Unwrapped (18 page)

October

“I want the Rachel. D’you know how to do that?” asked the nasal-voiced high-schooler in Mischa’s salon chair. Without waiting for a response, she went back to feeding the Tamagotchi attached to her belt loop.

“You’re my third today, sweetie. Chunky highlights, or just the cut?”

“Highlights. Definitely highlights. I want to look just like Jennifer Aniston. Mom! I’m getting highlights too.” No acknowledgement from the waiting area, so Mischa shrugged and grabbed a stack of foils.

Days like this were beyond tedious. Stylists both loathe and love trendy hairstyles. On one hand, it keeps people coming in. On the other, it’s dead boring. She mixed bleach powder and liquid developer absentmindedly, thinking about what to eat for dinner. Panera was never a bad choice, but the recent tightness of the plaid pants she wore was saying to cut down on the potato soup bread bowls. Sushi was always good for a guilt-free dinner but would depend on tips. She fake-smiled at the girl in her chair and assessed the mother reading
Vogue
in the waiting area. Maybe.

“Hey, Meesh, plans for this weekend?” Heather called from the reception desk. Mischa winced. Knowing her roomie, that was a question she couldn’t win. If she answered no, she’d likely get roped into something. If she said yes, Heather would probably expect the apartment for sexcapades with her flavor of the week. Then Mischa would be forced to make plans. She realized she needed to meet more people in the city, but ugh. It was so freaking hard to make friends in a place where making eye contact on the street was considered déclassé. More often than not, she ended up hanging with co-workers she had nothing in common with. Grabbing a clean color brush, she started painting the thick mixture onto pieces of the girl’s hair.

“Not sure yet. Why?”

“Antonio’s gallery is throwing this big pre-Halloween party. I thought maybe you’d want to go, check out some art and get dressed up.”

Holy shit, Heather actually had an idea that sounded fun. She was right about the dressing up, Halloween had always been Mischa’s favorite holiday. It was the art that suckered her in, though. Antonio’s gallery, The Phoenix, was super snotty and exclusive and repped some amazing artists. She had assumed Heather was on her usual love-em-leave-em kick and hadn’t even attempted to befriend Antonio. Wrong maneuver, evidently. No way was she now going to pass up a chance to drink for free
and
get up close and personal with cutting-edge art pieces.

What to wear? Heather would likely have some decent suggestions, but Mischa wanted to demonstrate some of her own creativity. A famous artist perhaps? She could rock a form-fitting suit and draw on a Dali mustache. Georgia O’Keefe, with a white suit and live orchids? A work of art, maybe. Find a date and do American Gothic? No, too Midwestern. This was damn hard but so exciting at the same time.

“I could do that. Sign me up, Heather!”

Suddenly, Mischa wasn’t fake-smiling anymore. She started a conversation with the high-school girl about costumes, sailed through the rinse, cut, and blowout, and collected a hefty tip from the similarly styled mother. Thousand Rachel-cuts or not, this was shaping up to be a pretty good day.

***

The stupid costume was more difficult than anticipated. Mischa had decided last minute on a melting clock costume. The decision was mostly born of financial woes, because it was easy to paint numbers and dripping hands on a tightly fitting thrift-store cocktail dress. Along with her standard dark eye makeup and a pair of chunky heels, Mischa was feeling pretty good about the party. She didn’t look too over-the-top for a ritzy soiree, but also not so obscure that she looked like a snob. Downing the rest of her pre-party Bloody Mary (a girl has to get her veggies in where she can), Mischa collected her completely over-the-top roommate in a ten-foot-trained Water Lilies dress and hopped in their Phoenix-bound cab. Where the unartistic Heather came up with this shit was unknown, but the mysterious funds were even more so.

The gallery was just as schmancy as Mischa had imagined. A black carpet, surrounded by arts reporters and a few paparazzi hoping to catch stray celebs, led into the candlelit space. Velvet drapes set off each painting as if it were an Old Hollywood movie theatre. And the paintings Mischa forgot about Heather with her first gasp and didn’t remember her again. Glued to the first large-scale portrait, she didn’t know where to look. The pictures were all of women, all done in black and white and metallic on black canvases. The effect was that the viewer had no sense of the women’s ages or ethnicity. Combined with the sheer enormity of the canvases, Mischa had to remind herself not to gape.

“Do you like my girls, then?” came a vaguely familiar accented voice from her left. Mischa started, having forgotten she was in a public space. Hopefully no one had noticed her drooling. She didn’t turn towards the interloper.

“I like the textures. I like the subtlety of the Cubist influence. On this one, there is actually a third eye, and a faint ¾ view transposed, one that may not be obvious even the first, maybe, ten times you view the piece. Yet it fools the brain into giving an impression of movement. So, yes, I guess you could say I like the ‘girls,’ but mostly I like the style.” Rant complete, Mischa turned to the artist at her side and gasped for the second time. The man in the spot-on Van Gogh costume (complete with ear patch) was none other than her one-night carny lover.

“Clifford…?” she queried, suddenly at a loss for what to do with her hands.

“Clifford Deetlefs,” he responded, not exactly flirtatiously, but not as coldly as a man who’d been given a fake number either.

“You didn’t say,” was about all Mischa could come up with. Good God, why had she faked her number? She hadn’t faked her orgasm! And was she that narrow-minded that she was only now feeling guilty when she saw the scope of this boy’s talent, and not when she thought he was just a foreign laborer?

“You said you were an artist. I didn’t want it to sound like I was giving you a line when I told you I did the same.”

“Are you mad? You can be mad. I was a bitch,” Mischa blurted, swiftly snagging a couple glasses of red off of a passing waiter’s tray. She downed hers even as she held Clifford’s in his direction. Fuck. It was so easy when she thought she’d never see him again, but passive-aggressiveness is not fun to confront.

“Cliff! That’s where you got off to, you scamp. Come, darling, I want to introduce you to a collector I know. He’s Russian, but don’t hold that against him…” the posh British voice trailed off as the rail-thin brunette it belonged to trailed off as well. Clifford winked as he held his wine up in a silent cheers.

“Fuck me,” Mischa muttered as she raised her glass back at his retreating figure. Shaking her foolish, fake-blonde head, she went back to studying the art. It was so damn good. How was this insanely talented artist possibly a fucking carny? How had a man of this magnitude deigned to lick her pussy on a grassy field outside of the carnival? Mischa was feeling worse with every slug of wine, at the same time she was beginning to understand how rock groupies must feel after a big score.

Her head was spinning enough already when she walked around a corner to be confronted with a six foot tall painting of her own face. She fled.

It took five blocks for Clifford to catch up to her, but only five feet until he’d steered her into an alley and pinned her arms against the bricks. She struggled against his iron grip for a bare moment before surrendering.

“You…that’s so invasive, that painting,” she finally said between pants.

“What you did to me in that field was invasive,” Cliff murmured into her ear, his hot breath tickling her and making her nipples hard in spite of herself. “You were the best I’ve ever had, and you didn’t call. You gave me a fake number. You made me believe in fate and then you crushed me. You, you invaded me. And then you left. When I painted you, that wasn’t an invasion. That was a defense. If I could get you out of my system, maybe you’d lose your power over me.”

With a moan, Mischa let herself go completely, engulfed by the anger of his kiss. His lips crushed hers so hard that she knew she’d be bruised and swollen the next day. It felt amazing. His knee slammed her legs open. His fingers were under her dress before she knew what had happened. Expertly, he manipulated her clitoris with his thumb while pushing two, then three fingers inside her slickness. Her walls tightened around him, already prepared for orgasm.

“You don’t get to give me a fake number this time,” as he pushed deeper inside.

“Okay. Okay,” Mischa moaned, bucking against him. She was on the verge, she’d have told him anything. Suddenly, his fingers were gone, and she was left empty.

“Now,” he commanded. Shaking with desire, Mischa managed to find a lipstick in her bag and used it to write her home phone on the hem of his white dress shirt. Smiling that huge, genuine grin at her again, Clifford moved back to his ministrations and gave her the release she was waiting for before hailing a cab.

“I’m calling you tomorrow. Don’t blow me off again.” Somewhere between the accent, the art, and the hands, Mischa hadn’t even considered blowing him off for a second time.

***

Mischa’s fingers trailed over the cold, mossy marble. She tilted her head, trying to read the inscription on the decaying tombstone. It was no use. The engraving was obscured by two hundred years of weather and neglect. She held out her hand, and Clifford obligingly pulled her up from a crouch. She leaned into his chest for just a moment, unable to resist the temptation to touch him at every opportunity. How had she been so sure this was a one-nighter?
Because he’s temporary
, she reminded herself.
Steel up. He’s leaving in a couple months. This is a really hot fling. A really hot fling with a guy I can learn so much from about painting. That’s all.

“Okay, this is why we brought the crayons and paper.” She smiled up into his chestnut eyes, ready to distract herself from the magnetic pull. “Grave rubbings. I use these in
my
art all the time. Here, you try. Just hold the paper over the gravestone, and rub with the side of the crayon lightly.” Her hand rested on his and guided the pressure he used to reveal the words on his paper. Mischa wished she hadn’t chosen to wear her cable-knit fingerless gloves; they kept her from feeling his skin as fully as she wanted. Every touch seemed to spark in the chill October air.

He must have felt the same, glancing up over his shoulder at her with lust-dark eyes. She leaned in to press her lips into his soft, full ones. His scent was all spice and warmth, and she breathed it in deeply. The wind kicked up then, and carried it away from her, replacing it with dead maple and the particular smell of a cold front. He pulled her lower lip into his mouth gently. She surrendered to him just before he bit her hard. The paper fell from their hands to the carpet of rust-colored leaves as they rose as one.

The wool of her gloves scraped against the stubble on his chin when she grabbed his face to tug him closer. Her mouth opened in response to his. He gently sucked her tongue into his mouth. The pain and pleasure mingled, causing her to squeal in surprise. His fingers dug into her waist and pulled her tight. Mischa grew dizzy for the tenth time today. Forgetting to breathe was something she’d noticed being around Clifford did to her. She clung to him as their kisses deepened and slowed.

One of his hands slid beneath her sweater, up to cup and squeeze her breast. His breath was hot in her ear as he bent to her neck. His tongue caressed the delicate skin beneath her chin. She moaned, and he bit her. Mischa was suddenly afraid she couldn’t stand up if he let her go. All of time and space had shrunk to this moment, right now. Every fragment of her body was tingling with the awareness of his.

“Clifford…”

“I need you now. Right here. Like this.” The authoritative tone in his voice made her shiver in a deeper way than the brisk wind. He abruptly left off with her breasts and slid his hands down between her legs. One was in front, massaging her clit. The other glided down her ass and around, putting exquisite pleasure on her already drenched opening. Cemetery or not, Mischa wasn’t about to stop Cliff now.

He yanked down his corduroys and allowed her one look at his gloriously stiff member before turning her around and bending her over a tombstone. Mischa silently apologized to Mrs. Simon Goodman 1839-1867 for disturbing her rest, but Clifford was already hiking up her skirt and she forgot about anything besides the feeling of him nudging her legs apart.

He lined her up and pushed in all the way on his first thrust. The sudden stretch, half-painful, had her crying out involuntarily. He put his hand over her mouth and she smiled beneath his fingers. Sacrilegious, maybe, but this was also seriously hot. Clifford withdrew slowly, savoring the feeling of her inner muscles already beginning to flutter around him. He pushed back in as hard as the first time. The hand not covering her mouth moved around to play with her bud.
Definitely the hand of an artist
, she thought vaguely as he traced the lines and shapes of her most intimate areas with alternating pressure.

Her orgasm was starting to build, moving slowly in ripples. She bit his hand and moaned again, wanting more. Clifford quickly withdrew completely, resting his hardness against her ass.

“Not yet,” he growled.

“You’re mean,” Mischa complained, not that mad, grinding against him. He teased her, sliding halfway back in, and then pulling back out just as she started to sigh again. Lapsing into his native tongue, he growled something in her ear. She shoved backwards, taking his whole length. That broke his resistance, and he began to pump harder, releasing her mouth to grip her hips.

Mischa’s hands scrabbled for purchase on the cold tombstone as Clifford pounded in and out. Finally, she couldn’t hold back and let the orgasm rip through her. It went on and on, as Clifford throbbed through his own. She collapsed on the grey-veined marble and moaned again as he zipped up and pulled her underwear back on for her.