Candace Williams, a 19-year-old lesbian

She really shouldn't have dropped out of college for this.

It was 8 o'clock in the morning, and Candace was staring at a guy, nearly naked save for the towel around his waist, standing on her doorstep. She sighed. "Look. I don't do impromptu, you're going to have to book."

You see, Candace had found her talent in highschool; painting. She had won a few prizes for her landscapes and especially her portraits, but that unfortunately didn't save her from the other seven subjects she was barely scraping Cs in. Honestly, the only real reason she'd gone to college was to meet hot chicks. But, being shamed for being lesbian soon put her off, and it wasn't like the art degree was going to get her anywhere. So, she turned to painting nudes for her money. And sure, it brought in plenty, but there were a few downsides to the job.

Like the crusty guy on her porch. He combed back his greasy, black hair and grinned at her. "I did book. Check it."

Candace stared daggers at him. "I have Irene Brooks, but I don't think you're her."

"But I am. Just because I used a false name doesn't mean you can't paint me."

"That's fraud, sir," she stated. Her eyes bore coldly into him. "I'm not doing anything for you."

He ran a hand across his unshaven jawline in a poor attempt to catch her with his 'smoulder'. "I paid in advance. You don't want to refund me that large sum of money now, do you?

As much as she hated to admit it, he was right. Business had been slow these past few weeks, and the generous sum 'Irene' had given would have been more than enough to cover the bills. With a defeated sigh, she ushered him in.

"So, 'Irene', set yourself up however you want on that couch over there. You can use props if you want."

He smirked. "I don't need props, sweetie. I'm the real deal." He accented his words with a thrust of his hips. She simply rolled her eyes. "And you needn't bother with formalities. Just call me Ryker."

God, a made-up name as well? This day really couldn't get any better.

Excusing herself to another room where she didn't have to tolerate a perverted 30-year-old, Candace gathered up her brushes and painting supplies. She grabbed a selection of paints and a large canvas, dragging them onto a trolley for easy access. Just as she was about to grab her cloth, though, something caught her eye. On the bench was a phone she'd never seen before.