Changing Teams (9 page)

“I know.”

“I mean it’s hard—so frickin’ hard—being alone in the city, and I don’t have a lot of people I can lean on, but then I met you and you’ve just been so awesome—”

She spun to face me, spilling coffee on herself in the process. Britt yelped and I leapt into action, grabbing a towel and soaking it in cold water before pressing it to her thigh.

“Hold that,” I said, putting her hand on top of the wet towel. I dashed into the bathroom and grabbed my first aid kit, rifling through it until I found the burn cream. I rushed back to the kitchen and knelt before Britt, flinging the towel aside as I spread the burn cream across her pink flesh.

“Sam.”

I looked up and saw her smiling at me. “What?”

“It was just coffee,” she said, working her fingers into my hair.

“Well, I don’t want it to scar,” I muttered, then resumed applying the burn cream. “Could impact the modeling gigs you’re offered.”

“Mmm.”

I glanced up at Britt and her wry smile, and realized that I’d shoved her thighs apart and had wedged myself between them. And that burn was awful close to an area of hers I had no business visiting. I stood, coughing to cover my embarrassment. “Sorry.”

“S’okay. I like that you’re concerned.”

“Are you, now?” I glanced at the clock; it still wasn’t five. “Sorry I got you up so early. You have a lot planned for today?”

“Actually, I have nothing today except for Michael’s opening. You?”

“I have to be at the studio by nine.”

“Oh, you should probably catch some sleep,” Britt said. “I can go—”

I grabbed her wrist. “You’re right about us getting some rest, and you can stay.” Truth be told I was bushed, and my bed was calling me in a profound way. “Want to take a nap together?”

“Sam, you just drank half a pot of coffee,” Britt protested.

“After a run,” I clarified. “I should probably recharge before work.”

Britt nodded, then she dropped her gaze. “I don’t want to impose.”

“Darlin’, I made you come here with me. There is no imposition, except on my part.” I moved closer and took her hands in mine. “What do you say, darlin’? Feel like taking a nap with me?”

Britt looked at me from beneath her lashes. “I can do that.”

I smiled, then tugged Britt out of the kitchen. I tried bringing her to the bedroom, but my nightmares wouldn’t allow that just yet; I wondered if they ever would. Since collapsing in a weepy mess would likely ruin our morning, I led Britt back to the living room couch instead of my bed. I laid down first, then she fit herself against me while I yanked the blanket up to our chins.

“You’re like an octopus,” I said, shifting as she wound her limbs around me. Made me wonder if the girl had bones.

“Hush. You like octopuses. Octopi?” She thought for a minute. “No, I think it’s octopuses.”

I did like it, her wound around me that is, and I kissed the top of her head to prove it. After a few moments of silence, Britt asked, “Whatever this is between us, it’s weird, isn’t it?”

I kissed her hair again. “It surely is. Can something weird be something good too?”

She leaned up and kissed me on the lips, and didn’t protest when I deepened the kiss. God, I just wanted all of her. “I think this can be very good,” she murmured when we parted, then she laid her cheek against my chest. As for me, I gathered Britt against me and smiled. Without a doubt, weird could be good.

Chapter Eleven

Britt

After our early morning nap, Sam and I shared a cab so I could get home, and he could get to his job. When the cab pulled up in front of my building, Sam had grabbed my hand and said, “You need me today, you call. I mean it, darlin’. Otherwise, I’ll pick you up at eight.”

“Eight it is,” I’d said, then I kissed him goodbye and climbed the three flights to my apartment. Once I was inside I took my phone out of my pocket, and had a good look at what I’d been hiding from Sam all morning: Ben had called and texted me over a dozen times. So yeah, I was officially freaked out.

All these months—five, to be exact—that I’d been modeling for the art classes I’d known that Ben had a thing for me, even though I hadn’t admitted it out loud before Sam called me on it. Part of why I was in denial was that Ben had never been anything other than professional with me—well, not until he saw me with Sam. It made me wonder if Ben hadn’t made up some sort of fantasy about me sitting for the classes just to see him.

Oy. Boys and their ideas.

I thought back to when I met Ben; it had been at that same museum, though instead of modeling I’d taken a class in watercolor painting. Ben had been the instructor, and during one of the lessons I’d told him that I did some modeling on the side. He asked me if I’d like to sit for the life drawing class, and just like that I became his go to model. He never had me fill out any paperwork, or sign any forms. No, Ben had just showed me to a room to change in and handed me an envelope full of cash after I sat around naked for three quarters of an hour.

“Crap,” I muttered, having come to a rather scandalous conclusion. I powered up my laptop in the hopes of disproving it. Once I found the museum’s contact information, I gave the art department a call. After I navigated through the automated menu, I connected with a real live secretary.

“May I help you?” asked a female voice.

“Yeah, do you have life drawing classes?”

“We do. Would you like to sign up?”

“Actually, I was wondering how much you paid the models.”

“Oh, we don’t pay them in cash. They are given either a free museum membership, or are allowed to attend a class of their choice for free. Are you interested in modeling for us?”

“No, thank you,” I mumbled as I hung up.

God. I really am an idiot.

After I stared at the museum’s webpage for a few minutes, I considered my options. I suppose I could have called the cops, but what case did I really have against him? Ben had never laid a finger on me, and he had paid me for each sitting. Really, this was just a case of a poor girl not asking too many questions so she could keep getting paid. Ben’s actions were certainly unethical, but I guessed that they weren’t criminal.

It wasn’t like I could report him to the museum, either. Since Ben had always paid me in cash—his own cash, it seemed—there wasn’t a paper trail and therefore no way to prove I’d ever really modeled there. Mind you, the fact that I’d never signed any forms like a standard issue W-9 really should have been a red flag, or at least provoked me to ask a few questions. It seemed that my only recourse was blocking Ben’s number and never setting foot in the museum ever again.

I shut my laptop, shoving all thoughts of shady art teachers to the side as I wondered what I’d do with myself all day. After wandering around my apartment for a bit, I sat at my art table and started sketching. Probably since I was feeling a bit frustrated, what with sleeping against Sam’s hard, muscular body last night but not doing a thing with it, I’d drawn a nude man. He turned out to be smoothly muscled, with dark hair that fell rakishly across his eyes, a scruff of a beard darkening his chin.

Sam’s hair was always falling in his eyes. On the one hand I wondered why he didn’t cut it, but he sure was cute peeking out from under that dark fringe. And that body of his…Sam must do more than just run. He must belong to a gym or something, or have a personal trainer instructing him on how to keep those muscles plump and healthy.

Actually, I bet his building had a gym, probably on the first floor or thereabouts. I bet Sam took regular classes there, lifting weights, doing a bit of cardio…

I blinked, snapping myself out of my daydreams about Sam’s body and all the ways I could play with it. When I looked down at my sketch I laughed out loud; I’d drawn Sam naked.

“Wow, I really am a mess,” I said to the sketch. “I didn’t even notice that the art teacher was obsessed with me, and now I’m obsessed with a gay man.” I added a few more lines to the sketch, and mumbled, “Please be bi, Sam. It would really make me happy if you turned out to be bi.”

At seven forty-five on the dot there was a knock at my door. I looked through the peephole and saw Sam standing in the hallway, wearing his typical uniform of tee shirt, jeans, and boots; he’d also thrown on his battered black leather jacket for the occasion. My mouth practically watered at the sight.

“You’re early,” I said as I opened the door. “Miss me?”

“Always.” Sam looked me up and down, his appreciative gaze telling me how much he liked Jorge’s dress on me. In keeping with the hippy vibe of the dress, I’d straightened my hair and parted it down the middle, and created a cat eye look with some black liquid liner. After adding some clear gloss and the white boots, I was the perfect sixties siren.

“Around,” Sam said, making a twirling motion with his hand. I spun around, letting the dress’s hem bell out. When I faced him again, he pulled me into his arms. “You look great.”

“You too,” I said, stroking my hand over the flat plane of his chest. “Burgundy shirt tonight? You really do have one of these in every color, don’t you?”

“I match the colors to my moods,” he replied. Before I could ask what mood burgundy signified, Sam slid his hands down my back, underneath my skirt, and squeezed my butt.

“Hey,” I said. I tried squirming away, but I had no chance against those muscles of his. “What gives?”

“Just making sure you’re wearing something appropriate underneath this very short dress.”

“And if I hadn’t been?” I asked, winding my arms around his neck.

“You would have gotten a stern talking to, young lady.” His blue eyes bored into mine for a moment, then he said, “Come home with me tonight.”

“Why, Mr. MacKellar, whatever for?” I asked, fluttering my lashes.

“I want to shoot you in this dress. I’m a photographer too, remember?”

“You’re suggesting that I let you take pictures of me at night, in your apartment?” I asked with a raised brow. “Sounds like you’re an evil mastermind, luring me to your lair so you can have your way with me.”

Sam gave me a crooked smile. “That a yes?”

“It’s a maybe.” I kissed his chin, then I wiggled out of his arms and grabbed my purse. “I’m ready if you are.”

“Then let’s go, darlin’,” he said, offering me his arm.

After a short cab ride we arrived at the gallery, which was one of those impossibly hip places in Soho that didn’t deign to advertise, but all the cool kids knew about anyway. Michael’s colorful sculptures were arranged against the stark white walls, like little pockets of rainbows. The man of the hour was standing in the center of the room, wringing his hands.

“Oh, Sam, thank God you’re here,” Michael said when he caught sight of us.

“Like I’d miss this,” Sam said. “Michael, you remember Britt?”

“You talk about her so much, how could I forget?” Michael grabbed my hand, holding my arm to the side while he checked out my dress. “Thank you for attending my showing, sugar.”

“Of course,” I said. “Is Astrid here?”

Michael dropped my hand. “No, my own flesh and blood had something better to do than watch me succeed. Her loss.” He raked his gaze over my dress. “You look great, sugar. Maybe you can be my wingman while we troll for hotties.”

“Hey now, Britt’s here with me,” Sam said, slipping his arm around my waist.

Michael looked down his nose at Sam. “Like she’ll ever get any from you. Oh, hey!” Michael called, as he went off to greet more people, leaving me standing there in Sam’s arms.

“What was that supposed to mean?” I asked Sam. When he gave me that innocent face, I added, “About me not getting any?”

“I have a reputation of not going all the way,” Sam replied. “Michael and I used to date, but we never…um…” Sam’s cheeks darkened as he rubbed the back of his neck. “You know.”

“I’m not sure I understand. Please explain it to me, using small words whenever possible.”

Sam put his mouth next to my ear, and whispered, “I never fucked him.”

I shivered, every hair on my body standing on end. “Maybe if you stopped talking about girls all the time, you’d do better with the boys,” I suggested.

“Maybe so.” Sam released me and grabbed two champagne flutes from a passing waiter. “Drink?”

“Please.” I sipped the cool liquid, wishing it would cool down more than my mouth.

We drifted about the gallery, and Sam introduced me to a few of his friends. Jorge was there with his wife, a curvy blonde named Matilda who towered over her husband by at least a foot. While Sam and Jorge discussed wardrobes for an upcoming shoot at Nash’s, Matilda and I wandered around the gallery, taking in Michael’s work.

“He certainly is talented,” I said. Michael’s preferred medium was papier-mâché, and I was looking at a sculpture of a piñata hanging from the ceiling revolving above the partygoers.

“Oh, yes, Michael always has been,” Matilda said. “If he wasn’t sculpting, he was painting or sketching. No matter what he did, it was always something creative.”

“Have you known Michael long?”

“He and Jorge have been friends since they were children,” she replied. “I met Jorge just after high school, about a year before Michael met Sam.”

At the mention of Sam’s name my gaze flew across the room. I saw the object of my desire deep in conversation with Jorge. “Sam said he and Michael used to date?”

Matilda nodded. “That was a lost cause from the start,” she replied. “Michael was head over heels for Sam, but Sam just didn’t love him back.”

“Aww,” I said, feeling a certain camaraderie with Michael; I was all too familiar with unrequited love directed at Sam. “Maybe Michael just wasn’t his type.”

“Seems that maybe you’re Sam’s type,” Matilda said with a sidelong glance. Before I could stress that in spite if my wildest dreams that wasn’t the case, the last person I wanted to see stepped in front of me.

“Hey, Britt,” said Ben, the creepy art class instructor. “I didn’t know you liked sculpture.”

“What are you doing here?” I demanded, taking a step back.

“I’m friends with Michael,” he explained. “Is something wrong?”

“I called the museum,” I said. “You know what they told me? They don’t pay models. All of their models are volunteers. You’re sick, Ben.”

Ben frowned, but it was gone in an instant. “You must have called the wrong department,” he said. “I hire models all the time.”

“Britt, do you work for this man?” Matilda demanded.

“I don’t work for him. Ben here just took advantage of stupid, inexperienced me,” I replied. “Excuse me.” I turned to walk away, but Ben grabbed my elbow.

“Britt, wait,” he said. “I can explain.”

“I understand things pretty well,” I snapped. “Let go of me.”

“You heard the lady.”

I looked up and saw Sam, my knight in a leather jacket, standing behind Ben. “Sam,” I breathed, yanking my arm free from Ben’s hold and moving to stand next to Sam.

“Britt and I were having a conversation,” Ben snapped.

“It seems that your conversation has ended,” Sam said. “Now, Michael is a very dear friend of mine, and I don’t want to disrupt his show. However, if you put your hands on Britt again, rest assured I will.”

With that, Sam turned and led me to the back of the gallery, keeping his hand on the small of my back the entire way. There was a stucco half wall at the back of the room, and beyond it was a secluded area with a few benches scattered about, a quiet place for patrons to get away from the bustling gallery for a few moments. I sat on one of the benches, Sam crouching before me.

“What happened back there, darlin’?” he asked, taking my hands in his.

“You were so right about Ben,” I began, then I told him everything I’d learned when I called the museum.

“And now he’s here,” I concluded. “I asked him why he’s here, and he said he’s a friend of Michael’s. I feel like he followed me here tonight.”

Sam frowned, then he stood, hauling me up with him. “I’m going to have Michael throw that bastard out,” he declared.

“Sam, no,” I said. “You were right, this is Michael’s big night. Don’t let an asshole like Ben ruin it.”

Sam stroked his thumb across my cheek. “I want you to feel safe.”

“I am safe as long as I’m with you,” I said, then I stood on my toes and kissed him. Why, I couldn’t say; okay, that’s a lie. I kissed him because I’d never felt safer in my life than when I was in Sam’s arms.