Brushstrokes Read online

  Brushstrokes

  Lilith Fox

  Author’s Note:

  All characters depicted in this work of fiction are 18 years of age or older.

  Title: Brushstrokes

  Author: Lilith Fox

  Kindle Edition

  This work of fiction is © 2012 Lilith Fox. All rights reserved. This work of fiction may not be copied or distributed by unauthorized parties.

  Sandra was more excited about tonight than she had ever been about anything in her life. It was her first opportunity to meet a famous artist and it she was afraid that the butterflies in her stomach would become too much for her to handle. All she could do was ignore them and pray that her nerves would settle down in time for the show

  Getting ready had been no small ordeal. It took several applications of shampoo to get the linseed oil smell out of her hair from an accident she had in her makeshift studio that morning. She was feeling overly inspired from looking at all of Leon's work in preparation for tonight and tried to create a few works of her own. While the painting looked fine—at first—her accidentally spilling clear oil while trying to dilute the opacity of her paint made a mess of everything.

  The picturesque cottage gained a decidedly ghostly quality, while her desk and floor became impossible to clean. She fell right on her behind as she tried to get a rag, which is why she wound up in the shower for hours on end. As it turned out, oil made up of molecules that small is nearly impossible to get rid of.

  Upon hearing her alarm clock in the other room, she quickly gave up on trying to completely remedy the damage to her hair and jumped out of the shower. "I only have an hour and a half to get ready!"

  Patting her curvy body dry, she grimaced at her shape and her hair in the bathroom mirror. "The other women there are all rail-thin. I am not going to even bother trying to compete with them." She pulled her long blond hair back and scrutinized herself closely. "A tight pony tail and a dress that flaunts my bust will have to do."

  After drying her hair, she slicked it with what she thought was a decent-smelling hair product that might be able to cover up the oil smell and tied a loose bun on the back of her head. She thought about the tall, broad man with the impossibly large hands that she was hoping to meet tonight. The first time she saw Leon's work, she had only been an undergraduate student fresh out of High School. The abstract colors and overt sexuality had offended her at first. After learning more about how to create art herself, she marveled at his technique and longed to be a part of the art world.

  It seemed as if everything that Leon touched turned to gold. Everything she touched, on the other hand, seemed to fall short of what she envisioned. The oil all over her spare bedroom that she dubbed a 'studio' was just one example. She shrugged off the moment of self-pity and studied her nude body in the mirror one last time. Her hips were wide, but her waist dipped inward and gave her form a pleasing hourglass-like curvature. A man she used to see once told her that her teardrop breasts looked as if they were the modeled after Botticelli’s Venus. The soft mounds perked into pink rosettes that had left all of her lovers breathless.

  She hoped that these charms would be enough to attract the attention of Leon, if at least for a moment of his time. Almost every artist she had met so far had been attracted to women with smaller frames. Something about his art gave her the impression that he was different than what she was used to. He gave all of his female figures a decidedly worldly character, but whether he did this to appeal to potential patrons or to express himself was up for debate.

  Passing her hands over her body slowly, she indulged in pretending that her touch was his, if only for a moment. Remembering that the real Leon was already setting up his show a few miles away, she jolted out of the bathroom and into the bedroom.

  “I’ve got to get out of here.” She said to no one in particular. Verbalizing her thoughts was a way to keep herself focused. She pinned her stray hairs back with dark clips, pulled on an attractive black slip and stepped into a flattering, yet ladylike dress. A few minutes of expert makeup application later and she looked like a woman poised to take on a man as daunting as the world-famous Leon.

  ***

  He had been at the gallery for some time before she walked in, her high heels announcing her presence before she stepped fully into the main lobby. These were especially tall heels, because she was of a slight build and read that Leon was an especially tall man. He was busy being especially bossy to the staff, yelling about the quality of lighting and the incorrect wattage of the bulbs directly shining on his work.

  “The colors are far too blue because of the piss poor bulb. I sent specific instructions, do you need me to get on a ladder and change it myself?” The person he was directing his frustration at seemed used to these types of angry outburst.

  “No Mr. Leon, I’ll do it myself in just a minute.”

  The artist stood over a foot and a half above the young man, who was of average height. Leon looked at him quietly, his silence louder than words. His presence seemed to expand and take up most of the room, but his height and broad shoulders did not have anything to do with it. As Sandra stepped into the room, she could not help but to feel physically moved by the air of greatness.

  This is Leon! She thought, as giddy and nervous as any school girl walking up to her idol. Such genius, such talent! I wish I had the creativity that he does. In spite of the knot in her stomach, she continued her confident gait towards him, blind to all other people and obstacles in the area. All I want is to do is introduce myself. I can do this; I’m a damn professional.

  She walked into his invisible bubble and he turned directly towards her, his eyes a piercing blue that almost stopped her in her tracks. His physical presence was remarkable. It was also overwhelming. She felt dwarfed by everything about him, from his large frame to his spectacular and sensual works of art on the wall behind him. There was something in his eyes as he looked at her that was so intense that instead of sending tingles up her spine, it set it on fire.

  She swallowed slightly, undetectably. “Hello, Leon. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

  She felt his eyes taking her apart in the same way that he probably deconstructed and reconstructed his works of art. She had been around enough artists to know how most of them studied their subjects. She felt more than ever that if she ever were to faint in her life, this would be the right time for it to happen.

  After a moment of thought, which seemed more like hours under the intensity of his gaze, he finally responded, “I would say the same, but you did not give me your name.” The inflection in his voice had changed drastically

  , as if something or someone had dramatically improved his outlook on the day ahead.

  “Sandra.” She choked her name out as smoothly as she could. Stepping up to him and making dreams meet reality was easy. Letting go of her fantasies of this meeting and replacing them with what might end up being a cold, hard reality was terrifying. Then again, she had never dreamed that being in his presence would feel larger than life.

  He smiled slightly on the right side of his mouth as he undoubtedly noticed her struggle with her own name. “Pleasure to meet you, Sandra.”

  It felt as if time stopped when she heard her name come from his lips. She envisioned at least a dozen other scenarios of this moment, but she never contemplated feeling thunderstruck in any one of them. The power in his voice was audible even as it sounded out the soft vowels in her name.

  She realized that he was staring at her. Coming to her senses, she willed her knees to hold her up and confidently thrust her hand outwards, making eye contact. This was something she had been trained to do school. Whenever overwhelmed or meeting someone more powerful than herself, she knew to bridge the physical distance as soon as possible to
create a sense of equal footing. It was a good thing that this had become a kneejerk reaction and did not require thought on her park, because her brain was tied up in the sound of her name on his lips.

  He took her hand, an amused look on his face. His hands engulfed hers, which were at least half the size of his gargantuan ones. She knew that the rough hands now touching hers were responsible for creating countless works of art known the world over. She did not even have any real idea as to how many sculptures he had freed from their stone or paintings he had made. Her hands, small and soft, had been trying to emulate his example and create for years. The rough, large and extremely warm hand was joined by its mate, clapping themselves around her one hand.

  With her hands being to perspire, she suddenly felt like a bug. This man was enjoying this the same way that a scientist looks at a bug under a microscope. His eyes were keenly interested in her reaction to him. The flat blue took on a mischievous look to them. For a moment, she felt that she could do anything with this man.

  “I’ll tell you what, Cherie.” He looked to his right at something Sandra could not see. “Let us continue this introduction after the show. I have much to do, but you are too lovely. Perhaps we can discuss you sitting for me, oui?”

  She had always thought French was a pretentious-sounding language until she heard it come out of his mouth. Cherie? Oh lord, don’t let me pass out now! She nodded helplessly and he made his leave of her, turning to the gaggle of rail-post men and women setting up his works. His voice boomed at them and they all immediately went into action.

  Sit for him? Talk later? She began walking aimlessly to try to look unaffected by their meeting. It was only when she noticed that she had nothing to do except to setup the reception area that her steps had purpose again. I’m sure he just said that to be kind. She was trying to come up with ways to soften the blow that was sure to come later. He was probably just trying not to seem so abrasive after yelling at the setup crew. Discretely patting her palms dry on her dress, she began the task of setting up the check-in area and all of the paraphernalia. She would just have to try to act like a professional until the end of the evening. Thinking about Leon walking around her all night, she readied herself for what was sure to be a rough few hours.

  ***

  As she had predicted, it had been rough. The constant influx of guests kept her extremely busy, but she was unable to resist glancing in Leon’s direction throughout the show. To make matters worse, he always looked back, as if he could sense her eyes on him. There were even a few instances where she felt as if she were being looked at, but she did not have the courage to check it was her imagination or his eyes that she felt. She preferred to pretend that it was really him and not just her imagination.

  With the show coming to an end, she had to turn people away at the door and turn the key. There was no shortage of crowds tonight. Looking over her check-in sheets, she saw upwards of 1,000 names. This was an astronomical number for such a small space. Leon insisted on the small space when he signed his contract, saying that intimacy was crucial to viewing his work.

  Sandra was lost in her own thoughts and counting up guests when she had to suddenly stop short. Looking up from her clipboard, she caught the gaze of flat blue eyes with intense pupils looking right at her. “Oh! So sorry, Mr. Leon. I wasn’t,”

  “Looking where you were going? Clearly. You looked busy.”

  Her brain failed her in the shadow of this gorgeous, giant of a man. All she had was backup small talk. “Well, it was a very busy show.”

  He smiled proudly. “Yes, yes it was. Very good overall.”

  “It kept me busy with so many people to keep happy while waiting in line to get in.”

  He tilted his head, as if he had heard another statement all together behind what she said. “Are you complaining that I should not want the space so small?”

  She could have kicked herself. “No, no, not at all. It just kept me busy.”

  He looked dubious and smiled again. “It is OK to be honest. There is a reason I demand such a small viewing area, and it is not to make trouble for beautiful women such as yourself.”

  She blinked and took a deep breath that had the unintentional effect of making her breasts swell for a moment. His eyes took notice almost unperceptively. Smiling, she decided to dive in and see where this was going. “Tell me then, why the preference?”

  He lifted his left hand up to his face and scratched his jaw with a large finger. “Because looking at a person’s individual reaction to my work is the only way to know if I have accomplished what I set out to do.” He looked up at the ceiling, as if he were searching for a better description. “If enough people react the way I wanted them to when I conceived my work, then I was successful. If not, then I change how I solve the problem.”

  He looked down at her and took a step closer. “You see, Sandra…” He took her free hand and lifted it to his face. “Everything is a problem, a puzzle that has a solution. You cannot get anything without a little… prodding.” He gently pressed his lips to her hand and let it go. “Take you for example.”

  “Me? I am not a problem or a puzzle.” She felt her palms perspiring again. All of this attention from someone who had such an inexplicable effect on her was making her extremely weak in the knees. It was like she was a fly trapped in a web with a spider… a spider that she was both terrified of and wanted to be devoured by.

  “A problem, no. But a puzzle that I would like to solve.” He stopped a moment to study her face. “You are an artist who works to promote the art of others, are you not?”

  She had a hard time suppressing her shock at his insight.

  “I can tell you at least try to paint with oils, the scent of linseed is very obvious when standing this close to you.” He briefly gestured over her ponytail, his fingers dangerously close.

  She repressed a blush of embarrassment. “Oh, it’s just a hobby. I’m not very good at it.”

  “But you can be. Let me look at your work, give you advice.”

  “W-what? But you must be busy.”

  He shrugged. “A man like me is always busy, but I make time. I am free tonight, and it is not terribly late yet.” Noting that she looked hesitant, he added, “I will bring something to eat or drink, if it will make you feel more comfortable with showing your work.”

  She hesitated, horrified at the prospect of showing such a genius her amateur work. She felt like so much more than just herself in his presence that she did not want to say anything to make him leave. Is he going to just look at the art and leave when he sees how hopeless it is? Could he actually be attracted to me? Is he just amusing himself? Is this even appropriate? “I don’t want to waste your time with my paintings.”

  “I will decide what is not a waste of my time, Cherie. You must project more confidence. Good art, bad art, the only difference is your confidence. All you are doing is convincing me that I must look at it. Tell me, do you have a studio?”

  Someone called his name in French and he looked away for a moment, exchanging words. When his attention was no longer fixed on her, she felt a sense of dread. She was suddenly terrified of him walking away, of losing the sensation of being at the very center of the world. Then, he looked back at her and she was under his spell again.

  “I must go help the crew before they ruin my work. One of them was just dragging one of my masterpieces along the floor and getting the bottom filthy.” There was an edge in his voice that spoke of annoyance and exhaustion. “I must look you up before I leave the city. We will speak of your art and perhaps you sitting for me in my studio, yes?” He smiled briefly and walked away to the loading area, a slew of French phrases and slurs escaping his lips.

  ***

  She never did hear from him again that night, or the next day for that matter. She was devastated on some level, but did not expect someone as busy as Leon to take her seriously. It was mid-morning a few days later when she finally stopped waiting for a message from him and indulged in a l
ong bath, sans cell phone. Leaving it well out of reach on her kitchen counter, she promised herself that she would relax and stop thinking about their meeting. She had never told herself such a bold-faced lie before.

  Allowing her muscles to relax in the warm, pooling water, she settled against the shape of the porcelain tub. She cleared her thoughts of everything except the sound of her breath, but that did not last very long. Her mind went back to her idol, the man she had fantasied about meeting for so very long. He was so much more than she had imagined.

  Reality felt so different in his presence. She felt the power that he commanded all around him, the ability in his hands that no one else could replicate. She wished more than anything that she could create as he did, but she was no match for those masterful brushstrokes and raw talent. She had been told that some things you just have to be born with. That made him all the more irresistible.

  Sighing and sinking deeper into the soothing water, she regretted having given him the runaround. He had an effect on her body that she just could not explain. If I could do it again, I’d have brought him home. Running her hand gently over her teardrop breasts and slowly downward, she focused on the sound of her name on his lips, afraid of losing the memory.

  Bzzzt!

  Her imaginary world stopped and she shot up, water splashing on the floor.

  Bzzzt!

  Leaping out of the tub and skidding with wet feet to the kitchen, she reached her phone just in time for the call to go to voicemail. Too excited by the possibility of it having been Leon to notice she was shaking from the cold, she checked the call log with slick, slippery fingers.

  “Oh, just work.” Dejected, her heart sank to the bottom of her stomach and her sensual desires lingered like the scent of a feast in the nostrils of a starving man who would never eat.

  Deciding to call back instead of dial into voicemail, she was simply told to pack the standard set of contracts and get ready to board a plane in three hours. It was not uncommon for her to be asked to get an artist’s signature for major contracts in person to avoid future conflicts, but this was very short notice for an international flight. Fortunately for her, she never unpacked her overnight bag from her last trip.