Читать книгу Her Body Of Work - Marie Donovan - Страница 9

MARCO BOLTED UPRIGHT, his hands gripping an imaginary weapon, his stomach churning. It had been years since he’d dreamed about the raft, that miserable hunk of rotting wood and worn-out tires. He was still amazed it hadn’t sunk and drowned them in the Florida Straits, the ninety miles of dangerous waters between Cuba and the Keys.

He ran a hand through his sweaty scalp. God, he hated his long hair. If he hadn’t agreed to impersonate Francisco, he’d cut it with his brother’s manicure scissors. It only reminded him of the scumbag he’d played in Rodríguez’s organization. He gave a dry laugh. His baby brother wasn’t the only actor in the family.

Marco lay down and grimaced as the futon frame dug into his neck. It reminded him of the time he’d been hit with a two-by-four on a previous sting in Tampa.

He’d fallen asleep last night watching some action flick dubbed into Spanish. One glance at the clock and he groaned. It was already close to eleven in the morning. He swung his legs off the wooden torture device and stood. He couldn’t believe how rotten he felt. The stress from the past year had finally caught up to him, and his body was paying the dues.

He padded into his brother’s kitchenette to scrape together some Cuban-style coffee. He prowled through both cabinets, finally finding a half-empty bag in the freezer. Inhaling deeply, he smiled. The scent of the finely ground Jamaican blend made him homesick for the coffee stands on the streets of Miami.

He pushed away thoughts of home and measured several scoops into the froufrou German coffeemaker. The slightly burned odor of the liquid dribbling into the pot made Marco start to feel better. He opened the fridge to find some milk for his café con leche. It was nearly empty, no dairy products of any kind. Maybe there was some nondairy creamer.

He pulled out a five-pound can of protein powder. Ugh. The label guaranteed maximum increase in muscle. What was wrong with weight lifting?

The fine print read, “With a minimum of sexual side effects.” ¡Caramba! He threw the can into the fridge and checked his fingers to make sure the protein powder hadn’t leaked.

Francisco’s pene was going to shrivel up and fall off if he wasn’t careful with his crazy supplements.

He poured himself a big cup of brew and dumped in some powdered creamer and sugar from dusty containers. He’d found a couple of stale almond biscotti next to the creamer, probably leftover from their mamá’s trip to Chicago last summer. Once the biscotti were dunked in his café con leche, they were somewhat edible. He stared out the kitchen window at the steel-gray sky. He’d better lay in supplies before he got snowed in and had to resort to eating Francisco’s Amazing Penis-Shrinking Powder.

By the time he’d finished his skimpy breakfast, it was almost noon, ten o’clock in L.A. Francisco might have dragged his ass out of bed by now.

Marco grabbed the phone and dialed his brother’s cell phone number.

“Yeah?” a voice crackled.

“Francisco, is that you?”

“Hey, Marco, how’s the Windy City treating you?” His younger brother’s carefree voice floated back to him.

“If it gets any colder, my cojones are going to freeze off.” Marco was wearing a T-shirt, a long-sleeved thermal Henley and a woolen ski sweater to top it all off and he still couldn’t get warm.

“Too bad you’re not here in L.A. I’m sitting on the beach, where the ocean breezes are cool and the blondes are hot.”

Marco rolled his eyes. “I’m only here in Chicago because you begged me to take your modeling job.”

“Correction—I begged you to go audition. Did you actually get offered the gig?”

“Yeah.” Despite showing up unshaven, half-frozen and scruffy-looking as possible.

“And you’re gonna do it? For me?” Francisco sniffled melodramatically. “I’m really touched.”

Marco grimaced. If he skipped out, Rey would black-ball Francisco with his agency. On the other hand, Marco couldn’t stay in Chicago very long. Francisco had moved around a lot over the past few years but wasn’t impossible to track. And if they found Francisco’s place, they’d find Marco.

“Seriously, this is great for my career. My agent told me Rey Martinson is one of Chicago’s up-and-coming artists. The Museum of Contemporary Art is considering a small-scale exhibit of his work next year. Any model would be thrilled to work for him.”

“First of all, Rey Martinson is not a ‘him’.” Rey could never be mistaken for a man, not with her silky golden hair and plump breasts.

“Really? Just shows how much I pay attention to my modeling agent. If I land this soap-opera role, I’m firing her.”

“You should fire her.” Marco ran a hand through his tangled curls. “Hermanito, do you know what life modeling is?”

“I know what life modeling is. Don’t you?” Francisco was uncharacteristically cagey.

“I do now, Francisco!” Just remembering standing nude in front of Rey sent a rush of blood to his penis.

“You mean this modeling gig is nude modeling?” His brother let out a shout of laughter loud enough to be heard in Chicago without using the phone. “Were you rough, tough and in the buff?”

“It’s not funny, Francisco!”

While Francisco choked with laughter, Marco contemplated choking his brother.

Francisco finally caught his breath. “I swear, hermano, my agent never told me I’d have to go full monty. I wouldn’t have sent you to take my place if I’d known it was nude modeling.”

“Thanks, Francisco. I didn’t think you’d set me up for this on purpose.” He knew Francisco wouldn’t have left him there hanging. Literally.

“Yeah, I would have taken the gig myself. The last nude modeling job I took, they paid me an extra fifty percent!”

Marco groaned. “I don’t want to know the details.”

“How much is this artist paying us, Marco?”

“Us? Last time I checked, it was my bare body on display.”

“Whatever.” Marco pictured his brother’s dismissal of the situation. “How much, Marco?” Francisco persisted.

He gave up trying to make his brother understand and named the amount Rey had offered.

“Hmm. Not bad, minus fifteen percent for my agent. You can keep whatever you make,” Francisco offered, obviously impressed at his own largesse.

“Muchas gracias.” Marco’s voice was heavy with sarcasm, which his brother chose to ignore.

“De nada. And Rey Martinson is a woman?” Francisco asked, still intent on ferreting out all the salacious details.

“Definitely.”

“What does she look like? Is she hot?”

Marco shifted, glad that his brother couldn’t see what must have been a goofy expression on his face. “She’s tall, blond and blue-eyed.” He didn’t want to elaborate further. Francisco had a dirty enough mind without hearing how sexy Rey was.

“Tall, blond and blue-eyed? Damn, some guys get all the luck. Last time I modeled nude for a wrinkly little woman who chased me around her studio.”

“So that’s how you made your extra fifty percent.” Marco knew the modeling world was crazy, but his brother always found the real lunatics.

“That old broad only got to look, no touching allowed. I’ve got my pride, you know.”

Marco had his pride, too, but he wasn’t sure how long he could keep any pride around Rey. Standing naked in front of her, he’d almost begged her to wrap her long artist’s fingers around his hard shaft.

His brother broke into his lascivious thoughts. “Much as I’d love to come to pose naked for your hot blond artist, I have to stay in L.A. for a while. I made the first cut and got called back for a second audition.”

“That’s great! Stay there as long as you want.” The longer the better. “If you run low on cash, I’ll send you some.”

“Wow, you must really want this artist all to yourself. I haven’t heard you so worked up over a woman since you went all the way with your junior prom date.”

“No, it’s not like that, Francisco.” He wanted Francisco safe, and modeling was a small price to pay.

His brother laughed. “Sure it’s like that. Anyway, I’ll be out here for a while. The executive producer is in Mexico for an experimental face-lift procedure. The FDA banned it after a bunch of people wound up unable to blink.”

Marco grimaced. “She must be some kind of hag.”

“Actually the executive producer is a man.”

Marco rolled his eyes. The man probably had a droopy dick to match his droopy eyelids. And Marco’s own undroopy dick was causing him problems. “I know it may confuse your oversexed little mind, but Rey doesn’t date her models.” He was surprised to hear the plaintive note in his voice.

“She doesn’t like men,” Francisco commiserated. “Too bad. It happens a lot in the artsy-fartsy set. I knew this gay painter once who painted nothing but female nudes. Of course, he did have issues with his mamá….”

“Francisco.” Marco ground his jaw, molars scraping off a layer of tooth enamel.

“On the other hand, lesbians usually don’t go for naked men, artistically or otherwise. They tend to paint weird pink flowers or oysters, if you get my drift.”

“Francisco.” Mercifully his younger brother’s attempt at Freudian analysis and art criticism meandered to a halt. Marco took a deep breath and began again. “Francisco, Rey likes men. She paints men. I think she even dates men. But she won’t date me because I’m her model.”

His brother’s hoot of laughter nearly broke his eardrum. “She probably doesn’t date her male models because most of them date men.”

“Oh.” Marco’s conservative cubano upbringing made a rare appearance and he shuddered.

“Look at it this way, Marco,” his brother offered in a conciliatory tone. “Show up, take off your clothes and maybe your impressive body will convince her to change her mind about dating her models.”

Marco considered his brother’s advice. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea.”

“I do have good ideas now and then.” Francisco’s tone became concerned. “Are you doing okay, Marco? Have you been spotted by any men with large necks intent on avenging their slutty girlfriend’s honor?”

Marco stopped thinking about posing nude and got serious. “No, Chicago’s the perfect city for me to hang out. It’s big enough to get lost in, and I can cover my face with a scarf when I leave the apartment. Hell, I need to use a scarf anyway. Besides,” he prevaricated, “I only slept with that mob chick once, and nobody with any sense would leave Miami this time of year.”

“All right.” His brother sounded relieved. “Wish me luck, and you’ll see me next on Hope for Tomorrow.”

“Good luck, hermanito. Adiós.”

“Adiós, hermano.” Francisco clicked off his phone.

Marco hung up and stared at the off-white apartment walls. He had refused to hide in the feds’ safe house after one of his informants disappeared. No doubt the man had provided a meal for the bull sharks off the Florida coast.

Marco’d suspected for a while that Rodríguez had a mole, a snitch in the Miami division. Since he didn’t know who to trust at DEA, he would trust the only man he could count on: himself.

Being turned into shark chow held no appeal, but neither did sitting around a government-owned shack on the edge of a swamp, watching satellite soccer and skin flicks waiting for someone to put a bullet in the back of his head. If Rodríguez wanted him dead, by God, that son of a bitch would have to work for it.

But damned if he was going to sacrifice Francisco. Marco would keep his younger brother out of town if he had to pay him. Considering Francisco’s spotty income from modeling and bartending, it would be an offer he couldn’t refuse.

He stared at the snow falling past the window. Chicago was cold, but it was better than being cold and dead in sunny Miami.