Changing Scenes (Changing Teams #2) (8 page)

Chapter Fifteen

Astrid

Kendra’s show was received even better than I’d hoped. If the people hanging around backstage were telling the truth, her designs were already getting rave reviews. As for me, I was on cloud nine. The clothes fit as if they were made for me, my makeup and hair were perfect, and Donnie was here. The look on his face when I’d come out in the raspberry dress was enough to curl my meticulously straightened hair. And when I came out in the bikini bottom and sheer cover up, his jaw was in his lap. I guess he liked what he saw.

I put the raspberry dress back on and made my way out to the after party. I found my people soon enough, thanks to Sam towering over everybody else. I caught Britt’s gaze and she jerked her chin toward the bar; Donnie was standing at the corner, drinking a beer.

“Hey,” I said, sliding onto the stool next to him. “You look great.” I noticed on the walk over that his butt looked great in those pants, and his shirt was unbuttoned at the collar revealing tan skin and a dusting of dark hair.

“Thanks. You look covered. Drink?”

“Um, sure.” Donnie signaled the bartender, and I just stared at him. “Did you really just say that I look covered?”

“Yeah, well, you do.”

The bartender stepped up, and asked me, “Martini?”

“Of course. Thanks, Bill.” Bill moved off to make my drink, and Donnie shook his head.

“Everyone here really does know you,” he muttered.

“Exactly what is wrong with you?” I demanded.

“As soon as I sat down, the woman next to me started going on about how everybody knows you,” Donnie began, “then you come out naked, this guy knows your drink—”

“First of all,” I hissed, “I was not naked. Second, you were sitting next to Melody, who happens to be my best friend’s cousin. Didn’t Britt mention that when she sat on the other side of you?”

He shrugged, which I interpreted as a yes. “Third, of course everyone here knows me. These are my friends, people I’ve worked with for years.”

Donnie drank from his beer, and asked, “You show all your friends your tits?”

That was it, I was done. Bill set my martini on the bar, so I smiled at Bill, and then I grabbed the drink and dumped it in Donnie’s lap. “What the fuck was that for?” Donnie demanded.

“For being an asshole,” I replied, then I stalked away from him.

***

After I filled Donnie’s lap with cold vodka, I tried to get back to my happy place, but there was no chance in hell of that happening. I had one drink with Britt, Sam, and Melody, during which I told them what an ass Donnie was. They tried sticking up for him, but it was a lost cause. I’d met men like him before, who think models are nothing more than prostitutes, and either don’t or refuse to understand that modeling is a profession, one that requires hard work and skill. Good riddance to the chef, I said.

And that was why I, Astrid Janvier, party queen of New York, was home by nine on a Friday night. Oh, Britt had tried her hardest to get me to stay, but my evening had been ruined. I’d really thought that Donnie was different, but I was wrong. He was a jerk like everyone else.

I really wished he wasn’t a jerk. Damn chef broke my heart.

My intercom buzzed, and I assumed it was Britt and Melody, ready to force more fun on me. “Yes,” I said into the speaker.

“Hey,” said a man’s voice. Donnie’s voice. “Can I come up?”

I wanted to say no. I wanted to tell him what I thought of him and his opinions, and tell him to stay the hell away from me. Instead, I buzzed him in.

Not a minute later there was a knock at my door. I opened it, and found a rumpled man hanging his head standing in the hallway. “Crotch still wet?” I asked.

He laughed through his nose. “Took me twenty minutes under the hand dryer in the men’s room to dry out,” he said. “I stink like a hobo, and my balls are shriveled like jerky.”

“I hope you weren’t planning on a large family.”

He looked up, the pain in his dark eyes catching me off guard. “I love kids,” he said. “Got a bunch of nieces and nephews. Want a bunch of my own someday.”

His words went straight to my ovaries, which both softened my heart and scared the living crap out of me. “Why are you here, Donnie?”

“To own up to my dickish comments, beg your forgiveness, and hope you don’t hate me,” he replied. “Can I come in? I bet you don’t want your neighbors to know what kind of jerks you hang around with.”

“Might as well.” I stepped aside, and Donnie entered my apartment. While he looked around the living space, I checked my appearance in the entry mirror. I’d scrubbed off my makeup and put on an old pair of yoga pants and a long sleeve knit shirt, and my hair was wound up in a bun. I was casual when we went to the fish market, but this was just sloppy.

“Your place is nice,” Donnie said, “and huge. You could throw a mean party with that kitchen.”

“My parties are legendary.” I brushed by Donnie and walked toward the kitchen. “Want a drink, so you can feel like you smell?”

“Sure.” Donnie followed me into the kitchen, examining my cabinets and countertops. “Whatcha got?”

“Anything. Everything,” I replied, and he smiled. The fact that he’d shown up at my place acting suitably contrite had defused the bulk of my anger. I bet that teasing him could get rid of the rest. “Vodka and seltzer?”

“Sounds like a plan.” His gaze fell on the counter. “Why do you have two phones?”

Shit, I’d left the prepay one out. “One’s a disposable. I had it for a certain job where the man in charge was, ah, unusual,” I replied, massaging the truth so it wasn’t a lie. Sort of. I made the drinks, and handed one to Donnie. “You said something about begging my forgiveness?”

Donnie set his glass down on the counter. “Yeah, I…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. It was your big night, and I blew it. You didn’t have to leave early. I was going to leave as soon as I dried out.”

“Why were you going to leave?”

“I didn’t want to make your night any worse.” He moved his glass from one hand to the other, and stared at his shoes. “I wasn’t expecting to see you like that. Where I come from a girl would never do…that. Show herself.”

“Where are you from?”

“Portugal,” he replied. “When I was a kid, my dad moved us to New Bedford.”

I’d had no idea that Donnie was from anywhere other than Connecticut. “Was he a chef, like you?”

“Nah, he just had a dream,” Donnie replied. “A dream for him and his kids.”

I knew all about dreams for a better life. “Do you have a lot of siblings?”

“Two sisters. A brother. Well, two brothers, but one stayed in Portugal. I don’t really know him.” Donnie took a drink, glanced up at me. “You have siblings?”

“I have an older brother. He’s perfect.” I hadn’t meant to sound bitter, but there it was. “He’s a doctor. Everyone in my family is in some kind of medical field except me.”

Donnie smiled, and my heart melted. “That’s my girl, breaking the mold.”

And my heart froze right up again. “I’m still your girl? I thought you couldn’t stand to look at me.”

Donnie’s smile went pained, so I left the kitchen and sought refuge on the couch. “It’s not like that,” he said. I felt him sit next to me, but I just stared into my drink. “Astrid, look at me.”

“Why? You don’t want to look at me.”

Donnie took the drink from my hands and set it on the coffee table. “Listen. I love looking at you. If I could make a life out of looking at you, I would. I didn’t know you’d be, you know, and it freaked me out. Not you, because you’re gorgeous, but because everyone else was looking at you too.” Donnie laced his fingers with mine, and kissed my knuckles. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Are you ever going to be able to go to one of my shows again?”

“Will you be wearing clothes?”

I threw my hands up in frustration. “See, that’s just it. When I’m modeling, whether it’s for a photo shoot or walking the runway, I’m creating art. My body is a canvas, sometimes for clothes, sometimes for paint, or some other vision. It’s not about nudity. It’s about expression.”

Donnie nodded. “You get painted sometimes?”

“Sometimes.” I stood, and beckoned Donnie to follow me. “Come on, I’ll show you. Bring your drink.”

I led him to the guest bedroom, which was more of an on-site storage facility for my wardrobe than a place for people to sleep. Still, there was a bed, and a dresser, though it was stuffed with photographs I rotated in and out of my portfolio. While I looked through the drawers, Donnie peeked in the closet.

“Do you own a shoe store?” he asked. “Make that a shoe warehouse. I don’t think most stores have room for this many pairs.”

“Oh, hush,” I said. “I never know what I’ll be wearing, and I’m not always supplied with shoes. The shoes I wore tonight are mine.” I found the folder I was looking for and sat on the bed. “Come here, I want to show you a few shots.” He did, and I handed him a stack of glossies. Each one was of me portraying a different superhero.

“Those are some tight costumes,” Donnie commented.

“They’re not costumes,” I said. “Those aren’t even clothes. It’s all paint.”

“What?” Donnie leaned closer to the images. “That’s a damn good paint job. What did it feel like?”

“Honestly? It was horrible,” I replied. “The paint goes on all thick and gloppy, and once it dries it itches like hell. Takes forever to wash off too.”

“Would you do it again?”

“Maybe. Depends on the job.” I handed him a different photograph, this one an image of me on the beach. I was covered in sand and an old fishing net, and the salt water had transformed my hair into dreadlocks.

“You look like a mermaid,” he said. “The sea’s so blue, and your eyes are so green…” He traced a rope of white shells on the sand beside me. “You didn’t like wearing the necklace?”

I showed him the next shot, which had me wearing the shells wrapped around my waist and nothing else. A combination of the high surf and my long hair kept the picture from being not safe for work, but it was damn sexy. “All the shots were supposed to be like this, with me in the water, but it was freezing that day,” I explained. “The crew was afraid I’d get hypothermia.”

Donnie gulped his drink. “Why’d you go to the beach if it was that cold?”

“Fewer onlookers disrupting the shoot.” I shuffled through the images and selected one taken almost three years ago. “This is where I met Britt.”

Donnie muttered something in what I assumed was Portuguese, then he drained his glass. I couldn’t say I blamed him. The image was of Britt and me seated on a nondescript gray set, kneeling with our backs pressed against each other and arms linked at our elbows. The good folks in makeup had rubbed us down with a shimmery lotion and drenched our hair in oil, so it looked wet but didn’t drip. Oh, and we were completely naked.

“I’m never going to be able to look Britt in the eye again,” Donnie said. “And Sam, he’ll punch my lights out if he finds out I saw her like this.”

I laughed softly, then I showed him another of me and Britt from the same shoot. In that one we were lying on our backs, my head near Britt’s hip and vice-versa, my yin to her yang. Or was yang the black one? I could never remember. A gray sheet partially covered us, and that was all.

“Shit.” Donnie tipped back his glass, realized it was empty, and set it on the floor. “I get what you mean, about it being art and all, but…shit.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” I replaced the photographs in the folder, and set it on top of the dresser. “Want another drink?”

“Love to, but I have to drive soon.”

“You took the fishmobile?”

“Not hardly,” he replied. “I took my Jeep. It’s in a garage near the show.”

“Oh.” I traced the edge of my glass. “I thought you were off this weekend.”

“I am.”

“Then stay here. Hang out with me.”

“I take it you don’t hate me anymore?”

“I’m warming up to you,” I replied, then I leaned over and pecked him on the lips. “What do you say, Mr. Chef?”

“If it was only about being with you, I’d say yes,” he replied. “But there’s a bit more to it. The garage my Jeep’s in charges by the hour, and I already owe them a kidney.”

“Bring it here,” I offered. “I get a parking space, and since I don’t have a car it’s always empty.”

“You really want me to stay?”

“I really want you to stay.”

Donnie grinned, then he kissed me hard. “Got a better idea,” he said when we parted. “When are you working again?”

“Monday.”

“Come down to my place,” he said. “I’ll show you just how boring Connecticut can be.”

My first instinct was to say no; my Monday job was a lunch shift at the bar, and I didn’t want to be late just as much as I didn’t want to tell Donnie I had that job. Both situations would have equally bad endings; if I was late Al might tell me not to come back, and if Donnie knew I’d been reduced to cocktail waitress, well, I didn’t know how he’d react. I also didn’t want to find out.