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"I wish I'd met him. He sounds wonderful."
"He was full of life. Just couldn't stay still. Always on the go. Couldn’t keep a woman as a result. Instead, he had a lot of them everywhere."
We sat in silence for a moment, drinking our coffee, and then my father continued.
"As to why Drake wanted you, why I think he loves you, I suspect he sees in you a kindred spirit. Someone who could be more than just a fling, the way he's used to operating."
I didn't respond, thinking of how many submissives Drake had gone through in the five years since his divorce. My father didn’t use the words submissives, but he did know about Drake's 'proclivities'. I still marveled that my father knew and accepted it. Maybe because he knew Drake wasn't sadistic, just dominant.
"This was hard on Drake," my father said, "learning about his son, seeing him so sick, trying to help, watching to see if his efforts to help succeed. All you can do is be there for him. Understand this is traumatic for him. You know what that feels like – to have your world ripped out from under you. To feel so much frustration that there's only so much you can do." He took my hand and squeezed. "Be there for him, if you love him."
"I do," I said, tears biting my eyes. "I do love him, Daddy."
He smiled. "I know you do. It might be hard for a while but it will get better, once things settle with Liam. Until then, and as long as he's good to you, loves you hard and true, just hold on tight and don't let go."
I nodded and we turned back to our food. My heart was filled with love and appreciation for my father. I wondered if I'd never met Drake that night at the fundraiser how long it would have taken for me to arrive at the place I was now, realizing how amazing my father truly was.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
After lunch with my father, I went back to the studio to put the finishing touches on the second canvas. The first was done and ready to be taken to the apartment in Chelsea. Keith had an old lemon-yellow VW van that he used to transport paintings and Jules's sculptures to various shows, so he helped me take the nude up the service elevator and into the bedroom.
One wall in Drake's bedroom had several paintings on it – prints, probably selected by the interior decorator. They were run of the mill and boring, so we took them down, and Keith drilled new holes for the canvas. In about half an hour, we had the canvas mounted on the wall. I couldn't wait for Drake to see it.
Keith had a smile on his face as we stood and examined it. "It's good," he said, "if a bit," he shrugged, a sheepish smile on his face, "wishful thinking."
I laughed. "It's art," I said, not wanting to admit it was in proportion. "A good portrait artist flatters her patron or she won't get another commission."
Keith smiled and we left the bedroom only to come face to face with Drake, who was standing in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on Keith's boots, which were on the mat by the front door.
"Drake, you’re home," I said and went to him, kissing him on the mouth. He was a bit standoffish, a tiny quirk to his lips. I turned and pointed at Keith. "Keith helped me with my canvas, bringing it over in his van and then helping me mount it on the wall in
our bedroom. Come and see it."
I took Drake's hand and pulled him towards the bedroom.
"That’s my cue," Keith said and winked at me. "See you later."
I smiled at Keith, but my focus was on Drake, who followed me with reluctance as if he was still not entirely sure whether he should be jealous.
"Come on, Drake," I said. "I'd never be able to do it myself and I wanted it to be a surprise for you."
As we went into the bedroom, Drake saw the painting for the first time. He stopped for a moment, his jaw actually dropping. There, on the wall, was him in all his naked glory. The painting looked great against the grey walls, the white sheets, the warm yellow of the sunlight flooding over Drake's body, the fairness of his skin, his black hair such a stark contrast. His muscular body caught the early morning light so that his skin fairly glowed, his face in shadow underneath his arm, considerable scruff on his perfectly square jaw, his soft lips parted.
"Kate…" he said, letting go of my hand, moving closer to examine it. He stopped at the painting and took it in, shaking his head slowly. "I had no idea this is what you were doing."
"I woke up early on a few mornings and sketched you, then I painted from memory. What do you think? Can you understand why I'm so aroused in the morning?"
"It's beautiful. The lighting, the shadows." He turned to me and pulled me into his arms. "But no one can see it. I don’t want people looking at my dick…"
I laughed and pulled him closer. "I did another one with the sheet covering you up. I think I'll do a series of portraits. A collection."
"I don't know what I think about that."
"Don’t worry," I said quickly. "None of the nudes will show your face. I'll do some with your clothes on, too, although that’s such a waste."
He hugged me. "Only if you agree to let me take some photos of you for a book."
I inhaled deeply at that. "I'd like that. A private book for our own enjoyment. I wouldn't want any pictures with my face to get out there as long as my father is running for office."
