My phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out to check the call. Fucking Brandon. I didn’t want to talk to him. Fuck it. May as well get it over with. I’d have to talk to him sooner or later.

I turned down the tunes on my MP3 player and pressed TALK on my phone.

“Hey, man,” I said.

“Christos, always good to hear your voice,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said curtly.

“How are the paintings coming along?”

Man, he asked me that at least once a day. “Great.”

“Do you have an estimated delivery date on any of them yet?

“The one of Avery is done. So are the ones of Jacqueline and Becca. Isabella is in progress, so is Sophia, and I started in on the one of Victoria and one of Hannah.”

“Only three are complete?” Brandon sighed. “We’re going to need a lot more than that.”

Did he think I didn’t fucking know that? I grit my teeth. “I know.”

“When can we expect to set a date for your next solo show?”

He said “we” like “we” were hunched over the fucking easel seven days a week. I’d squeezed in a seventh day of painting when it had finally sunk in that my trial was not going to wait for my ass to finish my paintings at a leisurely six-day-a-week pace.

“Shit, Brandon. I don’t fucking know. Why don’t you come down to the studio and help out. I’ll hand you a fucking brush and you can stretch canvases and paint backgrounds and shit, like Rubens used to have his studio grunts do.”

Brandon chuckled mellowly. “Point taken.”

Damn right, point taken.

Brandon sighed. “We can’t keep the customers waiting forever, Christos. Eventually, they’ll lose interest and move on to the next big thing.”

I twisted the steering wheel in my grip. If I wasn’t careful, I might rip the wheel off the fucking steering column and throw it out the window while I tooled down the freeway at sixty-five. “I’m working as fast as I can, Brandon. There’s only so many hours in a day.”

“I understand. How’s the painting of Isabella coming along? She’s an amazingly beautiful woman. I’m thinking your portrait of her will likely be the center-piece of your show.”

“It’s coming.” Too bad I thought it looked like a poster for a porno.

“What does that mean?”

I slid my hand down my stubbled face. “I don’t know how to say this, but I’m not liking it.”

“Do you want me to call New York? Or Europe? Find some more exotic models?”

Flying models out from the east coast or across the Atlantic meant escalating model fees. They’d need hotels, meals, pampering (we’re talking top-end models here), the works. All that shit would cost me an arm and a leg, and since I only had two of each, I was reluctant to start spilling more of my blood paying more bills. The L.A. models would have to do.

“No,” I said. “I’ll make it work. I’ll tweak some things on the Isabella portrait, maybe change up the background, and it’ll be great,” I lied.

“I don’t think changing the background will make much of a difference,” Brandon scoffed. “Are you having trouble capturing her likeness?” He hadn’t seen the painting yet, so he didn’t know.

“Fuck no.” It looked like a goddamned full-color holographic photo of her.

“You’re not going to find a more beautiful model on the west coast than Isabella…”

“I know.”

“…unless you can convince Samantha to sit for you.”

That again. I had to agree. But I didn’t think I could convince her. Not with all the shit she was juggling. She needed to focus on her art career, not mine.

“No,” was all I said on that topic.

“Fine. If you change your mind about the European models, let me know. I’ve been looking through some Russian agency books and there’s three or four stand-outs you might want to consider.”

“Email me the photos and I’ll check them out.”

“Terrific. I’ll do that as soon as we’re off the phone.”

“Sure,” I sighed. I never thought I’d say it, but I was fucking sick of hot chicks. I wanted to chuck all of them out of my life and make more room for the only one that mattered.

Agápi mou…

“Excellent,” Brandon said in a smiling voice. “Call me if you need anything.”

How about an all-expenses-paid trip to the nearest firing squad?

“Will do,” I said before ending the call. I just about threw my phone out the window, but stopped myself at the last second.

I cranked the volume back up on Metallica and drove straight to the nearest bar.

CHRISTOS

That night, I called Jake.

I needed a break from all the shit coming down on me. Jake was the perfect distraction. I picked him up from his place in my Camaro. I’d pretty much sobered up from hitting the bar in the morning.

Whatever.

At least I wasn’t on my bike.

Jake and I decided to head downtown and grab dinner at Dick’s Last Resort in the Gaslamp Quarter. The wait-staff at Dick’s treated the customers like shit, on purpose. It wasn’t a great destination for date-night, but was perfect for me and Jake to catch up.

After our obnoxious waiter had bitched us out and thrown our silverware, napkins, and paper place-mats at us, we ordered beers. The waiter brought them back a few minutes later, two Corona’s with lime wedges shoved in the necks of the bottles.

Jake and I clinked beers.

“Long time no see, bro,” Jake said.

“No shit,” I nodded. “I’ve been super busy.”

“That’s an understatement,” Jake said, pausing to gulp down some Corona. “Before I forget, Sebastian and his crew keep bugging my ass about bringing you out to hit some waves. Maybe go down to Ensenada some weekend.”

“Sebastian? You mean that military kid with a prick for a dad?” Sebastian was seventeen when I’d met him, so he would always be a “kid" at any age.

“Yeah,” Jake grinned. “Sebastian told me he had some score to settle with you about stealing his tube-ride last time at La Jolla Shores.”

I remembered the moment well. Me and Sebastian had shared a good laugh over it afterward. But that was a year ago. I chuckled, “I haven’t seen that dude in forever. He still with that MILF?”

Jake smiled. “You mean Caro?”

“Yeah. Her.” I smiled, picturing her in my mind. “She was a total fox.”

“Dude, Caro’s not a MILF. She doesn’t have any kids. She’s a HILF,” Jake grinned.

I almost choked on my beer. “HILF? That’s lame, man. What the fuck is a HILF?”

“Hottie I’d Like to Fuck.”

“Duh,” I smiled at my own ignorance, then nodded at Jake knowingly. “Total HILF,” I said, lifting my beer to clink bottles with Jake.

“To Sebastian and his HILF Caro,” Jake smiled.

Jake and I ordered burgers when the waiter returned.

While we waited for our food, my phone rang in my pocket, playing the chorus of Before Your Love by Kelly Clarkson. My new ringtone for Samantha.

“Dude,” Jake grimaced and smiled, “what kind of gay shit is that?”

“That’s my ringtone for Samantha,” I grinned.

“Dude, you’re so gone for that girl. Your only ringtone used to be ‘Battery’ by Metallica.”

“That was before I met Samantha.” I answered my phone. “Agápi mou. How are you?”

“Fine,” Samantha said, “now that I’m hearing your voice.”

“What’s up?”

“I’ve been trying to call you all day,” she said softly. “Is everything all right?”

“I’m good,” I lied. I felt like a total prick. Samantha was probably still freaking out about her parents. As much as I wanted to be by her side to reassure her that I would always be there for her, after meeting with Russell today, I couldn’t say it with a straight face. Not sober, anyway. “Just out with Jake,” I said casually. “We’re chillin’ at Dick’s Last Resort. Getting burgers and brews.”

“Dick’s Last Resort? That sounds awful. Is that a strip club?” Samantha snickered.

“No, it’s a burger joint in the Gaslamp.”

“You sure? I hope you brought lots of singles to tip the, uh, waitresses,” Samantha sneered.