“Don’t artists’ models get paid?” “Only the ones that are good-looking.” “So I’m not good-looking?” Dante smiled. “Don’t be an asshole.” He seemed embarrassed. But not as embarrassed as I was. I could feel myself turning red. Even guys with dark skin like me could blush. “So you’re really going to be an artist?” “Absolutely.” He looked right at me. “You don’t believe me?” “I need evidence.” He sat in my rocking chair. He studied me. “You still look sick.” “Thanks.”
