The Painter

"Fuck", Drew hisses, ripping the sheet of paper off of his sketchblock. Throwing the bunched up sketch to the floor, he fixes his hard gaze on me. I shiver under his scrutiny, and flick my eyes down, abashed. The floor around his rickety stool is covered in scrunched up paper balls. Eight of them, to be exact.

"Hey"

His voice cuts through the tense air, as sharp as a knife and as deep as the bottom of a well. I raise my gaze again, to see his hazel eyes narrowing in frustration. Fuck. What did I do now?

"Can you arch your back more?"

I do as he says, leaning forward and thrusting out my chest like a chicken. The pose is uncomfortable and unnatural, and I feel incredibly awkward. It also doesn't help that my feet hurt from standing on tiptoe for over two hours now. He grunts, a sign I've come to learn means dissatisfaction. It's one of the sounds he emits every ten minutes or so. He sighs and stands up, laying his pencil and sketchbook on the stool before slowly appraising me.

I shiver under his perusal.

His eyes dip languidly, and run over the course of my body ever so slowly. Something hot runs through me, and goosebumps erupt on my skin. I bite my lower lip, not understanding my body's reaction to him. He's been nothing but rude ever since I showed up, hell, even before I officially met him.

"Can't you raise your leg a bit higher? Put it on the lower shelf."

I hike the foot that rests on a higher rung, but by doing so, I briefly lose my balance, making me grip the shelves behind me.

"No, no, no! Jesus", he lets out, before storming up to me.

I flinch as he grabs my right hand and wrenches it over my head, back to the position it was in before tipping over. My skin tingles where he touches me, and I can't help but stare at his face.

I cannot deny that the man is attractive, even though he is an arrogant asshole. It must be the talented artist in him that makes him have a god complex. I hold my breath as he leans in close. I barely breathe as he leans in, scrutinising my hand placement with furrowed brows.

I can feel his warm breath fan over my face. Minty fresh from the mints he keeps popping into his mouth. He moves slightly, and a quick image of his stubble rubbing over my skin flashes in my mind. My cheeks heat up. Jesus. It must be the lack of movement that's slowly driving me crazy.

He adjusts my left arm, then steps back, examining each angle before leaning in to adjust my hairdo. I barely breathe, holding my breath as he fusses with my bangs. Oh god, he's so close. My body screams at me to lean in and lick the tiny scar that lies on his jaw, but before I can comply in a temporary lapse of sanity, he leans back, looks at me from head to toe once more, then nods.

He steps back, as if ensuring that I will stay still, then settles himself on the rickety wooden stool. For someone who can paint like a god and whose paintings are sold for tens of thousands within hours of him listing them to his store, he is a pretty stingy man. Almost all of his equipment is shoddy and old. I'm pretty sure I saw the coat rack on which my coat is hanging in the antique store last week. If it weren't for his expensive oil paints, I would've thought him to be a closet drug addict, and that he spent all his money on drugs. Even his clothes look old. The white t-shirt he's wearing right now has several holes in it, and it has more paint on it than it is white.

I suck in my lips, but quickly let them go when Drew shoots me a warning glare. I shouldn't be judging him like this, obnoxious jerk or not. Hell, I was the one who needed money badly, hence why I was even here in the first place.

I saw an ad hanging on the bulletin board outside my dorm room looking for a model for a painter over a month ago. The pay was so good, I didn't think much of it before texting the number written on the poster. Only when I actually stood in front of the door of the run-down looking building, where Drew's studio was supposedly behind, did I hesitate.

I needed the money, badly, but how sure was I that I wasn't about to get murdered and my organs sold to the black market? I thought of the cup of noodles I'd eaten the previous day, the only meal I'd been able to afford, and firmly knocked on the door with the peeling paint. I loved ramen, but it being the only thing I've been able to afford for months made me sick of it.

The door opened to reveal a ruggedly handsome man with a streak of purple paint across his forehead, brows dipped down in a firm look of displeasure. "You're late", he said at five fifty-eight, two minutes before the arranged time, and that was that. I've been coming five days a week for the past three weeks, getting nothing more than grumbles and grunts from the enigmatic painter.

It didn't matter that he was probably the most attractive man I'd ever seen. His personality made me fear each day I'd have to pose for him for hours on end. Whatever. It wasn't like I had spare time for a boyfriend, and anyway, by the way he seems to frown every time he looks my way, I figure I'm not his type. Not that I'm looking for one, anyway.

Finally happy with whatever he sketched on that piece of paper, he pins it on his easel. Glancing up at me, he eyes me for a moment before clenching his jaw.

"Let's try this again. Don't move."

A bead of sweat rolls down my hairline and disappears between my cleavage. Underneath the spotlight that's aimed directly at me, I'm sweating a waterfall. Thank god Drew wanted a no makeup look for the painting, or I'd look like a melted plastic doll.

I sigh, glancing surreptitiously at the clock mounted on the wall behind him. It's been over two hours since I've been here. Last week, he kept me for six hours, only letting me go shortly before midnight, which made me almost miss the last bus. But lately, he kept me for no more than three hours, practically throwing me out once the clock chimed.

I let my mind wander, drowning out the soothing sounds of his brush sweeping over his canvas, the way he seems to huff every time he looks back up at his muse.

Me

I think of the assignment I had to hand in in two days. I didn't start it yet, and mentally facepalm myself for not planning it out better. I'm writing out my arguments silently, when an impatient cough snaps me out of my thoughts.

"Hey, are you listening to me?"

"What?"

I smile apologetically, hoping what he said wasn't that important. He rolls his eyes, to which I respond by flipping the bird. Although only mentally, of course. I cannot lose this job, no matter how much my employer grates my nerves.

"I asked you if it would be okay if you stayed longer tonight. I'd really like to finish this by today."

He nods towards the painting he'd been working on the last few weeks. The painting of me. Well, technically, it's a fictional woman who lives in a totally different era, but still. She has the same shade of hair as mine, and wears the exact same expression I do, even if she somehow still manages to look like an enhanced version of me.

Prettier. Sexier. More desirable.

In short, how I'd look if I were actually attractive. In Drew's eyes, anyway.

I nod, smiling, but dying on the inside knowing how many hours less I'd sleep if I want to get the assignment done. But if I stay longer, that will mean I'd earn more, since Drew pays me by the hours. If doing an all-nighter means that I can finally eat something that wasn't in a can or leftover from my roommate, I'd be happy.

We descend back into silence, the only sounds being the paintbrush in his hand brushing paint onto the canvas and him cleaning his brush in a jar of water every now and then. I let my gaze drift from him to the bay windows behind him.

Despite the studio looking like a breeze away from crashing down, it's pretty charming from the inside. The walls are all wight, but the wooden floor covered in flecks and splotches of paint makes up for the lack of colour. The bay windows give way to the street down below, on which something is always happening, no matter the time. They also let in a lot of natural light, which Drew always takes advantage of, often calling me to the studio on Saturday mornings, when the sunlight is shining into the studio perfectly.

"June, I need to go over the bust again. Can you reveal your tit again?" My name being said out loud his deep voice makes me shudder, but I get myself together and nod jerkily. The first time he'd told me about the vision he had of the painting, I was apprehensive about partially showing my body to a complete stranger. But as time went on, it seemed natural, as if I wasn't showing a hot dude my naked boob. Well, as natural as I pretended it to be.

I still have fantasies of him striding over to fondle it, then licking my nipple all the time, when I zoned out while he painted me. But for some reason, I'm not that self-conscious about my body around him anymore. I figure that as much as he seems to hate me, he will not get more disappointed by my breasts than he already is.

Sliding the strap of the airy, pale blue dress off my shoulder, I then settle back in my place against the shelf. I look at him painting this time, wondering about his life.

He can't be older than 29, despite the deep lines marring his forehead from the perpetual frown on his face. Does he have a girlfriend? A wife, maybe? Kids?

I freeze suddenly. Would his wife be okay with him painting half-naked girls all the time? Well, with the amount of money he brings home, I guess she wouldn't be. Oh my god, what if that's the reason why he has to get all his supplies from the thrift store? What if his wife is actually a vicious gold-digger, and that's the reason why he's always so grumpy? Because he desperately wants to divorce her, but forgot to make her sign a prenup? Or maybe he already did, and owes her hundreds of thousands of dollars for child support.

I study him earnestly, trying to imagine him saddled with diapers and strollers, a kid on each arm. The idea is so ridiculous, I snort, trying to contain my laugh. He shoots me a glare, and I quickly look away.

I cannot imagine him as a father. If anything, he'd be kicking kids for getting too close to him. I observe him again while he's furiously painting away, adding the last shadows and highlights.

His reddish brown hair is ruffled from his hands running through them too many times, and I tamp down the urge to caress his hair myself. The copper highlights shine in the fading sunlight, making it seem as if he has gold woven into his hair. High cheekbones that any model would kill to have. A jaw that is strong and angular, the only imperfection being the silvery scar spanning from his left cheek to a place under his chin. And even then, it only adds to his appeal, giving him a sort of roguish charm. A straight nose and a smear of paint colouring across it. A lean body, not too bulky, but definitely strong. His corded forearm muscles ripple upon each movement, and veins run across his forearms and under the worn green sweater he wears.

But most importantly, his eyes. Light brown with specks of green in them, so intense, it seems as if he can see right through you and peer into your brain. Eyes that are currently fixed right on me.

Gulping, I do not dare look away. He stares back at me, and the intensity of them sharpens, spearing through me. The air between us fizzles with electricity. He doesn't speak, so neither do I. It suddenly occurs to me that I know that look -- it's the look of a predator, which means that I am probably the prey. My skin breaks out in goosebumps, and I force myself to stay still and not move my arm to run it over them.

A cold breeze from the open window caresses my skin and my nerves come alive. I notice belatedly that I'm still half-naked, at the mercy of the painter's heated stare. I stand there, sprawled on the shelf, my right breast exposed for what seems like hours. Finally, he breaks eye contact and dumps his brush into the dirty jar of water.

"I'm done."

I blink. The words fail to properly register in my mind, that I'm still posing for him when he repeats his words, but harsher this time. I flinch at his tone, a ribbon of hurt unfurling in my stomach, but I push it back. He probably thinks I'm as dumb as rocks. Putting my foot back on solid ground and lowering my sore arm, I wince when the blood instantly rushes through. It feels as if a thousand needles are stabbing my left arm.

He strides towards the spotlight and hits the switch, killing the only light source in the room. At the sudden lack of light, I freeze, blinded for a minute. I don't move until I slowly get used to the darkness of the studio.

Ignoring my numb feet, I gingerly take a step towards him and instantly my knees buckle. I just about manage to hold myself up on the shelf before crashing to the floor. Glancing up, I realise that the asshole hasn't made any move to help me, and is instead taking out his packet of cigarettes.

When I still haven't made a move from my crouched position on the floor, he shoots me a glare. But before his hazel eyes can meet mine, they take a dip. An invisible shudder racks through him, and I watch him swallowing thickly, his hand with the cigarette between his fingers frozen in midair. His gaze, pinned somewhere underneath my chin, does not waver one bit, even when I take a peek to see what has got him so entranced.

I feel my cheeks burn up when I realise that the other strap of my dress has slipped, leaving not only one, but both of my breasts bare. The attention has both of my nipples hardening, and I hear an almost soundless exhale from across the room.

Gathering both straps, I hastily draw them back up, barely hiding my stiffening nipples from his burning gaze with the soft, flowing, white chiffon. He clears his throat and places the unlit cigarette between his lips, then ambling off to the open window. I wait for a few seconds more for my breaths to even out and for my limbs to stop tingling, then make my way towards the easel. Stepping behind it, I lay my eyes on the painting and gasp.

"Oh my god. Drew, it's gorgeous!" I hear a grunt behind me, followed by the

tschick

of his zippo.

The young woman in the painting is angelic, the symbol of youth and innocence. She stands out from the rolling hills and the proud forests painted behind her, like a beacon in the dead of night, or like a sea nymph rising from grey, frothing and savage waves.

Back arched against the Greek marble pillar of an outdoor gazebo, her black hair is thick and glossy, flowing like a river of silk over her naked shoulders. Her skin looks creamy and soft, and even the roses he's painted, the ones that are climbing up the pillars, cannot compare to the pink of her lips and cheeks. Her right arm is spread out above her in a high arch, her hand clutching the pillar she's leaning against, and letting the sleeve drop down to expose a rosy and supple breast. Her other breast is covered by the transparent fabric, although the brown of her stiff nipple is peaking through. Her left hand is hidden behind the folds of the simple yet elegant dress, tucked between her legs. The girl's knees are clearly squeezing together, chasing the unknown and trapping her hand in the process. A slit along the side of her airy gown lets the viewer catch a glimpse of her smooth thigh. Freed from the silken slipper currently lying on its side on the ground, her foot is propped up on the pillar behind her, the toes of the other curled into the marble ground below her, trying to find purchase.

But the most breath-taking of all is her expression: Wild and wanton, her face was frozen in pure desperation and longing. Eyebrows dipped downwards, full bottom lips trapped under pearly front teeth, her deep sapphire eyes are unfocused and glassy, staring somewhere above my shoulder.

My breath hitches as I stare at the painting in awe. I've never seen anything quite like it. Sure, I've been posing for him for just over a month, which was long enough, but how did he manage to paint something that could rival an artwork displayed in the Louvre in such a short amount of time? The art that I caught glimpses of during all the time I spent in his studio is breath-taking, and I know his work is always in high demand, but this particular piece is on a whole other level. Plus, is this the way I actually look through Drew Weston's eyes? Like a stunning goddess, uninhibited and free?

My heart starts to gallop as I entertain this thought. Hope blossoms in my chest, unfurling much faster than I'm prepared for. I have noticed the long glances we've exchanged over the course of my posing for him. But due to his grumpy and moody disposition, I'd racked it up to an intensity that just came with the artistry. After all, how can a painter not study his model closely and still hope to paint proportional torsos, hands, and noses? Let alone a figure in such an intricate pose?

So, I ignore the heated stares and lingering looks, focusing instead on the unwarranted dislike I seem to awaken in him, convincing myself that the warmth I feel each time he opens the door to his studio for me is not a crush. Much to no avail, it seems, as my eyes continue to peruse the painting, butterflies fluttering wildly in my belly.

Reluctantly ripping my attention from the painting in front of me, I turn around to look at its creator. Drew is standing idly by the window, calmly looking out the window, his cigarette held loosely between his fingers.

Since the sun has already set hours ago, the only light-source illuminating his studio are the overhead lamps that he dimmed once he finished, since he always complains about too bright lights hurting his eyes. The room is now half-dark. Cars drive by, their headlights throwing shadows along the wall briefly illuminating his perfect profile and his auburn locks. I feel myself shiver and a flash of warmth travel along my spine to my core.

He looks so effortlessly sexy, it's seriously unfair.

As if sensing my gaze, he turns his head, fixing me with a dark look and a cock of his eyebrow. "June, I'm finished with the painting. You can go now. I'll wire you the rest of the money by the weekend."

Despite the part of me that savours the deep rumble of his voice, the part that wants to curl up and rest between the waves of his timbre forever, the warm feelings rising in me freeze and wither away in the span of one second at the detachment of his tone.

I step back, staring at him while he unhurriedly looks back out the window, stunned.

That's it? Weeks of meeting up, posing for him, standing in the same fucking position for hours on end, only for him to dismiss me without even a word of thanks? I didn't expect friendship out of this, hell, he's just my employer, and someone with whom I seemingly had absolutely zilch in common with. Drew is just someone who needed my service for a while, who doesn't owe me anything but the money he's already promised me. He's a taciturn, rude man who probably thinks he's god's gift to the world only because he can draw better than the rest of us.

But for some inexplicable reason, it still hurts, just like the time Tommy Marshall roundhouse-kicked me in the gut during taekwondo practice when I was eleven, when I hadn't put on my gear properly yet. And yet, the pain is so different, hurt mixed with dejection, anger at myself, and humiliation until a gloomy concoction of emotions swirl deep in my gut.

I feel wetness pool in my eyes and turn around quickly so that the asswipe can't see. Shit, I didn't think I was such a weak bitch. I don't even like him, not really. God fucking dammit. What the fuck was wrong with me? What is it with my attraction to men who are obviously not interested in me? For being so delusional, I can't even recognise when to give up hope. Of course that wasn't the way he really saw me. He just transformed my average self into someone pretty and marketable for the painting. Someone sellable.