If Beca Mitchell was confident in any situation, it wouldn't have made a difference. The resolve that she had built up over years of sailing open water and devoting her life to her art fell away in a matter of seconds. Seconds where the world seemed to the slow and her heart began to stop. Where she couldn't hear words or feel her own strong stance holding her up.
It all just stopped.
The warm breeze that blew in from the courtyard didn't seem to thaw her nerves- a thick scent of honeysuckles and lemons coating her lungs as Beca flexed her fingers in her pocket; checking to see if they were real. Checking to see if she was in fact, real.
Chloe tucked the mask under her arm, chest heaving up and down as she stepped foot onto the terracotta patio, red hair almost matching the strong consistency of her coppery locks. Sweat coated almost every inch of exposed ivory skin- and those eyes, those eyes were the spitting image of the very ocean that Beca spent her lively hood navigating.
The woman in front of her didn't look like a human at all. She looked godly, she looked like the legends that seamen spin about the beings carved into the bows of their ships- clutching onto the material in living creative mutiny. They described them as siren's, otherworldly beings that would utilize their vocal cords to lure those looking for something more into a deathly trap. Those dumb enough to fall in love, but smart enough to know that it was worth the demise. Worth the pain and suffering.
The leggy chef had effectively moved away from her new companion, fingers reaching for the brass faucet as she filled two crystal glasses with water, ice clinking in its translucent silence. Beca, however, stood in complete awe. Not trusting herself to move even if she had the capacity to do so.
"I see you do have something in common with the rest of them." Stacie mused, the hint of a teasing smirk in her voice. "They can never help to stare, either. Ramirez very well got lockjaw."
"Ramirez?" The word dripped like poison past Beca's lips. She straightened up, that spark from seeing the woman for the first time tapering down to a well-lit flame. The mention of this, this man, who had tried and failed to create a portrayal of someone this deserving. "The Spanish painter?"
"That's the one." Stacie cocked her head to the side "Devilishly handsome, a huge ego. You know him then"
"We call him El Demonio" Beca let out in almost a scoff, flashing her midnight eyes to the two women who shared a conversation just on the other side of the glass- Aubrey clenching the handle but not yet pulling the item away from the wall. "He has a harsh way of making a canvas an object to be slathered in red, and not a feeling that should be treated with care."
"I suppose," Stacie spoke carefully "His work was a bit… edged."
"It's rubbish!" Beca grumbled, turning her back to the scene beside her as she focused on the chef standing idly by the sink. "Daniel Ramirez is a disgrace to the community. When you paint something, it shouldn't be a chore, you need to feel it through every inch of your body. Somewhere along the line, that man became more about the payout than the craft. Te juro que el hombre folla todo lo que camina"
Her voice turned into a low growl, Stacie letting her shoulders fall back at the twinge of jealousy that bestowed her new-found friend. It was almost amusing, seeing how worked up she got in the presence of another artist. One that she clearly deemed unworthy of being in such a position.
"No lo sé, no era tan malo." The voice was like silk, a heavy and light property all at once. Beca had never heard anything like it, exposed skin filled with chills as she bolted upright, eyes widening as she noticed Stacie's attention on something else, someone else. "He did teach me Spanish, so he had the patience of an artist."
Beca clenched her eyes shut, drawing in a composing breath. The taller brunette with an amusing stare on her lips as she handed over the two glasses of water to the women over Beca's shoulder. The blonde grasping it with a small nod of thanks before raising the crystal to her lips, taking a few long gulps as Chloe simply wrapped her fingers around hers.
"Forgive me," Beca mumbled exhaustedly, turning to face the two that almost towered over her. Even with their tired looks, and sweat coated brows, they were still a sight to behold- still keeping a long and pensive stare at the newest addition to the staff. "That was crude."
"No need to apologize," Chloe's voice came out as a low purr, she never broke eye contact with the girl in that stood in her kitchen as she rose the sweaty glass to her lips. She took a few long sips, not stopping as drops moved down her chest and soaked into the white fencing guard. Beca squinted her eyes, watching carefully. Again, this stranger had captivated her attention with a simple everyday action.
Aubrey cleared her throat then, snapping stormy eyes towards the woman. Equally as beautiful, looking more like a descendant of Athens with deep Irish eyes. The sun backlit her, jaw chiseled from stone. "You must be the new artist that Garret hired." It wasn't a question.
"The one and only," Beca let a lazy smile find a way to her lips. She held out her hand, Aubrey hesitating as she took it, touch gentle and hot from the outside activity. "Beca Mitchell."
"I've never seen your work." She cut straight to the point, lifting her chin.
"Many haven't, my art isn't conventional. I don't paint to earn money, I paint to gain experience. So you wouldn't see my stuff in a chapel, or hanging on a wall." She admitted, pulling her hand back. Chloe swallowed the last of her water- placing it on the table softly, her eyes moved to warm blue ones. "I'm not even sure how your husband found me."
"He has his ways, Beca." Chloe steeled her shoulders. The tiny brunette lifting her head up slightly. This was the first time since she had been in this house that she didn't have to correct someone on using the less formal version of her name. It rolled off the older woman's tongue like hot honey dripping past the beehive. "Now, I'm going to freshen up."
Dark eyes scanned over Beca's figure, they had changed color almost completely, dilated and filled with what could only be described as danger. They looked uncharacteristically hungry, not something the young artist expected from her client. Especially one in a committed marriage. Aubrey drew in a sharp breath, noticing the change in atmosphere.
"Beca, are you coming?"
"Am I?" The brunette started to bumble over her words "Do you… want me to?"
A certain heat pushed against Beca's cheek, her breath short as she looked between the other women in the room. They acted like this was normal behavior, like this is what the artists that were let into this compound did. She was supposed to paint, not follow this mysterious stranger into a shower.
"Of course, I do." Chloe cocked her head to the side like Beca was the one who had a deep madness instilled in her. "How are you going to paint something you've never seen?"
The bedroom was bigger than anything she had ever seen- the colors translating from the rest of the mansion. There was a central theme of red, something that the girl found odd. No room that was painted with the energetic color ever translated to calm.
It somehow worked for the space; a large wooden four post bed was coated in the most extravagant duvet (probably made out of the best silk and finest fabric). The large curtains were peeled back, bringing in a large rectangle of light.
Chloe cut across it in one swift move, dropping the chest guard on the mattress unceremoniously, leaving her in a black tank-top, the thin coat of sweat catching the rays as she let out a small sigh, Beca creaking the door shut as she stood uncomfortably by them- her back practically glued to the mahogany.
"Red is an interesting choice." She mumbled, breaking the silence, knowing that it was becoming even heavier than usual. Beca took a small step forward, watching as Chloe started to unbuckle the guards and paddings that came with her choice in sport. "Colorwise."
"Is it?" Chloe scrunched up her nose nervously.
"It raises heart rate." Beca mused, not getting to close to the other end of the bed. "People usually use it for living areas or kitchens, but never bedrooms."
"Oh really?" She smirked, "And what would you suggest I paint this place?"
Beca drew in a small breath, staring around the room as Chloe followed her gaze, stopping where she saw the tiny woman. The woman who had captivated her attention more than any of the other painters her husband had brought in. She was strong and captivating and chilled her to the bone. But she held her composure. Held her trembling hands steady.
"Blue." She whispered, bringing her gaze up to the woman that stood uncomfortably close. She had taken a few tiny steps across the end of the bed, thumb looped in her belt as she was in the middle of stripping her lower half. "It has the opposite effect of red. Not that harsh stuff your husband put everywhere. It has to be soft." Beca brought her voice down a bit. "Kind of like your eyes."
"My eyes?" Chloe eased out. Her breath was hot on Beca's collarbone.
"They shift from green to blue, correct?" the small brunette let out a half chuckle. By the look of confusion, she got from the redhead solidified her skepticism. "Or, you've never noticed, and I sound like an absolute lunatic right now."
"What kind of idiot doesn't know what their own eyes look like." Chloe cracked a smile that brought out the light in the room. A strong and dazzling one that made such a heat press against the smaller girl's abdomen. Her voice was barely above a whisper, something raspy and hoarse.
There was an odd silence that passed over the room, one that stirred the brunette's thoughts. "Chloe, do you even want a painting?"
The redhead drew in a thick breath, her stare averting from her new counterpart. The stranger who stood shorter than her. She wasn't like the other guys that her husband brought in to capture her likeness. She was willing and able and carried a stronger energy than anyone she had met. The passion was there.
"Honestly, no." She cocked her head to the side. "Garret Beale is obsessed with image. He wants people to see me the way that he does- but as an artist, I'm sure you know that's near impossible. Everybody interprets life a different way."
"In other words, he'll never be satisfied with anyone's work because it's not through his eyes."
She nodded solemnly. "I have no interest in being objectified countless times, Beca." Chloe lifted her chin "he has brought so many people into my home, into my livelihood just to what? Have a good piece to hang above the mantel."
Beca's mouth was dry. She could hear the pain in this woman's voice. This near stranger that had been subjected to hours a day of sitting still- probably growing a strong hatred to whoever held the brush, whoever drew the lines and colored them in. Because the truth was, her painting would go above a fireplace- maybe in the office, or in the countless studies that Garret owned. That man would sit with delicately wrapped cigars and stare up at his wife's naked form like she was just that; an object.
"I uh," Beca swallowed roughly. "I won't take a part in that if you don't… if you're not comfortable."
"Of course, I'm comfortable, Beca." She smirked, "I married him, didn't I?"
She opened her mouth to object, to speak. Nothing came to mind, her own racing as if it never had a pause button. Part of the reason she painted in the first place. It was like a slow button, it let her focus on the hue's in the flowers, and colors in the skies.
"Now, Miss Mitchell" She dragged out the word huskily, gripping the bottom of her tank-top. In one swift movement she pulled it above her head- hair still falling into her gaze as the top half of her body was left cruelly uncovered. The fabric being discarded onto the floor somewhere. Beca averting her gaze to the ceiling. "Are you going to paint me, or what?"