Mismatch - By Nana Malone Page 0,70
she couldn't even watch. She knew how it went. She turned away and made it to the back of the venue where most of the husbands of the wealthy patrons had congregated.
They were no dummies, they knew better than to get in the way. They also knew enough to purchase every single piece of art in the joint. Her phone kept pinging with every sale. Shit, so far tonight, she'd already made Samson one hundred thirty thousand dollars, and that was just for eleven pieces. She'd found the perfect artist for her gallery. Or at least to buy her enough time to fill it with other artists so they didn’t run into the same problem again. To keep the project up.
Then why the hell did she feel so freaking miserable?
There was a collective moan from the audience. Oh great, he was touching the model now, gently caressing her breasts. Massaging in the paint to display the picture he wanted. This is part of his job. This is part of his job. This is part of his job. She kept muttering to herself, hoping it would sink in. His job or not, she was sick with jealousy. It was one thing to have seen the show once and been okay with it then. It was another thing to sort of know about the show and the things he did to women in the show to make then come to apparent orgasm.
A woman on Jessica’s far right muttered, “Oh, sweet Jesus.” She fanned herself, but kept her eyes glued to the center stage as if it was her lifeblood.
Fantastic. Right about now Eli had his face buried between the model’s legs and was simulating giving her the best oral sex of her life. “It’s not real,” she muttered to herself again. Nope, still didn't help.
Having to actually watch her lover, the man she was half in love with, simulate going down on another woman was too much to endure. She couldn't take it. There was no way she could do this. It hurt way too much. And Eli was too talented an artist for her to pull the jealous girlfriend card and beg him to stop. Shit, she loved his art too much to beg him to stop.
The music died down, and the crowd hushed. All she could hear in the venue now was the model’s supposedly faked orgasm. Jess knew what was happening now without having to see it. Model du jour was doing porn stars proud and putting on a good show. Samson was stepping back and staggering a little, as if he were drunk off of the model's essence, then seeking something to cover up his sacrifice, he'd throw a canvas over her. The model then vanished from the tableau.
Several minutes later, the model, Stacy, woke as if from a dream, wrapped in this canvas. She emerged from the tableau naked, but strategically covered in paint. She held out the fresh canvas.
Perfection. Then why did Jessica feel so sick? Because I’m a moron.
She knew the truth. She could never get used to this feeling. The jealousy. You can’t have him. He was meant to be enjoyed by the masses. Guys like that were never meant to be with someone, at least not long term. As always, she'd chosen the unavailable guy. Pain sliced deep, nearly doubling her over.
Jessica’s eyes stung, and she swiped away a tear that spilled down her cheek. Her phone had been steadily buzzing. If all Samson's work wasn’t gone, it would be by now. She'd priced his whole collection at four hundred and fifty thousand dollars. With the sculpture being an extra twenty. It would be a neat haul to take home, and he'd have to get going on more work ASAP. She could do this. Take them back to a professional footing. Didn’t matter what he smelled like, or how he touched her, or how vulnerable he looked when he talked about his brother. He wasn’t hers. She couldn't keep him. Even if she did love him.
***
Eli watched his brother from a corner in the hotel suite. Samson looked ragged and replete, but he also looked ecstatic. Standing there covered in paint and sweat and God knew what else, Samson looked…happy. Even if he hadn’t already known the answer in his bones, Eli would have known it then; there was no way Sam would have jeopardized everything for money or drugs. He wasn’t using again. He wasn’t forging again.
Pain and regret sliced through Eli