Scandalous (5 page)

I blanched at her reference. It was something I didn’t talk about with anyone. I was a 28-year-old virgin, by choice. My vows forced me to a life of celibacy, but that didn’t mean I was an idiot. Following her, I said, “I don’t have to screw someone to see the difference between art and porn, Kate. If you’d seen his work...” I didn’t get to finish. She rounded on me, cutting me off.

“I have seen his work! What the hell do you think I do all day? Jonathan Gray is the next big thing. We’ve been trying to get him to do a show for the past four years! I’ve seen his work. I know he’s good. And I know he’ll get your ass canned if you take that job.” Kate’s steam seemed to ebb a little, and she added, “Abby, it’ll end your career. A forced sabbatical was bad enough, but this... There’ll be no going back.”

I wanted to tell her that she was wrong, but she wasn’t. It didn’t matter what was right or wrong, or what I believed. This was the catch-22 of being me—sometimes self-preservation kept me from doing what was right. I had to choose my battles, or I’d get strung up by the conservative types that sat in my pews and not get a chance to help anyone. They would say the same things Kate was saying, or worse. If you thought the minister led the church, you thought wrong. It was more like giving a kid a stick and telling him to corral a hundred big, smelly sheep without anything else. You had to be careful who you poked, and sheep weren’t the brightest bulbs in the box. It honestly took a lot of restraint to not beat them over the head with the stick. But that was my life. It required unending patience, which I felt was worth it if I saved one person along the way.

Leaning hard on the counter, I hung my head.
“Fine.
You’re right, Kate. You’re right.” I looked up at her, “I’ll have to find something else.” I pushed back, and walked into the living room, slumping down onto the couch. It smelled like Kate’s perfume.
Foiled again by close-minded crazies who weren’t even here.

Kate thought I was sulking because of her terse words. “I didn’t mean to yell, Abby. I just know how
serious this is,” she emerged from the kitchen, thigh-highs in one hand and a beer in the other. She tossed the stockings on the table and sat down on her favorite chair, opening the can at the same time. “Those loans are gonna kill you. That church has you trapped. You have to make nice, go back as soon as they’ll have you, and find another congregation. Don’t stay there. Dropping you on your head during a freak-out was a shitty thing to do.”

I rubbed my face, confessing, “It wasn’t a freak out.”

“Then what was it?” her voice mystified. “What was so intolerable that got them that pissed off?”

Instead of answering, I stood and opened the front closet. Pulling on my coat, I looked back at her. “I told Jack that I’d see what the job entailed tonight. He has a model and his assistant there.” Kate cocked her head and gave me an
are
-you-retarded look. “I have to go. He had them all come in so I could meet them. I’ll humor him for a little bit and then tell him no. You’re right, Kate. I’m trapped. The only way out is to survive the next twelve months and then go crawling back, and see if I can salvage things well enough to get me to the next place.”

She downed the beer while we were talking, her jaw tight. “I’d pay those off for you, if I could.”

Zipping my coat, I answered, “Thanks, but I wouldn’t want you to. It was my mistake. I’m the one who has to pay for it.”

I reached for the knob, when she called my name, “Abby?” I paused, looking back at her. “Do you want this job? I mean
,
is this what you would have chosen if you got a do-over? No loans, no bills.
Just Abby.
Would you choose this? I’m asking because it seems risqué, even to me. I can’t imagine you wanting to have anything to do with it.”

I considered her question, my lips parted, ready to answer. When I was younger, I loved art classes. I looked forward to them. It was the highlight of my day. Getting to create something, getting to form something beautiful where there had been nothing was an act reserved for God, a gift he bestowed upon artists. I couldn’t paint the way Jack did, but even then I knew I liked being there, near him. Seeing what he created and watching his gift spin things of beauty to life before my eyes. Nodding, I said, “Yeah, I’d want this job.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

I arrived at the studio about an hour later. Jack was talking to an older woman dressed in a suit. A model sat on a stool with a robe draped around her; shapely legs were crossed at the ankle. She watched Jack, waiting for him to instruct her.

When Jack looked up as saw me, his face lit up. It made my stomach sink. I planned on telling him that I couldn’t take the job right away, but I couldn’t. Taking me by the hand, his touch sizzling on my skin, he led me into the room. Jack didn’t seem to realize what he did to me. He presented me to the model and the
marm
. Both were courteous.

Jack seemed excited. He walked me over to the older woman. Pale blonde hair was done stylish and short, framing her round face. Glittering brown eyes looked up at me. She sat aside from Jack and the model, a table to her left where she had a cup of coffee. Jack told her, “Abby’s an old friend. Tell her
exactly what you think about anything she asks, Emily. Okay?”

Emily smiled at me, taking my hand and leaning in close, “An old friend! Well, that will work out wonderfully for Jack. This position is important, but it also needs to be someone he trusts immensely. His career depends on your word. A few vicious words would destroy him.”

I nodded, curious. I could see what Kate meant, that this job sounded like debauchery at its finest. Settling next to Emily, I asked “How long have you been working here?”

“About three years. I took this job after I retired for something to do. Seeing Jack work is a real treat. When inspiration sparkles in his eyes, I can’t help but get excited with him. People like that are rare, you know.” The older woman had fine lines on her face that I hadn’t seen before.

“Yes, they are,” I looked back at Jack. The model had disrobed and was sitting in the buff on a stool. Her curves were perfect, her skin was smooth, and her hair hung in long curls that had been clipped to the back of her head. Jack’s brush was gliding over her neck in slow thick strokes, his eyes focused. “May I ask why you’re leaving?” I tore my gaze away from
Jack and the model. I felt like a voyeur, even though they weren’t doing anything bad.

“The husband wants to escape the rough winters and go further south, so we’re moving. I heard you were from the south, is that right?” she asked kindly, her hands folded properly in her lap. I nodded. Emily gazed at Jack and the model. “It’s important to keep him in your line of sight at all times. The model can move around, but it’s Jack you want to follow.” Emily’s dark eyes remained on Jack as he smoothed the brush over the girl’s skin.

“Why’s that,” I asked, turning to Jack, my throat growing tighter.

“Well, most people will tell you to watch for the offender. In this case, the model is the one that would cause the problem. If she decides to sell her story of the time Jonathan Gray molested her, everyone will ask what Jack did, where he was, what he said. He’s more important than the girl. Always follow his movements. And if he needs you, you’re the one that touches the model.”

I nearly choked. Jerking my head toward her, I asked, “What? Why would he need that?”

She laughed at me, “You’re a bigger prude than me!” Jack turned to look at us, and I blushed.
Great.
Emily began speaking again and Jack turned his back
on us, allowing us to continue our conversation. “You’re a sweet girl. A girl who can blush is a girl who can protect Jack. Now, see how he’s painting that girl?” I nodded. Jack’s brush was working its way down her onto her chest. He dipped the brush in more paint and smoothed a line down her breast. His eyes were narrow, fixated as if he was focusing intensely. It wasn’t the gaze of a man in the throes of passion. Not that I’d seen that too often.
Or at all.
“When he needs to paint her hair, you’ll need to help. Otherwise, paint will bleed together and ruin his creation.”

Turning, I looked back at Jack. One breast was covered and he was working on the second. Long lines of pale colors covered the girl’s body. Jack worked quickly. “So, he paints the girl’s body, then her face? Then her hair?”

Emily nodded, “Usually…. unless he’s doing a piece limited to the face, which is rare these days. Most of his works have the woman’s curves through the hips. Every inch of the model gets painted with organic paint. It doesn’t stain her skin and it won’t make her hair disgusting. It washes out with that solvent over there.” She pointed to a large jug near all the cans of paint spread out around Jack. “It’s mostly hand soap, but Jack said there is something else in it,
too. The shower is in the back. You stay with Jack when she cleans up. Never leave him alone.” I watched Jack as she spoke. The way he held the brush, the curve of his strong arms made it hard for me to look away. He pushed his hair out of his face, accidentally running paint through it.

“How long does this take,” I asked, and then flushed when Jack’s brush painted over the model’s nipple, and dropped below her breasts.

Emily wasn’t watching me. Her gaze stayed on Jack. “About twenty minutes for the paint application, depending on what he does with the hair. Then he does the initial stamp, and shoots her with the camera. Total time is usually an hour or two.”

“Wow, that’s it?” Emily glanced at me out of the corner of her eyes.

“Yup.
Pays good for a couple of hours a night.
Jack usually works in spurts too. He’ll take in several models over a few weeks, painting nearly every night. Then he only uses the one from that lot that he likes the most. The rest get tossed.” Her gaze was back on Jack, her eyes tracing the movement of his arm. “Never comment to reporters. Always make sure the shades are dropped when he’s painting. And make sure you remain beyond reproach.” She smiled, “Shouldn’t be hard for a preacher, since that’s part of
that job, too. So,” she changed the direction of the conversation, “Your congregation doesn’t have a problem with this?”

“They haven’t said so,” I replied. It was a lie, but it didn’t have the acidic taste I expected. I was mad at them. And there was no way I was telling them that I was doing this. They said survive. This was surviving. Emily didn’t press the matter. She stopped talking and we both watched Jack cover the naked woman in paint, until he called me over. My heartbeat doubled, blood rushing through me like a rocket. I shouldn’t be doing this.

Jack’s blue eyes were on me, grinning. “I need to paint her hair, but we have to make sure it doesn’t touch her skin.” The model was covered in paint, front and back. The only part that Jack hadn’t painted was her eyes.

“What do you need me to do?” I asked, unsure if I was going to do it or not.

Jack shook his head, trying to get a wisp of hair out of his face. “Unclip her hair and after I apply the paint, hold it away from her body. No drips. This is the last step before applying her to the canvas.” A large roll of canvas was laid out on the floor. It was bigger than my bed, but smaller than the massive painting behind the curtain. “Don’t worry,” he added
glancing at me, “I’ll tell you what to do so it doesn’t get messed up.” His words lured me to him. Apparently I was doing this.

Taking several containers of pale paint, Jack cracked open the lids while I unclipped the model’s hair. She sat perfectly still. I wondered what was going through her head. Jack told her to lean back. The girl arched her back, her hair reaching toward the floor, nearly falling out of my hands. The position left the model holding onto the chair with her breasts in the air, her head tipped back as far as it would go. Jack ignored the seductive pose, but I froze. This was much more than I thought. For some reason it didn’t register until I was standing next to Jack.

He grinned, as he lifted a strand of curled hair and dipped it in the paint. “Why, Miss Tyndale, you seem to be blushing again,” he teased.

“I didn’t realize I would be this close to the model,” I said softly, feeling odd that the girl could hear me. Jack dipped another piece of hair, and I took it from him, holding it away from the girl’s naked body. Awkwardness consumed me. This was beyond weird. Seeing other girls naked in the locker room was one thing, seeing a nude woman in a painting was another—and this by comparison, well there was no comparison. It was just really strange.

“I don’t bite,” the girl said, trying not to smile and ruin her paint. Jack grinned.

“That’s not what I meant, but thank you for not biting me,” I replied, feeling like a dork.

Jack laughed, shaking his head. Continuing, he dipped each tendril in paint until her whole head was dripping. It took about five more minutes and he was done. The girl was a monochromatic rainbow of white. “Okay, this is the tricky part,” Jack said. “We need to help her move from the stool, to the canvas. She only has one chance to lay on this correctly. If she messes it up, we start over. If we drop her, we start over. Got it?”

“If we drop her?”
I squealed.
“Jack, what the hell?
You said no touching!”