Page 16 of Zenith
Rivers tilted his head to the side, his lips curving into a knowing smile. He looked at me with such admiration that I felt a tremor pass through me.
Finally, he said, “Wait here a moment.” Then he bounded up the stairs before disappearing into the apartment.
I stood in the center of the studio, wondering what he was up to. If I was to avoid this situation, now was the time to slip away, but I found myself hesitating. I was tired of being alone and constantly downtrodden. The kindness and attention Rivers was showing made me feel special in a world where I’d never been anyone. I knew I shouldn’t encourage him, but I found myself wanting to bask under the gaze of someone’s affection.
The upstairs door opened, and my chance evaporated. Rivers returned, holding a black button-up shirt and offered it to me.
“Nothing but the shirt,” he said gently.
“You wish to paint me now?”
He nodded, his eyes sparkling.
Holding the material against my chest, I nodded and stepped behind one of the sheets that hung from the ceiling. He could not see me here, and as I changed out of my clothes and donned the oversized shirt, I could hear him moving about the studio, collecting the materials he’d need to begin the portrait.
When I emerged, his eyes widened, but it was the only indication of attraction he gave. He did not comment, nor did he act upon it, he only waited for me to begin my approach.
“Here,” he said, guiding me to the couch at the far end of the studio. “Sit here to one side.”
I did as he instructed, watching as he shifted his stool and easel into place. Then he turned to consider my position, checking if it would make a good composition.
“Set your legs onto the couch,” he commanded, and I did as he bade, keeping my knees bent. “Stretch your right leg out a little more, and bring your left up slightly. Good… Allow your right hand to lay softly against the couch. Yes… Place your left hand on your lap.”
His gaze raked over my body, making me uncomfortable. He looked at me in such a manner it felt as if I had no clothes on at all, and truthfully, I was in next to nothing. What had I gotten myself into?
“Something is missing,” he went on, tilting his head to the side.
I did not know how to answer him, so I remained silent and waited for his verdict. Perhaps I was not the best subject for his portrait after all.
Then he rose from the stool and sat next to me on the couch, his arm brushing against my bare leg. Suppressing the urge to shrink away, I felt my cheeks flush pink.
“May I?” he inquired, raising his hand.
I nodded stiffly, tensing as his fingers undid the top button of the shirt and eased it off my shoulder. His breath caught, but I assumed it was from the glimpse of the twin stab wounds that marked my chest and shoulder. They were a confronting sight, their puckered pink lines standing out quite dramatically against my ivory skin.
“Do you wish to capture my pain?” I asked, the question bursting forth from deep within.
“They are part of your iceberg, Jane.” He swallowed hard, his gaze moving from mine to the scars.
“And this painting…” I murmured. “You wish to sell it?”
Rivers smiled, his gaze meeting mine. “At this moment, I’m entirely unsure. Perhaps I will keep it.”
His fingers brushed the elastic strap of my bra, and he eased it off my shoulder. It was quite an erotic movement, but he did not attempt to deepen it.
“There,” he murmured. “Absolute perfection.”
He drew in a deep breath, then rose to his feet and returned to the stool.
I watched him as he picked up a pencil and began scratching a rough outline on a page in his sketchbook. His movements were gentle at first, then became harder and more deliberate, his brow creasing as his gaze darted from me then back to his work. When he’d completed the page, he tore it clean from the book, tossed it aside, and then began anew.
He must have drawn ten more sketches before he seemed satisfied, each differing from the last in amounts of passion he used his pencil with. Watching him so invested in his work conjured up all manner of devilish thoughts, and I understood why he was such a ladies’ man. The air was charged with pure inspiration, and it felt quite intoxicating.
Moving the easel before him, Rivers picked up a clean canvas—which was a monstrous-sized thing—and pinned the last sketch in the top corner, most likely as a reference to his composition. He then rifled through a box of paints and began squeezing various colors onto a much-used palette. Once this step was complete, he retrieved a selection of brushes and returned to his stool.
He glanced at me and smiled but did not say a single word. His mind was fully embroiled in his work, and it seemed there would be no reviving him until he was spent for the evening.
Work commenced immediately as he dabbed a brush into the paint and began to move it across the canvas. I could not see what he was creating, so I would have to be satisfied with the grand reveal when he was done.
