that beats it is that disgusting pigeon-blood thing you sold to those delusional yuppie hipsters. That’s the only time your mangy cat has come into some use.”
Occasionally birds nesting in the attic will fall down the chimney and into my room. To solve that problem I had adopted a shelter cat, an orange critter with green eyes that tears apart any pigeon before it has a chance to wreck its way through my workspace. Again.
Unfortunately, Cheshire had mauled a pigeon on the canvas I’d been working on. Fortunately, my client’s theme for their studio was ‘War’.
When I don’t respond he continues. “It was a choice between that and the two hundred pound sculpture of. . . an aeroplane, I think, and I just didn’t feel like making my poor driver load that thing in the boot."
"I'm still not doing it. And Airship in Flight is a sculpture of a bathtub."
"It doesn’t make it any less heavy. Thousand pounds. It's his thirtieth birthday."
A thousand pounds.
"Can't you just buy a bottle of scotch like normal people?"
"I did that last year. It's been done. It's done. I have to go big, Adelaide. I got him the suite at the Helix and promised to make up for the shitty birthday he had last year."
"What happened last year?"
"I threw up in his new car. And his kitchen floor. And in his fridge."
"Sexy."
"I did tell him I didn’t do shots of Patron well. And I'm pretty sure some stripper stole his wallet. And I'm pretty sure said stripper wasn’t really all female. So anyway, will you do it tonight? Look, I can vouch for him. You know I wouldn’t send you somewhere you weren’t safe and he knows you don’t go all the way. I tried to explain what burlesque dancing is to him, I’m sure he understood. Adelaide, hun, tease him a little and put a smile on that pretty-boy face of his, for me."
One thousand pounds.
"What time?"
"An hour."
I stop drying my hair and let the towel slip to the floor. "Three thousand."
"Two if you can be ready in an hour. You don't even have to stay all night."
"Or I can just ask you for a loan."
Preston laughs softly. "Except that you will never take it. You didn’t take your ex-fiancé's money either, and now you're a starving artist that lives with her brother and does expensive favours for old friends."
"You make me feel really good. I'm glad you called just to cheer me up."
Another laugh. "A car will be downstairs in an hour. Tell pretty-boy I say ‘happy birthday, you big sexy bastard’."
He ends the call and I toss the phone onto my bed and pull open a drawer on my battered dresser. I let out a deep breath.
When my art doesn’t pay the bills. . .
Two. Thousand. Pounds.
It’s not like I do this all the time. The last time I gave a strip-tease was. . . for James Hatter.
My one-night stand.
The memory rises like a huge bubble to the surface of my mind. God, the sex. It was wild. Primal. And a little perverted on his end.
It rocked my freaking world.
All James had to do was give me a cocky smile for my heart to start to pound and for the butterflies to fill my tummy, and all my rational thoughts began to not make sense. He was bad for me, like a second—no, a fourth helping of rich, creamy chocolate cake; too damn tempting and utterly delicious to resist.
And I was so tempted to rescind my plan on bruising his ego by staying the next morning. But that would have been like diving into crocodile-infested waters. One night was harmless. Anything more and I’m asking for a world of hurt.
How can I trust a man who bets a woman in a game of blackjack? Trust isn’t something I find easy. Not after what happened with Ethan. . .
They call it the walk of shame. I feel regret not shame.
It doesn’t matter, anyway. It’s not like I’ll ever be seeing him again.
Hatter
What the hell is Preston thinking?
After a five-day trip to four different countries, some with questionable plumbing, I don’t care where I sleep, minus a bus stop, as long as I have the chance to be
Occasionally birds nesting in the attic will fall down the chimney and into my room. To solve that problem I had adopted a shelter cat, an orange critter with green eyes that tears apart any pigeon before it has a chance to wreck its way through my workspace. Again.
Unfortunately, Cheshire had mauled a pigeon on the canvas I’d been working on. Fortunately, my client’s theme for their studio was ‘War’.
When I don’t respond he continues. “It was a choice between that and the two hundred pound sculpture of. . . an aeroplane, I think, and I just didn’t feel like making my poor driver load that thing in the boot."
"I'm still not doing it. And Airship in Flight is a sculpture of a bathtub."
"It doesn’t make it any less heavy. Thousand pounds. It's his thirtieth birthday."
A thousand pounds.
"Can't you just buy a bottle of scotch like normal people?"
"I did that last year. It's been done. It's done. I have to go big, Adelaide. I got him the suite at the Helix and promised to make up for the shitty birthday he had last year."
"What happened last year?"
"I threw up in his new car. And his kitchen floor. And in his fridge."
"Sexy."
"I did tell him I didn’t do shots of Patron well. And I'm pretty sure some stripper stole his wallet. And I'm pretty sure said stripper wasn’t really all female. So anyway, will you do it tonight? Look, I can vouch for him. You know I wouldn’t send you somewhere you weren’t safe and he knows you don’t go all the way. I tried to explain what burlesque dancing is to him, I’m sure he understood. Adelaide, hun, tease him a little and put a smile on that pretty-boy face of his, for me."
One thousand pounds.
"What time?"
"An hour."
I stop drying my hair and let the towel slip to the floor. "Three thousand."
"Two if you can be ready in an hour. You don't even have to stay all night."
"Or I can just ask you for a loan."
Preston laughs softly. "Except that you will never take it. You didn’t take your ex-fiancé's money either, and now you're a starving artist that lives with her brother and does expensive favours for old friends."
"You make me feel really good. I'm glad you called just to cheer me up."
Another laugh. "A car will be downstairs in an hour. Tell pretty-boy I say ‘happy birthday, you big sexy bastard’."
He ends the call and I toss the phone onto my bed and pull open a drawer on my battered dresser. I let out a deep breath.
When my art doesn’t pay the bills. . .
Two. Thousand. Pounds.
It’s not like I do this all the time. The last time I gave a strip-tease was. . . for James Hatter.
My one-night stand.
The memory rises like a huge bubble to the surface of my mind. God, the sex. It was wild. Primal. And a little perverted on his end.
It rocked my freaking world.
All James had to do was give me a cocky smile for my heart to start to pound and for the butterflies to fill my tummy, and all my rational thoughts began to not make sense. He was bad for me, like a second—no, a fourth helping of rich, creamy chocolate cake; too damn tempting and utterly delicious to resist.
And I was so tempted to rescind my plan on bruising his ego by staying the next morning. But that would have been like diving into crocodile-infested waters. One night was harmless. Anything more and I’m asking for a world of hurt.
How can I trust a man who bets a woman in a game of blackjack? Trust isn’t something I find easy. Not after what happened with Ethan. . .
They call it the walk of shame. I feel regret not shame.
It doesn’t matter, anyway. It’s not like I’ll ever be seeing him again.
Hatter
What the hell is Preston thinking?
After a five-day trip to four different countries, some with questionable plumbing, I don’t care where I sleep, minus a bus stop, as long as I have the chance to be
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