Draw Me In (4 page)

“
Oh, I
’
m hanging alright.
”

I
belted out an uncontrolled laugh. Everyone in the studio flipped his or her
gaze my direction. Even Ian, and he had been as still as a marble statue for
nearly the past hour.

“
Sorry.
”
I shoved my eyes back down to my
paper and let my fingers take over my thoughts and actions.

I
’
d always loved to draw, and I
actually loved the order of lines. While my room would often look as though a
tornado blew through followed by a hurricane and topped off with an earthquake,
my artwork was always clean, proportional. What organization I lacked in the
everyday, I made up for it in my art.

My
parents thought I
’
d
follow in my father
’
s
footsteps and join his architecture firm because my affinity for detail and
symmetry naturally lent itself to heading that direction. The obvious path to
take. Straight and narrow.

But
buildings never fascinated me. I tried to make them, and even interned at my
dad
’
s
office back in high school when I was seventeen, but I never could achieve that
same satisfaction I got when I sculpted or drew human likeness. I still loved
the precise lines of architecture
—
the
realism and the dimension
—
but
the passion wasn
’
t
there.

This
was my passion.

I
scratched at the parchment, digging the tip of my pencil into the shadows that
formed underneath it. I smudged the oil of my thumb into the sheet to blend the
charcoal and lead into one, two mediums consummating under my fingertips. I
slowly pulled my finger over the curved muscle of Ian
’
s back and arms, bringing his
deltoids and biceps into being, almost feeling uncomfortable in doing so. I was
grateful for my seat in the room and the view I had because even though I wasn
’
t physically touching him, I did feel
like I was invading his personal space with each part of his body I penciled.

How
could it not become very personal as his person transferred onto my sketchpad?

I
spent the final moments of class placing the final touches on my piece just as
Professor Seyforth asked us to put our belongings away. Several students
lingered a few minutes to talk to Ian, which cracked me up because we
’
d had many male models throughout
this course. None garnered as much attention as Ian. You would
’
ve thought we had an Oscar-winning
movie star as our subject the way the girls gawked over him. I think I even saw
one ask for an autograph on her boob, it was that sort of fawning and fluster.

Standing
with my bag hiked over my shoulder, I waited until the crowd thinned out to
approach him as he finished getting dressed.

“
Show me what you
’
ve got!
”
Ian demanded, slinging his tee over
his head and sliding his arms in. His abs contracted like an accordion as he
rolled the fabric down.

“
You wanna see it?
”

“
Hell yeah, I do. I didn
’
t just freeze my ass off for the past
two hours for nothing. Come on. I just showed you mine, now you show me yours.
”
He threw a wink my direction and I
caught it with a reluctant smile.

 
I fished my pad out of my pack. It wasn
’
t that I was insecure about my work,
but my subjects rarely had the opportunity to critique their own likeness. I
knew Ian wouldn
’
t
be judgmental, but it felt strange having him analyze a piece of work that was
all about his body.
Mona Lisa, what do
you think of your mouth? Are you smiling? Are you smirking?

Flipping
to the page, I held it out for him to take. The way you do when you ready for
the blow, I twisted away from him in a wince, shoulders curled in a protective
almost-cower.

“
Shit, Jules!
”
That was a good reaction. Dramatic
expletives tended to be good.
“
I
look like a Greek god.
”

“
Well, hardly,
”
I shrugged, insecurity easing up in
my frame.

“
No, I
’
m serious. This is amazing!
”
He held the paper closer to his
face.
“
You
know, you need to start putting some resumes out there. We
’
re graduating soon and I really think
it
’
s
time you trade in your barista talents for a job where you can put your mad
skills to work.
”

“
I like the coffeehouse. You should
see what I can do with an espresso machine and a steamer.
”

“
I
’
m sure you
’
re the best in the biz, Love,
”
Ian said as we walked toward the
classroom exit. He propped open the door to let me slide through first. The
dank hallway air bombarded my nostrils and I shook my head at both the smell
and his assertion.
“
But
I also think you don
’
t
realize just how incredibly gifted you are.
”

“
I can draw,
”
I agreed.
“
I don
’
t exactly know what I want to do with
that. I don
’
t
want to settle, ya know? It
’
s
gotta be the perfect fit, and there honestly aren
’
t many jobs out there begging for a girl
and a pencil. I
’
m
not exactly high demand material.
”

“
You
’
ve just given me a new project.
”
I could see something brewing behind
those light green eyes, a toxic cauldron of conspiracy.
“
From now on, consider me your agent.
”

“
Along with being my personal chef,
therapist, and most recently, personal nude model? How are you going to have
time for all of this? Tall order.
”

“
I can make time for my girl. Plus, I
just landed my biggest shoot yet, so I won
’
t
be pounding the pavement for myself for a while. I
’
ll get bored, and you know what
happens when I get bored.
”
Oh yes, I did.
“
I
serial date, and that never ends well. Remember Matt? Well, and Justin and
Ethan for that matter. And I think Tony was in that mix, too. That was quite a
spree.
”
Ian gazed off into the distance as we stepped back out into the bustle of the
city.

“
You lined up another shoot?
”
I grabbed a fistful of Ian
’
s shirt and tugged him close.
“
You didn
’
t tell me!
”

While
I
’
d been working toward my bachelor
’
s degree in fine arts, Ian was a
photography major. Our areas of study differed, but Ian focused mostly on
headshots and portraits, so our interests overlapped as far as being drawn to
capturing the human form. And recently, he
’
d
been hired to photograph some pretty high profile clients. I was beyond eager
to hear who would be stepping in front of his camera now.

“
Yup, last week.
”
Ian stopped a block from our
apartment to grab a hot dog from the vendor on the corner with the blue and
yellow tattered umbrella overhang. He yanked out a few crumpled dollars from
his wallet and the cart owner tossed him a foil-covered dog in return. Ian
unwrapped it and squirted a dollop of relish and mustard onto the bun and said,
“
I guess he
’
s some heir to Daddy
’
s Chianti enterprise.
Modern Matters
magazine is doing a
spread on him and I
’
ve
been chosen as one of the photographers.
”

“
Ooh, an Italian.
”
I snatched the hot dog from Ian
’
s grip and took a huge bite. I was
starving. Drawing usually did that to me. Well, breathing usually did that to
me. Suffice to say, I was hungry a lot.
“
Sounds
right up your alley.
”

Flicking
a finger toward the vendor, Ian ordered another hot dog for himself.
“
You just commandeered my dinner,
Jules. I worked up quite an appetite sitting on my butt for all that time
during your class, you know.
”

“
Sorry,
”
I apologized genuinely around a
mouthful of food. I swallowed before demanding,
“
Why didn
’
t you tell me about the shoot?
”

“
I just got the call this morning. It
was down to two more established photographers and me. Apparently they liked
the idea of the
‘
up
and coming photographing the up and coming.
’”
Ian made air quotes around his words
with hooked fingers and just about dropped his newest hot dog onto the gritty
sidewalk pavement as he tried to multitask.
“
I Googled him and he
’
s a total hottie. Tall, dark and
handsome doesn
’
t
even do him justice. He
’
s
all towering and tanned and gorgeous. Deserves a completely new category.
”

“
No chance this job requires a sketch
artist, too?
”
I teased as I followed Ian into the entrance to our apartment
’
s lobby and then through the steel
elevator doors. He shook his head
no
with a smile.

When
I envisioned moving from North Dakota to New York City back when I was a little
girl, those visions were filled with high-rise buildings, sleek modern lines,
and an apartment that could house all of my life-size sculptures, canvases and
drawing pads. What I ended up with was a fifth story loft that had more cracks
in the walls than an 18th century cobblestone road. You couldn
’
t quite call it charm, but our
apartment definitely had something. Character maybe, because all of those
fractures in the brick walls reminded me of the wrinkles on a well-worn, aged
face
—
memories
told through each deep crease, each fold of skin. Ian and I would often stay up
nights drinking wine on our futon making up stories and tales of our apartment
’
s past inhabitants. A lot of life was
lived within those walls, and now it was our turn to continue that tradition.
So far, we
’
d
done a pretty good job.

The
elevator doors spread open and I trailed Ian out into the musty hall. There
weren
’
t
any windows, and the metal staircase that spiraled to our left was in overdue
need of a thorough cleaning to remove the years worth of dirt that accumulated
on its railings and steps. Grit and grime coated every inch of the corridor.
Though our loft was obviously just as old as the rest of the building, Ian and
I did a decent job making it feel more welcoming. Not necessarily more clean,
but more inhabitable, for sure. The floor-to-ceiling, iron paned windows also
helped greatly with that. It was amazing how a little light could completely
transform things.

With
his right hand, Ian dug into the front of his low-slung jeans to retrieve our
key and he shoved it into the bolt. Metal gripped onto metal as the grooves
hugged one another and the lock turned over. The door clicked open.

“
Home sweet home,
”
I said, dropping my bag onto the
counter and myself onto the barstool. A twinge of cinnamon mixed with the
wafting bite of curry sifted through the ceiling vents and into the air.

“
What
’
ll it be?
”
Ian followed me into our small
kitchen. We had quite a collection of mix-matched martini and wine glasses in
our cupboard and he reached up to pull out two that we bought at the Murano
glass factory during our last Italian excursion.

“
Oooh, the fancy glasses.
”