Butterfly by Nelle L’Amour
CHAPTER 14
Roman
Taking Sofi to an art supply store is like taking a kid to a toy store. Though I’d never know that. I can, however, identify with her excitement because that’s how I feel when I go to my favorite factories to pick out luxurious couture fabrics and other accouterments. I get a high.
Blick is located on the corner of Sixth Avenue and 20th. It’s a fifteen-thousand-square-foot artists’ mecca, the aisles filled with everything one could need—all kinds of paints, canvases, brushes, easels, sketchpads, and more. There’s even a custom framing and printing center. Pushing an overstuffed shopping cart, my muse tells me there are several Blicks in Manhattan, but this one’s her favorite.
“Are you almost done?” I ask, my impatience getting the better of me.
“No.”
Fuck. This. Shit.I slap my forehead. Why did I bother?
“I still need to find paints that can be used on fabric.” Her eyes pan the myriad paint tubes on the shelves lining the aisle. “I don’t know much about them.”
“Hey, Sofe!” A raspy male voice comes from behind us. Sofi flips around and I do the same.
Jogging our way is a medium-height lanky kid in ripped jeans, a Blick T-shirt, and Nikes. Though now more clean-shaven with his inky black hair cut shorter, I recognize him immediately from Sofi’s photos. He’s the guy who was kissing her. Bun boy! Every muscle in my body clenches as Sofi’s face lights up.
“Vincent!”
They hug. I want to kill him.
They break apart. Just in time. Skinny Vinny’s lucky I didn’t strangle him. He has a new name: Blickdick.
Blickdick: “Sofe, sorry to hear about your apartment. I saw it on the news. I texted you, but you didn’t text back.”
Me: (Silently) That’s because I deleted it, Blickdick!
Butterfly: “It’s okay. I’m over it. I’m just sad all my paintings and art supplies got destroyed.”
Blickdick: “Looks like you’re doing a great job replenishing them. Sorry it’s going to cost you a fortune.”
My turn: “It’s not. I’m paying for them.”
Blickdick meets my fiery gaze. The little fucker isn’t intimidated.
“Sofe, so is this your fairy godfather?”
He thinks I’m some kind of sugar daddy?
Butterfly: “No. This is my new boss . . . ”
Blickdick: “Hey, dude.”
He called me a fucking dude. Do I look like a surfer? Seriously? Sofi’s voice slices through my rage.
Butterfly: “ . . . Roman Hurst.”
I bristle. Why the hell did she have to mention my name? Mental Note: Be sure to add a clause in her contract that she can’t mention my name to anyone.
Blickdick’s eyes light up like megawatt bulbs. “The Roman Hurst?”
“Yeah, that’s me.” Fuck. I should have said not.
“Holy shit. I love your work. I’m an aspiring fashion photographer and follow you online. Everywhere!”
“That’s nice.”
“I’d love to shoot your next collection.”
I’d love to shoot you. One bullet between your lecherous eyes. Bang!
“Roman, he’s very talented. You should see his portfolio.” My shopping companion’s eyes warm at Blickdick. An appreciative smile crawls across his olive complexion. I want to rip it off and step on it. Sofi gives me no chance.
“Vincent went to Parsons with me.”
Jesus. They have a history. Unnerving thoughts bombard me. Are they fuck buddies? Lovers? Even worse, a couple?
My blood curdling, Sofi surveys the cart. “Vincent, I need one more thing . . . ”
She’d better not say: Your tongue in my mouth. Your cock buried between my thighs.
“Paints that can be applied to fabric.”
“What kind of fabric?”
“The finest silks and satins in the world,” I spit out, his eyes still fixated on her.
“No prob. Follow me.”
We trail him down the aisle, me all the while wanting to knock him to the floor. Then, pour a gallon of turpentine down his throat.
With my murderous thoughts spinning, he leads us to another section of paints. “These are the best for fabric. They won’t wash off.”
“Great!” A beaming Sofi grabs a jar in every color and tosses them into the cart. “Ooh! A metallic gold one! How pretty would that be on a butterfly’s wings!”
In my very visual head, it’s easy for me to imagine. A black taffeta gown with dancing gilded butterflies could be stunning. Especially if gold crystals and thread are added in. My creative juices are flowing. I’m eager to blow this pop stand and get to work. And to blow off Blickdick, but he lingers.
“Hey, Sofe, I got an invite to a photography exhibit at a gallery in Soho tonight. Wanna come?”
“She can’t come!” I jump in. Not with you! Double entendre much? “She has to work. I’m paying her way too much money to go gallery hopping.”
Frowning, Sofi shoots me a dirty look, then fawns at Blickdick. “Next time, Vincent.”
There’s not going to be a next time. Not over my dead body. Make that his.
Blickdick shrugs, disappointment etched deep on his face. “Sure.”
Spotting Blickdick in his Blick T-shirt, another customer, an elderly silver-haired woman, waddles up to us. “Excuse me, can you please tell me where to find nice watercolors for my granddaughter?”
“Yeah, follow me.” He gives Sofi a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll see you later, mí amor.”
He fucking kissed her! Called her his love! I feel myself stiffening with rage. Every bone calcifying. “Later” is not happening. No fucking way.
“C’mon, let’s go,” I say, my teeth clenching.
The cart is filled to the gill. At the cash register, some goth girl about Sofi’s age rings us up. While she bags all the supplies, I pull Sofi aside.
“What’s with you and Blickdick?”
“Who are you talking about?”
“You know, Skinny Vinny. So what’s the story?”
“Huh? What are you talking about?”
“I saw the way he looked at you. And you, him. Are you fucking him?”
Scrunching her face, Sofi splays her hands on her hips. “Excuse me? What kind of question is that?”
“One that ends with a question mark!”
“Roman, you’re out of your mind.”
Before I can cancel the transaction, eighteen hundred-plus dollars is debited to my card, including the extra fee of having all the bags delivered to my atelier so we don’t have to schlep them around the city.
And I’ve mentally added another clause to our contract . . . yet to be signed.
No fucking other men.
Nor seeing them.
Sofi cuts my Machiavellian machinations short. “Roman, I need some new clothes. You don’t have to go shopping with me.”
“Yes, I do.” The thought of some hunky sales guy helping her pick out a new wardrobe makes me sick. “Where to?” Bergdorf’s? Bloomingdale’s? Nordstrom’s?
“Goodwill,” she says brightly. “There’s one right around the corner.”
This girl is too much. But why should I be surprised by the girl who wears butterfly tights and lucky charms? While I now have all my clothes and shoes custom-made in Italy when I go on buying trips, my enterprising mother used to shop all the time at Goodwill when we were dirt poor. She had an incredible eye, and with her sewing skills, could mend or modify the most pathetic of garments. Turn them into gems. Making me the best-dressed kid in my class. The one girls adored with my head-turning looks. And jocks envied with my locker room–winning cock. A loner, I didn’t give a crap about any of them and dropped out of high school when my mother died.
One hour later we’re out the door of the thrift store with two Hefty bags full of clothes that include a butterfly-print romper that Sofi went gaga over and couldn’t live without. I tried my best to force black on her, but that didn’t quite work out as there was nothing appealing in her size. Okay, so I didn’t get my way. I did, however, make her model everything she picked out—hot damn, she looked cute in whatever she put on—and I swear I couldn’t help mentally undressing her, tearing off every piece of clothing from her petite body. Final tally: close to three dozen items for under a hundred bucks. I actually love the fact she’s so thrifty. Just like her. And to make things better, there were only little gray-haired ladies manning the store. Eyeing me.
In a good mood, with Blickdick banished to the back of my mind, we walk back to my atelier, each of us carrying a big black plastic bag.
Three blocks in, Sofi stops dead in her tracks. Panic revisits me.
“What’s the matter?”
“Roman, I need one more thing . . . ” Her voice trails off.
“What?” I am so done with shopping.
Her cheeks flush. “Um, uh, underwear.”
My breath hitches. Holy Jesus. She’s walking around the city with no panties? Suddenly, I have X-ray vision with both eyes, the good one and lame one. I can mentally see right under her skirt. In my mind’s eye, I can envision that sexy thigh gap and her sweet little pussy, preened and so perfect. My cock twitches at the thought that I can reach right under the skirt and caress it.
She breaks into my fantasy, unaware of what’s going through my dirty mind. What the fuck is wrong with me? Why does this crazy girl affect me so much?
“I need to go to Target. There’s one on Broadway, a few blocks away.”
“We are not going to Target.” Just the thought of going into that pedestrian megastore gives me an instant anxiety attack. I feel sweat bead behind my knees and my blood pressure rising. Plus knowing this girl, she probably shops in the kids’ department and buys high-waisted cotton underwear in rainbow-bright colors. “I have a better idea.”
Forget “Hello Kitty.” I’m thinking “Hello Pussy.”
Ten minutes later we’re at the Gloria’s Secret outpost close to my atelier. It’s the largest lingerie emporium in the world; the billionaire founder and CEO, Gloria Zander, is one of my best clients. I suppose I could have asked her to ship me an assortment of sexy undergarments, but it wouldn’t be as much fun. It’s my turn to be a kid in a candy store.
Just as I thought, Sofi gravitates right away to the table of cheap cotton briefs and camisoles, all in hideous bright colors. I mentally snicker. Let her have her fun.
I, in the meantime, head straight to the pricey Paris-inspired bras, G-strings, and bikinis. I grab everything I can in black lace and silk in the smallest size they have and meet her at the cash register. At the sight of me carrying a basketful of sexy lingerie, her eyes grow round.
“You have a girlfriend?” she asks when we get to the front of the line. I detect a slight tinge of jealousy in her voice and get a rise.
“No.” One by one, I take the items out of my basket and pile them on the counter. I admire each lacy concoction.
“These are for you.” For me. “Now, put that dreck away.”
“What??”
I can’t begin to imagine what she’s thinking. But if she’s reading my mind, she knows I’m fantasizing about her taut little body in these skimpy lace garments while she’s being fitted in one of my extravagant gowns. I’m feeling more inspired than ever and am eager to get back to my atelier. And spend quality time with my muse.
Five minutes later, we’re out the door, me carrying a large pink and white shopping bag filled with luscious lingerie in my other hand. Her clutching a smaller one, with two pairs of butterfly-print flannel pajamas she cajoled me into letting her have.
Next thing up on today’s agenda: Her contract.
I’m adding another clause: No cotton underwear. Ever!