The Lover’s Game (No Exceptions #2)(3)
Author: J.C. Reed

“Is it that bad?”

She laughed. “See for yourself. As they say, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I’ve never understood his taste, but I’m not exactly a creative genius. Maybe it’ll appeal to you. Who knows?”

She slung the bag over her shoulder and let herself in, motioning for me to follow her up a narrow staircase. Her cryptic words had left me eager to find out what she had meant by “exquisite taste.” Was this Grayson renowned for his taste in selecting just the right model for the job, or did his art cater to the strange and bizarre? The countless questions floating in my mind kept me intrigued and focused and not just as a distraction that helped me forget my relationship drama. As far as impressions went, Grayson was a big, blurry question mark. I knew next to nothing about him, and the sudden realization of the unknown made me nervous.

“What happens with the pictures he takes?” I asked. “Does he always sell them?”

“Usually, yeah.” Thalia nodded slowly. “Most go to rich collectors, fans of the fifties era. Others he sells to magazines and film and music studios. He keeps only a few for himself. This is the place where he usually hangs out when he’s not traveling. Sometimes he rents out his studio to art events, gallery shows, and launch parties, which is how he raises his profile. Before he became a photographer, he owned a modeling agency.”

She pressed a button above a polished steel plate that had “GR Photography” engraved on it. Within seconds, the door buzzed and opened. We stepped into a large hall decorated with marble pillars, huge mirrors, and hardwood flooring. In some ways, it reminded me of an art gallery with white naked walls and high ceilings. No flowers, no paintings adorning the walls.

“This is the waiting area,” Thalia explained in a muted voice.

I nodded as I let my gaze sweep over the plain white leather couches and matching chairs near an unoccupied glass reception desk set up in the middle of the room.

“Obviously, Grayson’s expecting us, so we’re not going to wait here,” Thalia continued and pointed at a door marked “Studio.”

As we passed the reception desk and crossed the corridor, my eyes fell on a life-sized sculpture. Just looking at it gave me the creeps and yet I stepped back to analyze it, unable to peel my eyes off the horrid statue. It took me a few seconds to process what I was seeing. The thing was carved from wood and reminded me of a distorted face with an open mouth and big, alien eyes reflecting terror. The body resembled a deformed man surrounded by blazing fire, his arms waving as though to cry for help, while his feet were rooted in what looked like earth. I shuddered at just how ugly it was. Actually, ugly was an understatement. It was dreadful. In one word: monstrous. So bad it was almost funny. I pressed my hand over my mouth to suppress a giggle. It was so deplorable and grotesque that I was surprised Grayson’s visitors weren’t too freaked out to return.

“What the hell is this?” I whispered. “If I had something like this in my home, I wouldn’t be able to close my eyes at night.”

Thalia laughed quietly in my ear. “He calls it his ‘mandrake.’ Scary as shit. Now, that’s the art I was talking about. He is kind of obsessed with it.” She pulled at my arm gently. “Like I said, pop over a few times, and you won’t even notice it anymore. But if he asks, tell him you love it.”

I nodded and Thalia led me through yet another door into a well-lit space with floor-to-ceiling mirrors and various places to sit.

“This is the dressing room.”

Compared to the entrance hall, this room felt oppressing and tight. Maybe it wasn’t the lack of space as much as the fact that it was littered with clothes and carrier bags, and shoes strewn across the floor.

“From the sight of it, Grayson’s busy.” Thalia pointed to the ceiling.

I was just about to point out that I had no idea what she was talking about when soft thudding sounds carried down from above. People rushing around. Jumping. Perhaps even dancing.

Moving past the mirrors, I caught my reflection and winced. My hair looked presentable enough. Being curly and wavy, it never needed a brush. But my face was a mess: my skin pale from exhaustion, the bags under my eyes swollen and dark. There was no doubt I looked as though I had attended a funeral. I laughed inwardly at my morbid thoughts. It some way, I had been at one. While sitting in Central Park, I had mourned my old self and all those things I’d never have: a family with Jett, a father for my child.

Thalia glanced at her watch.

“We’re late. We have to hurry.” She retrieved a blue Donna Morgan print dress from her bag and pushed it into my hands. “Try this on. It should fit you.”

I changed quickly, aware of her eyes on me, and then followed her silent command to sit down when she pointed to a chair. Her hands immediately began to busy themselves with my hair and makeup. My curls were pulled up and twisted with bobby pins, then, with a precision and ease I had never possessed, Thalia started to transform my face into flawlessness, complete with porcelain skin and huge, hazel eyes, framed by dark green eyeliner. She paused to inspect her work before resuming with the confidence of a professional artist.

“Where did you learn to do this?” I asked.

“I’m self-taught,” she said with justified pride. “As a teen, I wanted to be a makeup artist, so I used to spend my time reading fashion magazines and blogs. Even though I couldn’t afford school, the knowledge has come in handy.” She applied a touch of mascara and stepped back to regard me, apparently satisfied with the result. “There you go! You have stunning eyes. You should wear more green and gray.”

“Thank you.”

She pointed at the mirror and began to put away her brushes.

For a moment I hesitated, afraid of what I might see. Taking a deep breath, I lifted my gaze and almost didn’t recognize myself. “Wow. You’re good.” I stared at myself, unable to look away. “Really good.” And I meant every bit of praise.

The woman standing in front of me didn’t look like Brooke Stewart at all. She didn’t look hurt and broken. She looked confident and sexy.

The kind of woman no one would ever dare to cheat on.

Self-doubt passed over me. What if I had never really been sexy enough for Jett? What if my insecurities and my inability to trust him completely had pushed him away? Maybe he had missed the excitement and the confidence women of his social status often exuded. Maybe he started cheating on me because I wasn’t like them?