I'd been in plenty of bedrooms before, most of them not even attached to either me or my partner. I'd just play it like I was totally fine. Because I was.

  Totally fine.

  Straightening my spine, I strode across the floor toward Malcolm, the low heels of my boots clacking on the wood. I couldn't quite make out what was on the computer screen since it was backlit against the windows. I squinted at it as I drew closer. Blurry lines slowly resolved until I was halfway to him, and then I suddenly realized what they were.

  He was looking at pictures of me on his computer.

  ...Well, of course he was.

  My footsteps slowed as I found myself overcome by embarrassment, seeing my face plastered across the screen. Then he began to zoom out, and I realized this was one of the pictures he'd taken as I'd slipped my panties off. My naked body came into view and I ground to a halt, halfway to the desk. Ward sat in his chair, hunched over and staring intently at the monitor. He didn't even acknowledge my presence.

  I found it a bit insulting that he'd rather look at pictures of me when he had the real me standing right behind him, so I cleared my throat. It was too loud in the quiet of his room, but he turned. Surprise first crossed his face. Then pleasure. A wide grin broke over his face.

  "Sadie," he said warmly. "Come over here. I'm afraid photography may not be our medium, but I believe there are some good shots hidden in here."

  "Yeah?" I said. "No shit photography's not my medium. I could have told you that. I'm as photogenic as a dead pigeon." His welcome gave me the guts to continue walking toward him until I stood just over his shoulder, staring at the picture of me dragging my panties down my legs.

  To my surprise, it wasn't a bad photograph. Despite the fact that I was on the ground, my head tossing and turning this way and that, Malcolm had managed to somehow capture an angle that didn't make me look fat or distended in some way. I was still the trashy tramp with small tits and a big ass covered in tattoos that I'd always been, but somehow I looked like someone who was a little more than that. I was still a long way from beautiful, but as Malcolm began to scroll through the pictures he'd taken, I started to see myself in a slightly different light. The planes and angles of my face became less harsh, more... striking. Bold.

  Perhaps Malcolm did have some latent artistic ability after all.

  I let my gaze slide down so I could study him from the corner of my eye. He wasn't wearing the same clothes I'd last seen him in; instead of pajamas he now wore a fine cashmere sweater and well-tailored slacks, though his feet were stockinged. A pair of fine shoes languished a few feet from the desk, as though he'd brought them over, meaning to put them on but had forgotten to do so. He'd also shaved, so that was good. It meant he'd probably taken a shower.

  He still seemed a bit off, though. He had a strange, hunted look on his face, as though he hadn't slept, dogged by some unrelenting compulsion. Glancing back at the images on the screen and his riveted attention to them, I could believe it.

  "Some of these are pretty good," I told him. "I mean, considering your subject matter and all."

  Next to me, he shook his head. "That's kind of you," he said. "But it's not here."

  I blinked. "What's not here?"

  "My masterpiece."

  I felt my mouth twist. "You don't think so? You asked me over to look at your photos as a professio
nal. I think they're pretty good. You have talent. And I'm admitting that grudgingly considering you didn't decide to become an artist until yesterday."

  "Two days ago," he corrected me, "and that was just an excuse. I asked you over to do this again."

  I could see it all in my mind as he moved the mouse down to the lower bar of his photo editor, clicked on a box, and up popped the picture of him between my legs, eyes half-closed with ecstasy as he laved my clit with his tongue.

  Just the sight of it made me aching and empty for his cock, even as my face flushed with humiliation. And yet the picture I'd taken was beautiful, in a purely artistic sense. I'd captured my subject perfectly: the only thing truly in focus was Malcolm's face. The face of a cat lapping at a bowl of cream.

  I still wasn't entirely prepared when he turned his chair and gripped my hips gently to pull me to him.

  "Whoah!" I said, my hands flying out to grab his shoulders. "I... uh..." My brain shorted out as my fingers met his body. He was well-muscled. Very well-muscled. And hot. He burned through his sweater and undershirt. Burned for me.

  I'd worn a skirt. A heavy wool skirt. No tights. He stared up at me with his beautiful, intense eyes as his large warm hands smoothed over my hips to my ass, squeezing gently. His lips, level with my breasts, were thwarted only by the thick coat I wore.

  He didn't seem to care. "You've been on my mind since I saw you," he said, his voice thick and husky. "But I haven't captured you yet."

  It took me a moment to realize that he meant artistically. He hadn't captured me artistically. Of course by that point he'd stood up, maneuvered me to the chair, and sat me down in it.

  "Uh..." I said again as he towered over me. I'm really brilliant in a tight spot. He unbuttoned my coat, but didn't remove it, instead simply letting it fall open.