Page 52 of Baby Girl
I clamp my mouth shut on that last bit, and it’s my turn to stare at the canvas and pretend he isn’t staring at me. There is a light brushing of skin against the back of my hand, and it shoots a bolt of electricity up my arm, causing me to quickly snatch it away.
Turning, I glare up at him and find his dark brown eyes overflowing with things I refuse to see there. “I know that you are going to need to touch me to position me for your poses, but you don’t have permission to touch me outside of our sessions.”
Something flickers through his eyes so quickly, I don’t catch what it is, but his features lose some of their warmth as he raises both hands in the air. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure if you were going to show up this morning, and I forgot, for a moment, that you aren’t mine anymore.”
My throat locks up so tightly, it’s almost like someone reached up from my chest and is strangling me from the inside.
Not his anymore?
I was never his. Not really. It was all temporary. And now it’s over.
Breaking eye contact, I gesture in the direction of the warehouse. “Can we get this over with, please?”
For several seconds, Darcy doesn’t move and we stand there, awkwardly, but I don’t look at him again, instead concentrating on the grains in the wood floor.
“This way,” he mutters as his paint-splattered sneakers shift and start to walk away from me.
With one final glance back at the painting, I follow Darcy to what is surely going to be two hours of utter torture.
Chapter 28
Darcy
I shouldn’t have fucking touched her. I know I shouldn’t have. I didn’t even realize I was reaching for her until the back of my knuckles brushed hers.
Has it really only been a week since I last saw her? Held her in my arms? Now I can barely look at her—not because I don’t want to, but because I want to do more than just look.
My sneakers scuff the staircase as we climb up to the mezzanine, where my senior students and I have our own, larger spaces compared to the cubicle maze that makes up the ground floor of The Warehouse. From here, I can gaze down and look into each space, since they have no ceilings, and watch each of my students work.
They all have walls separating them from each other and doors that lock if they feel the need. The far wall has a sink that runs the full length of the windows looking out across the industrial park, where they can clean their tools, with drying racks and other stations for cleaning with things harsher than water.
We have one other space, down a half level into the loading bay area, which is where all the artists that require heat or heavy machinery work. The sculptures that leave that space have been beyond impressive recently, and I’m looking forward to The Warehouse’s next open house, where we open up the building to the public and show off any completed work that my students are brave enough to share.
But that isn’t until after my next exhibition, which returns me to my current predicament and snuffs out my pride in my students faster than a candle being blown out.
Having her model for me is a fucking terrible idea. I should cancel the contract. I should put both of us out of our misery and tear it up so that we don’t have to spend prolonged periods of time with each other, especially when I disappear into my art.
But that will mean that the one and only connection point I have with her will be gone. I won’t have any way to show her that I’m here for her. By cutting this tie I have to her, I’ll be cutting off our connection completely. And if this is the only chance I have to show her who I really am and who I want to be for her, then I’m going to have to push through.
And as fucking juvenile as it makes me feel, I’m going to pine for this girl like I’m a goddamn teenager with a curfew. Lettingher slip through our fingers is not an option. She is it for me, for us. She is the missing piece to our little puzzle.
Beyond all of that, she is the inspiration for this next exhibit. She can’t be replaced, not for this. So even if we can’t bring her back into our lives the way we want her, I can at least have her for this.
It is both my opportunity and my goodbye. Only time will tell which.
By the time I’ve led her to my space, my heart has settled back into a normal rhythm within my chest. I let my eyes fall close as she passes me, inhaling deeply to catch the scent of her.
Perfume. Something floral and delicate.
Whatever the hell it is, it’s delicious and has my gut heating and blood flowing south like I didn’t jerk off this morning before I left my house so I wouldn’t have this exact problem.
Pulling myself back together is not as simple as I want it to be, and by the time I’ve got my eyes open and the door shut behind me, Emmy has made it to the middle of my space, unwittingly standing beneath the beam that will be used to support her through most of our sessions.
Emmy turns in a circle, slowly surveying the area, and I am filled with an unreasonable need to explain everything to her. I clench my jaw to stop that shit from flowing out. I need to keep this about the modeling, not anything else.
She has made that very clear.
After taking in the three arched windows that overlook the concrete yards and other buildings, the exposed brickwork, and the wall of cabinets and drawers covered in every art supply I have ever collected, she stops to face me, a questioning look on her face.
