Hold You Against Me (Stripped 4)

Why can’t I forget?

Only here, alone in a maze of white walls, staring at a dusty old print, do I realize. The orange pieces I opened last night, the ones I left on my nightstand—when I woke up this morning, they were gone.

Chapter Five

The statue I made for the Grand is an angel, my tribute to the women who worked on that stage. To my sister, to Lola, to Candy. They danced with strength and with grace, rising above the base lust of their customers. They danced to survive. The angel’s dress drapes her body, revealing more than nakedness, the stone fabric wet. Her lips curve in a tempting smile while her eyes are solemn. The vixen and the innocent, wrapped into one holy package.

That piece came easily to me because I knew what it should be. Gratitude for my sister, reverence for the other girls. They drove my design just as much as the proportions and measurements.

My plan is to sculpt the counterpoint next, the archangel Gabriel. Except whenever I draw even the simplest of sketches…I see him instead.

The blank page yawns in front of me, but I can already see the shade beneath his cheekbone, the curve of his eyebrow, the pillow of his lower lip. Frustration burns in my stomach. I want to move past this. I want to move past him.

“You need a model.”

I jump, almost tumbling off the hollow metal stool I’m on. Amy slouches against the large table behind me, messenger bag slung over her shoulder, the scent of fresh pine radiating from her. She raises one eyebrow at me, and I know she’s right. Most sculptors work from models. I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again. But the angel came from a different place, a deeper place. I want Gabriel to be the same way.

“No models.”

“But they’re so pretty. And so naked.”

I scrunch my nose at her. “You just want dibs on him when I’m done sculpting.”

She drops her bag on the table and begins pulling out her work. The quilt in the corner covers a wire-frame mermaid that looks a little like me. I modeled for it, but the shape of wire is loose enough that it’s not entirely obvious. Which is a good thing because the piece will be shown in our class gallery at the end of the year, where my sister and her husband will be.

“Maybe,” she says, her eyes flashing with…worry? “Then again, maybe not. You could ask Shane to do it. And in that case, I think I’d have to pass.”

My eyes narrow. “Why would I ask Shane?”

“Well…he’s already here, for one thing. And looking pretty desperate for a way to make things up to you.” She shrugs. “He does have the muscles for it.”

“Oh my God.” I glance around wildly as if Shane is going to suddenly jump out from under a table. The studio space is large, designed for multiple students to use, but we have to reserve time so it’s not too crowded at any moment. “What do you mean, he’s here?”

She pulls out a worn leather satchel that contains her wire-cutting tools. “Downstairs. I didn’t let him follow me in.”

Like the museum after hours, art buildings require our student IDs on the weekends. I rush to the window and peer down at the stone steps, where a very rough-looking Shane waits. His clothes look rumpled, his jaw covered in a sheen of dark-blond scruff. From one story up I can see the dark shadow of a bruise on his cheek and a cut on his lip. “Oh no,” I murmur.

“Ignore him,” Amy says in a tired voice, as if she knows I’m not going to listen.

She’s right. I can’t leave him down there, especially once I spot the bouquet of roses hanging from one fist. I’m not going to get back with him, but I can’t ignore him either.

He has the grace to look abashed when I open the door.

“Shane,” I say, but I don’t know where to go from there. Why did you come here? It’s over.

“I know you’re mad.” He holds out the flowers, waxy petals glistening in the sunlight. “I fucked up. I had too much to drink, and Rick was being an ass—”

“Rick is always an ass.”

“You’re right,” he says, contrite. “You’re completely right. I’m done with him.”

“You can’t be done with him. You’re both on the football team.”

“I mean it. No more late nights. No more partying. I know you don’t like it, babe. Last night was a wake-up call for me.” He runs a hand over his bruised jaw and winces. “I’m ready to make a change.”

Tenderness swells up inside me. Maybe that’s crazy, considering the way he pushed me against the club wall last night. But I’ve always had a weakness for dangerous men, part survival instinct and part reckless desire. “I can’t do this anymore, Shane.”

“That’s what I’m saying, babe. Let me fix this.”