Entry-Level Mistress - By Sabrina Darby Page 0,27

make everything simply appear “as if”?

Like me … as if I knew what I was doing working a desk job … and a night job. The thought that had been meant to chastise me made me smirk instead.

I forced myself to be serious, to look around the room, study the faces of people who had chosen their positions as real careers, not as whimsical excursions.

Simply three weeks earlier, I had thought I knew where my world was going, what all the experiences in my life arrowed toward. But where did this tangent lead? How would I ever bring it back around to the idea I once had of myself as a visionary artist? The only vision that was filling my head these days was Daniel’s naked body.

As if …

As if by the cool light of early morning that body was drawn by watercolors, and by the yellow glow of interior lamps it was painted in oils, darker and richer. Sometimes, between my legs, I felt him as a living sculpture, marveled at the places his hard, taut body curved, melded, into long bows of muscle.

He was beautiful and I could have easily spent hours watching him, studying him.

That night, back in my own apartment, on a night I would not see him, those images of him tortured me. As if I hadn’t had a life before him, almost didn’t know what to do with myself.

Flat on the futon, with my head to the side, I watched the images of a reality TV show flicker across the screen and thought about what he had said. About how his father had supposedly committed suicide because of my father. If Daniel truly believed that story, no wonder he hated my father. But it wasn’t the truth. Had his mother or someone else lied to him? Or was it Daniel who was lying? Lying to himself even?

Leanna’s laugh dragged me out of my contemplation.

“To see you now, one would have no idea they were looking at a future Barrows Farm Fellow,” she commented dryly.

I couldn’t take offense at that because Leanna was right. Not once in our two years of living together had I ever simply sat down and watched television. In fact, there had been a time or two that Lee had yelled at me for getting clay or ink or some other substance all over the living room. I was losing my artistic edge and I most likely should be worried. This wasn’t the time in my life or career to lose myself in a man. Especially this man. But in two months I’d be at Barrows Farm. I’d get back in the groove, surely. I needed life experience to create, didn’t I? This was definitely life experience.

“There’s a party tonight for some new blue jeans company. My boss gave me her invitation. You could be my date?”

I thought about it. Glanced back at the television on which three bikini-clad women were jumping into a pool.

“There will likely be gift bags,” Leanna added.

“OK,” I agreed, standing and stretching. I’d seen Leanna bring back enough bags packed with cool products to know the perk was worth my time. “Should I assume it is verboten to wear jeans by any other brand? And for real? There is a jeans company based out of Boston?”

“I think you can wear whatever you want,” Leanna said. “But this isn’t Los Angeles, so I’d skip the jeans anyway.”

The party was in a converted warehouse space. Rough concrete and exposed pipes. It felt like a strange mix between corporate, art school, and club. Whispering that there would be a few models and minor celebrities there for sure, Leanna pulled me past the blinding lights of the red carpet and photographers. A DJ booth and dance floor took up one-third of the room. There were tables and a buffet. Three bars. The space wasn’t very crowded yet. Against one wall were two racks full of jeans and hiding behind that, I could see the gift bags Lee had advertised.

I didn’t see anyone I knew as we made our way across the floor to one of the bars. We did, however, know the bartender. Scott worked weekends at the dive we had frequented the most in college. Apparently he moonlighted as a catering bartender the rest of the nights.

The bar had five special denim-themed cocktails and I settled on the Original Blue, which tasted suspiciously similar to a Blue Hawaiian. I peered over the rim of my carefully held martini glass