Sculpting David

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New York City has been a travel destination since I was a very
young girl. Enamored of theatre and the arts in general from
an  early  age,  NYC  became  my  mecca  for  all  that  was
glamorous and sophisticated, yet approachable. I live a mere
70  miles  from  the  heart  of  the  theatre  district.  Broadway
beckons several times a year and I do admit to indulging my
passion  at  every  opportunity.  My  circle  of  friends,  local  and
international (through the miracle of the internet, FaceBook
in particular) include a strong contingent of incredibly gifted
artists:  illustrators,  painters,  sculptors,  photographers  and
authors.  Sculpting  David  is  a  homage  to  those  quirky  souls
who bring such joy and passion to my, and others‘ lives.

Chapter One

Fish Out of Water

―Jackie! Jacqueline!‖ Sound reverberated throughout the

cavernous space, echoing with cloying dampness. The tang of
chlorine was both sharp and pungent.

Jackie waved to her coach and breast-stroked to the side of the

indoor pool. With one smooth lift she powered her lithe body out
of the water and reached for the towel Tom held out, a smile
creasing his face.

―What‘s up, boss?‖
―Phone call. From your dad‘s assistant. No message, just call

back ASAP.‖

Jackie wrinkled her nose as she roughly rubbed the towel over

her  short  cap  of  hair,  leaving  it  in  untamed,  dark-brown  spiky
layers.  The  assistant  was  the  latest  in  a  long  line  of  perky  aides
who  managed  Jacques  Maurel‘s  various  business  interests,
amongst other things.

―Thanks, Tom. I‘ll give him a call back as soon as I shower.‖
―Nice split, babe. But a little sloppy on the turn at the fifty-

meter mark, don‘t you think?‖

Jackie stuck her tongue out and waggled her fingers in his

direction. ―I‘m not competing anymore, Coach, so I can be sloppy
if I want to.‖

―Yeah, yeah, that‘s what you always say. Go on. Get showered.

Call Daddy. Are we still on for breakfast?‖

―Uh-huh. Give me twenty.‖
Jackie threw the towel around her neck and quick-stepped to

the  showers.  She  pondered  Tom‘s  observations  about  her
technique,  fully  aware  that  she‘d  gotten  lax  in  her  training.  His
advice  was  always  dead-on,  had  been  since  her  freshman  year.
She‘d  apprenticed  under  his  expert  tutelage,  blossoming  into  a
pre-Olympic hopeful by the time she was a sophomore. After the
car  accident  that  left  her  shoulder  in  ruins,  and  her  dreams  of
Olympic Gold shattered on the interstate, he‘d been there for her,
through  a  year  of  operations  and  unrelenting,  painful  rehab.
They‘d  become  lovers,  then  best  friends,  keeping  company,
sharing  heartbreaks  and  dreams.  She‘d  nursed  him  through  his
depression  and  drinking  problems.  Tom  had  given  her  the
intestinal fortitude to pursue an independent path, to side step the
incessant demands that she follow in her father‘s footsteps.

Daddy. Have to call Daddy. Why? Would it be more of the

same? Join me, chérie

Stop with that foolishness. Come home to

Paris. Work with me in my studio. Follow your true destiny.

―Oh, where‘d I put the doggone phone?‖ Jackie slipped into a

pair of corduroy pants and a warm fleece hoodie, grabbed her
quilted jacket and hustled to the courtyard. ―Nuts, bet I left it in
the car again.‖

―Did you call him?‖ Tom came up behind her, encircling her

with his arms and nuzzling her neck.

―No, I can‘t find my stupid cell phone. I think it‘s in the car, and

I parked in the far lot. I‘ll call him later. Come on. I‘m starved, and
I have to meet with my advisor at ten o‘clock.‖ Jackie grabbed
Tom‘s hand and pulled him along as she power-walked toward the
Starbucks two blocks away. Few students moved about the
campus, the hour and the temperature were conspiring to keep the
hardy souls staying for semester break off the streets.

―You can‘t keep putting it off, babe. He‘s going to pester the hell

out of you unless you put your foot down and tell him this is what

Sculpting David

you want.‖

―Oh yeah, like he‘s going to think an MFA in oils and mixed

media will mean squat. If it‘s not the Sorbonne. . . well, you know.
And it‘s not like he‘s really been a dad to me, for crying out loud. I
grew up here, not in Paris. Why this whole ‗my daughter‘s gotta
follow in Daddy‘s footsteps‘ crap? Why now?‖

Tom pulled her to a halt and spun her around. ―I told you

before. He‘s lonely. Ever since your mom passed  away, he‘s been
on  a  tear.  The  parade  of  assistants,  the  ungodly  amount  of  work
he‘s  been  putting  out,  losing  that  bid  for  the  Dubai  hotel  to  that
Michaels guy. I think it‘s all been a bit much for him.‖

―Yeah, but it‘s always about him! What about me. What I want.

Why  can‘t  he  acknowledge  that  I  have  my  own  goals  that  don‘t
include him? I‘ve got  my work in galleries  already. And  he  never
once came to see  an opening, like it doesn‘t  matter.‖ Jackie tried
hard to keep the hitch out of her voice, but the pain was too raw,
too real and immediate.

Tom gathered her in his arms and stroked her still damp hair.

―Shush, babe. He loves you, is all. Talk to him. Listen to what he
has to say, but then let him know, firmly, that you have your life
here. He‘ll come around eventually.‖

Jackie leaned into him, thankful for his caring. He felt good and

strong,  his  swimmer‘s  build  long  and  still  lean.  She  backed  away
and looked up at his lined face, no longer youthful at forty-five, the
creases  a  roadmap  to  a  life  that  had  known  great  sorrow.  She‘d
been  a  part  of  that  life  for  nearly  four  years  now,  occasionally  as
his  lover,  mostly  as  his  confidante.  He‘d  teased  out  the  athlete
lurking in her body and the artist residing in her soul. He was the
anchor, the guiding light, the spirit that kept her moving forward
when  her  heart  and  her  body  struggled  against  the  pain  that
threatened to cast her adrift.

Tom held the door open as Jackie entered into the fragrant

warmth of coffee nirvana.

―White chocolate mocha, whipped cream. Two, vente, please.‖

Tom paid and they waited impatiently for their first hit of caffeine
for the day. ―Let‘s sit over by the window.‖

Jackie sighed with pleasure at the first succulent sip. The

whipped cream lined her lips momentarily, then she lazily tongued
the creamy goodness as she stared into Tom‘s hungry green eyes.

―Jesus, stop that. You‘re making me hard, for crying out loud,‖

Tom whispered harshly, glancing around quickly before snatching
at Jackie‘s hand. ―You are such a tease.‖ He slowly stroked her
fingers as a small grin played at the corners of his mouth. ―Come
over tonight. It‘s been awhile. I‘ll make a pizza. Yes? Please?‖

Jackie nodded and smiled. ―Pizza sounds good.‖
―Uh-huh. Pizza. Anything else?‖
―Well, maybe if you add something to it.‖
―Yeah, I can do that.‖ He turned her hand palm up and brought

it to his mouth, brushing the smooth skin with his lips. The scent
of chlorine on her hand was faint but comforting.

Jackie flicked a look at her watch. ―Gotta go. I‘ll see you later.

Be around seven if that‘s okay?‖

―Babe. Make the call.‖
Tom watched her purposefully stride out the door and rose

slowly,  making  small  adjustments  to  his  jeans.  He  grinned  as  he
began  the  countdown  toward  evening.  He  sometimes  wished  he
didn‘t love her so much, too much to allow his demons to trap her
into  making  a  life  with  him.  He  was  ever  thankful  for  how  their
lives intersected. She never asked for more than he could give, and
he  realized  that,  someday,  he  would  have  to  let  her  go.  But  until
that  day—  if  he  was  lucky,  very  lucky  indeed—he  could  put  it  off
indefinitely.

Chapter Two

Granite for Brains

―Yo. Oh hey, Dad. Say, congratulations on that commission.

Yeah,  it  was  on  the  six  o‘clock  news  last  night.  Local  boy  makes
good.  Nice  coverage.‖  David  paced  around  the  freestanding
counter,  his  cell  pressed  to  his  left  ear.  He  dipped  the  small
paintbrush in acetone and flicked it against the edge, then wiped it
carefully on a wad of paper towels.

―No, no plans for tonight. All right. Eight o‘clock. See you

there.‖ He snapped the phone shut, set it onto the counter and
leaned back, thinking hard.

Here we go again. He and Mom. Why am I wasting my life?

I‟m going to lose my shirt. We sent you to the best schools. You
have the talent and the brains and you‟re throwing it away on
some damn fool mission. Yadda yadda yadda.

―Come here, Little Shit.‖ David held his finger out for the sun

conure to step gracefully onto his hand, smiling as the small parrot
climbed swiftly to his shoulder where he parked himself under
David‘s long, sandy-blond hair, preening and pulling at the
tangled locks. David laughed out loud. ―Ow, you little devil. That
hurts.‖

David looked around the small loft, nearly devoid of furniture,

except for his workbench and the litter of marble dust coating the
rough  wood  flooring.  He  had  lucked  out  finding  an  affordable
space  with  decent  lighting  and  understanding  neighbors  who
didn‘t  mind  the  raucous  sawing  and  drilling  in  the  wee  hours  of
the  morning.  He‘d  always  been  a  night  owl,  preferring  his  own

company and his creations. He relished the solitude and freedom
from inquisitive, demanding parental units. God, he loved them
both to death, but they were unrelenting! And now he‘d have to
learn to glad-hand and schmooze clients, something his dad was a
master at, not him.

Why he‘d gotten the bug to open his own gallery, to showcase

new talent, sometimes boggled his mind. He‘d been on his way to
making  a  name  for  himself  as  a  sculptor,  albeit  always  in  the
shadow  of  his  amazingly  prolific  father,  and  a  legendary  mother
who  nearly  owned  the  art  world  with  her  post-modern
impressionism in oil and acrylics. He‘d been on the cusp of living
up to an impossible legacy, but he had thrown it away—according
to his dad—on this foolhardy venture.

―Come on, Little Shit. Back in your cage. Janet‘s coming over in

a few minutes and you two don‘t get along. There you go.‖ David
snapped the cage door firmly, double-locking it as the small parrot
had preternatural abilities as an escape artist. He watched his
feathered friend for a few moments, lost in thought. The harsh rap
on the door roused him from his reverie.

He shouted, ―It‘s open!‖
―Hi, David. Hope I‘m not too early.‖ Janet entered the loft like a

force  of  nature  and  a  well-coiffed  one  at  that.  Not  a  hair  out  of
place, wearing a deep-blue, wool Donna Karan power suit over an
off-white silk camisole top. She had completed the ensemble with
stovepipe  Roberto  Botticelli  leather  boots  encasing  her  shapely
legs.  She  wore  her  thirty-eight  years  with  elegance  and  aplomb,
confident,  assertive—and  for  now  his  mistress  and  gallery
manager.

Janet sneered at his tousled attire, a familiar look for her, as she

seldom approved of his casual disregard for the finer points of
grooming. David knew he was forever her makeover challenge,

Sculpting David

something  he  delighted  in  thwarting,  though  now  that
businessman  had  become  his  new  persona,  he  might  have  to
finally  give  her  suggestions  serious  thought.  The  only  thing  she
never  complained  about  was  his  bedside  manner.  He  grinned  at
that.

―The old man called. Wants to do dinner tonight. You want to

join us?‖

―Is it going to be same old, same old?‖
―Probably.‖ David stared at her intently. ―We open in April. I

still need for you to get hold of that art student and make the offer.
Her work would cap the exhibit. But she‘s a Maurel, so you know
what Popster‘s going to say. I might need an oxygen tank for when
he starts hyperventilating.‖

―I‘ll pass, dearest. Here are the contracts with the other three

artists. Are you sure you want to showcase four, especially when
their styles are so dissonant?‖

―Yeah, I‘m sure. I‘ve already explained how I want to highlight

the convergence in techniques and styles. Samuels and Vincenti
are traditionalists, Tomas is crude and compelling, and Maurel is
visionary, scary. Yin and yang. The vibe‘s gonna be outstanding,
but only if we can talk her into coming up here. She‘s only shown
down in Philadelphia and DC.‖

Janet looked around the open space, hunting for somewhere

safe to park her elegant derriere. The loft was a ruin of discarded
newspapers and open containers of Chinese, with layers of marble
dust coating every square inch. David stood carelessly sprawled
against the counter, six-foot-two inches of unkempt, raw male,
with a burly build. His biceps bulged from muscling heavy blocks
of marble and granite that he whittled and stroked into stunningly
arresting and disturbing monuments to a demanding Muse.

Sighing, Janet asked, ―You haven‘t forgotten, have you?‖

―Forgotten what?‖ David stared at her, perplexed, then the light

dawned and he grimaced.

―Hmm, I thought so. Your appointments. Today. I‘ve got the

tailor lined up for your fitting and the stylist after that.‖

―Stylist? What stylist?‖
―For your hair, my dear. You simply need to get that mop of

yours under control.‖

David swept his shaggy hair into a tight ponytail and secured it

with a band he found lurking in the detritus on the counter.

―There. Styled.‖
Janet sighed, an exaggerated sound, drawn out to make a point.

―Not nearly. Please, dearest. We‘ve discussed this ad nauseum. At
least let Miguel trim it back.‖

―All right, maybe just a trim. I‘ll get changed. Be right out.‖
Janet prowled the loft, curious about David‘s latest creation.

Unlike  his  father,  who  designed  more  traditional  pieces,  David
dipped into a darker psyche to release his inner demons. His work
spoke  to  compelling,  epic  battles  of  good  versus  evil,  while  his
father‘s  lifted  spirits  into  a  lightness  of  being.  Two  sides  of  the
same coin, dark and light, forever at loggerheads. That his father
had  scored  the  commission  to  produce  a  monumental  sculpture
for  the  yet-to-be-constructed,  groundbreaking  architectural
wonder  of  a  Hilton  in  Dubai  spoke  of  his  universality  of  appeal
across diverse cultures.

David was more an acquired taste, but his popularity and

devoted  following  made  him  a  force  to  be  reckoned  with,  and  a
viable  competitor  in  the  fickle  arena  that  made  up  the  art  world.
David  had  had  sufficient  success  to  allow  himself  the  luxury  of
breaking  away  to  fund  his  gallery,  sinking  every  penny  into  it,
risking  all  to  follow  his  dream.  She  both  admired  and  rued  his
youthful  enthusiasm.  Being  ten  years  his  senior,  and  light  years

Sculpting David

ahead  in  keeping  a  savvy  pulse  on  the  shark-infested  waters  that
made  up  the  Big  Apple‘s  art  scene,  had  lent  her  a  valuable
perspective on his odds for success. She felt cautiously optimistic,
especially  if  he  could  secure  the  Maurel  woman  in  this  opening
salvo.

David came striding out of his bedroom and stopped at Janet‘s

frowning visage. ―What?‖

―Honestly, don‘t you have anything other than torn jeans and T-

shirts?‖

―Uh, nope. This is it.‖ He shrugged on well-worn Red Wings,

laced them quickly and grabbed a leather jacket off the hook by the
door.

―Let‘s get this over with.‖ He held the door as Janet sidled past,

careful not to touch him.

―When‘s Gustavo getting home? Is he still in Brazil?‖
―He‘ll be back next week. He‘s setting up some supply chain

thing in São Paulo. I should hear from him tonight.‖

Though rarely home, her husband stayed in touch via email,

usually on a daily basis. They‘d been married fifteen years with no
children, and had an understanding that allowed Janet
considerable freedom in her choice of friendships. She and David
never made any allusions to romantic entanglements. Theirs was a
mutually agreeable pairing, both business and personal, neither of
them demanding or expecting more than what they currently
enjoyed.

―I should be done with dinner before midnight. Do you want me

to come over?‖

Janet assessed him briefly. ―Um, that would be very nice.‖
She pushed out the door, her arm raised to hail a cab. David let

loose a piercing whistle and stepped in front of an empty cab—
neither he nor the cabbie concerned at the near miss. Janet slid in

and gracefully crossed her slim legs. David sat against the opposite
window,  careful  not  to  touch  her,  the  distancing  part  of  their
agreement.  No  outward  signs  of  affection,  ever,  unless  in  the
privacy  of  her  beautifully  appointed  bedroom.  David  sometimes
wished for more, but the sex was regular, at least regular enough
that  he  seldom  concerned  himself  with  passion,  or  the  lack  of  it.
What passion consumed his soul, he placed into his creations, not
his physical hobbies. He worked out at Bally‘s several times a week
and  with  Janet  in  between  sessions—an  undemanding  and
satisfying arrangement all around.

David drew his gaze from the cab window. ―So when are you

meeting with the Maurel woman?‖

―I scheduled an appointment for Thursday afternoon. I have to

drive  down  to  Washington,  D.C.  anyway.  The  lighting  fixtures
came in, but I need to see them before we commit to delivery. And
I  want  to  consult  with  that  security  firm.  I  still  like  the  one
uptown,  but  with  your  budget,  it  doesn‘t  hurt  to  have  another
estimate.‖  Janet  examined  an  imaginary  speck  of  dust  on  her
commuter  coat.  ―Did  you  know  her  father  has  been  after  her  to
come home to Paris?‖

―No. Where‘d you hear that?‖
―From a friend of a friend. Jacques has been going through

administrative  assistants  with  disturbing  frequency  ever  since
Clarisse‘s  death.  Some  of  them  like  to  chat.  A  few  even  have
interesting  things  to  say.‖  She  smiled  slyly.  ―From  what  I  hear,
Papa has offered her a position in his studio.‖

―As what? A sculptor? She‘s a painter—and a damned

extraordinary one at that. And I‘ve been under the impression
Jacques isn‘t exactly the sharing type.‖

―Yes, well, things change as you get older. I think he really

wants to bring his only child back into the fold.‖

Sculpting David

―That won‘t complicate our offer, will it?‖
―I don‘t see why it should.‖ Janet shrugged, but she wasn‘t as

sure  as  she  made  it  sound.  Word  on  the  street  had  her  linked  to
the  swimming  coach  at  the  University  of  Pennsylvania,  though  it
appeared  to  be  one  of  those  on-again,  off-again,  May-December
relationships.  How  that  might  factor  into  whether  she  stayed  or
returned to Paris was anyone‘s guess.

―Ah, here we are. Now, David, promise you‘ll be nice to Arturo.‖
―I‘m always nice.‖
Janet grimaced and geared herself for a trying afternoon.

Chapter Three

Happy Meals

―Dad. Mom. Janet couldn‘t join us.‖
David leaned down to give his mother a peck on the cheek. She

looked  as  radiantly  beautiful  as  ever,  perhaps  more  so,  age  and
wisdom conspiring to coat her with a patina of elegance and grace.
Strong Russian genes and a lifetime of ballet training left her lean
of  build,  ephemeral  and  compelling,  a  red-haired  temptress  with
piercing green eyes and haughty demeanor. That Elena Stefanova
had chosen oils over ballet was the dancing world‘s greatest loss,
but  an  uncommon  gift  to  the  savants  with  whom  she  shared  a
visionary‘s dream. David had never been so much her child as her
personal  work  of  art,  one  she  indulged  and  pampered.  David
idolized his mother, his approachable goddess, the one being who
saw into his demented soul and loved him without reservation.

His father? Not so much. Adrian Michaels epitomized the alpha

male.  Ruggedly  handsome,  solid  and  square,  he  looked  more  a
dock worker than a renowned sculptor. Adrian stood to shake his
son‘s  hand,  holding  it  a  moment  longer  than  necessary,  staring
David  down  in  a  long-suffering  display  of  testosterone  and
dominance.  David  frowned  and  glared  back  at  his  father,  taking
the  measure  of  a  man  in  the  prime  of  his  life,  masterful,  sure  of
himself.

Adrian stood just shy of six feet tall, with an almost military

bearing, though he‘d never served. At fifty-six, he still retained a
full head of hair, reddish brown shot through with silver. Like his
son, he bore scars from mishaps in the studio, his a long slice

Sculpting David

running from his left temple down the axis of his cheek and ending
at a strong square chin, David‘s a scar bisecting his right eyebrow.
Both had strong hands with short powerful fingers, gnarled
knuckles, and chipped and tattered fingernails.

Adrian waved for David to sit. The three sorted out how the

dinner would go down—David praying for a miracle, his mother
hoping for peace, his father intent on having his way. The waiter
entered the war zone, smiled pleasantly, then left with a thin sheen
of sweat coating his forehead.

―About the commission, son.‖ David took a deep breath and

fingered the knife. His mother looked askance at Adrian and her
son.

―Nyet. Nyet, ne sevodnya vecheram. Adrian, you promised….‖
―What? I was just going to explain that I might need his help

with  the  initial  design  elements.‖  Adrian  glared  at  David.  ―After
all,  we  sent  you  to  the  premier  school  for  sculptors  on  the  east
coast.  It  wouldn‘t  kill  you  to  apply  some  of  that  knowledge,  now
would it?‖

Oh, here we go. Bring up Virginia Commonwealth University.

How he spent five years and his inheritance squandering his
talents. How he never lived up to his promise. How he pandered
to a dark and forbidding world of sensual thematic elements—his
father called them sick fucks—and how he‟d now throw what little
fame and security he‟d earned down the toilet.

Elena sucked air audibly and tapped a fingernail against her

water glass. The waiter slid her salad cautiously onto the table and
backed away, almost bowing from the waist.

David turned to the waiter and growled, ―Scotch, double, neat.‖
―Make that two.‖ Adrian glanced at his wife, wearing her

darkest Russian Princess visage, then thought about the odds of
ever having sex with her again and decided it wasn‘t worth the

risk. ―So, tell me about this gallery thing. How‘s that going?‖

David was used to his father‘s whiplash changes of pace. He

knew exactly what message his mother had sent, and the thought
both embarrassed and tickled him no end. She was the only
person in the universe who could rein in his dominating father
with merely a look.

David opted to play along, for his mother‘s sake, if nothing else.

―It‘s fine. We have three of the four artists signed already. Janet
will head to Philadelphia to talk with the fourth. She does oils and
mixed media. I‘ve seen her work, and it‘s unusual to say the least.
She‘s got a small following in Philly. I think we can blow her sky
high into a major figure with the right exposure.‖

Elena looked up with interest. ―And who is this woman who has

you so excited?‖

Uh-oh. This might get tricky. ―Her name is Jacqueline Maurel.‖
―Maurel? You mean Jacques Maurel‘s daughter? The student at

Penn?‖ Adrian chugged his scotch and slammed the tumbler on
the table so hard it made Elena‘s salad plate jump.

Elena held up a hand. ―I hear she is quite talented. But dark,

very dark. I can understand what you see in her work. Two of a
kind, I think. Yes, this makes sense to me.‖

The waiter approached once again, slipping the salad plate away

and  bowing  obeisance  with  shrimp  and  steamed  vegetables.
Adrian and David glared at each other, ignoring their plates with
the  blood-red  chum  masquerading  as  rare  sirloin.  David  finally
relented,  his  stomach  giving  a  growl  as  the  odor  of  man-food
wafted past his nose. He hadn‘t eaten all day. No point in letting
the old man ruin a perfectly good piece of meat.

―So, Dad, when do you go to Dubai to scope out the hotel?‖
Shifting attention to his father‘s singular passion eased the

conversation onto a less adversarial level. David actually enjoyed

Sculpting David

hearing his father wax poetic over his latest creation. He admired
his  father.  He  just  didn‘t  want  to  be  his  clone.  He  was  twenty-
eight, after all—no longer a young man. He had a mind of his own,
and  dreams  and  goals  that  were  his  to  win  or  lose.  His  father
might cast a long shadow, but David vowed to thrust it aside and
find  his  own  version  of  light.  Dinner  passed,  endured  if  not
enjoyed.

On the sidewalk outside the restaurant, Elena reached up on

tip-toe to hug and kiss her handsome son. ―Be well, David. Call
me.‖ She winked and turned away to enter the cab.

David shook his father‘s hand and waved them off. He watched

with sadness, wishing he could make his father proud. Perhaps
someday. He hailed a cab and headed for Janet‘s, not sure he was
in the mood. Tonight had developed into nothing more than
something to get through. He doubted Janet would even notice his
lack of enthusiasm.

* * * *

―Hi, babe. Let me take your coat.‖
Tom slid Jackie‘s quilted coat off her broad shoulders,

marveling at the muscles and her beautiful back. She‘d gone with a
halter  top  that  skimmed  her  breasts  and  plunged  low  behind,  a
daring choice for such a cold night, and one meant specifically to
titillate  him.  He  stroked  her  arms  and  wrapped  her  in  a  warm
embrace,  breathing  softly  against  her  neck.  At  five-foot-ten  he
wasn‘t that much taller, so she fit against him comfortably.

―Are you hungry?‖
―Yeah, very.‖ Jackie spun around to nuzzle his neck, her hands

wandering over his chest, then lingering on his hips, pulling him
ever so slightly against her groin. He felt the bulge growing and

sighed. He‘d wanted to make this a prolonged seduction, but it had
been too long, and he felt the tide rising, fast and furious. At this
rate he was skipping dessert and heading right to the appetizer.

―I‘ve got thick and gooey mozzarella with sliced Roma tomatoes

and a fresh bruschetta. I made the crust myself this time. And
there‘s green pepper, mushrooms and black olives.‖ He angled her
into his bedroom, kissing her eyes, her chin, and her neck.

―No sausage?‖
―Oh yeah, babe, I‘ve got sausage.‖ He grinned wickedly at her.
―All right, then. Did you preheat the oven?‖
―God, did I ever.‖ Tom‘s chest felt the first flutter, the

improbable  pounding  rhythm  that  she  always  drew  from  deep
within, her artist‘s fingers painting a picture of sensual joy over his
chest  and  belly.  She  slipped  his  Tee  shirt  off,  using  her  sharp
fingernails  to  trace  a  meandering  path  of  sensation  around  his
nipples, then down to his belly, probing below the waistband of his
jeans.

Jackie loved the feel of his skin, tantalizingly warm and smooth.

Like  many  swimmers  he  endured  the  waxing  to  keep  his  frame
nearly  frictionless  in  the  water,  allowing  no  resistance.  His
muscles  flowed  like  liquid  under  her  tender  probing.  She  gently
pulled  the  zipper  on  his  jeans  and  slid  them  down,  then  traced
paths up the inside of his thighs with her slender fingers, lingering
briefly to tease him until he groaned softly.

She backed away, inviting, but he seemed transfixed on her

breasts, almost afraid to move lest she vanish in a puff of smoke.
She‘d never seen him quite this needy, his eyes filled with yearning
and something more. Untying the halter top, she freed her breasts
and marveled at his sharp intake of breath. He rubbed his thighs
mindlessly as he stared, licking his lips in anticipation. Slowly,
ever so slowly, she eased out of her corduroys and the flimsy

Sculpting David

thong, stepping away from the puddle of fabric and taking his
hand to lead him to the bed.

Tom felt confused, unsure of himself, wanting something, just

not  quite  conscious  of  what  that  might  be. His  cock  had  no  such
qualms,  demanding  his  full  attention  as  he  took  her  hand,
following with hungry eyes the line of her broad shoulders vee-ing
into  a  spine  curved  with  such  delicacy,  masking  strength  and
endurance and sheer, unadulterated power. Power he understood.
Power  to  lift  her  body,  back  arched,  arms  in  a  curved  wingspan,
reaching, pulling, then shoving against the resistant fluid to spring
her forward, a zephyr in motion. Splashless. Perfect.

He moaned in inner turmoil, dear God, I want her bad, I want

her now, I want. . . .

Jacqui turned to stare, curious at her lover‘s strange expression,

one he‘d often worn when she‘d been competing, racing alongside
the pool, exhorting her to greater effort—do this, no! not that, up,
push forward, legs dammit!—echoing off the walls, lost as she
buried herself in the motion, then a sharp phrase, snapped in two.
Gone again. But she knew the mantra, knew the passion that drove
it, knew the man and his driving need to succeed through her, with
her. She suspected he loved her with that same intensity, though
he seldom let himself go. Did he fear the intimacy? Would he hold
back if she asked for more, if she pushed him, did she dare?

Jackie settled onto the edge of the bed, her bare rump nestled

against  cool  cotton  sheets,  linen  rough,  man  sheets—no  silky
smooth  nest  to  coddle  his  slim  form.  She  liked  the  texture.  It
suited  him  with  his  long  lines  and  lean  muscling.  She  held  out  a
hand  to  stop  his  advance.  He  looked  ready  to  haul  her  flat  and
have his way with her. Not one for the slow burn, her lover. Until
tonight she‘d always opened to him immediately and he‘d sink his
cock  deep,  then  wait  for  her  to  lift  her  hips  and  he‘d  start  a

rhythmic thrust, suspended above her slick body, barely touching,
eyes shut in a rictus of intense pleasure.

He‘d taught her how to use her muscles, to tighten and tease

and drive with her lower body, using her back and legs to ride his
hips like a bucking bronco, skin slapping skin until they both
shimmered in sheens of sweat. And he‘d come on a moan and
collapse against her, spent.

He‘d shown her how to satisfy herself, guiding her fingers to the

swollen folds, finding the knubby peak, letting her stroke it while
he used blunt fingers to rasp against the inner walls, slick with his
seed, working in concert until she felt the tide rise and release like
a  series  of  soft  wavelets.  Ever  considerate,  he‘d  insisted  she  find
relief, though at times it seemed—not enough. Then he would curl
around  her  in  dreamless  sleep  while  she‘d  ponder  the  strange
visions haunting her, visions of demons and acts unspeakable, so
filled  with  lust  she‘d  shiver  in  desire  and  he‘d  tighten  his  hold
unconsciously.

Such were the patterns in her life. With her father, with Tom,

but  never  with  her  work.  She  relied  on  her  demons  to  keep  her
sane,  on  edge,  skidding  headstrong  into  the  next  level  of  hell
where  something,  someone,  waited  for  her.  Perhaps  tonight  she
would take the first step in finding the level she sought.

Tom ached with the anticipation, his cock thick and pulsing to

some nameless melody of blood coursing through his veins. He
frantically wanted to bury himself and ride her, ride her hard. Why
wouldn‘t she let him mount? Why did she pause and keep him
away from what he so desperately desired?

The comforting fragrance of tomato sauce and sausage

simmering on low wafted about his small bedroom, causing his
stomach to growl, adding to the cacophony of sensations
pummeling his eager body. Taste, he needed to taste her tonight.

Sculpting David

He thought of the hot sauce slathered over her taut belly, imagined
her watching him lick the rich red goodness oozing past her slim
hip and runneling into the soft creases cradling her secret place.

He licked his lips in anticipation, his mind shifting gears,

worrying slightly if she would balk if he asked her to taste him. He
leaned  in,  cradling  his  cock  with  both  hands,  using  a  finger  to
sweep the pre-cum across the tip, using soft swirls to spread it out
and  down.  Her  eyes  widened  in  understanding  and  his  gut
clenched  when  she  moved  toward  him,  lips  parted,  reaching.  He
held  himself  steady,  stroking  lightly  as  she  extended  her  tongue,
hesitant  at  first.  Shyly,  she  licked  his  slick  tip,  curiosity  quickly
turning  to  eagerness  as  a  moan  escaped  from  deep  inside  some
primal  well  of  unimagined  desire.  Had  that  been  her  or  him,  or
both? He didn‘t know. He didn‘t care.

He husked, ―Take me in your mouth. I want to feel your heat.

Oh God, yes, that‘s it.‖

Jackie quivered with excitement. She‘d only dreamed of doing

this,  fanaticized  how  it  would  feel,  taste,  smell,  a  cornucopia  of
sweet  sensations.  The  imagining  had  set  her  groin  on  fire,  the
reality was infinitely better. Musk, his male essence, intermingled
with the aroma of their simmering  dinner, setting her taste buds
on  high  alert.  She  eagerly  drew  his  length  into  her  mouth,
tonguing the ridge and the long vein, now bulging and pulsing, as
she suckled and pulled in synch with his raspy breaths.

She eased his hands away. ―Let me do that.‖
With soft strokes she ran her fingers down the purpling length,

amazed at how it, he, responded to every stroke, realizing this was
how  it  must  be  when  he  buried  to  the  hilt  inside  her,  where  she
could only feel the fullness, not see or smell or taste, only half the
experience,  half  the  sensation.  That  she  could  give  him  more
surprised  and  delighted,  and  for  a  moment,  she  flashed  on  how

this could translate to a canvas, how she might capture this blast
of inner knowledge, this clarity that lust releases.

Tom rotated his hips, nearly insane at the pleasurable

sensations,  as  she  quickly  mastered  him,  managing  his  very
essence  with  deft  licks,  as  his  body  threatened  to  erupt.  He  held
back, but his control fractured, hanging by a thread as she cradled
his soft sacs, twirling them with nimble fingers as she raked sharp
teeth across the vein.  It was a startling mix  of pleasure-pain that
drove  him  to  the  edge.  He  twined  her  short  curls  in  his  hands,
guiding,  supporting,  and  finally  demanding.  He  was  unable  to
resist, unable to think, let alone breathe. His chest strained at the
effort to maintain some semblance of restraint but he knew he had
but moments before he would release.

The final assault, a sharp fingernail grazed the slit, then probed,

shifting and pinching the opening until he could bear it no longer.
He grasped her face and begged with fierce urgency for her to give
him relief. She grasped his thighs in a painful squeeze and laved
the tip. His hips bucked and he came with a roar, blindsided by
her daring, frantic in his release.

Jackie marveled at the power of his thrusts, yielding to his

movement and glorying in the rush of hot fluid streaming onto her
eager mouth. She suckled and pulled and stroked, extending his
pleasure, as her groin clutched and blood rushed to engorge her
folds and she knew she would come at a touch.

―Enough, sweetheart, enough.‖ Tom gently guided her away

from his aching member, cradling her face with wonder. ―Now it‘s
your turn, love.‖

He grabbed a handful of tissues and wiped her clean, then

settled  her  back  against  the  pillows  and  lay  alongside  her,  chest
still  heaving  as  he  labored  to  fill  his  lungs.  He  ran  his  hand
between  her  legs,  slick  and  ready.  He  almost  wished  he  was  the

Sculpting David

man he used to be, ready for round two almost instantly, but that
was a lifetime of abuse ago, and he no longer pretended to be more
than he was. That she had coaxed such intense passion out of him
tonight was a gift he would treasure forever. With urgent strokes
he pressed and rubbed until he felt her clench and ride the waves,
bucking and hissing a sigh.

He nuzzled her neck and rolled her over to spoon her solid form

against his chest. He whispered in her ear, ―I love you.‖ Within
minutes he drifted to sleep, dreamless, knowing she would be
there when he awoke.

Jackie listened to the light snoring and relaxed, allowing herself

to float into a half-waking state, the canvas in her mind peeking
from behind a shroud of purplish haze, as she savored the flavors
of sin, a mere taste, a tease. She knew she wanted more, much
more.

She‘d heard his whispered endearment and quivered at what it

might mean. She wasn‘t sure how she felt, deep down. She cared,
very much so. That was a certainty. Tom had been her first and
only, but she wasn‘t sure she understood what it meant to be in
love, not really. She‗d have to think on that.

Smiling, she murmured, ―I guess dinner will be late.‖

Chapter Four

Dessert for One

David exited from the cab and did a double-take. He had meant

to go to Janet‘s—he was indeed expected—but he had
inadvertently given the cabbie the address for his building. He
rubbed his chin in consternation. She was not one who would take
kindly to being stood up, forbearance never being her strong suit,
and that made her an excellent partner in business. He would be
lost without her persistence and attention to detail and brook-no-
argument demeanor. But, for tonight, all those desirable qualities
added up to a boatload of hell-to-pay for him.

Thoroughly irritated with himself, David slid onto the back seat

and growled at the cabbie, now turned around to stare at his
passenger with curiosity.

―Melar,‖ he barked, ―and step on it.‖
The cabbie gave him a ‗your nickel‘ shrug and veered into the

light traffic, narrowly missing a stretch limo nosing its way past
double-parked vans and beaters. Yanking his mic off the
dashboard, he muttered in rapid-fire Farsi to his base station, then
settled into driving one-handed with scant attention to speed limit
or traffic signals.

David stretched a long leg across the seat and considered his

options.  Despite  his  mother‘s  best  efforts,  David  had  come  away
from their dinner in a foul mood. His irritation with his father and
the  strain  of  trying  to  pull  off  a  major  gallery  opening  with  total
unknowns  turned  his  gut  to  jelly.  Added  to  that  was  the
uncertainty  of  securing  the  most  important  element,  the  Maurel

Sculpting David

woman, whose work would shock, bemuse, titillate and thoroughly
rock those insular critics onto their collective asses. He wasn‘t
aiming for a simple success, he was looking to hit it out of the
park, bases loaded.

The cab jerked to a stop, jolting David out of a half-doze. He

threw bills at the cabbie and dragged his long form awkwardly out
the passenger side. The doorman was halfway to the cab but
backpedaled quickly when he recognized David and hastened to
hold the door.

He brushed past the older man, then remembered his manners

and mumbled ―Thank you‖ as he advanced to the elevators.
Mercifully, the muzak was off for the night, so he could lose
himself in his ill temper. Wallowing in fancy, his mother called it,
chalking it up to his Russian heritage. His father was more colorful
and blunt in his description.

The elevators doors shushed open to a dead silent hall, colors

and  sound  all  muted  in  soothing  pale  shades  of  tan  and  eggshell
and  puce  that  insulted  the  senses  with  lack  of  definition.  David
rubbed  at  his  temple,  then  turned  left  and  stalked  to  Janet‘s
apartment. He was about to pound her door into scrap, but before
he could lay a hand on the ornately carved wood, the door swung
open  on  silent  hinges.  Janet  backed  away,  leaving  David  with  a
scowl and a need to ram his fist into something solid.

―I thought you would be here sooner,‖ Janet intoned softly, with

a very slight uptick that spoke volumes about her state of mind,
that state not being particularly welcoming.

―My father,‖ David growled and let it drop.
―Ah.‖
David stomped into the kitchen and rustled in the refrigerator,

flinging items from one side to the other.

―In the freezer, dear.‖

He grunted ―unh‖ and yanked open the lower freezer

compartment to grab the bottle of vodka. He stared at the Grey
Goose label for a moment, then pawed through the cabinets until
he found a glass tumbler. He wrenched open the cap and poured a
generous dollop, gulped it back with a shudder and splashed
another, repeating until only a third of the bottle remained to sit
warming on the Corian countertop.

Janet sat bemused on the other side of the pass-through

counter area, tapping a fingernail in a staccato rhythm. ―Have you
had quite enough?‖ She‘d never seen him take more than a couple
of mixed drinks in all the years they‘d been keeping company. She
snickered mentally at that quaint expression.

David set the tumbler carefully in the sink and replaced the

bottle in the freezer compartment, all movement done with
exaggerated care. He brushed his long hair off his face and walked
unsteadily around the counter to slide onto the seat next to his
mistress.

―You wanted me. Here I am, at your beck and call, Madame.‖
―David, I don‘t think tonight is a good time for this.‖
―It‘s a perfect time. Way past time, don‘t you think?‖
―I don‘t know what you mean and I don‘t especially care for

your tone,‖ she muttered, ―even if you are drunk.‖

―I haven‘t begun to get drunk. I haven‘t begun anything. It‘s all

for somebody else. Never for me.‖

Janet sighed and shook her head. She‘d heard this before, many

times, though never with such anger, or such angst.

―David, lie down on the bed for a while. You are stressed, you

aren‘t sleeping, and you haven‘t had time to do your own work let
alone what needs to be done with the opening.‖

Janet stood up and touched his shoulder, inviting him to follow

her into the bedroom. Wearily he lunged off the stool and trailed

Sculpting David

after  the  elegant  woman  sashaying  provocatively  in  sling-back
sandals  with  three  inch  heels.  She‘d  changed  from  her  business
suit into a softly draped silk chemise in hues of apricot and melon.
It  was  one  of  his  favorites  and  he  realized  with  a  start that  she‘d
taken some care with her appearance. Not that she didn‘t always,
but  somehow  tonight  that  simple  fact  had  importance,  and  he
hadn‘t enough brain cells functioning to understand the how and
why.  That  it  irritated  him  as  an  additional  affront  he  could  not
explain.

Janet fussed with the duvet, plumped pillows and smoothed the

sheets with exaggerated care. David wanted nothing more than to
do a face plant on her spacious bed, but after watching her bend
over with the silk fabric in a gentle fall around her slim hips he felt
his cock respond and an unfamiliar burn in his gut that went
beyond the vodka coursing through his system. He had thought on
his way up, I‟m not interested, but now he understood that it was
the ‗same-old, same-old‘ that no longer interested him.

What he wanted was the passion he poured into his work, the

intensity, the flame, the chorus of angels that guided his hand. He
fashioned ideas from stone, released souls from bondage, trapped
demons and things not of the earth in cells of marble and bronze.
He  coupled  with  his  work  in  ways  no  lover  could  comprehend.
What  he  wanted  tonight  was  just  one  moment  where  he  could
wreak  havoc  on  another  human,  pour  his  heart,  his  needs,  his
desires into one vessel—organic, living art.

David murmured softly, ―Tonight you will do what I want. Feel

what I want you to feel.‖

―David, I think this is quite enough. I am tired and not

interested in playing games. You need rest. We can talk about this
in the morning.‖

―I don‘t think so.‖ David pressed into Janet, pushing her against

the bed until she yielded and sat down unceremoniously. He
expected her classic sneer or shock or even anger. He‘d hoped for a
frisson of fear, but what he got was fleeting interest until she drew
the mask of patience that hid the real woman from the prying eyes
of her upper class world.

David loomed over her, his unkempt hair falling in a tangled

mass across his handsome face, hiding the flush of passion and
demonic intent. His hot breath, reeking of alcohol, forced Janet to
turn away, wrinkling her nose expressively.

―Look at me.‖
―I would rather not, David.‖
―Oh, but David wants you to look. David wants you to see what

he‘s going to do. David will get a turn tonight.‖

Janet‘s voice hitched when she realized he wasn‘t quite as drunk

as he‘d seemed and that left him capable of taking her whether she
agreed or not. Somehow, just giving in would not satisfy him, not
tonight. Discovering how far he‘d go had a certain appeal, though
she was all too aware of his darker urges and did not feel prepared
to handle the violence and masculine power lurking just below the
surface.

Appealing to his sense of normalcy, she brightly chirped, ―Then

let me up and I‘ll prepare myself for bed.‖

Janet twisted away from the arms that effectively caged her,

lean sinew and bulging biceps trapping her against a cloud from
which she would have difficulty extricating herself.

―Stay down,‖ he hissed, pressing her shoulder with his left hand

while he undid his belt and zipper, then fumbled to release his
throbbing cock.

Janet felt a wave of pressure between her legs, an unfamiliar,

demanding sensation. She licked her lips in anticipation of the
slick slide of her tongue on his impressive length, the taste, the

Sculpting David

control she would have. All he needed was a release, a way to
channel that aggression and anxiety. This she could do without
engaging in some silly male dominance caveman game.

David could barely stand the pressure in his groin, like a metal

band  being  tightened  around  his  cock.  He  needed  her  clever
tongue  to  tease  with  hot  warmth,  kneeling  at  his  feet,  paying
obeisance,  worshipping  his  manhood.  He  wanted  to  tousle  her
hair  and  hold  her  face  with  his  hands  while  he  thrust  into  her
sweet mouth. He wanted to take her hard  and fast and rough, to
have  her  fight  him,  beg  him  to  stop, then  beg  him  to  never  stop.
He  wanted  to  hear  screams  of  ecstasy  and  moans  of  passion
instead of restrained sighs and stealing away in the night.

Janet shimmied to the edge of the bed and sat up enough to

grasp his hips and pull him close. Tentatively, still unsure how
best to defuse his volatile temper, she risked a gentle laving of the
tip, savoring the salty taste of the pre-cum. He hissed his pleasure
and urged her on, but she feared he‘d ask for more than she could
handle, his length too long and her mouth too dry from tension.

She whispered, ―I‘m sorry, I can‘t. . . . ‖
He muttered, ―Shit. Roll over.‖
―What?‖
―Damn it, I can‘t wait any longer. Turn over. Now.‖
Janet struggled to comply but David lost what little patience he

had  and  rudely  flipped  her  on  her  belly.  He  threw  the  skirt  over
her  butt  and  yanked  on  the  lace  panties  so  hard  they  ripped  and
fell away. With ridiculous ease, he scooped her into a jack-knifed
position, kneed her thighs apart and plunged himself to the hilt so
hard her lungs expelled a grunt of air. Like a madman he thrust as
hard and as fast as he could until she thought her cervix would fly
up  her  throat.  She  wanted  to  ride  the  sensation  with  him  but  he
was out of control, heedless of her, and before she could adjust, his

hot seed spilled and filled her.

With every thrust David moaned ―I‘m sorry. I‘m sorry. I‘m

sorry,‖ until, spent, he gently set her down and pulled the skirt to
her knees.

Janet sighed at the state of her dress and the unaccustomed

sticky mess between her legs. That he had failed to use a condom
insulted  her  fastidious  nature.  That  she  had  almost  enjoyed  the
experience  came  as  a  shock.  She  would  have  to  work  up  some
righteous  indignation,  but  at  the  moment  was  too  tired  and
concerned  for  David‘s  well-being  to  give  thought  to  her  own
reactions.  It  had  been  almost  invigorating  to  be  the  recipient  of
such passion. This was new and unexpected and she would need to
give it careful consideration, later. For now, she would do damage
control.

David hurriedly dressed and headed for the bathroom to give

Janet time to compose herself. He splashed cold water on his face
and dried off with one of her frilly towels. He was not proud of
what he had done, but not ashamed either. It would be up to her to
accept or reject the demon he kept hidden from the world.

Janet knocked softly on the bathroom door. ―David, dearest, I

need to take a shower.‖

David opened the door and stuttered, ―Janet. . . . ‖
―It‘s all right, dear. I‘m quite fine. That was, shall we say—

interesting. You are welcome to stay the night if you wish.‖

―No. No, I‘ll call a cab. I need to think. . . . ‖
―I understand. Will I see you at lunch tomorrow? We still need

to go over the rental agreement. Anton‘s? Say two o‘clock?‖ The
look of relief on his face made him seem like a giddy teenager.

Before she closed the door, she spoke with conviction, ―Use

that, David, that passion. It is what will make you great.‖

David exited the apartment, backed against the wall and felt the

Chapter Five

Meet ‘n Greet

Jackie threw another outfit onto her queen-sized bed. The tiny

bedroom lapped up yet another casualty from a wardrobe-
challenged athlete bent on making a good impression with only
twenty minutes left on the clock.

―Jesus. I have nothing to wear! One of the biggest agents in New

York  City,  and  all  I‘ve  got  are  sweats  and  cords.  God,  maybe  I
should  just  wear  a  Speedo  and  be  done  with  it!  Okay,  okay,
breathe,  deep  cleansing  breaths.‖  Jackie  grabbed  her  cell  and  hit
speed dial.

―Tom!‖ she wailed long and loud, leaving him chuckling and

unsympathetic. He was used to his precious drama queen,
knowing she‘d make a good impression stark naked, and that
thought had the expected response.

―Babe, wear the black slacks I bought for you for last year‘s

opening. Go with a turtleneck and the jacket. Do you know the
one?‖

―I see it. It was behind the easel. Oh God, Tom. I‘m going to

blow it. Can‘t you come over? Please?‖

―I would, but it‘s already too late, and you don‘t need me.

You‘ve done this before. It‘s about the work, babe. Talk about it,
share your passion. Let what you do speak for itself. Everything
else will fall into place.‖

―Yes, you‘re right, you‘re always right. Gotta go! I‘ll call you

later. Bye.‖

Jackie shrugged into her outfit, surprised it still fit, given that

Sculpting David

she  wasn‘t  swimming  quite  as  much,  what  with  the  demands  of
her classes and the thesis. She ran her hands through her pixie cut,
static  and  nature  creating  a  striking  halo  of  spiky  dark  brown
fringes.  After  swiping  mascara  over  lashes  framing  intense  hazel
eyes,  she  followed  with  a  bit  of  blush,  completing  her  grooming
regimen.

―Ready as I‘ll ever be.‖
She skipped down the stairs to await the arrival of Janet

Olivera-Guitierrez, General Manager for Dark Visions Galleries.
Jackie rehearsed her spiel. She‘d do the howdy-do‘s and guide Her
Ladyship downstairs to the mini-gallery her landlord had
graciously provided, once he‘d figured out he had a minor celebrity
residing in his two room walk-up.

The light rap startled Jackie out of her reverie. She opened the

door to a stunningly gorgeous woman of indeterminate age,
reeking of breeding, wealth and power. Oh shit, this isn‟t going to
go well, she thought. I‟m in the deep end for sure.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle. Comment allez-vous? Je m‟appelle

Janet Olivera-Guitierrez. Je suis content de vous rencontrer.”

―Madame Guitierrez. Please come in.‖
―Call me Janet. I‘ve looked forward to meeting you for quite

some time. I‘ve heard nothing but rave reviews for your work and
your singular vision.‖

Jackie blushed at the effusive praise. ―Would you like

something to drink? Or do you want to see my small collection
first?‖

―Please, let‘s do that first. Then we can have a nice chat. I‘m

anxious to get to know you, as is the owner of the Gallery.‖

―This way, please.‖ Jackie led Janet down the steep stairwell,

praying the woman wouldn‘t tumble to the base of the stairs in a
heap. ―I keep my themed work over here.‖ Jackie pointed to the far

wall. ―The individually-commissioned pieces that I‘m currently
working on are over there.‖

Janet sucked in an involuntary breath at the stark beauty and

disturbing  images  splayed  across  both  small  and  large  canvases.
Although  adept  in  acrylic,  Jacqueline  excelled  in  oils,  in  the
shading,  depth  of  perception,  the  layering  and  nearly  three-
dimensional  quality.  She‘d  adapted  chiaroscuro  into  an  entirely
different,  otherworldly  dimension,  an  almost  out-of-body
experience. David had been quite right. This one was a rare find,
indeed.  And  paired  with  Vincenti?  Almost  beyond  belief.  They
would be the talk of the town for months.

Jackie paced quietly behind the elegant woman, her hands

wearing a path along her thighs.

―Some people don‘t like my images so I do lighter stuff also.‖

Jackie pointed to a few pedestrian landscapes.

Janet gave them a cursory glance. They were well-done,

assuredly, just clearly not her forte.

―Those are very nice, my dear. But these. Oh, these are. . . .

Well,  I  simply  don‘t  have  the  words.‖  Janet  moved  back,  hands-
on-hips,  face  puckered  in  a  frown  of  intense  concentration.  ―Yes,
this one, and those two, definitely. We‘ll need two small. . . oh my!
The demons will do nicely. Vincenti is such a prude, he‘ll pee his
pants when we pair the two of you. Oh, I truly can‘t wait!‖ Janet
laughed  out  loud  and  clapped  her  hands  in  pure  joy.―Let‘s  go
upstairs and seriously speak about your future, my dear.‖

Jackie led the way to her small apartment, her stomach in

knots. This evening was beyond all her expectations. She could
barely wait to call Tom and tell him the news.

Settled onto the small settee and sipping from a mug of coffee,

Janet ran through the basic outline of the goals of the Gallery, the
owner‘s vision, the principals involved in the premier of artists

Sculpting David

new to the city, and the legal obligations of all parties involved.
Jackie barely heard the details, her head abuzz with possibilities,
already mapping out a new series, darker, more demanding, more
visceral.

―… and that‘s about it. Do you have any questions?‖
Jackie stared dumbly at Janet, then broke into a shy smile.
―You didn‘t get much of that, did you?‖ Janet patted Jackie‘s

hand.  ―It  will  be  fine.  Everything  will  be  spelled  out  clearly.  You
are  welcome  to  have  your  attorney  look  this  over  before
committing  to  us,  to  your  future.‖  Janet  handed  over  a  sheaf  of
papers. Jackie read through the first two paragraphs and stopped
short.

―Michaels? David Michaels is the owner?‖
―Yes. I‘m sorry. I thought you knew that.‖
―No, I didn‘t.‖ Chest tightening in a hard band of fear, Jackie

choked out, ―I don‘t think my father will approve, Ms. Guitierrez.
As  you  must  know,  my  father,  Jacques  Maurel,  and  Adrian
Michaels are—have been—bitter rivals for years.‖ Jackie stood and
paced  the  room  restlessly,  her  face  awash  in  pain.  ―There  is  a
history  between  them,  with  roots  deep  in  the  past.  My  father
would  never  forgive  me!  I‘m  sorry.  So  sorry.  My  answer  is  no.‖
Jackie handed her future back to an astounded Janet.

―Perhaps if you speak with your father, explain the

opportunities we offer? The contract will remain open unless, or
until, we secure an alternative. Please let me know if you change
your mind. I am truly sorry about this.‖ Janet rose, shrugged into
her coat and muttered, ―Such a waste.‖

―Thank you for coming. Again, I‘m so sorry.‖
―Bon soir, Madmoiselle.‖
―Good night.‖
Jackie leaned against the door, her gut in a knot. What had she

just done?

Despite her protestations to Tom that she wanted, needed,

independence from her redoubtable father, she loved him too
much to breach this particular wall. That long-standing animosity
between two giants in the art world ran deep and true. She would
answer the call of her blood on this matter. But she did not have to
like it.

A small tear trickled down her cheek as she slowly climbed the

stairs, leaving her hopes and destiny behind.

* * * *

―What do you mean, she won‘t accept our offer? What the hell

did you say to her? Jesus. No, I don‘t understand. This has nothing
to do with our goddamn fathers. Shit. Yeah, yeah. All right. See
what you can do. I‘ll talk to Dad and find out if he can do anything
from his end.‖

David slammed his cell on the counter, his face awash in rage.

The old farts had been squabbling since before he‘d been born.
Why the hell would their issues keep her from the opportunity of a
lifetime? It made no sense at all.

David paced around the freestanding kitchen counter, thinking

furiously.  There  had  to  be  something  he  could  do.  Maybe  if  he
went  to  Philadelphia  and  talked  with  her.  No,  that  wouldn‘t  fly.
She‘d probably just kick him out on his ass. She didn‘t know him
from Adam. All she‘d know was that he was Adrian Michael‘s son.
What if he could talk with her without her knowing who he was?
Okay,  that  might  work.  But,  how  to  do  that?  David  checked  the
wall calendar. Four months to the opening, four fucking months.

He flipped his phone open and made a call. ―Hey, Rich. It‘s

David. Yeah, happy whatever to you too. Listen, man, I have a

Sculpting David

favor to ask.‖

* * * *

Jackie sobbed quietly in Tom‘s arms. The dam had finally

drained, leaving a mere trickle and an empty Kleenex box.

―You know you can do whatever you want, babe. This has

nothing to do with your old man, and everything to do with your
future.‖

―But he‘s my father. He just lost Mom. What do you think this

will do to him, having me run to the enemy just so I can show my
work? He‘d never forgive me! You know how he is. I have only you
and my dad left in this entire world. I‘m not about to lose him just
because I selfishly want this thing.‖

―Shush, love. It will be okay. Everything gets sorted out

eventually.‖

Tom brushed his lips across Jackie‘s forehead, furiously

examining his options.

Chapter Six

Students Only Wanna Have Fun

―You‘re going to do what?‖ Janet threw the blankets to the foot

of the bed and sat up with a jerk.

―I‘m enrolled for classes at the University of Pennsylvania.

Auditing, actually. My money‘s good enough, and I have a buddy
in admin who put in a word for me.‖

―And what the hell is that going to accomplish? I need you here,

not down in Philadelphia on some fricking quest. David, please,
use the sense that God gave geese!‖

―This is the best I could come up with. I talked with Dad, and

you know how well that went. He about ripped me a new one. Now
he‘s not talking to me. Again. Not much of a downside to that as
far as I‘m concerned, but it‘s hard on Mom.‖

―So you pretend to be a student. And that helps us how?‖
―Well, she won‘t talk to me as David Michaels, so maybe she‘ll

get to know David Stefanov instead.‖ He frowned and asked, ―I can
be very persuasive sometimes, can‘t I?‖

―That‘s just it, David. You have all the social skills of a cloistered

nun. Oh, God help us. What if it fails?‖

―Well, I just waste some time and maybe pick up a few pointers

from the classes along the way. Come on, Janet. Give me
something here. Stroke the ego. Please. I‘ve got everything I have
riding on this opening. Vincenti is good but without Maurel‘s work
juxtaposed, he‘s just a plebian hack.‖

"Well, I‘m not going to argue that point. After seeing that young

woman‘s work. . . . All right, do it.‖ Janet stared at David‘s face,

Sculpting David

misery and anxiety etched in bold relief. She smiled kindly. ―Is
your ego the only thing that needs stroking?‖

* * * *

―Can I help you, son?‖ Tom watched the tall stranger curiously.

He was much too old to be an undergrad and even past the age for
most of the grad students.

―Yeah, I was hoping to meet a girl by the name of Jacqueline

Maurel. I heard she swam in the mornings. I‘m new to the
program, and I swim a little, so I thought it might be nice to meet
her.‖ Tom smiled as the man blushed bright scarlet.

―You need to get here by five-thirty if you want to meet Jackie.

And then you better swim real fast. I‘m Tom Holbein, by the way. I
coach swimming.‖ Tom extended a hand.

―I‘m David Stefanov.‖
―Well, David, class starts tomorrow. Are you in the MFA

program?‖

―Um, sort of. I‘m auditing right now until they get my transcript

and other shit squared away. I couldn‘t get in a lot of the classes I
wanted. I had to do a little creative bargaining to get in the oils
class.‖

―So that‘s your medium?‖
―Sculpture, actually. But I‘m examining my options.‖
―Well, good luck with that. Remember, five-thirty, no later. See

you.‖ Tom wandered away, doing a mental head scratch about the
odd fellow. Something didn‘t ring quite right with him.

David gave a deep sigh of relief after passing that grilling. He

hadn‘t expected to meet her coach, and supposed lover, right off
the bat. He seemed like a nice guy, but a little old for a twenty-five-
year-old girl. Oh well, not his problem. He needed to keep on

target. The whole operation had taken on a real cluster-fuck feel.
Coming in so late, he‘d had to make do with the 400 level classes,
and he was pretty sure she wouldn‘t be in any of those. The one he
knew she‘d be in was closed. No admittance, no way, no how. At
least, not with his clothes on. David shuddered involuntarily. He‘d
had to make a deal with the devil—volunteer to model in exchange
for partial participation in the nudes-in-oils section of the class.

He mentally did a head slap. God, what had he done? Andre,

the  other  volunteer,  said  there  was  nothing  to  it.  It  was  all  very
clinical,  very  professional.  Nobody  really  looked  at  you  as  a
person. How comforting. He‘d be a piece of meat. A piece of meat
who  needed  to  figure  out  a  way  to  strike  up  a  conversation  with
the woman he wanted to woo to his Dark Visions Gallery and fly in
the face of her father‘s ire. Damn. This wasn‘t going to go well at
all.

David had spent a fair amount of time wandering the campuses

of  NYU  and  Columbia,  and  even  the  New  School,  but  this
venerable  area  gave  him  pause.  He  was  particularly  interested  in
the  Fine  Arts  Library,  designed  by  Frank  Furness  and  completed
in  1891.  The  structure  was  a  breakthrough  in  library  design  with
skylights  and  clerestory  windows  lighting  the  reading  room,  as
well as having a separate stacks area for fireproof storage. A scene
from  the  movie  Philadelphia  had  been  filmed  near  to  the  spot
where  he  stood  admiring  the  bold  and  unconventional  lines.  He
looked  north  toward  Walnut  Street  trying  to  decide  where  to  go
next.

Jacqueline had had her first show at the Institute of

Contemporary Art, just off South 36

Street, a recent addition to

the campus, built sometime in the early nineties. He‘d check that
out later. Today he was intent on visiting the Palestra, hoping to
score student tickets to the men's basketball game with St. Jo‘s

Sculpting David

later in the week. He skipped across South 33

, dodging traffic,

and approached the legendary sports arena from the back side. A
half  hour  later  he  emerged,  giddy,  with  a  pocketful  of  tickets  for
both  men‘s  and  women‘s  games.  If  he  didn‘t  score  the  Maurel
chick  for  his  opening,  at  least  he‘d  die  a  happy  man  paying
obeisance to the basketball gods.

The weather promised to turn mean later in the day. The sky

was  already  a  gunmetal-gray,  leaving  the  Quad  deep  in  shadows,
its occupants quaking in the bitter chill. David wished he‘d had the
good sense to don a pair of pants without rips in the knees, but at
least  he  looked  the  part  of  student—tattered  jeans,  ratty  jacket,
and  unkempt  flyaway  shoulder  length  hair.  He‘d  stopped  at  the
bookstore to pick up a few items and the one required textbook.

He‘d brought his own art supplies for the oils class, all tucked

into an oak case he‘d constructed back when he‘d been an upstart
freshman at Commonwealth. It was still a thing of beauty to him,
carefully crafted and finished, though now showing signs of hard
use.  He‘d  replaced  the  clasp  at  least  twice  since  moving  into  the
loft. Though a sculptor by trade, he dabbled in oils and watercolor,
mostly  to  relax  and  explore  the  visions  that  translated  from  his
tortured mind into three-dimensional space. He‘d blamed his dark
Russian  genes  for  the  deeply  disturbing  images  that  both  bound
and freed him. Only his mother truly understood.

David made his way back to the studio walk-up he had lucked

into subletting from a friend of a very distant friend. He‘d been
head down, deep in thought, when a familiar voice broke through
his subconscious.

―David?‖ Janet moved off the steps and approached him, her

expression unreadable.

―Janet! What are you doing here? You shouldn‘t be in this

neighborhood. It‘s not the safest. Come on up. You look like a

ghost. What‘s wrong?‖

Janet dutifully followed him up the two long flights, making a

valiant effort not to breathe in the stale mix of week-old pizza,
urine and other unmentionable odors. David unlocked his door
and shoved it open for her to pass. She wore her usual handsome
commuter coat over tan wool slacks and sturdy waterproof boots,
more casual chic that he was used to, but at least she had dressed
for the coming weather.

Janet entered the small space and paused on an intake of air.

The  cluttered  room,  roughly  four  hundred  square  feet,  boasted  a
cot  and  a  single  curved-back  chair  with  torn  cushions.  A  tiny
round  table  doubled  as  desk  and  dining  surface.  His  kitchenette
consisted  of  a  mini-fridge  and  a  propane  camp  stove  set  on  a
board supported by two chipped cinder blocks. Hooks on the wall
served  as  a  wardrobe.  Michael‘s  suitcase  lay  open  in  a  corner,
already  a  mishmash  of  underwear  and  Tee  shirts  with  no
discernible organization. A small easel sat by the narrow curtain-
less window.

Janet stared at David for a long moment. ―You aren‘t serious,

are you? You‘re going to live in this pigsty? David?‖

He grinned at her discomfiture, then frowned as a single tear

escaped, funneling slowly down her beautiful face, leaving a faint
trace in her perfect makeup.

―Janet, it‘s not so bad. Really. . . . ‖ Startled, David realized she

wasn‘t crying for him or his situation, but for something else.
―Here. Give me your coat. Sit on the cot. It‘s the cleanest surface.‖
He slipped her coat off and hung it on an empty hook. He watched
her move heavily to the cot, examine it distastefully, yielding with
a shrug as she sank down, shoulders hunched, crying in earnest.

David crouched in front of her, clumsily brushing at her cheeks,

unsure what to do or say. Though used to his mother‘s histrionics

Sculpting David

and drama queen mannerisms, displays of true emotion had been
rare at home, so he was out of his depth. Without even Kleenex to
offer, he slipped the pillowcase off and handed her the frayed bit of
cotton. She choked back a laugh at his efforts and tried to get
control over the gushing flood of pain.

―It‘s Gustavo. He messengered divorce papers to the studio this

morning.‖

―Oh God, Janet. Because of us? I‘m so sorry.‖
―No, David. Not us. He found a young thing in São Paulo.

Apparently this has been going on for some time. She is pregnant
with his second child. I had no idea. I should have suspected
something, with him being down there so often. But I liked our
arrangement. It suited me, us.‖

David sat beside her and drew her into his arms. ―So what do

you do now?‖

―Now? I act the gracious ex-wife. I thank him for his generous

support and I move on.‖

―Just like that?‖
―Yes, David, just like that. We had an understanding, a caring

relationship, but not one of passion or love. That is the one thing
I‘ve never known. In truth, I‘ve always expected something like
this. But it‘s hard. And a shock. Now is not the right time.‖

―I doubt it‘s ever the right time. What can I do to help?‖
―Do what you always do. Be there for me. As I am for you.‖
David rubbed her arms, clumsily soothing, then exploring as he

felt Janet yield to his hands. He started to lift her sweater when
she barked, ―David! God, not here. I have a room at the Marriott
by the airport. I rented a car. It‘s parked across the street.‖

―Jesus, Janet, we‘ll be lucky if it‘s still there.‖
He shrugged his jacket on and helped Janet into her coat, then

followed her down the fragrant stairwell, wondering how this

strange turn of events would play out.

David carefully guided Janet to the rental car and held out his

hand  for  the  key.  With  a  sigh  she  placed  it  gently  into  his
outstretched palm, allowing her fingers to glide slowly across the
rough surface. The tingle of cold metal and plastic, and the slip of
smooth  fingertips  across  his  skin,  sent  a  jolt  up  his  arm.  Janet
seldom touched him in public, and never with this level of promise
or  implied  intimacy.  He  felt  anticipation  explode  in  his  groin.
They‘d  been  careful  since  his  ill-advised  exploration  of  what  he
worriedly thought of as his demonic needs. That she had put that
episode behind her spoke to her good breeding and understanding
of  his  situation.  He,  however,  had  not.  The  feelings,  the  ecstasy,
the  release  had  forged  intense,  almost  obsessive,  yearnings  for
more.

David drove in silence, concentrating hard on finding his way

through the warren of narrow streets until he came by accident to
a ramp to I-95 and headed south toward the airport and the
Marriot. Janet sat hard against the passenger-side door, her head
turned to stare sightless at the passing scene. He tried to take her
hand in a gesture of sympathy but she pulled away to brush
angrily at the tears still trickling down her cheeks.

She whispered, ―I‘m sorry, David. Just give me a few moments

to compose myself.‖

David shrugged and muttered, ―Where the hell‘s the turn-off to.

. . . ? Never mind, I see it.‖

The lights from the airport and distant sounds of jet engines

revving for take-off took on muted, silvery tones as snow lightly
fell, coating the roads and walkways with a slick icy patina. David
eased Janet out of the car and carefully wrapped his arm about her
shoulder, giving her support though she tried to pull away.
Annoyed, he pinched her elbow. Janet turned and looked up into

Sculpting David

his face, mild surprise immediately buried under her usual mask
of urbane distain, but she yielded to his protective assistance and
followed him meekly into the lobby.

They threaded their way through a hive of activity as the

weather had wreaked havoc on incoming and outgoing flights,
leaving all surrounding hotels under assault from passengers
stranded by the increasingly icy conditions.

―Looks like you could auction off your room to the highest

bidder,‖ David intoned, ―and leave us with some cash and a trip
back to my humble abode.‖

Janet smiled weakly. ―That‘s in the ‗there‘s not enough money

in the universe‘, dearest.‖

David laughed softly. He would have to take care with Janet.

She was far more fragile than he‘d ever seen her, and he admired
and  liked  her  too  much  to  make  unreasonable  demands  on  her
psyche  or  her  body.  Tonight  he  would  find  a  well  of  tenderness,
even  if  it  killed  him  to  bury  his  instincts  and  his  unnerving
compulsions.

David keyed them into the room, flicked on the light switch and

turned  to  take  Janet‘s  coat.  With  studied  nonchalance,  he  hung
her  coat  in  the  closet,  and  eased  past  her  to  survey  the
unpretentious lodging. He nodded with approval at the king-sized
bed,  content  that  he  at  least  would  be  comfortable.  He  watched
with curiosity as Janet stepped out of her boots, then quickly shed
her  cashmere  sweater  and  wool  slacks.  She  flipped  the  coverlet
away  and  slide  provocatively  between  the  sheets,  her  body
communicating  a  sensual  welcome  that  failed  to  make  it  to  her
eyes.

Janet stifled the cringe as her shoulders and thighs slid across

sheets icy to the touch despite the heat roaring full blast, making
the room cloying warm in a wash of ambient background noise.

She  wanted  nothing  more  than  to  have  this  night  be  over,  but
she‘d mistakenly broadcast her vulnerability and heartache to her
lover. It would not do for him to suspect how deeply wounded she
was  by  Gustavo‘s  cavalier  handling  of  the  divorce.  She  followed
David  through  slitted  eyes  as  he  made  his  way  to  the  bathroom,
thankful  for  the  few  moments  in  which  to  collect  her  scattered
thoughts and prepare her for what would be yet another in a long
line of performances.

She disliked change. She arranged her existence around order

and predictability and control. Gustavo‘s decision to choose
progeny over a comfortable arrangement did not surprise her, but
the speed and finality with which he‘d opted to execute disbanding
fifteen years of mutually agreeable accommodation had thrown
her into a tizzy. With the opening of the gallery so imminent, and
with the blossoming of some new and unexpected behaviors from
David, she simply had no frame of reference with which to adjust
to the rapidly changing circumstances.

David emerged from the bathroom wearing little more than a

grin.  He‘d  slicked  his  unkempt  hair  away  from  his  face.  Blonde
stubble coated his jaw and she rued not having had enough sense
to bring a razor with  her, though she hadn‘t forgotten the box of
condoms, which to her relief he held in his left hand. She preferred
smooth-shaven, though tonight was not about her preferences. It
was about placating the young man and getting their relationship
back  on  track  so  they  could  concentrate  on  the  more  important
task  of  orchestrating  the  gallery  opening.  She  needed  him  on
message if he were to secure the Maurel woman‘s participation.

David flicked the light switch off, leaving the room bathed in a

weak glow from the window. He thought about closing the
curtains but decided he‘d rather see Janet and try to assess her
state of mind. He had no illusion that what happened this evening

Sculpting David

would forever impact their future relationship. He needed control,
his body demanded otherwise. He would need to approach her still
form with respect and some misgiving, much as he would a cold
marble slab before coaxing the inner shape from within the
confines of its prison cell.

He slid next to her, uncertain how to proceed, a strange

disconnect  as  his  cock  throbbed  and  pulsed  against  her  sleek
thigh.  She  turned  doe-in-headlights  eyes  toward  him,  smiling
almost  shyly  before  shimmying  out  of  the  thong  and  rolling  him
onto his back with  an  insistent nudge. He reached for the box of
condoms, but she murmured ―don‘t bother‖ as she enveloped him
in her warmth.

―Just be still, let me do this,‖ she husked, ―please?‖
David lay back against the pillows, his arms pinioned behind his

head, content to watch her move with sinuous grace, rocking and
twisting, back arched as she pleasured him. He ached to grip her
hips and drive her, him, harder until they writhed as one. He
hated the passivity though, for tonight, he would let her lead the
way. However she needed to find release, he would put aside his
own desires as a measure of his caring and concern for her needs.

Janet yearned for his touch, the feel of his thumbs teasing and

tweaking as her nipples peaked, probing sharply through the filmy
lace of the bra. But she dared not risk that level of arousal, not for
herself,  not  for  him.  Release,  a  simple  gush  of  pleasure,  the
tingling  and  wash  of  spasms  rushing  down  her  legs  and  up  her
spine. Hopefully that would put them back on track and derail his
growing  interest  in  experimentation.  She  had  little  energy  or
interest in pursuing his dark desires.

With a sigh, David arched his neck and gave his entire focus to

the delicious sensations, the effort to be still almost dizzying as the
blood pounded in his skull, soon to retreat in a rush to a singular

point of sensation. Gasping, he thrust his hips and succumbed to
the thrill, bucking in time to the hot release, mindless of the slim
form riding him, her face a mask of determination.

Janet withheld a smile of satisfaction. She had accomplished

her goal to get David‘s attention off her and onto his own pleasure.
That it had taken so much out of her was a surprise. She was no
stranger  to  artifice.  She  hoped  he  would  not  notice  that  she‘d
failed  to  orgasm.  She‘d  concentrated  so  hard  on  his  coming  that
she‘d  neglected  to  attend  to  her  own  needs.  She  prayed  he‘d
overlook the inevitable ‗did you…?‘ and her equally inevitable "yes
dear,  it  was  wonderful."  Mercifully,  this  evening  he  seemed
content to let her broadly sketch the pattern of their encounter, so
much  so  that  he  drifted  into  sweet  slumber  while  she  lay
millimeters,  and  an  ocean,  away  from  his  sated  body.  She  curled
into a tight ball and willed away the tears.

David dozed fitfully, ever aware of the quaking form next to

him, yet certain that if he were to hold Janet, or otherwise express
sympathy,  that  she  would  shatter  into  a  million  shards  of  glass.
She  would  have  to  regain  composure  on  her  own  terms,  without
his intervention. Her breathing slowed until he was sure she slept.
In the wee hours of the morning he stole away, vaguely disquieted
at the dawning realization that perhaps he might be incapable of a
true  human  connection  with  a  woman.  He‘d  become  mechanical
and methodical, a performer, a mere walk-on—necessary, though
not integral, to the script. He needed to translate this perception,
this epiphany, into one of his works. That way he could examine it
from  all  sides  and  perhaps  find  the  truth  that  eluded  him  in  his
own head, in his heart.

The cab dropped him back at his room where he immediately

set a small drawing pad on the easel and started with charcoals to
sketch out his inner torment. He had most of the day to wait until

Sculpting David

the first class with the Maurel girl. His face flooded with heat, then
resolve. He vowed not to fail Janet, at least not with this. Both
their futures now rested on the success of his gallery.

Furiously stroking the paper, he coaxed the vision from hiding.

He‘d need a special medium for this, something darker, something
lost in the mist. He happily hummed a mindless tune.

Chapter Seven

What Not to Wear

David paced the tiny dressing area restlessly. He and Andre

would share center stage while the students did rapid fire sketches
on black cardboard using pastels, crayons, or whatever suited their
fancy  and  imaginations.  He‘d  done  that,  back  in  the  day,  using
female  models,  never  a  male.  It  was  a  useful  exercise,  capturing
the moment, the movement, character, and inner fire. It was never
about accuracy, but more about intent, impressions, ensnaring the
elusive.  The  best  students  would  blast  through  the  exercise  with
aplomb.  His  own  works  still  graced  the  studio  where  he‘d
expended  his  innocence  and  zeal  during  his  freshman  year.  He
knew models rarely saw the results of the students‘ efforts, but he
hoped  he  might  catch  a  quick  glimpse  of  the  Maurel  girl‘s.  He‘d
need a starting point for a conversation.

―Come on, man. We‘re on.‖ Andre gave him an encouraging

smile and moved toward the door.

David broke out in a cold sweat. He and Andre entered the huge

studio,  one  side  a  wall  of  windows  with  privacy  screens  lowered,
and the easels set about a center stage area, nearly twenty in all.
No  one  turned  to  look  as  they  mounted  the  stage  and  shed  their
robes to the side. Andre sat on an uncomfortable metal chair with
a thin cotton pad on the seat. David sank to the floor hoping to use
Andre as a body block, only to have the instructor flick her fingers
for  him  to  move  forward,  into  the  direct  glare  of  the  overhead
fluorescents.

Andre managed to look bored and interested at the same time.

Sculpting David

David  could  tell  he  was  scoping  out  the  two blondes  to  his  right,
side-by-side,  cheerleader-cute,  perky  and  studiously  ignoring
them.  David  scanned  the  room  quickly,  desperately  trying  to
remember  Janet‘s  description  of  Jacqueline—five-foot-seven,
short spiky brown hair, broad shoulders, long-waisted with strong
calves. A catalogue for a classic swimmer physique.

He found her staring at him intently, her eyes taking in every

square  inch  with  surgical  precision.  He  risked  eye  contact,  then
felt his face flame, and rapidly turned away, but not before seeing
the quirk to her lips as she ducked her head to the easel. Well, he
had her attention for an instant. After a while he grew bored and
stiff,  his  position  uncomfortable  and  growing  more  so  by  the
minute.  Only  the  skritching  sounds  of  crayon  or  pen  or  colored
pencils  against  the  coarse  paper  pierced  the  warm  air,  the
temperature  elevated  to  keep  the  models  from  freezing  to  death.
The blondes had sheens of sweat on their foreheads as they bent to
their  tasks,  Andre  being  the  sole  focus  of  their  joint  attention.
Jacqueline, off to his left and slightly behind him, hadn‘t come up
for air for nearly twenty minutes.

―All right, class. That will do for now. Please initial your pieces

and pass them forward. I‘ll look them over tonight and we‘ll go
from there. Tomorrow, please bring a canvas, minimum eight-by-
ten, and either oil or acrylics. We‘ll have a single model for that
class and we‘ll alternate for the rest of this session.‖

The instructor pointed to Andre, indicating that David was off

the hook for the next class and could assume a place at an easel.
He felt the first twinge of excitement. He hadn‘t attacked the
human form in more than two years. His fingers itched for the
chance to begin the process of capturing a human spirit within his
twisted imagination.

The instructor bid her students farewell, but waved to her

models to stay behind.

―Thank you very much, gentleman. Please feel free to bring

blankets or towels to make yourselves more comfortable. Mr.
Stefanov, you may use the easel over there.‖ She pointed to the one
next to Jacqueline. David practically quivered with excitement—
his first break, and he would do everything in his power to make
use of it.

David turned toward the instructor. ―Ma‘am? Could we take a

quick look at what the students did today?‖

Andre looked at him, his curiosity piqued. The instructor

handed over the sheaf of papers to Andre who doled out a pile for
David to shuffle through. Many were simply crude, though not
necessarily amateurish. This was, after all, an advanced class. The
students were simply warming up, translating an inner vision to a
concrete form in two-dimensional space.

As one, they hissed in a breath as David pulled Jacqueline‘s

piece from the pile. Where most students had sketched a half
dozen or so impressions, the Maurer girl had a fully realized form
of David from the rear, his exceptionally strong back, shoulders
and arms assuming transparency, nearly pulsing with movement,
as if each vein beat in rhythm, lifting off the paper. David fingered
the work with reverence, then looked pleadingly at the instructor.

―Mr. Stefanov, I will save this one for you. You may have it after

the class concludes.‖

David breathed, ―Thank you, Ma‘am.‖

* * * *

―…so we started off with the two male models. The one, Andre, I

know from last year.‖ Jackie lounged against the kitchen counter.
―He‘s really good, knows how to keep still. Nice build, too. But the

Sculpting David

other one. Whoa, you should see this guy‘s physique. He‘s got
shoulders that won‘t fit through a standard doorway and biceps to
die for. This dude has got to lift weights. I was going to do a few
quickies; but once I started on his back, it was like possession or
something. I couldn‘t let it go.‖

―So do you get him again tomorrow?‖ Tom looked up from the

curry, happy to hear Jackie so enthused about her work. He‘d been
afraid she‘d crawl in a hole and die from disappointment over the
Gallery snafu.

―No, it‘ll be Andre again. The new guy will have a chance to

draw. Amy will put him next to me so I‘ll have a front row seat.
With those huge hands, I can‘t see him wielding a paintbrush.
God, he‘s built like a brick shithouse.‖

―I wonder if that‘s the same guy who came looking for you

yesterday at the pool.‖

―Huh? You didn‘t mention that.‖
―Yeah, he stopped by around seven. Said he swam a bit and was

in some of your classes. Now that I think about it, he mentioned
you by name. That‘s odd. Didn‘t think much about it at the time.‖

―I‘ll ask him tomorrow. Umm, that smells good. Are you going

to make it through dinner?‖

―Not if you keep doing that, brat.‖
―What? This?‖
―Oh crap.‖ Tom moved the skillet to a cooler area on the stove,

set a lid over the curry and hustled down the hall, frantically
unbuttoning his shirt.

* * * *

―Well, don‘t you look—different. Come in. I‘m almost ready.‖

Janet stepped back to let David into her room, carefully assessing

his  new  look.  Instead  of  his  usual  poor  student  persona,  he‘d
donned well-cut chocolate brown flannel trousers. He‘d topped it
with  a  soft  cream-colored  wool  turtleneck  sweater  and  a  darker
tan  cashmere  jacket.  He‘d  slicked  his  unruly  mop  into  a  tightly
bound  ponytail.  A  gold  hoop  completed  his  metro-sexual  look.
Janet approved until she glanced at his shit-kicker Red Wings.

David held up a hand to stem the inevitable criticism. ―I didn‘t

get to the shoe store. I‘ll go tomorrow if I have time. You like?‖

―Oh yes, I like. If you dress like that at the Gallery, you‘ll have to

beat your female clients off with a stick. My goodness, David, you
have no idea how handsome you look tonight. Let‘s eat. I‘m
starved. And I have the specs on the lighting system with me. We
can look at this over dinner.‖

―I made reservations for that new seafood place. After you,

Madame.‖ David held the door for a long moment, admiring the
view as Janet sauntered down the hall. She was a stunning
woman. He was lucky to have her as his best friend. David took the
wheel as Janet had yet to figure out how to get onto I-95, let alone
navigate the confusing maze around 30

Street Station.

―So how did the modeling go today?‖
―Boring. Cold. I thought my ass would fall asleep at one point.

Andre was right. There‘s no prurient interest at all, except maybe
for the two blonde bimbettes who thought Andre was the second
coming. And I‘ve seen better drawings from first graders. But,
Jacqueline. My God, Janet, what she did was unearthly. I‘ve never
seen such deft, vibrant work. If we don‘t snare her for the opening,
I swear I‘ll blow my brains out.‖

―So what‘s the plan?‖
―The instructor put me next to her for tomorrow. Andre gets the

first gig, then we alternate. I‘ll be able to strike up a conversation,
maybe compare my work with hers. We aren‘t so different in tone

Sculpting David

and technique. I‘m hopeful I can do friend things. I dunno. Ask
her out? Should I do that?‖

Janet snorted. ―David, Darling, you really are out of your depth.

Just talk about the work. Let it happen naturally.‖ She blinked and
asked, ―You aren‘t going to wear that, are you?‖

―Huh? No, I‘ll wear my jeans and T-shirt. What? Should I wear

this? Shit.‖

―No, dearest. Jeans and a Tee shirt. You‘ll be fine. David, you

missed the restaurant.‖ Janet turned to the window, desperately
trying to keep a straight face. She had a sneaking suspicion that
the young woman was going to take this poor innocent for quite a
ride. Just call me Yenta Janet, she thought with glee.

* * * *

―Do you need help with that?‖ Jackie leaned over to help David

set his materials on the small folding table adjoining his easel. She
watched  with  interest  as  he  spread  out  an  impressive  array  of
brushes  and  tubes  of  high  grade  oils.  The  smell  of  turpentine
permeated  her  nostrils.  Everyone  would  be  high  as  a  kite  at  the
end of the session until they‘d settled into the rhythm of the class.

―Thanks. I haven‘t had a class in a while. Forgot how much time

it takes for set-up.‖

―I‘m Jackie. I‘m in the MFA program. You?‖
―I‘m David. David Stefanov. I‘m auditing for now, getting my

feet wet. I mostly sculpt, but I wanted to try something new.‖

―My dad‘s a. . . . ‖ She stopped short, unsure if he knew her

father, and pretty sure she needn‘t broadcast her parentage to a
stranger. She hated name droppers, so she went with the generic,
―My dad‘s an artist also.‖

Andre wandered in, surreptitiously seeking out the blondes,

then  parked  his  wiry  frame  front  and  center,  across  from  their
easels.  The  girls  giggled  and  set  about  sketching  rapidly.  Janet
once  again  found  herself  observing  the  back  of  the  model.  She
frowned for a bit, before setting a few broad strokes with charcoal
onto  an  eleven-by-fourteen  pre-stretched  canvas  panel.  David
smiled  as  that  was  also  the  size  he  had  selected.  But,  instead  of
charcoal,  he  chose  a  broad  angled  brush,  dipping  it  in  a  weak
wash,  layering,  using  the  outer  edges  of  the  canvas  to  define  his
inner  space.  Jackie  worked  with  the  same  assurance,  but  instead
she pulled the inner form, rather than building by layers. Quietly
they  worked  side-by-side,  with  intense  concentration.  David
completely forgot his surroundings, forgot that he was supposed to
chat up his potential client. Instead he lost himself in his creation,
dark layer upon dark layer, the inner demon emerging to stalk the
earth.

―All right, class. That should do it for today. You may leave your

things set up if you like. The studio will be open this evening from
seven until ten if anyone wishes to continue.‖

David looked up, startled that four hours had raced by without

registering  in  his  consciousness.  He  looked  over  at  Jackie,  who
was  smiling  slightly,  her  head  barely  turned  toward  him.  She‘d
been looking at  his work, he was sure of it. Wiping his  hands on
his  jeans,  he  walked  around  his  table  to  see  what  she  had  done.
Jackie moved past him, intent on his canvas. Neither one breathed
for a long moment.

―Shit. That‘s good. I mean, it‘s really good. I‘ve never seen such

intense color, but it‘s like it‘s transparent. Like you can see the
internal structure.‖ David brushed his hair back and rocked on his
heels. He practically vibrated with excitement.

―Holy Mother. Look here. Look what you‘ve done. It‘s like he‘s

born of earth and trapped by air. This is fabulous. My God, you‘re

Sculpting David

good.‖ Jackie hugged her belly, twisting side-to-side, gyrating to
an inner beat.

―Are you coming back tonight? I‘ll come back if you will.‖ David

tried to keep the pleading out of his voice.

―Yes, yes, let‘s come back. Do you want to grab a bite with me?

We could talk about. . . stuff, if you like.‖ Jackie stood wringing her
hands, then risked a glance at David, wearing a goofy grin on his
handsome face.

The instructor smiled to herself as she packed up her valise. She

knew exactly who David Stefanov was, and she had a pretty good
idea as to why he was in her class. This had all the markings of
being one of her more entertaining semesters.

Chapter Eight

First Date

―Oh, you‘re shitting me! No way.‖ David held the studio door

open and flicked on the overhead floods.

―Yeah, way.‖ Jackie skipped to her easel and quickly set her

brushes out. ―I wish we had Andre here. I have him in my head,
but there‘s something about the way he holds his upper body.
Know what I mean?‖

―Yeah, like this, right?‖ David tilted his neck as he crouched

low, mimicking Andre‘s sitting position.

―No wait. More like this.‖ Jackie gently rotated his shoulder,

brushing his long hair away from his neck and anchoring it behind
his right ear. She felt the tremor through her fingers. Reluctantly
she pulled away. ―Hold that. Can you?‖

―Okay, ten minutes, but longer than that and my legs will give

out.‖

Twenty minutes later, Jackie took pity on David whose muscles

had long since passed beyond simple pain and gone straight
through to eternal damnation and everlasting torment.

―Whoa, David. Let me help you. I‘m so sorry. I forgot about the

time.‖ She gripped his elbows and hefted him easily to his feet. His
ankles creaked loudly, the calves and thighs turned to gelatin. He
swayed toward her. Jackie grabbed his shoulders to steady him as
he gripped her waist, staring down into her face in confusion. His
belly roiled as his heart beat a bass drum in his chest. She watched
the strange light flash through his eyes and tried to read his
emotions. She felt his heat as he pulled her closer, forcing her

Sculpting David

hands onto his biceps, seeking balance against his inexorable pull.
The demon from his painting flit unnaturally across his face,
compelling her to lean closer. She rose slowly on tiptoe, reaching
toward his sensuous lips.

―Oh Andre, you are so bad!‖ Blonde-number-one burst through

the studio door followed by Andre and blonde-with-dark-roots.

―Oh, hi guys! Are you here to work? Andre said he‘d model for

us. Isn‘t that the coolest thing ever?‖

David muttered ―Christ‖ and reluctantly pulled away, though he

kept a firm grip on Jackie‘s waist, reluctant to release his
connection, the electricity shooting through his hands.

Andre proceeded to disrobe with a flourish as the twins quickly

set-to on their easels. Instead of giggling like a couple of
schoolgirls, they settled into their work, evaluating Andre with
frowns and intense stares, all business.

David murmured, ―I guess we should take advantage of an

opportunity.‖

Jackie didn‘t look all that enthused about opportunities as she

slowly disengaged from David‘s grip. She felt fuzzy-brained,
confused and insanely alive, awash with heat and longing. Turning
toward her canvas, she shook her broad shoulders, reached for the
jar of turpentine and cracked it, taking a deep whiff, then choking
back a cough. She turned to find David grinning at her.

―Give me that.‖ She handed it over, watching with delight as he

took a hit of the fumes, gasping as the sharp tang assaulted his
senses. ―Oh yeah, that‘s good, baby.‖

Jackie giggled as she turned to her work.
At eleven o‘clock, Jackie finally called no joy, exhausted beyond

measure. She set her brushes in the solvent, bending and twisting
the bristles to disperse the paint. She carefully wrapped them in
waxed paper and set them aside for the next day.

―It‘s a good thing we have this class three consecutive days in a

row. It‘s a bitch to have to completely clean up after every session.
But  I‘m  not  sure  about  switching  models.  Shouldn‘t  we  be
concentrating on just one?‖ Jackie shook her short mop, trying to
dislodge the cobwebs. Andre‘s form had grown organically into an
angelic  figure,  while  David‘s  had  deepened  into  another  Circle  of
Hell,  his  demon  luring  the  Light,  a  striking  counterpoint  to
Jackie‘s vision.

David mindlessly rubbed his thighs, thinking furiously. He

wanted to ask her to his room, but feared that would be too much,
too fast. And, besides, the place was a dump.

Jackie watched David‘s face—a fascinating display of indecision,

longing and desire. He could no more hide his feelings than an
eager puppy.

―Would you like to come over to my place for some coffee? I‘m

about three blocks away.‖

―Yeah. Yeah. Coffee. I‘d like that. Sure.‖ He brushed his still oily

hands through his hair, leaving a dark slick of muddy brown and
magenta. Jackie snickered and handed him a roll of paper towels.

* * * *

―This is nice. A lot nicer than my dump. I got stuck subletting

from a friend since I came in so late.‖ David followed Jackie into
her tidy apartment, noting the well-worn furniture and racks of
books stacked in corners and on every available surface. A few
photos from her swim meets decorated one wall, as well as several
of her mother and father, taken somewhere in Paris.

―I hate to say this, but you still smell pretty fragrant. Do you

want to take a shower? I‘ve got some industrial grade soap that‘ll
strip paint off a battleship. Might do for your hair.‖

Sculpting David

David fingered the board-hard stretch of hair over his right ear.

―If you don‘t mind. I‘d appreciate it. I have to share a bathroom,
and you don‘t want to know what that looks like.‖

Jackie showed him her bathroom, handed him a towel and the

soap and headed into her miniature kitchen to put on a pot of
coffee. The sound of water sloshing over what she knew to be an
exceptional hunk of raw, undiluted, gorgeous male held her
mesmerized.

―Jackie? Do you have a rubber band or one of those scrunchy

things so I can tie my hair out of the way?‖

Jackie turned slowly, her pupils dilating, and her breath

catching  in  her  throat.  He  stood  in  her  living  room,  chest  still
glistening  with  water,  the  towel  draped  around  his  waist  but  low
on  his  hips,  leaving  very  little  to  the  imagination.  Somehow  he
seemed even bigger, more male, more powerful, the embodiment
of the demon he‘d been building on that canvas, now come to life.
She stared as he clenched and unclenched his hands, following the
slow rise and fall of his chest. She could imagine the thrum of his
heart, the sound resonating with her own.

―Um, in the small basket on the shelf. There should be

something in there.‖ David turned away, but Jackie gasped, ―Wait!
Don‘t move.‖

Grabbing a large sketch pad and pencils, she scurried to his

side, circling quickly, then took his hand to lead him to the settee.
―Please. Sit here. Yeah, now turn to your right and lean forward.‖
She stepped away to evaluate his posture. ―Nope, that‘s not it. Let
your shoulder drop and brace with your hands.‖

―Like this?‖ David felt the twinge in his shoulder as his muscles

bunched. He tilted his head slightly, letting his unruly hair fall
forward, covering the right side of his face. The towel fell away,
unnoticed.

Jackie sat on the floor with the pad angled on her lap, pencils

scattered about her legs. Minutes passed to an hour until David
groaned with the effort to stay in position. The smell of stale coffee
permeated the room.

―Oh no, I‘ve done it again. I‘m sorry, David. Sit up. If you can.‖

Jackie set the pad aside and awkwardly stretched her own
cramped legs, then lunged to her feet. She set her strong hands on
David‘s shoulders, kneading briskly, trying to restore circulation.

―My neck. I‘ve got a monster crick.‖
―Yeah, you sure do.‖ She moved his hair aside, feeling the

straining tendons and the prominent knot on the left side of his
neck. She worried he might need a chiropractor, not just a strong
massage. ―Turn it this way.‖ The snap startled both of them.

―Ah, that feels better. Thanks. Now let me see what you‘ve got.‖

Jackie  leaned  over  to  reach  for  the  pad  as  David  rose  with
difficulty,  the  towel  falling  to  the  floor.  Heedless  of  his  unclad
state,  he  pressed  against  her  back,  intent  on  the  image  taking
shape before his eyes. Unlike the angelic vision she‘d coaxed from
Andre‘s  slim  form,  this  time  she‘d  created  a  demonic  raging  bull
with his own back forming the powerful hump, his arms encircling
the beast in a lover‘s embrace. A rush of heat coursed through his
veins,  a  recognition  of  his  essential  nature,  frightening  in  its
intensity. He could see this, feel it. He‘d need to cast it, perhaps in
bronze,  something  dark,  with  the  metallic  figure  emerging  from
the granite. The possibilities flooded him. He spun her around and
stared at her, hard, then drew her close.

―May I have this? Please? I need to study it. I don‘t have the

materials here, but at home I have a block of granite that might
suit. Yes. I think I have just the thing.‖

Jackie nodded and tore the page off the pad. She set the pad

and the drawing on the kitchen table, her face flaming as want and

Sculpting David

need and lust raced through her. She kept her back to him, angling
for the coffee pot, for something to do. Anything to avoid looking
at his perfect body.

―I‘ll make a fresh pot for us if you like.‖
―No. No coffee. That‘s not what I want.‖ She could feel the heat

as he loomed inches from her, his arms now extended to the
cabinets, trapping her against the counter.

―Wh. . . what do you want?‖ she whispered, then choked back a

hiss of surprise as David spun her around, lifting her with ease
onto the counter as he circled her face with his rough hands.

―I want this. . . . ‖ Probing gently he explored, his tongue teasing

her  full  lips  apart,  tasting  with  a  gentle  sweep,  then  withdrawing
on a sigh. He swept her thighs apart with his hips, using his hands
to pull her to the edge, wanting to feel her powerful legs wrapping
him  in  wet  warmth.  Before  he  might  have  settled  for  her  vision,
but  tonight  he  wanted—needed—the  woman.  The  two  were
inseparable  for  him.  One  and  the  same.  The  passion  he‘d  been
craving lived in this glorious creature.

―David. I. . . I can‘t. I‘m with someone.‖ Jackie could barely

contain  the  agony  and  confusion  in  her  voice.  Images  of  Tom
flashed  before  her  eyes,  replaced  by  the  demon  she‘d  conjured.
She  watched,  fascinated,  as  David‘s  face  mirrored  her  inner
turmoil, seeking strength, pushing back dark desires. But the genie
was out of the bottle, for both of them.

He spoke, low and throaty, his voice a bell clap of pain and

longing. ―I understand. I‘m sorry.‖

He turned and strode to the bathroom, shutting the door gently,

quietly,  showing  mastery  over  his  emotions,  fooling  no  one,
perhaps  only  himself.  Minutes  later  he  emerged,  paused  to  look
about  the  room,  then  strode  to  the  table  and  carefully  rolled  her
vision  of  him  into  a  tight  tube.  He  shrugged  his  coat  on,  but

Chapter Nine

Letting Go

―Here, Tom. Don‘t forget to take these.‖ Jackie handed him a

pile  of  freshly  laundered  shirts.  ―And  at  least  two  ties.  No,  not
those,  they‘re  stained.  Wait.‖  She  rummaged  through  his  closet,
selecting  two  non-descript  blue-with-red-stripe  ties.  ―Here,  these
won‘t clash with anything.‖

Tom finished stuffing his carry-on and zipped the large duffel

bag closed. He grumbled, ―Tickets?‖

―Here. And the schedule. And the list of places you‘re staying.

The women‘s first meet is at Columbia, after that you skip to New
Haven, then back to Columbia for the men‘s. They‘ve put you up in
some kind of off-campus housing, so you won‘t have to endure any
drunken brawls like last year. Black and blue so does not go with
green eyes.‖ Jackie smiled, remembering the state he‘d returned in
after trying to break up a frat boy set-to outside the dorms. He‘d
ended  up  at  some  District  lockup,  woozy,  bleeding  and  mad  as
hell.  She‘d  been  his  phone  call.  The  fumes  from  his  overnight
cellmate had just about sent him back to his twelve-step program.
As  it  was,  he‘d  needed  multiple  visits  with  his  sponsor,  and  a
month away from her, to get his brain back on track.

―Crap. Three weeks. Here. Can you mail these? They‘re bills that

need to go out while I‘m gone. And the plants?‖

―On it. Come on, you‘re gonna be late. You don‘t want the bus to

leave without the coach, do you?‖

―Babe.‖ Tom drew her into his arms, kissed her forehead and

ran out the door, his bags clanging against the railing as he

thundered  down  the  stairs.  The  front  door  slammed,  leaving
Jackie alone and slightly anxious. Her relationship with Tom had
weighed  heavily  on  her  since  that  incredibly  arousing  episode  in
her  kitchen.  Ever  unclear  about  her  feelings,  she  couldn‘t  shake
the memory of David‘s touch, the lingering sensation raising doubt
and uncertainty about who she was and what she really wanted.

She‘d had to skip the next class, the one where David had

modeled, gratefully accepting the opportunity to fill in as lecturer
for a beginner‘s oils session. She wouldn‘t see him until Monday,
three days away. Three days to fuss and mull over what had
happened. And what had he meant by ―for now‖? More to the
point—what did that mean to her?

She watered the two drooping begonias, gathered the mail and

carefully locked the front door to Tom‘s small row home. Reaching
into  her  coat  pocket,  she  withdrew  the  ticket  for  the  St.  Jo‘s
basketball  game.  Smiling,  she  whistled  a  mindless  tune  as  she
vaulted  the  four  steps  to  the  concrete  sidewalk,  skipped  to  the
mailbox, then headed happily toward the Palestra, hoping to get a
seat near the raucously noisy band and cheerleaders.

A crowd had already lined up at the main entrance. Though not

currently  ranked,  St.  Jo‘s  always  brought  their  A-game  to  the
venerable  arena.  The  place  would  be  packed  to  the  rafters.  Nine
thousand might be seated, but another one or two would line the
upper  reaches.  It  promised  to  be  a  rocking,  loud,  hard-fought
game. She could barely wait.

―Hey, girlfriend!‖ The two blondes merged on Jackie‘s position.

They wore U of P cheerleader outfits, though neither had actually
attended  as  undergrads.  Blonde-with-dark-roots,  Toni,  had  gone
to Penn State and had been on the squad, while just-plain-blonde,
Marge—a  distant  cousin—had  attended  Syracuse,  although  on  a
gymnastics  scholarship.  The  girls  had  great  fun  projecting  the

Sculpting David

image of airheads, though both sported sharp intellects and even
more amazing creative energy. Jackie smiled and kept their little
secret with glee.

‗Who-eee! Good thing you got here early. Toni here just had to

do her nails.‖ Marge gave her cousin a smack on the arm as they
jostled each other, until every male turned appreciatively to rake
hungry eyes over their skimpy outfits and toned bodies.

―Aren‘t you two cold?‖
―Nah. We, uh, sort of fortified ourselves.‖ Marge held up a small

flask. ―You want?‖

―No thanks. Door‘s opening. Here we go!‖

* * * *

Tom settled himself in his customary back seat, sprawled

carelessly  along  the  length  of  the  bench,  his  legs  resting  on  the
duffel  bag.  He  dug  out  his  iPod,  inserted  the  ear  buds  and  lost
himself in a blues playlist. He was actually relieved for some alone
time.  Jackie  and  he  usually  had  a  more  casual  relationship,  with
fairly long stretches between encounters. These last few weeks had
started  to  get  intense,  and  he  wasn‘t  sure  he  was  up  to  the
pressure. He wasn‘t so certain his body was up for it, either. He‘d
been having that ain‟t getting any younger vibe lately. Not that he
couldn‘t keep up, and he had to smile at his double entendre, but
lately he‘d felt a little rushed, forced even. He didn‘t do well under
emotional  pressure.  And  he‘d  detected  a  considerable  amount  of
confusion and anxiety in Jackie, especially the last couple of days.
That might be due to her having turned down the contract with the
Gallery,  or  about  her  misgivings  over  her  relationship  with  her
father.  But  somehow,  this  seemed  different.  The  vibe  he  got,  in
waves, had more to do with them. No matter how much he loved

her, he simply could not make that commitment.

Coaching was a whole other thing. He thrived on it, lived for it,

committed  to  it  with  every  ounce  of  his  being.  Three  weeks  of
hand-holding,  screaming,  threatening,  cajoling  and  pleading—all
that  for  the  drama  queens  on  his  men‘s  team.  The  ladies,  in
comparison,  were  a  piece  of  cake.  This  was  going  to  be  fun.  He
settled in his seat, foot tapping to BB King.

* * * *

―Yes, dear, I‘m fine. I‘m on my way over to Columbia to check

out that exchange student. I doubt his work will suit, but Vincenti
mentioned his name—I think the young man is Italian—so it might
be worth a look. In any case, Vincenti is taking me out to dinner. If
I‘m very lucky, it won‘t be that pizza place again. Oh, and Gustavo
sent me pictures of the new baby. And a check. I might enjoy being
a doting Grand-mère, no? Miss you, dearest. Talk soon.‖

David laughed out loud. Janet had adjusted to her new status as

gay  divorcée  with  considerable  enthusiasm.  Gustavo‘s  guilt  and
generosity  had  cemented  her  future,  at  least  until  she  snared
someone  new.  That  discussion  hadn‘t  even  been  on  the  radar.
She‘d  happily  cut  him  loose  so  she  could  troll  the  shark-infected
singles‘  scene  for  something  better  dressed  and  well-heeled.  He
had  no  doubt  she‘d  be  available  as  soon  as  the  dust  settled.  For
now, he had to concentrate on his work, and on somehow winning
over a woman for whom he felt a strange, compelling kinship. She
bothered him, in ways he couldn‘t begin to fathom. Her work, her
scent,  the  way  she  held  herself,  the  deftness  with  which  she‘d
captured  his  spirit,  threatened  to  drive  him  mad.  Tangled  in  his
mind,  he  fought  to  separate  her  intense  physicality  from  the
rapturous  thrall  of  her  vision.  A  vision  he  wanted,  needed,  to

Sculpting David

translate into a three-dimensional object.

He ached for his tools, his loft, and his materials. He‘d thought

about the bronze, perhaps using the lost wax technique, though
he‘d not been terribly successful in the past, his molds being a bit
substandard. The form had taken charge, owning his waking
moments until he could barely breathe for the need to commit this
vision into something real and solid.

With a start he realized he was late getting to the basketball

game. He hurriedly threw on his jeans jacket and raced down the
stairs. He‘d try losing himself in the contest, at least for a while.

David found a cramped spot slightly to the right of the band,

not a great seat but at least close to the Quakers‘ bench so he could
enjoy  the  stalking  and  histrionics  of  their  coaching  staff.  He‘d
already eyeballed the Blonde Girls, then paled as he recognized the
taller  figure  of  Jacqueline  sandwiched  between  pom-poms  and
terrible towels. From his vantage point he could either watch her
or watch the game. More often than not, his eyes wandered to the
right, drawn by her exuberance and joy. At halftime they all stayed
glued  to  their  seats,  afraid  to  lose  position  as  the  more  greedy
standees  above  them  loomed  like  vultures,  heat-seeking  for  any
vacated seat.

The Quakers won, though by a narrow margin, and David could

not recall the score for any amount of money. He managed to
leapfrog his way to the floor, battling the raucous crowd, angling
with furious speed toward Jacqueline. He‘d had to vault over the
rail to follow her as she took the less congested path through the
upper exit.

―Jackie! Wait up!‖ David lunged at her sleeve and nearly

tumbled head first down the steep ramp.

―David! Hello. I didn‘t know you liked basketball.‖ David came

alongside and took her elbow, gradually easing her against his

side. He quickly guided her through the crush and out into a
driving sleet storm.

―Oh crap. It was supposed to hold off until tomorrow.‖ She

glanced  at  David,  already  looking  soaked  as  his  thin  jacket  did
little to thwart the elements. ―Come on. Let‘s run for it.‖ She took
off  at  a  brisk  trot  toward  her  apartment,  David‘s  long  legs  easily
keeping pace. He danced by her side as she  keyed the door, then
he bolted inside, shivering violently.

―Oh man, it‘s cold out there.‖
―I‘ll make us some soup. That should warm you up.‖ They took

the stairs two at a time.

David stripped his coat and set it on the back of a kitchen chair

to drip desultorily on the linoleum floor. Jackie had already
discarded hers on a hook by the door.

―Can I help?‖
―Nope. Go sit on the couch. There‘s a fleece blanket folded next

to the chair. Use that. We‘ll get you warmed up soon.‖

David wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, still shivering.

The icy downpour had soaked through his jacket and his
sweatshirt. His jeans were a sodden mess. Jackie set the soup to
simmering and came around to see to his comfort.

―Oh David, you are soaked though. Go in the bathroom and get

out of those wet things. Hang your stuff on the shower curtain. I‘ll
get you another blanket, a bigger one.‖

―Yeah, thanks. I feel like my bones are rattling loose. I can‘t stop

shaking.‖

David thankfully stripped—even his underwear had soaked

through. He wrapped the blanket firmly about his shoulders and
sidled into the kitchen area. The soup gave off an enticing aroma,
setting his stomach into bubbling waves of hunger. Jackie set a
large steaming bowl and a soup spoon in front of him.

Sculpting David

―Here you go. Man food. Campbell‘s Chunky best. There‘s more

if you want it.‖

―Um, this is fine. Thank you.‖
Two bowls later, David repaired to the settee, marginally

warmer. Jackie slid next to him and wrapped her arms around his
shoulders.

―Geez, your ears are cold. And you‘re still shivering. Come on.

Let‘s get you into bed. I‘ve got a down quilt. If we don‘t get you
warmed up soon hypothermia will set in, if it hasn‘t already. In
fact, maybe you should take a hot shower.‖

―No, no more wet stuff tonight. Let me try the quilt.‖ Jackie led

him to her tiny bedroom and pulled the quilt back so he could
slide as discreetly as possible between the sheets. His huge frame
dominated the queen-sized bed. He took her hand and pulled her
gently toward the bed, then held the quilt open, inviting her to join
him.

Jackie swallowed back a no, her internal rhythm doing an

insane tap-dance of wanton desire. She kicked her shoes off, then
her damp cords, and slid shyly next to him, certain of what he
expected, not at all clear about how she should respond. Should
being the operative term, though wanted was more to the point.

David wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close and

nuzzling  her  earlobe.  His  breath  caressed  her  neck  and  sent  an
answering  shiver  along  her  spine  as  she  vibrated  into  his
wandering  hands.  Inexplicably  she  worried  about  being  flat-
chested  and  disappointing  him.  Then  she  thought  about  her
shoulders—too big, too broad—her hips too narrow. None of that
would bother a fellow swimmer, but it might not be up to another
man‘s  standards.  God,  where  did  these  idiotic  thoughts  come
from?  She  tried  to  think  about  anything  except  how  he  explored
under her shirt, tugging at the straps, searching the outlines of the

one piece sports bra, an obstacle he was clearly unprepared to
navigate.

He leaned over her, a frown creasing his brow. ―How the hell do

you get out of this thing?‖

Jackie snorted out loud. She sat up and smoothly lifted the shirt

and offending bit of spandex over her head.

―That‘s better. I think I can handle these.‖ He deftly slipped her

underwear  off,  pushing  the  flimsy  satin  fabric  to  the  floor.  He
clutched  her,  almost  desperately,  still  shivering,  though  from  the
chill  or  from  passion,  she  couldn‘t  tell.  What  she  did  know  was
that he wasn‘t responding the way she expected. Cold it was. She
wrapped her legs around him and rocked his body, rubbing along
his spine. Within minutes his eyes drooped  and he snored softly,
still keeping her in a death grip. Jackie smiled and settled into the
nest he‘d made with his arms. This she could handle.

Chapter Ten

Chance Encounter

Janet rolled her eyes toward the clock on the wall. Vincenti and

his paramour had been eyeing each other over a vegetarian pizza
and  large  Pepsis  for  almost  an  hour.  She‘d  downed  two  bites  of
greasy  crust  and  forced  herself  to  concentrate  on  the  lackluster
salad and indeterminate dressing, while mentally tallying reasons
why  a  single  woman  had  no  luck  in  the  city  finding  a  suitable
mate.  Both  the  men  sitting  across  from  her  were  twenty-
something wet dreams.

Vincenti was the shorter of the two, model slim with chiseled

cheekbones,  full  lips  and  come-hither  black  eyes.  He  had  a
brilliant,  professionally-whitened  smile,  and  long,  expressive
fingers. His friend, Paulo, sported a classic Roman nose and deep-
set  eyes,  his  body  almost  harsh  in  his  well-toned  sexuality.
Whether  or  not  the  boy  toy  had  any  talent  was  beside  the  point.
Clearly  Vincenti  had  made  promises,  and  he  expected  Janet  to
work the young man into the program. Janet knew better than to
blow  off  a  potential  client,  or  talent  source,  so  she  sucked  it  up,
chatted and admired, stoked and stroked, keeping both happy and
focused on their growing arousal.

―My dears, why don‘t you two run along. I know you have better

things to do on a Friday night. I‘ll finish my salad and catch a cab.‖
Vincenti looked relieved and dug into his wallet to pay for what
passed for a meal.

―No, my treat. Really. That‘s what expense accounts are for. You

two run along now. Ciao, belli!”

The restaurant was packed with students enjoying a late night

snack. She should get going but was actually quite hungry, and the
salad looked better by the minute.

―Excuse me, Ma‘am. Would you mind if I join you? All the

tables are full.‖

Janet looked up, surprised to find a very handsome man loaded

down with two large slices of Mario‘s stuffed crust specialty,
silverware, and a salad balanced precariously on his arm. She
immediately grabbed for the salad and helped him settle into the
seat opposite her.

―I need to get a drink. Can I get you anything?‖
Janet laughed. ―Maalox, a pint if they have it.‖ The stranger

grinned at her and left to find his soda. He returned quickly to find
the woman staring at him with unabashed curiosity.

―Name‘s Tom Holbein. I‘m swim coach for the University of

Pennsylvania men‘s and women‘s swim teams. We‘re here for a
meet with Columbia.‖

―I‘m very pleased to meet you. My name is Janet,‖ she paused

imperceptibly, ―Sutter. Recently divorced, so I‘m not used to using
my maiden name. So tell me about this swim team of yours. I used
to compete in the relay back in the day, for Duke.‖

―Good school, though they haven‘t ranked the last few years.‖
Janet listened with interest as her fellow traveler launched into

what had to be the man‘s abiding obsession. With only a few well-
chosen words, he‘d given her a clear bead on his personality,
interests and character. She liked what she saw. Lean and fit. He
gave the impression of being tall, but she guessed she might tower
over him with her outrageous spiked heels. He had kind eyes,
though she was sure he‘d had some sorrow in his life, the lines on
his face owned up to some obstacles he might still be overcoming.
She was good at reading people, and this man qualified as an open

Sculpting David

book.

―So what do you do? Janet?‖ She nodded that he could use her

given name.

―I‘m general manager for an art gallery, Dark Visions, opening

soon with our first show. We still have the lighting to arrange and
some security details to work out, but we have three artists of
exceptional quality to introduce to the art world. The owner and I
are very excited about our prospects. Are you interested in art,
Tom?‖

An hour later, Janet felt obliged to relinquish their table to an

increasingly boisterous crowd at the front of the restaurant. She
rose slowly as Tom disposed of their plates and utensils, and then
helped her into her coat. They fought their way through the dense
crowd and exited into a damp cold that sent a shiver down her
spine.

Tom decided to risk asking, ―Do you have to get back home? I

mean, would you like to go for coffee? I don‘t drink.‖

Janet thought, ah that‟s the obstacle. ―I‘d love some coffee. If

we‘re lucky, the Starbucks might still be open. If not, there‘s a
diner about two blocks from here where we can park ourselves and
talk without vultures hovering around the table. Plus they have a
to-die-for cherry pie.‖

―Diner it is. I could use some pie.‖ Tom offered his arm so she

slipped  hers  through  the  crook  and  happily  sauntered  along,  her
stiletto heels clicking briskly on the cement sidewalk. Tom flicked
a glance now and then at the tall woman. Never in his life had he
jumped  at  such  a  chance  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  a  genuine
goddess.  This  woman  took  his  breath  away.  Why  she‘d  even
deigned  to  talk  to  him  was  beyond  amazing.  And  she  seemed
genuinely interested in his coaching job. He just wished he could
pin  down  why  the  gallery  name  seemed  so  familiar.  She  said  it

hadn‘t opened yet. No matter. He was happy enough to be here
with her.

The diner sat half empty so they found a booth and settled

themselves.  Janet  ordered  decaf,  Tom  ordered  the  real  deal,  and
both  chose  the  cherry  pie  with  vanilla  ice  cream.  Janet  felt  a
buzzing  in  her  brain.  There  was  something  she  should  be
remembering, and it perhaps had to do with this man, but for the
life of her, she couldn‘t come to grips with it.

At midnight they finally rose to leave. As Tom searched for a

cab to take her home, Janet tapped her foot, impatient at the
fleeting thoughts niggling at her brain.

―Thank you for such a pleasant evening, Tom. It was most

enjoyable.‖

Tom turned to her, thinking hard. ―Would you think me crazy?‖
―About what?‖
―About asking you to come back to my place? I know I‘m a

perfect stranger, and this is insane. No, I‘m sorry, I don‘t have the
right. . . ‖ He bowed his head, his face flaming. Janet tapped his
arm, then took a gloved finger and lifted his chin.

―Perhaps not as crazy as you think.‖
―It‘s just that I have to get up early. We wouldn‘t have much

time.‖ His voice fell off to a stutter.

―I‘m sure there‘s exactly enough time. And you have an alarm

clock, no?‖

―Yeah, I do. It‘s this way.‖ Tom practically ran back to his

lodgings, dragging a giggling, elegant woman in high heels in his
wake.

* * * *

Jackie swam awake, her head in a daze. David had finally rolled

Sculpting David

over and thrown the quilt half onto the floor. She ducked her head
to look at the clock. Five AM, plenty of time—especially if she blew
off her swim this morning. She‘d been thinking that maybe David
was actually gay. How many guys get naked, wrap themselves
around a girl and then fall asleep? She had little experience with
men, but that one seemed like a long shot. Maybe he just wasn‘t
into her. Ugh. That was an ugly thought, since she was starting to
really get into him.

David stretched and grunted, lifting himself onto his elbows

and stared at her, eyes at half-mast.

―Hey, sweetheart. Come here. I must have fallen asleep. I was

up all night sketching from your draft.‖ He rolled her into his
arms. ―God, you feel good.‖

Jackie snuggled against his solid body, thinking ‗oh boy, he‘s

warm now, very, very warm.‘ Feeling like she was ready to ignite,
she tried wriggling away, but David gave her a wicked grin, rolled
onto  his  back,  and  pulled  her  on  top  of  him.  ―Not  so  fast,  wiggle
worm.  We  have  some  unfinished  business.  It‘s  your  fault,
Pumpkin.  I‘m  that  demon  you  unleashed.  Now  let  me  show  you
just what a bad boy your demon can be.‖

Jackie stared, fascinated, as David‘s eyes took on a smoky,

devilish  hue  and  she  wondered  exactly  what  her  drawing  had
released.  Had  it  been  mere  chance  that  she‘d  recognized  his
elemental nature? Had she indeed become the conduit for the dark
stranger  lurking  just  beneath  the  surface?  Surely  his  own  works
mirrored the intensity of the man, yet he embraced her vision as a
birthing, a phoenix-from-the-ashes revelation. It gave her work a
weight, an import she‘d never experienced before.

She was almost afraid to ask but had to know, ―And just what

does a demon do to be bad?‖

David grinned. ―Oh, he does this. . . ,‖ kneeing her thighs apart

and hiking her higher onto his chest until all she could feel was
probing flesh, possessive and demanding.

Jackie continued to wriggle, enjoying the faux struggle and

playful  grappling,  so  unlike  the  serious,  studied,  almost
instructional  approach  that  had  become  her  frame  of  reference
with Tom. She did a mental head slap. Tom had disengaged from
her over the last few weeks, at least physically, though he was ever
her anchor in the seething seas of emotions left by her reluctance
to  fully  embrace  a  life  beyond  her  father‘s  quirks  and  demands.
She knew, knew, that Tom teetered on the brink, lost to his inner
torments, and that she played no small role in that drama.

Demons—the theme seemed to pervade, invade, all that she

was.  Her  every  artistic  instinct,  every  intuitive  moment,  seemed
fated, guided by some unseen hand. She should have been fearful.
Instead, she rushed toward that destiny with open arms. Her life
was  but  a  shapeless  marble  upon  which  the  sensuous  stranger
would  chip  and  whittle  and  carve  away  excess  detritus,  releasing
her  from  the  strictures  of  convention  into  something  unearthly.
Perhaps release them both.

David followed the dizzying display of emotions trailing across

Jackie‘s  face,  a  kaleidoscope  of  confusion,  bemused  frustration,
recognition,  yearning  and  burgeoning  lust.  He  desperately
wanted—needed—to tap that passion and channel it. He longed to
share  it  but  he  was  woefully  out  of  his  depth.  He  needed  cold
marble to master and cajole, not this warm, living being, fragile in
his  hands,  malleable—yet  not.  If  he  could  he  would  strip  away
their naiveté, their caution and their fears. He would explore with
her those places the heart yearned to tread, places where the inner
self waited with new revelations.

David‘s head practically imploded with an image of her body

bowed in rage, pulling away from him, yet held with bonds

Sculpting David

gossamer thin. He craved with a palpable ache to dominate her
essence, to grapple with her soul until it yielded to his every whim.
She‘d shown him his essential nature, the conqueror of beasts,
ravager of virgins.

David snorted, ―Fuck, tell me you‘re not a virgin.‖
―Huh, what, uh, no. Why?‖
―Nothing, babe. Stray thought, is all.‖
Jackie tensed for a moment. Tom always called her ‗babe‘ but

when David said it, he layered the word with a sensuous pleasure,
almost like dark ganache flowing over a chocolate torte, so
fulsome in its richness that it assaulted her senses, coating her
desires with mouth-watering goodness.

David wrapped his hands in her short curls, pinning her head to

his  chest  as  he  slithered  beneath  her  muscular  frame,  already
coated  with  a  sheen  of  sweat  as  she  struggled  to  pull  away  from
him. He could feel the coiled strength in her broad shoulders and
knew, if she really wanted to, she could probably launch him into
next week if he wasn‘t careful. And careful was the last thing on his
agenda.  This  girl,  this  woman-fiend,  had  unleashed  his  powers,
until  the  night  before  trapped  in  a  virtual  reality,  wanting  only  a
magic  pen  and  artful  strokes  to  show  him  his  path  and  his  new
reality.  No  one,  not  even  his  mother,  had  so  fully  envisioned  his
darkest nature. Her art, her vision, had freed him from a bondage
he‘d been barely conscious of his entire life.

Jackie squirmed out of his grip, unsure how to react to such a

dominating  presence.  She  desperately  tried  not  to  think  of  Tom
and  their  measured  love-making,  as  he  so  euphemistically  called
it. This man was a whole other species, one she had birthed with
her  deft  hand  and  disturbing  vision,  a  demanding  creature  who
could  captivate  and  own  her,  body  and  soul.  He  had  morphed
from the blushing young man, giddy with shared enthusiasm, to a

domineering master whose sensuous nature could ignite passions
she‘d only allowed on canvas in two-dimensional space, caged
forever. David promised a prison break with a few rough caresses
and she only need step through the cell door held so enticingly
open.

David sensed Jackie‘s confusion as it mirrored his so exactly.

He feared losing control, the way he had with Janet, but he sensed
in this woman strength and a mutual desire, though neither might
be capable of coming to terms with it at that point in time.
Carefully, he released Jackie and rolled her onto her back.

He murmured, ―I‘m sorry,‖ and drew the sheet over her athletic

frame, as she stared wide-eyed and near panic that he was leaving
her.

―David. I‘m not. . . . ‖
―Not what?‖
―Sorry.‖
He sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed at his scalp hard,

desperately searching for the right words. He kept his head down,
muttering ―I want it too much.‖

Jackie felt a flush of heat spear her groin. Too much? How

could ‗it‘ possibly be too much? And what was it exactly? Was she
the  thing  he  wanted,  or  was  it  something  else  that  she  could  not
understand?  He  barely  knew  her,  yet  here  he  was,  a  stranger  to
whom  she  felt  an  unholy  affinity,  a  partner,  not  a  mentor  or
fellow-traveler.

Jackie moaned, ―so do I,‖ as she trailed her fingers along his

hip,  marveling  as  his  muscular  frame  tensed,  waiting,  hands
clenched in anticipation. She bit her lip, ruing her lack of skill. She
would  have  to  imagine  his  body  a  blank  canvas,  with  pencil  in
hand,  upon  which  she  could  explore,  discard,  start  over.  She
closed  her  eyes,  allowing  her  inner  being  to  float  higher,  her

Sculpting David

fingers probing the firm buttocks, teasing, exploring as he leaned
forward, exposing himself to her curiosity—and his.

David‘s being tingled, electrified, as her nimble fingers and

sharp nails slid over sensitive tissue, followed by moist lips and a
hot tongue that threw caution to the wind. He lay back on the bed,
content to let her take the lead. He was, after all, her creature and
she was free to fill the canvas with her unique vision. Her tongue
left  a  wake  of  riotous  color  and  texture  in  his  mind  as  it
meandered  lazily  along  his  collarbone—a  nip,  nettle  sharp,
peaking  his  nipple,  repeated  until  he  ached  in  surrender,  all
inhibitions in full retreat. She danced along his belly, fingers and
tongue and breath forging a torturous path toward his cock, now
thick, pulsing with anticipation. He moaned as she plunging a nail
into  the  slit,  pain  and  pleasure  in  a  tango  of  lust  and  desire.  He
squeezed  his  eyes  shut,  focusing  on  a  single  point  of  sensation,
willing it to magnify a thousand-fold, as she engulfed him with wet
warmth and sharp teeth.

―Oh God, that‘s good,‖ he sighed.
Jackie inhaled his unique scent of musk and testosterone, filling

her senses with the taste and texture of her creation. His rasping
breaths  and  thrusting  hips  excited  her  beyond  measure,  and  she
gloried  in  her  mastery  over  the  medium.  There  were  so  many
layers  and  nuances  that  she  would  have  to  spend  a  lifetime  in
discovery. She sensed his urgency as he moved in rhythm with her
fingers  and  mouth,  his  hands  pressing  on  her  shoulders,  driving
himself deeper, closer to the edge. She fondled the soft sacs, then
pinched  hard  and  released  as  he  mewled  acceptance  and  begged
for more.

Spreading his legs, he opened himself, inviting, so she prodded

the crease, boldly flicking a nail over the slick crease as he rocked
wantonly, every movement a supplication. She ran her tongue over

the vein, now bulging prominently, then inserted a finger in the
pucker and pressed downward seeking the sensitive prostate. His
hiss of pleasure washed over her as he released in a tidal wave of
ecstasy, her canvas afloat with spent passion.

David‘s world exploded into a million shards as he relinquished

any  semblance  of  control  over  his  carefully  guarded  feelings.
Jackie had, with a master‘s true touch, driven him from his shell,
the warren where‘d sheltered from connecting with his sensual self
and  from  which  only  a  small  portion  of  his  artistic  gifts  sallied
forth in a pale reflection of all he would become. And she had done
this  thing  selflessly,  committed  only  to  her  art,  a  debt  he  had  no
idea how to repay.

―Jackie,‖ he whispered, ―lie back and let me….‖
She grinned wolfishly, lunged forward and straddled his hips,

wriggling sinuously along his still-pulsing length.

―Leave it to me,‖ she murmured.
David tensed his body, giving hers a platform against which to

pleasure herself, then laughed with delight as she came on a gasp,
her hands braced on his shoulders, her short brown curls tickling
his lips as he leaned forward to nuzzle her hair, his inner demon
content for the moment.

They collapsed together, artist and subject, joined as one,

indistinguishable.

* * * *

―Fuck, woman. Where‘d you learn to do that?‖
Janet laughed out loud.
―I‘m not kidding. That‘s just purely unnatural. Give me a few

minutes, then you can do it again.‖

―Don‘t you have to be at the pool?‖

Sculpting David

―Oh shit, yeah. We better get up.‖ Tom curled his aching body

off the bed, his knees weak and belly quivering. Never in all his life
had he experienced anything like that. The woman was a magician.
She thought she had him curled around her little finger. Well,
yeah, she did, but that didn‘t matter. He was staking a claim, and
he would do whatever it took to keep this one.

―I‘m going to take a shower.‖ He held out a hand. Janet slid

gracefully  to  the  edge  of  the  bed,  giving  him  a  wicked,  teasing
smile.  Tom  felt  the  hunger  build  again  as  he  drank  in  her  soft
contours.  He  traced  a  finger  down  the  soft  notch  of  her  throat,
then led her into the bathroom and set the jets to full. He let her in
first,  then  settling  behind  her,  he  slowly  soaped  his  hands.  She
stood only an inch shorter than he, so he laid his head against her
shoulders and wrapped his arms around her, lathering her breasts
and belly until she squirmed beneath his touch.

―Let me work a little of my own magic. Just be still. Don‘t

move.‖ Janet moaned as his hands slid lower, stroking and teasing
her, gently at first, then insistent, demanding. Her brain and body
disconnected as she bucked under his masterful touch, with
spasms of pleasure, like shafts of intense heat, making her knees
buckle. Tom whispered in her ear, ―That‘s just a taste of what I
plan on doing to you. Meet me tonight? After the meet?‖

Janet leaned her head back and murmured, ―Um-hmm. Yes,

tonight. Should I bring a bottle of B-vitamins?‖

―Yeah, and more condoms. I won‘t have time to go shopping.‖
―You‘re on, Studly.‖

Chapter Eleven

He Said, She Said

―I have got to sketch that position. Is that in the Kama Sutra or

something? Jesus, I thought I was limber.‖ Jackie crawled to the
edge of the bed, beads of sweat coating her body. David lay flat
out, panting hard.

―I think I hurt something. I can‘t feel my legs. Is that a bad

thing?‖

―Hang on, I‘ll be right back.‖ Jackie raced to the living room and

returned  with  her  small  sketch  pad  and  a  bit  of  charcoal.  ―Roll
over like you did. No, the other way.‖ David groaned. ―Oh, don‘t be
such a baby. Yeah, like that. Now hold that position.‖ Janet made
rapid sweeps over the paper, muttering to herself. ―I have to think
about  inserting  myself,  here  and  here.  Oh  yeah,  this  is  good.
Look.‖ She flipped the page in front of his nose, then withdrew  it
quickly  and  continued  the  stroking  in  time  with  David‘s  shallow
breaths.

―Okay, turn over and look.‖ David struggled to comply, then

gave up.

―Shoot me, woman. I don‘t have enough blood in my brain to

look at anything right now.‖

―So where‘s the blood?‖ She swung a leg over his torso, settling

onto his groin. ―Is it here?‖ She held the page up. ―Look at this.
Uh-huh. Yeah, keep looking.‖

David‘s pupils dilated as he grasped what she‘d drawn with such

deft strokes, barely aware that she‘d been slowly rocking against
him, completely entrapped in the wicked vision she‘d magically

Sculpting David

created.

He whispered, ―That‘s not possible.‖
―Oh yeah, it is. Just watch the picture, let me do the work.‖
―I‘ve got feeling back.‖
―In your legs?‖
―No, someplace better. God, woman, do it already. Saddle up

and ride your demon hard.‖

* * * *

Jackie shyly led David to the basement. He was walking a little

stiffly  as  he  negotiated  the  steep  stairway.  But  he‘d  insisted  on
seeing her work. At his sharp intake of breath she winced, fearful
he‘d  disapprove  of  her  dark  visions,  the  demons  rising  from
angelic  ashes,  hell  on  earth,  totally  sensual  and  involving,
insinuating with startling clarity—a sucker punch to the senses.

―Goddamn.‖ David turned to Jackie. ―Oh yes. I want these.

Definitely. Jackie, listen, I have something I need to tell you.‖ He
stood in the glare of a fluorescent light, his face flushed, filled with
some inner agony. ―I‘m not who you think I am.‖

―I don‘t understand, David.‖
―My name isn‘t David Stefanov. It‘s Michaels. I‘m Adrian

Michaels‘ son. I lied about who I was because I needed you to get
to know me without having the insanity of our parents‘ unholy war
interfere with what we need to do with our lives.‖

―Michaels? David, I don‘t understand. Why would you lie to

me?‖

―Jacqueline, please. Listen to me. I lied because I couldn‘t figure

out another way to convince you to reconsider. I need your work. I
want it.‖ David grasped her shoulders. ―I want you.‖ Jackie
wriggled out of his grasp, fury mixed with pain at the charade.

―Well, here‘s a bit of news for you. You don‘t get me! Ever. Now

get out.‖ Jackie kept her voice tight, contained. She pointed up the
stairs, then spun away, holding her belly with one hand, the other
pressed against the cinder block wall, the rough texture barely
registering.

Without a word, David stalked up the stairs, furious—at

himself,  at  his  father,  at  her.  He‘d  failed—not  just  himself  and
Janet, but this amazing, talented woman. He could have made her
future, he wanted to be that future. Shoulders hunched against the
cold  and  his  inner  turmoil,  he  ran  to  the  art  building,  not  sure
what  he  wanted  to  do.  To  his  surprise  the  studio  was  open,  the
lights glaring.

―Mr. Stefanov. I‘m surprised to see you here on a weekend.‖
David paced to the instructor‘s desk, his face a mask of anguish.

―Ma‘am. I‘m withdrawing as of right now. I just came to get my
supplies. I‘m sorry if this will cause any inconvenience.‖ He turned
toward his easel and workspace. Carefully packing his tubes of
oils, he arranged the brushes, and cleaned his space.

―Mr. Stefanov. Or should I say—Michaels?‖ David spun,

shocked. ―Yes, I know who you are. I attended several of your
shows. I am well aware of your gifts, and your Gallery. Would I be
too far off the mark to think you were trying to lure Jacqueline for
your opening?‖

He nodded and stood silently, his eyes pleading for mercy.
―Come here, David. Have a seat. Let‘s talk about this.‖
He sat on a metal folding chair and stretched his long legs

under her desk.

―Ma‘am. I royally blew it. I mean, I really fucked up big time.

Sorry, Ma‘am.‖

―It‘s Amy. So tell me, David, exactly how badly did you fuck

up?‖

Sculpting David

David smiled wryly and launched into his tale of woe. He left

nothing out—his passion for her work, his need to be his own man,
their parents‘ squabbles, her unreasonable need to mindlessly
adhere to her father‘s wishes.

―And is there anything else?‖ Amy peered into David‘s

sorrowful face and felt a twinge of sadness at the hurt in his eyes.
―Does this have anything to do with what you feel for Jackie?‖

David stared at his hands, clasped tightly in his lap. His hair fell

forward, hiding his face. He whispered, ―I think I might be falling
in love with her.‖

Amy gave a low hum in her throat, a slight smile playing at her

lips.

―She drew this.‖ David handed over a tightly rolled parchment.
Amy slowly un-wrapped the drawing and laid it carefully on the

blotter, then gulped with surprise and delight. She slowly rotated
the image, surveying it professionally.

With horror, David realized he‘d given her the wrong sketch.

―Ma‘am, Amy, I‘m sorry. Not that one.‖

He reached for the parchment only to have the instructor pull it

out of reach. Mortified, he thrust the other drawing into her
hands.

―Here, look at this one. I want to cast a bronze for this. Look at

what she‘s done with the lines. It practically stomps you into the
ground, it‘s so powerful.‖

David spread the larger piece on the desk, gratified to hear her

hiss of appreciation. Hopeful, he held out his hand for the errant
erotic piece that so enamored the woman. She waved him away as
she carefully studied both images.

―Yes, this one in bronze. With a marble base, perhaps?‖ David

nodded avidly, his eyes glistening with possibilities. ―And this
other for your private collection, I assume.‖ She laughed out loud

Chapter Twelve

Revelations

Janet stretched like a satisfied cat. Tom had gone out in search

of  sustenance,  claiming  he  needed  red  meat,  otherwise  he  would
never be able to keep up with her insatiable demands on his weak
male body. She laughed to herself. In truth, the man was amazing.
She‘d been sensing that he might be her soul-mate, the one she‘d
been seeking her entire life. She‘d made do with countless lovers,
finally with Gustavo, then with David. None had touched her heart
the  way  this  gentle,  earthy  man  did.  David  had  been  first  and
foremost  her  best  friend,  but  she‘d  known  for  some  time  that  he
needed  more  than  she  could  give  him,  that  he  in  fact  deserved
more.  He‘d  become  so  dependent  on  her  that  he‘d  put  his  own
heart aside, thinking that his work would fill in the gaps that his
empty  soul  could  not.  It  had  been  past  time  to  set  the  boy-man
free.

Now, what to do about Tom? The revelation had been a blast to

her  senses  as  she‘d  ridden  his  body  into  a  near  coma  of  ecstasy.
What a time for her synapses to fire and to have her brain flooded
with  unwanted  information  and  irritating  implications.  Tom
Holbein  was,  might  still  be,  Jacqueline‘s  lover.  At  one  time  she
would not have concerned herself over such a minor quibble, mere
semantics,  something  mature  adults  set  aside  as  of  no
consequence  in  the  larger  scheme  of  things.  But  her  sensibilities
had  evolved  overnight  into  wanting,  needing,  an  emotional
connection,  not  some  mindless  coupling  to  sate  physical  urges.
She  was  perfectly  capable  of  entertaining  herself  should  it  ever

come to that.

Tom shoved the door open. ―Hey, babe. Got Chinese. Is that

okay?‖ He set the large plastic bag on the small desk that doubled
as an eating surface. ―Um, this smells good. I‘m starved.‖

Janet wrapped her flannel robe securely and sniffed with

pleasure. ―Oh my, Szechuan chicken?‖

Tom wrapped her in his arms and nuzzled her hair. ―Eat up,

woman. I got more of these, too.‖ He flung the condoms on the
table.

Between mouthfuls, Janet considered her options. Sighing, she

murmured, ―Can we talk?‖

―Sure, babe, what about?‖
―About you and Jacqueline Maurel.‖ She held a hand up as Tom

sat stunned, mouth open. ―I know this might be insanely early. In
fact, I‘m not sure we even have a relationship. But one thing I do
know is my own heart. I must know how you feel. And I want your
honesty, if at all possible.‖

Tom set his chopsticks down and folded his hands on the table,

his brow creased. He pushed away from the desk and circled
around, then gently lifted her off the chair and spun her to face
him.

―I‘m not much good with words. I‘m not going to pretend

there‘s nothing between Jackie and me. I love her in my own way.
I  have  for  a  very  long  time.  But  she‘s  young  enough  to  be  my
daughter. And, truthfully, I‘m more a father to her than Jacques. I
always knew I‘d need to let her go. And I think this might be the
time.‖  He  pulled  Janet  toward  the  bed.  ―As  for  you?  I‘d  guessed
you might be the agent who‘d made the offer. I also gave thought
to how you might be using me to get to Jackie. But I know better
than  that  now.  So  I  never  said  anything.  Figured  it  would  sort
itself out eventually.‖

Sculpting David

―I‘m sorry. It never once occurred to me that you might think

that. It simply wasn‘t on my radar.‖

Tom pushed Janet onto the bed and turned to the table,

grabbing the package of condoms. ―Here, woman. Open these up.
Since I‘m shit with words, I‘d rather show you just how I feel about
you.‖

―Didn‘t you say you needed red meat?‖
Tom reached into another bag. ―That‘s why I bought a Big Mac.

Move over, woman.‖

Janet laughed out loud. ―Did you get fries with that?‖

* * * *

―Bonjour, Jacques!‖ Elena stood with quiet grace, allowing the

crush of weary passengers disembarking through the gate at
Newark Liberty International to flow organically about her.

―Elena.‖ Jacques Maurel paused to admire the titian beauty, a

woman who thirty years before had formed the core of his
universe, who still could be that center had time and
circumstances not been so different. He still entertained the small
regrets, content to let his passion simmer.

―Do you have any luggage?‖ Elena gave Jacques a Euro kiss,

brushing his ear with a feather touch, and withdrawing to stand
self-contained and expectant. This meeting had been his idea, not
hers, and she had eagerly embraced the possibilities.

―Oui. Seulement celle-ci.‖ Jacques indicated the small wheeled

bag, then stood like a shy young man, unsure how to proceed.

―My car is outside, undoubtedly illegally parked, although my

man  is  quite  good  at  looking  menacing.‖  Elena  motioned  for
Jacques  to  follow  as  she  strode  gracefully  through  the  revolving
door. A short burley man exited the Lexus  to assist Jacques with

his luggage.

―This is Maksim. He has been my driver for. . . what, ten years?

And my good friend.‖ Elena smiled indulgently as Maksim blushed
and ducked his head in silent salute.

Settling into the back seat, Elena explained the lodging

arrangements and meeting schedule that she‘d hurriedly
assembled once Jacques had informed her of his plans.

―I have you at the Millenium Broadway, though your normal

suite was not available. I hope that will not be a problem. We have
dinner reservations for ten at Le Marais. The steak tartare is
exquisite. David and Janet will join us, as you requested.‖

―And Adrian?‖
―Nyet, my dear. Let us not push our luck, shall we? It is enough

that David consented. He has been difficult these last few weeks.‖

Elena stole a moment to consider the man sitting nervously

next to her. She‘d always had that effect on him, even as an
ingénue, scattering his senses, leaving him stuttering and
uncertain. It had been a heady power, and she‘d joyously misused
it, until Adrian had swept her away and out of Jacques‘ life.

Adrian and Jacques‘ longstanding feud had had nothing to do

with  professional  jealously  and  everything  to  do  with  her  fickle
heart.  But,  she‘d  had  no  regrets  and  Jacques  had  quickly  moved
on,  finding  his  partnership  with  Clarisse  to  be  an  interesting
counterpoint  to  his  ephemeral  nature.  How  odd  it  was  that  fate
had  conspired  to  arrange  a  canvas  of  dramatic  conflict  for  their
children—such  a  sad  fallout  from  silly  passions  and  age-old
enmity. It was past time to set things to rights.

As Maksim pulled in front of the hotel, the doorman rushed to

assist Jacques as he swung onto the sidewalk. He leaned in the
open door. ―I need to sleep for a bit. The flight was tiresome.‖

―I‘ll come back at two and we‘ll go to lunch and talk. We will

Sculpting David

need a plan, you and I. A good one, if we wish this to work. I‘ll see
you later, mon ami.‖

Elena laid her head against the leather seat, pondering Jacques‘

proposition,  and  thinking  hard  about  the  man  who  had  first
captured  her  attention  and  her  lust,  if  not  her  heart,  when  she‘d
fled  to  Paris  to  escape  the  onus  of  being  only  second  tier  at  the
Bolshoi. That he had freed the other artist in her soul had been his
greatest  gift,  and  one  for  which  she  would  be  eternally  grateful.
The  chime  from  her  cell  phone  roused  her  from  her  cluttered
memories.

―Da. Janet? Oh, my dear. I was just about to call you. Yes,

Jacques is here. Resting. Um-hm. I‘m with Maksim. We‘ll be there
shortly. Ciao.‖

―Maksim, we‘ll go to Janet‘s. It‘s the Melar on West 93

.‖

Maksim valiantly battled traffic around Columbus Circle and

headed north on Broadway.

―Drop me off here. I‘ll call you when I‘m ready. Thank you,

dearest.‖

Elena patted Maksim‘s shoulder and slid gracefully from the

car. The doorman bowed respectfully, not sure who she might be,
but quite certain the stunning woman was someone of importance.
Elena regally strolled to the elevator and pressed the button for
the fourteenth floor.

―Elena! How good to see you.‖ Janet stepped back to allow the

elegant woman into the small foyer. A compact U-shaped modern
kitchen,  awash  in  stainless  steel  appliances,  sat  to  the  right,  an
over-sized  closet  to  her  left,  followed  by  a  short  hall that tee‘d  at
another closet, with the large bedroom to the right overlooking the
tree-lined  street,  and  an  unremarkable  bathroom  opposite.  The
kitchen had an open counter pass-through with stools, facing into
an eighteen-by-twelve starkly modern living space.

The wall to the left contained a single painting, nearly five-by-

seven-feet,  a  disturbing  work  of  shadows  and  desperation  and
longing. Elena stood for a moment admiring her son‘s early work.
He‘d  come  a  long  way  since  this  effort—though  the  promise,  the
technique,  the  sheer  mastery  of  his  inner  turmoil  lay  open  to  all
who  dared  to  embrace  this  challenge.  He‘d  later  translated  these
emotions into objects of uncommon power, grounded in the earth,
struggling to escape Gaia‘s confines.

―Coffee?‖ Elena nodded assent. ―You could have knocked me

over with a feather. How in the world did you ever convince
Jacques to come to the States, let alone embark on this quest of
yours?‖

―I didn‘t. And imagine my surprise when he told me that it was

a friend of Jacqueline‘s who had made the impassioned plea that
convinced him to abandon his studio and grace our presence.
Apparently the gentleman was quite compelling.‖

―Do you know who? I‘m just curious. Jacques is not known for…

oh, shall we say, being accommodating?‖

Elena laughed. ―The man is French. Rude is part of his genetic

makeup. I believe the man‘s name is Tom something. He is at the
University with her. But not a student. Jacques was not
forthcoming with details.‖

Janet gulped back a laugh. ―Tom? Tom Holbein?‖
―Da, do you know this man?‖
―I think you could say that.‖ Janet‘s face flamed prettily as she

set out mugs and spoons.

―Janet! My dear. I do not believe I have ever seen you blush. Oh

my, a story. I must know. Details, every single one.‖

―Then I think we want to sit on the couch. Cognac with that?‖

Elena held out her mug and curled her legs underneath her,
prepared to be entertained. As usual, Janet did not disappoint.

Chapter Thirteen

Running the Bulls

―Shit, shit, shit.‖
David sat on the dusty floor resting against the wall, his jeans

coated in a grayish white, sticky residue. His bare chest glistened
with sweat that trickled down his back, leaving faint splotches of
moisture on the faux paneling. He flipped  a small adze from one
hand to another, mindless of the occasional snick from the sharp
edge. The bronze bull-human form dominated the room, a thing of
singular  power,  aggressively  charging  forward,  filling  the  space
and  commanding  the  eye  from  every  angle.  But  the  base  eluded
him.  He‘d  spent  the  entire  night  trying  to  coax  a  measure  of
freedom  from  the  cold  stone.  It  lay  still,  passive  and  unyielding,
unwilling to release the figure from its stasis into a world of heat,
movement  and  light.  Jacqueline‘s  drawing  hung  limp  from  his
filthy hand. The cell phone chimed with irritating clarity. Furious,
David lunged to his feet, allowing the drawing to waft to the floor.

―Dammit, what? Oh, Mom. I‘m sorry. No, I‘m all right. It‘s just

that I can‘t get it to work. No, I‘ll be there. I promise. Bye.‖

He glared at the small screen, then flipped it closed and stalked

to the pedestal, circling like a predator, mimicking the taut stance,
the promise of violence, the uncertainty of the embrace. He looked
down at Little Shit, the small parrot happily shredding the edges
of his drawing.

―Oh crap! No! Come here you little devil. Up on the shoulder.

There you go.‖

He fingered the drawing, looking for inspiration and finding

none. What he did find was intense longing and an insane burn in
his belly, as if he‘d gone without food for a week—not far off the
mark as he‘d sunk into a well of despair and creative ennui since
returning to his loft.

―Why can‘t I leave it alone, Shitkins? Talk to me, little man.

Sure as hell, nobody else will.‖

* * * *

Elena sat across from Jacques who, inexplicably, had chosen a

crowded pizza joint for lunch. They‘d been wandering the Theater
district,  arm-in-arm,  enjoying  the  first  hints  of  an  early  spring.
Jacques  had  been  captivated  by  the  enticing  display  of  dozens  of
varieties of pizza and had dragged her into a steam-filled miasma
of  garlic  and  roasted  vegetables,  the  air  thick  and  pungent.  He‘d
sunk onto the wood stool, inhaled deeply and given her his  most
charming smile.

―Chérie. You are still the most beautiful woman. If I could

sketch you? Perhaps you could come to my room before dinner?‖
Jacques kept his eyes on the pizza, not daring to look at his former
paramour who sat bemused, examining each perfect nail in turn.

―Um, I don‘t think so, mon ami. Now tell me. From the

beginning.‖

Sighing, Jacques wiped his mouth and launched into his story.

―This  man,  this  Tom  Holbein,  who  has  been  keeping  company
with  my  daughter  for  many  years.  He  is  much  too  old,  I  never
approved.  Well,  anyway.  He  called  to  berate  me—me!—about
keeping Jacqueline from her destiny, how I ruined her life. Chérie,
I had no idea. Jacqueline never shared this opportunity. How was
I to know?‖

―You do know who the owner of the Gallery is, don‘t you? It‘s

Sculpting David

my son, David. It would not be unusual for them to feel a certain…
how do you say? Loyalty to a parent? We have not been adult
about these things in the past. Surely it should come as no
surprise.‖

―No, I do understand, Chérie. Truly. And yes, I did make an

offer, a very strong offer, for her to come home and work with me.
Why do the young ones see this as demands? We parents do these
things out of love. We want them close to us. Why is this so hard?‖

Elena sighed, ―I do not know. But we have done our part to

complicate matters. We created these little monsters, so now we
must live with it, or make it better. I, for one, think it is time for a
change. I need to know how you feel about Jacqueline showing in
David‘s gallery.‖

―I am happy! Proud. How could I not be? No, she will not follow

me, but she has a heart, that one, and terrible talent, frightening to
me. Tell me, my love, how do I say this thing to her?‖

―Just like that, Jacques. Tonight we must convince David and

Janet of your good intentions. I have dispatched Tom Holbein to
Philadelphia to bring Jacqueline back here tomorrow. We will
meet at the Gallery, just the two of you at first, then the rest of us,
including the other three artists. Jackie must know that she is part
of a larger family now, one that will see to her future.‖ Elena
clapped her hands excitedly. ―I feel like a director for a Broadway
play! Oh, Jacques, this will be so exciting. My son, your daughter.‖

―There is one small matter. This Holbein, he says there may be

something between them. Do you know of this thing?‖

―Um, not directly. David has been morose for weeks, sulking,

looking like a lost sheep. I had thought that not having Janet
might have been the problem, but she assures me this is not so.
That would explain a lot to me. Da. I think I begin to see.‖

―Matters of the heart, Chérie. Who better than you and I to sort

100

this out?‖

Elena took Jacques strong hands in hers, squeezing gently as

their eyes blinked in shared remembrance.

* * * *

Janet sighed, ―Oh, David. Look at you. You‘re so thin! You must

take better care of yourself. We open in three weeks. We‘re doing
the walk-through tomorrow and introducing the principals. I need
you at your best.‖

David sat slumped at his kitchen counter. ―I don‘t know if I

have it in me, Janet. Look at it. I‘m almost there. I can feel it, smell
it. I dream about it, but the marble won‘t let it go.‖ He swung his
arm toward the piece he called Raging Bull.

Janet kissed his forehead and brushed his long hair behind his

ears. ―Come, sweetheart. You need to clean up. You simply can‘t go
like that.‖

―All right. I‘ll do it, for you.‖
Janet grimaced at the dust flying in spirals as David bounded

toward his bedroom, the air redolent with the odor of turpentine
and  unwashed  dishes.  She  listened  to  the  muted  sounds  coming
from  the  shower,  thoughtfully  considering  Tom‘s  phone  call  that
afternoon.  He‘d  been  tasked  with  two  difficult  assignments.  The
most important, to get Jackie to the city to meet with her father,
though a close second was Tom‘s breaking the news to his former
lover about them getting engaged. Their three weeks had gone by
in  a  blur  of  togetherness,  then  another  two  apart,  and  that  had
been the clincher. Tom had returned to the city, ring in hand, and
had  literally  swept  her  off  her  feet.  He‘d  gotten  Jackie‘s  blessing
but  had  tiptoed  past  the  real  reason  for  the  trip  –  to  get  her  to
agree to the show, hoping the small lie would be forgotten once the

Sculpting David

101

players entered stage left. Elena was quite right. This had all the
earmarks of either a comedy or a gut-wrenching drama.

David emerged from the bathroom, marginally cleaner, but still

sullen.

―Dearest, we have a few stops to make first. Bring your credit

card.‖

* * * *

―Mom. Monsieur Maurel.‖
David sat next to his mother. She was resplendent in a Donna

Karan black cashmere drape-front belted dress with Stuart
Weitzman OTK thigh-high platform boots, her red hair an angelic
mass framing her aristocratic face. She wore no jewelry other than
her diamond-encrusted wedding band.

Janet sat to the left of Jacques. She had opted for soft and

feminine, eschewing her traditional business suit for a statuesque
look in an Issa London silk knit surplice dress with puffed sleeves
in  a  muted  fuschia.  She‘d  gone  bold  with  Christian  Louboutin
black  lace  platform  peep-toe  pumps  with  a  three-and-a-half-inch
heel. Always the peacock, Jacques seemed downright conservative
in  a  black,  vintage  seventies  Armani  jacket  with  an  off-white
cashmere turtleneck.

Janet and Elena glanced at each other quickly, small smiles

twitching the corners of their mouths as David smoothly moved to
his seat. He‘d dressed in new, tight black jeans, a deep blue silk
pleated shirt open at the throat, with a Baroni black leather jacket,
and a gold hoop in his right ear. Janet had squired him to
Takimichi Saeki, who had miraculously coifed David‘s unruly locks
into a precisely sculpted short, well-done undone style.

As the waiter approached, Elena murmured to Jacques, ―If you

102

would, dearest? Please order for us. You have such exquisite
taste.‖

Jacques glowed and turned to the waiter, ―Garçon, nous verons

prendre le Magret de Canard Fumé, Poivrons rôtis pour
commencer, suivi par le steak tartare, et pour le dessert la
„Châtaigne‟ de Cacahouète et Noisettes.”

“Quel vin, monsieur?”
“Une bouteille de Château D‟Arsac, Margaux, s‟il vous plait.”
Elena took a sip of water, then launched into an explanation for

Jacques‘  trip  to  New  York,  emphasizing  his  intent  to  support
Jacqueline,  including  having  her  show  at  Dark  Visions.  David
listened with interest. As he picked at the smoked duck breast with
charred  red  peppers,  he  felt  cautiously  optimistic  that  he  and
Janet  could  pull  this  off.  After  his  second  glass  of  Bordeaux,  he
and Jacques expansively toasted each other‘s health.

Janet pushed the remains of her dome of peanut butter

mousse—filled with chocolate, hazelnut, praline, and covered in
dark chocolate—about her plate, then slid it over to David who had
cleaned his plate after every course, including a goodly portion of
her steak tartare, yet still had room for more. Janet reached over
and squeezed his hand, hard.

―So, David, Janet, we will have Jacques and his daughter meet

at the gallery at noon tomorrow. The others will join them at one
o‘clock. We have arranged accommodations at the Millenium
Broadway for Jackie to stay in Jacques‘ suite tomorrow night.
Monsieur Holbein will, of course, stay with Janet.‖ Elena winked
at Janet as David‘s head whipped around to stare at her furiously
blushing face.

―Why don‘t you tell him, mon amie? He will find out soon

enough I think.‖

―Tell me what?‖ David demanded.

104

Chapter Fourteen

Russian Rhapsody

David paced around the pedestal, frowning in fierce

concentration. He‘d sensed a slight yielding, a mere hint that the
inner  soul  of  the  marble  finally  strained  for  freedom.  He‘d
carefully removed his new clothes and hung them away, throwing
on  stained  gray  sweatpants  and  a  loose  undershirt.  His  work
clothes  were  already  filthy,  though  he‘d  been  at  his  task  for  less
than  an  hour.  When  Janet  had  dropped  that  bomb,  twirling  the
small  diamond  engagement  ring  under  his  nose,  he‘d  rushed  out
of  the  restaurant  without  saying  goodbye  to  anyone.  He‘d  heard
the chime of his mother‘s laugh as he‘d charged out the door, arm
raised to hail a cab.

He consulted Jackie‘s drawing, then set to work with a

vengeance. Little Shit clutched at his ear, annoyed that David no
longer had a mop of hair to hide under.

―Back in your cage, buddy. I need both hands tonight.‖
By noon, David had coaxed a recognizable form that not only

supported the bronze bull but violently thrust the startling figure
into  another  dimension.  Wild  and  animalistic,  the  integrated
human figure engaged in the rapturous embrace with an elemental
ferocity  and  rage.  He  knew  he  had  a  long  way  to  go,  but  it  was
there,  and  it  no  longer  fought  him.  He  caressed  the  piece  as  one
would  a  lover.  He  reached  for  the  chamois  cloth  to  stroke  the
marble tenderly.

* * * *

Sculpting David

105

―Where is he, Elena? He should have been here by now. He

can‘t do this to us. This is unacceptable!‖ Janet hit redial once
again, but David‘s phone went automatically to voice mail.

―We don‘t need him, my dear. Jacques and his daughter have

reached an accord. He will see to the details. It is… how do you
say? A done deal. You are the General Manager. It is you who will
be the contact. My David will be the figurehead, no?‖

―Yes, all right, Elena. Of course.‖ Janet took a deep breath and

headed to the front of the gallery to meet the artists clustered
about the buffet table. She huffed to herself, starving artists,
indeed.

Janet felt the puff of air as if a chilled finger tweaked the nape of

her neck. She glanced away from Vincenti, who continued to
expansively extol the virtues of his paramour. He rambled on
about how the juxtaposition with his own visionary adaptation of
goodness and light would bring form and clarity to the exhibit.

―Mi scusi, Tesoro. I‘ll be right back.‖ Janet quietly approached

Elena who stood separate from the group, deep in thought.

Janet whispered in Elena‘s ear, ―Don‘t look, but Adrian just

walked in the door. No! Just wait.‖

―What is he doing?‖ Elena wrung her hands, but kept her back

to the huge plate glass window fronting the Gallery.

―Glaring.‖
―Oh dear. Are the knives still on the buffet? What about the

toothpicks, Janet?‖

―Shhh, he looks calm, I think. Uh-oh, he‘s spied Jacques and his

daughter. He‘s going over to them.‖

―Janet? What is happening? Please!‖
―It‘s all right. He‘s staring at Jacques. Oh my. Well, what do you

know about that? Those two lions are shaking hands.‖

106

―Holy Mother of Mercy! Can I turn around now?‖
―No, give them a minute. The last thing those two old warriors

need is you in the middle. Let them go mano-a-mano for now.‖
Janet snorted. ―Jackie just threw her hands in the air. Here she
comes.‖

―Janet. Elena. For heaven‘s sake, I need a mop to get all the

testosterone off the wood floor. It‘s going to ruin the finish.‖ Jackie
grinned at her new mentors.

Janet hissed, ―And here comes Adrian, Elena. Be prepared. He‘s

got that caveman look again.‖

―Ciao, signori.” Adrian wrapped a proprietary arm about

Elena‘s  shoulders  and  drew  her  close  as  he  graced  his  covey  of
women  with  a  dazzling  smile.  He  nodded  with  satisfaction  at
Jacques‘  small  wince,  a  most  gratifying  acknowledgement.  With
Elena  on  his  arm,  Adrian  strolled  the  gallery,  then  paused,
confused.

―Where the hell is David? He‘s supposed to be here.‖
―Hush, dearest. He is exactly where he needs to be right now.‖
―What the fuck‘s that supposed to mean? And where‘s Janet

taking Jacques‘ daughter? What‘s going on here?‖

Sighing, Elena guided her bewildered husband to the buffet.

―Have a glass of wine, love. I will try to explain it to you.‖

* * * *

―Where exactly are we going, Janet? And what‘s the big rush?

Shouldn‘t we have stayed at the Gallery?‖

―No, dear. Here we are.‖ Janet bent toward the driver,

―Maksim, wait here. I‘ll be right back.‖ Janet exited the Lexus and
held a hand out for Jackie. ―This way.‖ She led Jackie to the third
floor, then down the hall separating the two loft areas.

Sculpting David

107

Janet keyed the door open, then backed away. ―Go in. It‘s up to

you now. You‘ll understand in a moment. Good luck.‖

Jackie tentatively pushed the door open as a puff of rock dust

swirled  in  mini-vortices  about  her  ankles.  Bemused,  she  never
heard  Janet  quietly  close  the  door.  David  stood  hunched  over  a
figure,  muscles  bunched  tight  along  his  shoulders  as  he  pressed
into  the  marble  base,  leaving  minute  fragments  of  stone  chips  to
spray  about  his  bare  feet.  Jackie  approached  cautiously,  not
wishing  to  startle  him.  She  circled,  curious,  then  inhaled  a  sharp
breath  as  the  form  she‘d  only  imagined  sprang  to  life—ferocious,
compelling, and raw.

She whispered, ―David?‖
David grunted, ―What?‖
―It‘s me. Jackie.‖
David bolted upright, sucking air in great gulps. Slowly he

retreated from the bronze, opening space for her to step in, to
engage with her vision. He fingered the chamois cloth, wiping
away the dust, heedless of all but her face, her puzzled expression,
then the sharp understanding and recognition.

―David. This is. . . ‖
―Do you like it? The marble released last night. I couldn‘t let it

go. I‘m sorry. I wanted to have it for you, for today.‖

―Like it? No.‖ She splayed her hand to halt his hiss of

disappointment. ―David, there simply are no words. This is beyond
―like‖. This is you. This is who you are. My demon.‖

―Your demon?‖
―Yes, if you will have me.‖
―Come here.‖ David took her hand and drew her to the wall. ―Do

you remember this?‖ He pointed to a small sketch framed under
Plexiglas.

―I seem to recall something like that. But now that I look at it, I

108

think perhaps a few changes might be needed. See here? And
here.‖ Jackie backed into David‘s body, allowing him to encase her
in his strong embrace. ―I think we should start on this right away,
don‘t you agree?‖

―I have some ideas on how we can improve the work. If you are

willing.‖

Jackie sighed, ―Let me show you just how willing I can be.‖

* * * *

―Where the hell are they? It‘s eight-thirty. The gallery‘s half-full

already.‖ Adrian stomped past a rapturous Vincenti, draped like a
cashmere stole around the sultry Paulo.

―Quiet, dear. Come meet Tom and Janet.‖
―Already met them. Where‘s Jacques? At least the man knows

how to drink.‖

―They‘ll be here shortly. Be patient.‖
―You‘d think the boy would have sense enough to be on time for

the biggest night of his career. Christ.‖ Adrian chugged his
champagne and waved the waiter over.

―Jacqueline called and said they‘d had a slight delay.‖
―Delay. What kind of delay? Here, you want this?‖ Adrian

shoved a glass in her direction.

―Oh, something about research for one of their joint ventures.

New positions, something to that effect.‖

―Research? What the fuck for?‖
―Come dear, drink this. I‘ll try to explain it to you.‖ Elena

mumbled in Adrian‘s ear for a few moments, then stepped back
satisfied as the blush spread from his neck to his prominent brow.

―You‘re shitting me!‖
―No, dearest. I try not to.‖

Sculpting David

109

―Well, son-of-a-bitch. That‘s my boy. Come on. Let‘s say hello to

Jacques.‖

―Your wish is my command, my darling.‖ Elena grinned, a slight

flush pinking her perfect skin.

The End

About The Author

I  was  never  not  a  writer.  Awkward  and  shy  and  tongue-tied
throughout my school years, the written word became my gateway
to a larger world. What I could not say, I could write, and write I
did! For years I entertained friends and family with homilies, short
stories  and  what  today  passes  as  ―flash  fiction‖.  I  write  about
events and people who are ‗real‘ in the sense that they could be the
neighbor next door or that person entering the deli. Everyone has
a story to tell and my characters - all of them - seem to be renting
apartments in my subconscious. Every now and then my Muse [his
name is Rowan and yes he is quite the hunk] will open a door and
suggest  I  meet  David  or  Jackie  for  they‘ve  done  something
wonderful  that  day  and  I  mustn‘t  miss  the  chance  to  share  the
adventure.  I  love  to  sit  and  listen  to  conversations.  Language  is
truly  music  to  my  ears,  composing  those  words  into  coherent
sentences is choreography where the dance of dialog and narrative
elements  take  shape  and  form,  and  the  final  product  is  a
symphony of all those elements. Rowan is my conductor -and my
son  used  to  laugh  at  that,  but  now  he  boasts  to  all  who  care  to
listen  that  his  mother  has  ―an  imaginary  friend‖.  Little  does  he
know …

Red Sage Publishing

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