Free Die for Her A Die for Me Novella by Amy Plum

hair.
    “Studio,” I say.
    “You’ve been spending a lot of time there,” he comments, throwing his wet towel over a chair. “You planning an exhibition or something?”
    “No,” I say, and follow him upstairs to the back hallway. “Just a special project I’m working on.”
    “You’ll have to tell me when it’s ready for the viewing public,” he says, and clapping me on the shoulder, disappears into his bedroom.
    Throwing my coat on, I head out the door, through the gate, and toward the river. This is one project that will never be ready for the viewing public. Or for any of my kindred, for that matter.
    Twenty minutes later, I walk into my studio and flip the light switch on. The room brightens as the track lighting warms up, illuminating dozens of female forms. Their poses are all different but the face is the same. Painted from memory in scene after scene is the fresh-faced beauty. Kate.
    It’s the bargain I’ve made with myself. If I can’t caress her body with my hands, I paint it with my brushes. Use my fingers to trace her lines.
    I shuck off my coat and go directly to the canvas on my easel. Squeeze out the paints onto my palette. And carefully . . . tenderly . . . taking my time with every brushstroke, I sketch the curve of her neck, apply the crimson of her lips, form her face into a two-dimensional tribute to her beauty. Mix my oils to the exact shade of her skin, and spread it on the canvas with my trowel.
    She is my inspiration. My muse. My obsession.

SIXTEEN
    A WEEK LATER, GEORGIA ROPES US ALL INTO going to her boyfriend’s concert. Since Arthur and Violette are along for the ride, I consider myself off duty and bring a date. Giulianna. Italian. Bellissima . Feline eyes and feline attitude. She’s a girl who’s used to being spoiled. And she is there for one reason. To keep my mind off of Kate.
    We start out at Le Meurice, where with the champagne and vintage wine, I drop enough euros to pay the rent for her studio apartment for a month. So when we wander into the bohemian chic of the concert location, her smile turns downward. “What is this dive?” she asks, peering around at the red walls and leopard-skin stage curtains.
    “We’re meeting friends here, staying for a concert, and then we’ll be off,” I assure her, and then choke on my drink as I see Kate cross the room toward us. She’s wearing boots, skinny black jeans, and a wine-colored silk top. And she’s stunning in a way that Giulianna will never be; her natural smile lights her face more effectively than the luxury-brand makeup and expensive facials my date splurges on with her father’s money.
    I introduce the two girls. Kate leans over and whispers, “She’s gorgeous!” And I respond with the truth: “She has nothing on you, of course, Kates. It’s just that you’re so very . . . taken.” She gives me that what-a-flirt look, and I shrug. I speak the truth and nothing but the truth. And yet . . .
    The band is good, but I don’t even notice. My eyes are trained on Kate all night. As she dances with her sister in front of the stage, I feel like I could do this—watch Kate move, spin, throw her hands up in the air, and bounce around—for the rest of eternity. When she stops to throw her arms around Vincent and kiss his lips, my stomach plunges. She will never love you , I berate myself, and turn toward the bar so I don’t have to see.
    Giulianna’s ready to go the second the concert’s over. We take our time, walking arm in arm through the lamplit streets until we reach her building on the rue Saint-Honoré. She invites me in, and I accept.
    The air in her studio is heavy with perfume. Giulianna drapes her coat over a chair and turns to face me. I lift her chin with my fingertips and touch my lips to hers. She’s soft and warm. I pull her closer, feeling my pulse accelerate as she presses her chest against mine. She runs one hand through my hair and traces circles behind my ear with her fingertips. Our