Page 35 of Art of Sin

I almost smile.

“Goodbye, Ms. Linn,” I say flatly.

She twirls in a cloud of silk and expensive perfume and strides from the room. Outside, clusters of voyeurs watch her rush toward the elevator, whispering amongst themselves in her wake. I wonder what rumors will be circulated by the end of the business day, and how far the poison will spread. Then I glimpse Skylar’s devious smile.

Fuck.

“Close the door, Trent.”

* * *

I don’t hearfrom Gideon Wednesday or Thursday. By Friday morning, I’m annoyed. Not even with him; we have no commitment outside our contract. My irritation stems from my inability to stop thinking about him.

Yesterday’s lunch appointment with Valerie Fischer didn’t help. Though old enough to be Gideon’s mother, she’s clearly half in love with him. She spent the entirety of our meal talking about his absolute genius, his once-in-a-generation talent. When she mentioned her efforts to persuade him to paint her nude, I almost spat out my iced tea.

No matter how many distractions I’ve embraced in the last forty-eight hours, I can’t stop obsessing over what he wants—to study me for the sake of art—and what I want with increasing urgency from him. My want wakes me up in the middle of the night, flushed and panting, my legs squeezed tightly together. The dreams are so vivid, so darkly erotic, that it takes me minutes to realize the sensations aren’t real. That it’s not his hands on my breasts and between my legs, but my own.

I need to get laid. The basic human compulsion isn’t one that overwhelms me often, but I’m not a robot. Masturbation isn’t cutting it. I need heat and skin and clenching fingers. Connection, even if it’s just physical.

Alone in my condo Friday evening, I write down a list of potential cures for my ridiculous attraction to Gideon, then eliminate each one.

1. Get drunk and eat ice cream

2. Go to Crossroads and find a casual fuck

3. Buy a ten-inch dildo

4. Get Finn’s phone number from Gideon

I’m already half-drunk, there’s ice cream in the freezer with my name on it, my vibrator works just fine, and the only reason I’d ask Gideon for his friend’s number is to gauge his reaction. Because I’m clearly out of my goddamn mind. I start a new list called Affirmations.

1. You are a strong, independent woman

2. You are no man’s whore

3. You are not obsessed with an arrogant artist

4. You are better than this

Compulsion—addiction—is something Nate has struggled with on and off since we were adolescents. Never me. Call it winning the genetic lottery, or having an alcoholic mother and a drug-dealer father, but I’ve always been able to put down what I pick up.

The only time I’ve been physically addicted was when I smoked cigarettes during my late teens. But even then, once I decided to stop, I did. Sometimes I miss the ritual of smoking, especially the smooth metal and snap-click of my father’s Zippo. But I can take or leave the actual cancer-sticks.

I don’t have an addictive bone in my body. I don’t obsess over men—or women—and I’ve never had a crush on someone in my life.

Crushes are for girls who aren’t hungry and scared, and for women who crave external validation and emotional intimacy.

I’m neither.

There must be another explanation for the fact I can’t stop thinking about Gideon fucking Masters.

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