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the Nottingham Headquarters with very little time to spare, but at least I wasn’t late. I looked like crap, and I hadn’t showered or shaved, but I was there. I suppose that was all that mattered.
    I took the elevator to the 75 th Floor of the gleaming building. I arrived at the suite and announced my name to the bored-looking receptionist. She nodded her head and got on her phone and indicated that I should take a seat. Which I did.
    I inhaled deeply, and took in the unmistakable smell of jasmine. I supposed that this was meant to be relaxing. If so, it wasn’t working, because I was just as anxious as ever.
    Of course, they kept me waiting. Cooling my jets on their white leather couch. Rich bastards were all the same, really. They were just sooo important, too important to ever try to actually be on time. But god forbid you were even a few minutes late. God forbid. They held all the power, and they knew it.
    Finally, after I kicked myself repeatedly for busting my ass to be there right on time, and thinking th at I should have taken a few minutes to comb my hair and shower after all, the receptionist addressed me.
    “Mr. Roberts,” she said. “Mr. Nottingham will see you now.”
    I glanced at my watch. 8:45. Bastard was 45 minutes late. Well, okay, just as well. Let’s get this over with.
    The receptionist lady, who was wearing a too-tight pencil skirt and red cardigan sweater, combined with fuck-me pumps, led the way to the enormous conference room. At the end of the table was the rich bastard in question. Black slicked hair, cold blue eyes, im peccably dressed. I supposed that he was one of those guys who had his shoes shined to a glass-like sheen every morning. He had a personal tailor, no doubt, and he probably never, ever left the house without making sure that every hair was in place.
    I self-consciously touched my own hair, wanting it to lay down a little bit. I reached my hand over to the guy in an effort to shake his hand, but he literally waved me away.
    Well, this meeting is starting off swimmingly. I sat down, and he gestured to me to give him my portfolio. I passed it to him, and he opened it up without a word.
    I silently watched him flipping through the portfolio, his expression inscrutable. I could only assume that he was feeling somewhat less-than-impressed. To say the very least. I tapped my fingers on the table and stared out the window. Cursed what seemed to be yet another trip into the city for nothing. I could have just stayed home and strummed my guitar and finished the song that I was writing. Or got caught up on some badly-needed sleep. Or gotten baked, although I was really trying to cut back on that aspect of my life at least a little bit, as I didn’t want to become a wake and baker like some of my buddies.
    He rapidly went through most of my paintings and sketches, boredom evident in his eyes. But, then, he stopped. And stared. I cocked my head, trying to see what masterpiece had caught his eye, but I couldn’t see what it was. All that I knew was that he suddenly had stopped flipping rapidly through the pages and had settled upon something. His expression had changed from one of insouciance and ennui to one of actually be ing interested.
    Finally, he shut the book and looked at me. “Mr. Roberts,” he said, “I would like to commission a project for me.”
    I looked at him, startled. I wondered if I had heard him correctly. I tried to hide my inner excitement at this sudden change of fate. “Tell me about the project that you’re interested in.”
    He pointed to the page that he was apparently staring at earlier , and motioned me to look at the painting to which he was referring. “This girl,” he said. “You captured her beautifully. Her very essence. Her sensuality. Her vulnerability. Her radiance. I want you to paint her nude. I’ll pay you $10,000 to do so.”
    Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. $10,000? Was I hearing him correctly? And just because I happened to sketch the beautiful