Free The Keyholder by Claire Thompson Page A

on the time of day.”
    “We’ll set up the dinner. You go clean up,” Charles said, eying him.
    Jack looked down at himself. He was covered in clay dust, his fingers still caked with wet clay. He was wearing only his work smock and a pair of old blue jeans, his chest and feet bare. “Right,” he said. “I’ll go wash up. See you in a jiff.”
    When he returned from a quick shower, the pizza was on the table, along with plates, napkins and wineglasses. As he entered the living area, Charles, bottle at the ready, popped the cork. He poured the champagne into the glasses, and Nora handed one to Jack and another to Harry before taking one for herself.
    Charles lifted his glass, and the others followed suit. “To one of my oldest and dearest friends, Jack McQuade. Congratulations on taking possession at last of your gorgeous loft and studio.”
    “And to one of my newest friends and an excellent Dom, welcome to New York. We’re glad to have you as a fellow keyholder,” Harry added.
    “We miss you, but much happiness in your new space, Jack,” Nora added. “It’s perfect.”
    They all drank, draining their glasses. Charles refilled them with what remained of the champagne, and Jack brought bottles of water to the table, along with some parmesan cheese and red pepper flakes for the pizza. As they ate, the focus of the conversation was on Jack’s work. Nora, especially, seemed interested in the actual process of sculpting, and what it involved.
    After dinner, Jack made coffee and they each had an éclair, even Charles, who usually refused sweets. As he sipped his second cup, Jack looked across the table at Nora. She was a beautiful woman, with thick, shiny auburn hair that fell to her shoulders, dark blue eyes, a long, aquiline nose and a pouting, rosebud mouth. She was lithe and graceful, confident in her body, comfortable in her skin. She radiated that indefinable submissive serenity Jack had been striving to capture in his latest series of sculptures.
    As if sensing his gaze, Nora looked up and smiled brightly. “Hey, can we see the studio?”
    “Yeah,” Charles added with a grin. “Let’s see what had you so distracted we practically had to break down the door to get your attention.”
    Jack pushed back from the table. “Sure. Follow me.” He led his guests into the studio and lifted the large canvas he’d dropped over his work to reveal the partially finished nude.
    “Oh,” Nora breathed.
    “That looks a lot better than the big lump of clay that was here when I helped you with those boxes the other day,” Charles added with a grin.
    “ Dios mio ,” Harry said with obvious appreciation. “This is fucking amazing, brother. You’re like a real artist, huh?”
    Charles laughed, Jack grinned, and Nora protested, “Harry, are you serious ? You’ve never heard of Jack McQuade’s work? Jack’s only like one of the most renowned sculptors in North America.”
    “Hey, sorry,” Harry said with an apologetic shrug. “I don’t know anything about art. But I can definitely see why you’re famous, man,” he added, his eyes moving over some of the pieces Jack had on kiln shelves around the studio. “This stuff is really cool.”
    “Thanks,” Jack said with a smile. “And no apologies necessary. I’m afraid Nora’s exaggerating just a little.”
    “No, she’s not,” Charles said, in that tone of his that said that was that, end of discussion. “So, tell us about this latest piece. I’m really liking what it’s shaping into. Very sensual. Very…” He paused, as if searching for the word.
    “Submissive,” Nora supplied.
    “Precisely,” Jack said, pleased. “In fact, I calling the piece Grace , but it’s not a woman’s name. It references submissive grace, and that’s what I’m trying to capture in her lines and curves. Here’s the maquette for the piece.”
    “The what?” Harry said, as they all moved closer to examine it.
    “It’s the French word for a small-scale model of