Reckless (12 page)

Christos tilted his head at me with a mildly annoyed look on his face, then held his hand up and tipped it behind him, pointing at a wall covered in row upon row of little brass plaques. His finger pointed decisively at one specific plaque.

Not getting it, I frowned. “What?”

“Go ahead and look, big mouth,” he said confidently.

I squinted.

“Do you need me to pick you up so you can read it?”

“No,” I said dismissively, “I can do it myself.” I stood on my tiptoes to read it.

“Christos “The Man” Manos

7-21-2010

17 MIN.”

“What!” I gasped. “No way!” I scanned the other plaques. Most seemed to be in the 30, 40, and 50 minute category. “Seventeen minutes has to be the record!”

“Last I heard,” Christos said casually, “the record was seven-fifteen. Guy had a hollow leg.”

Beside me, Romeo scrutinized the plaque. “Wow, C-man, you sure have a manly appetite.”

“Thanks, bro,” he grinned.

“I’m pretty manly too,” Romeo fawned, “does that mean you’ll eat me?”

Christos chuckled, “You just said you weren’t a real man a minute ago. I’d probably starve.” He gave Romeo a good natured back-smack.

“He’s right,” Romeo said to me, unashamed. “I’ll have to start hitting the gym if I ever want Christos to take a bite out of me.”

“You are so totally dick sick, Romeo,” I laughed.

Skylar the hostess called our name apathetically and took us to our table. Hungover Kamiko managed to make the daunting trek under her own power. Romeo offered to help her, but she pushed him away and said, “I’m man enough.”

We all sat down and Kamiko whooshed a sigh. “Do they have Bloody Marys? I so need one,” she said while flipping through her menu.
 

“I don’t remember you ever liking Bloody Marys,” Romeo said, concerned.
 

Kamiko glared at him over her movie-star sunglasses, “And?”

“Maybe you should stick to OJ?” Romeo suggested tentatively.

“You’re right. Why didn’t I think of that before? I can’t stand tomato juice first thing in the morning.” She licked her lips. “I’m totally going to have a Screwdriver instead.”

Romeo goggled at me. “What did we do to her last night?”
 

“I think maybe champagne is her kryptonite,” I suggested, somewhat worried myself. “It must be her one weakness. She drank so much on the yacht, it’s tipped her over the edge.”

“That’s right!” Kamiko beamed. “Thank you guys! I don’t know what I was thinking. I wanted a Mimosa all along!”

I wanted to glare at Kamiko and steer her back on the straight and narrow with some tough love. But frankly, I was afraid that if I said anything she would bite my face. So I glared at Romeo instead, because I needed to glare at
somebody
.
 

“Don’t look at me, Sam!” Romeo pleaded. “The yacht trip was Christos’ idea!”

I glared at Christos and folded my arms across my chest. “That’s right! It
was
your idea, Christos. What have you got to say for yourself?”

“It’s not like I was handing her drinks all night,” Christos said calmly. “She’s a big girl. But if this keeps up, I’ll be happy to stage an intervention.”

“Calm down, you guys,” Kamiko said forcefully. “I think I had maybe five glasses all night. I would’ve stuck to my limit of two if
Romeo
hadn’t thrown me in Brandsome’s arms on the dance floor. I got all nervous and couldn’t stop thinking about him after that. Champagne was my only recourse. So if I want to have a Mimosa for breakfast, you all can shut the fuck up.”

Christos chuckled.

“Brandsome?” Romeo chuffed. “You mean
Brandon?
”
 

Kamiko smiled bashfully.

“You’re crushing on Brandon?” I blurted.

“So?” Kamiko blushed, “he’s hot, isn’t he? Is that okay with you guys?”

The waitress arrived to take our drink orders. At the last second, Kamiko ordered straight orange juice instead of a Mimosa. My mounting guilt over corrupting her innocence subsided instantly.

When the waitress was gone, Romeo asked, “Who’s ready for classes to start tomorrow?”
 

“I think I need a week’s vacation after last night,” Kamiko groaned. She folded her arms on the table and rested her head on top of them.

“What classes are you guys taking this quarter?” Christos asked.

“I think Kamiko’s taking Napping 101,” Romeo joked.

“Grrrr,” Kamiko mumbled.

I totally didn’t want to think about college right now. It reminded me that I had another Accounting class to look forward to for ten more weeks, plus more Sociology and History. I did have Oil Painting, and I was happy about that. I’d signed up for it at the last minute, a fact which my parents didn’t know. But the thought of accounting turned my stomach. Meh.

“I can’t wait to start the term,” Romeo beamed. “I’m taking Intro to Acting, Intro to Playwriting, Figurative Sculpting, and last but not least, Oil Painting 10, with Sam and Kamiko.”

I goggled. “What? Those are all classes? Like, actual college classes?”

“Yeah,” Romeo said quizzically. “I am double-majoring in Art and Theater, remember?”

“But your schedule sounds like…fun,” I sighed.
 

“You’re taking Oil Painting with me,” he said encouragingly, having sensed my distress. “That’s going to be a ton of fun.”

Maybe it really was time for me to change my major to Art. I couldn’t let Romeo have all the fun. But the mere thought of it made me nauseous. What would my parents say? Maybe I didn’t have to tell them. Not right away, anyway. I could wait a few days before giving them reason to kill me. Groan!

Our breakfast arrived shortly thereafter.

Kamiko snored through hers, Christos had a conservative four egg omelet, and I pretended that my future wasn’t a Bill & Linda Smith-shaped time-bomb waiting to blow up in my face. Sigh.

Fake smile!!

Chapter 7

SAMANTHA

We drove back to my apartment after breakfast. Romeo and Kamiko hung around for a few hours until Kamiko was finally up for the drive back to her dorm on campus.

When they were gone, I suggested Christos and I go for a stroll on the boardwalk.

“Do you wanna do some crayon paintings?” he asked.

“That’s a great idea! There’s a new café I’ve been meaning to try.”

We grabbed paper and my box of crayons and headed down to the boardwalk. At the café, I found a table outside while Christos ordered our drinks. I was so tickled to be sitting outdoors on January 1st. In the sun, no less. Not even remotely possible in D.C. this time of year.
 

Christos arrived with an Italian soda for me and an iced tea for him.
 

“You remembered!”

“What?” he scoffed.

“That I love Italian soda!”

“How could I forget? It’s been less than a month since the last one you had,” he smiled.

No matter how much he dismissed it, I loved that he knew what I liked to drink. “What flavor did you get me this time?” It was a green one I didn’t recognize.

“Celery.”

I grimaced. “Celery? You’re not serious, are you?”

He grinned. “No. It’s kiwi.”

I took a sip. “Mmmm, I love it! Thank you!”
 

“You’re welcome.” Christos opened the box of crayons for us and we both went to work on our own crayon paintings for a time

“So,” he asked, pausing to peel back the paper on his lemon yellow crayon, “you still planning on changing your major?”

“I’m thinking about it,” I sighed while selecting a crimson crayon from the box.
 

“You sound like you’re not sure.”

“Maybe I’m not.”

“What’s worrying you?” Christos asked.

I leaned back in my chair and looked around the café while collecting my thoughts. I noticed an older couple sitting next to us stealing glances at our crayon pictures.

I don’t know what it was, but whenever I was out drawing in public with Christos, people wanted to watch. It wasn’t just because of hot-bodied Christos either. Sure, women were always checking him out, but when we were drawing, the people seemed genuinely interested in what we were doing. I guess it wasn’t every day that you saw people over the age of eight or nine drawing with crayons in a public place.

“Lost in thought?” Christos asked.

“Oh, sorry. What was the question?”

“Changing your major to Art?”

“Oh yeah. Hmmm. I’m worried my parents will freak when I tell them I’m changing my major to Art. They’ll probably threaten to send me away to a convent or make me get electro-shock therapy.”

“That’s crazy,” he said dismissively while sipping his iced tea. “Don’t they see how talented you are?”

“Don’t you remember what they were like over Winter Break?”

Christos nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, they did seem somewhat uncertain about the whole idea.”

I choked out laughter while shading purple shapes on my drawing. “Somewhat? You literally told my dad you made over six figures in one night of selling paintings at Charboneau, and he acted like that was something that only happened to other people, like you were a myth or something.”

Setting his crayon down, he grinned. “Just because your parents don’t realize that an art career is an actual possibility for you
now
, doesn’t mean they won’t come around eventually. Maybe you have to prove how serious you are. Show them all the steps you’re taking.”

“I feel like the only way they’re ever going to believe Art is a valid career choice is if I show them the mansion I bought with my as-of-yet unearned art earnings, and a hefty art-funded retirement portfolio.”

Christos smirked. “I get it. It’s just not real to them. So put a piece in the Contemporary Artists show at Charboneau Gallery. When you sell it, you can show the check to your parents. Take a photo of you standing in front of your painting during the show.”

“Wait, you’re talking like I’ve already sold the painting! I haven’t even
painted
a painting! Aren’t you jumping ahead?”

“Not in my book. You’ve got to set the intention.”

“Yeah, but who’s going to buy
my
painting? You?”

“I could,” he smiled, “if you wanted.”

“Thank you, Christos,” I said, picking up a tangerine crayon to draw some squiggly lines. “I totally appreciate the offer, but if this crazy idea of yours is going to make any kind of sense, some stranger would actually have to buy it. And that’s never going to happen.” I glanced at the older couple, who were still sitting next to us. They looked like they were eavesdropping. For some reason, I felt like they were going to report everything I was saying to my parents. Whatever.

Christos said, “Don’t start doubting everyone else in the world. You already doubt yourself, and that’s more than enough of a struggle. Your job is to put your work out there, and hope for the best.” He winked at me, flashing his sexy dimples.

“Thanks, Christos,” I sighed, doubt dragging me down. I completely appreciated his confidence in me, but it all seemed like a distant fantasy.

“Excuse me,” the eavesdropping man sitting next to us said. He had salt-and-pepper hair and wore reading glasses. The woman with him wore her hair in a short silver bob. She set down her eReader and smiled at me warmly.
 

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” the man continued, “but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with your friend here.”

I was right. Eavesdroppers! And there weren’t any eaves for miles around. At least this guy was with his wife, so he
probably
wasn’t a creepy stalker.
 

The man continued, “My wife and I have been watching both of you drawing this whole time, and we were wondering, are you Christos Manos?”

“That I am,” Christos nodded at the man and they shook hands. “How do you know my name?” Christos asked casually.

“We’re both fans of your grandfather’s work,” the man said.

“You know my grandfather?” Christos smiled.

“No,” the woman grinned, “but we’ve met him.”

“Really,” Christos smiled.

“Yeah,” the man said, “my wife and I used to go to the gallery openings here in town quite a bit. We’ve chatted with Spiridon more than once. In fact, I seem to recall seeing you as a young man at one of the openings. Isn’t that right, dear?”

“Oh yes,” his wife beamed, then said to Christos. “But you wouldn’t remember us boring old farts—”

I giggled when she said “farts”.

“—but you must’ve been twelve or so at the time.”

“That’s great,” Christos smiled. “So, are you guys collectors?”

“We are,” the man said. “We bought several of Spiridon’s smaller seascapes back in the day.”

“That’s terrific,” Christos said smoothly. I could tell he was used to conversations like this. I was in awe of how comfortable he was.

“Speaking of which,” the man said, “my wife and I were looking at the work you two were doing, and thought we’d like to buy it.”

“Oh,” Christos said, somewhat surprised. “I don’t think I’ve ever sold one of these crayon paintings before. I usually just sell my oils at Charboneau Gallery in La Jolla.”

Wow. Christos wasn’t even trying and people were approaching him to buy his work. I was both amazed at the power of his family’s reputation and bummed that I was at least a decade or ten behind him in my own embryonic art career. Oh well. Maybe when I turned sixty it would be like this for me too. Assuming I didn’t throw in the towel and carry the torch of
my
family’s legacy. I could imagine forty years from now, silver-haired couples in coffee shops asking me if I was Sam Smith, CPA, and would I be willing to do their taxes this year? Sigh.

“Actually,” the man said sheepishly, “we were hoping to buy your friend’s piece.”

Christos’ eyes lit up and he grinned. “You mean Samantha’s?”

“Yes,” the man smiled. He offered his hand to me to shake. “Pleased to meet you, Samantha.”

His wife shook my hand and said, “We heard you two talking about trying to sell Samantha’s work. We’ve always tried to support the arts any way we can.”

I was blown away. “Are you guys serious?”