I CLIMB out of the car, wincing when the bitterly cold air hits my cheeks. It’s abnormally brisk, despite the bright sunshine overhead, and I probably didn’t dress right for the weather. I smooth my hands over the fitted leather skirt my mother bought me a few months ago that I immediately shoved into the back of my closet. I’ve never worn anything like this, so I don’t know what possessed her to think I’d wear it.
But I woke up this morning with a new resolve. I’m branching out. Doing new and different things. I don’t know exactly what those things are yet, but seeking independence is one of them. Hence the leather skirt, which really reveals nothing but still feels daring, along with the cream-colored cashmere turtleneck sweater, which emphasizes the size of my breasts. Normally I’d shy away from an outfit like this because I don’t want to draw attention to myself.
There’s nothing about this morning—or myself—that feels normal.
Like last night, when I skipped dinner completely and stayed locked away in my bedroom. I opened up my laptop and searched for porn sites, glancing around like I’d find someone watching me do something so forbidden before I watched a twenty-minute clip of a couple doing all sorts of things in a variety of sexual positions.
It was eye-opening. Undeniably arousing. When I watched the man go down on the woman, his lips and tongue and fingers everywhere, her hands in his hair clutching him close, I lost all control and masturbated again. Imagining someone was doing the same thing to me the entire time.
A certain someone with icy blue eyes and a shitty smile on his face as he watched me practically beg for him to do it. Just before he leaned down and dragged his tongue across my clit.
God, I’m a mess. Seriously. Why would I fantasize about him?
He’s the worst.
“Call or text me when you’re ready to be picked up, miss.” The driver hands me a business card with his phone number on it. “I’ll come right over when you’re ready.”
“Thank you.” I offer him a smile and take the card from him, watching as he shuts the door. “I appreciate it.”
I turn away and head for the gallery entrance, making my way inside. I’m greeted by a friendly gallery assistant, a woman who looks only a few years older than I am, her eyes flaring with interest the longer she studies me.
“Hello. Welcome. May I take your coat?”
“Good morning,” I tell her as I let her help me out of my camel-colored coat. “Thank you.”
She studies my face, her delicate brows drawing together. “Aren’t you Cecily Beaumont’s daughter?”
Of course, she’d recognize me. My mother is very well-known in certain art world circles, especially in Manhattan. “Yes, I am.”
“Oh, it’s such an honor to meet you,” she gushes. “I’m Kirstin.”
“Hi, Kirstin.” I shake her offered hand. “I’m Wren.”
“Will your mother be joining you this morning?” Kirstin asks hopefully.
“Unfortunately, no. She had other plans.” I didn’t even invite her. I haven’t seen her since I came home yesterday, though I know she’s been around.
The disappointment on Kirstin’s face is obvious. “That’s too bad. I’m so glad you’re here though. Are you a fan of Hannah’s?”
Hannah Walsh is the artist whose work is showing at the gallery. Her latest collection borrows heavily from Picasso, but she puts her own spin on it. Her work is fresh yet familiar, with a hint of a feminine edge to it.
“I am,” I say as I glance around the narrow gallery. There aren’t very many people here this morning, but I’m early, showing up just after the gallery opened. “I’m really hoping to find a piece to purchase.”
Kirstin smiles. “That’s fantastic. She’s already sold a few paintings, but there are still plenty to choose from.”
“I wish I could’ve been here for the opening, but I’m in school during the week, so it didn’t work out,” I admit.
“Oh, the opening was such a success. It helped that she brought her handsome fiancé, the professional football player. He was so proud of her.” Kirstin smiles. “They were so sweet to see together.”
“I’m sure,” I murmur, knowing all about Hannah’s backstory. What would that be like, to have such a successful, handsome man in your corner? Supporting you and your career? There’s a lot written about him, but not as much about her, and I find her so intriguing.
I think that’s why I’m also drawn to her work.
“Would you like me to walk you around the exhibit, or would you rather explore on your own?”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll walk around by myself for a bit. I’ll call you if I need you though,” I tell her with a faint smile.
“Okay, sounds perfect.” I’m about to walk away when she continues, “Can I just mention how much I admire your mother and what she’s done for the art world? She’s so generous, and has such a smart eye. You’re lucky to have learned so much from her.”
I hear this a lot, but rarely does anyone include me in the equation like she just did.
I stand a little taller, feeling proud.
“Thank you. I’ll let her know you said that,” I tell her before I walk away.
Kirstin’s words stick with me as I stop in front of the first painting, staring at it blindly. It doesn’t feel like I’ve learned anything from my mother. Well, I must’ve learned some, but mostly from observing her and what she did, not because she actually took the time to teach me anything about art and collecting. Everything I know I mostly self-taught, with my father interjecting here and there with his own opinions.
He collects, but she’s the true collector. He pays for it all, but she’s the one who chooses almost every single piece they own. They’ve been a complimentary pair throughout their marriage, though lately things seem a little—off between them whenever I’m around. Like they’ve lost interest in each other.
And me.
Shaking myself out of my thoughts, I wander through the gallery, stopping in front of each piece and contemplating it with a critical eye. They’re all striking. She paints with bold strokes and vivid colors. Bright imagery that leaves nothing to the imagination, the pieces are mostly of people. Women. Men. Pets. One cityscape, though it’s already sold, probably because it’s the lone painting in that style.
I envy the person who purchased it.
I keep coming back to one painting in particular. The background is a rich, deep green, and there’s a woman sitting on the floor, a cat lying just out of reach beside her. The woman’s arm is stretched out, abnormally short, and the cat is looking directly at me while the woman stares at the cat.
It’s almost unnerving, the image conveyed in the painting, and I walk away from it every time.
Only to find myself standing in front of it once more.
“I think you like this one the best,” says a deep, familiar male voice.
I go completely still, my breath stalling in my lungs as I slowly turn to find…
Crew Lancaster standing next to me, his gaze on the painting in front of us.
Why is he here? How did he know? Where did he come from? I didn’t even notice him enter the gallery. I guess I was too wrapped up in looking at each painting.
“What are you doing here?” I ask breathlessly.
“Heard there was an exhibit in Tribeca now until the end of the year. Thought I’d come check it out.” He slips his hands into his pockets, glancing over at me. “You’re here for the same reason?”
I sort of want to punch him. Or hug him. I feel like I conjured him up in a dream. Is this moment even real? “Yeah. Actually I am.”
As if he didn’t know.
“Funny coincidence.” He returns his attention to the painting, quietly studying it before he takes a step forward to read the information card posted next to it. “Hmm. Interesting. This one’s called Two Pussies.”
“No.” I move toward the painting, shoving past him to read that the name of the painting is…
Two Pussies.
He’s chuckling when I turn to face him, my shock obvious, I’m sure. “I can’t believe it’s called that.”
“Oh, I can. Isn’t art supposed to be stimulating?”
I stare at him in disbelief. I also still can’t believe he’s here. Standing in front of me. He looks so good, dressed in jeans and a charcoal gray sweater, with a black jacket over it. Nike Blazers on his feet and a beanie on his head, which he tugs off and shoves in his coat pocket, leaving his hair in complete disarray.
I’m tempted to straighten it for him. Run my fingers through it. See if it’s as soft as it looks.
“Why do you think I like this piece?” I ask him.
“Because you keep coming back to it.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Long enough to see you return to this particular painting three times already.” He takes a step closer, his voice lowering. “Just buy it, Birdy. You know you want it.”
His words sizzle through my blood and I turn away so my back is to him, my gaze on the painting once more. “It’s the green that I like the most. It’s so deep.”
“Is green your favorite color?”
I feel him take a step closer, his body heat seeping into me. I keep myself rigid so I don’t touch him, even though I want to. “No. I like pink. Or red.” I hesitate before I ask, “What’s your favorite color?”
“Green.” He leans in, his mouth so close to my ear, just like I imagined last night. “Like your eyes.”
My legs shake and I lock my knees, tilting my head down as I try to catch my breath. What is he trying to say?
What is he trying to do?
“Are you going to buy it?” He’s so close, his breath wafts across my ear. My neck. I lift my head to meet his intense gaze, my mouth going dry the longer we study each other. “You should. Your gut is telling you it’s the one.”
I press my lips together, afraid I might blurt out something stupid like how my gut is suddenly telling me he’s the one.
But I keep quiet, swallowing the words that want to burst from my mouth.
“Let’s walk around the gallery one more time,” I suggest. “I want to really make sure this is the piece that I want.”
“Don’t you ever do anything impulsive, Birdy?” His tone is soft. Almost suggestive.
“No. Not really.”
“You should try it sometime.”
“Why?”
“Sometimes, doing something without thinking can be liberating.”
I don’t know what it’s like, to be liberated. To feel free. It’s a foreign concept. I’m told what to do, where to do it, and when I should. My entire life, I’ve been completely controlled.
“Art makes me feel free,” I tell him.
He tilts his head. “What do you mean?”
“It’s hard to explain.” My gaze returns yet again to the painting. “Looking at this makes me feel like I could be a different person. Like maybe I’m the girl lying on the floor, wishing her cat would come closer so she could pet her.”
Crew chuckles. “You think that’s the message the artist is trying to convey?”
“I don’t know what she’s trying to say, but that’s what I see. Frustration. She just wants to be loved. Isn’t that what we all want?” I glance over at him.
He says nothing, but the look on his face speaks volumes.
“We all have different reactions to art,” I continue. “That’s what makes it so wonderful. It’s not just one thing. It’s so many things. A million ideas and thoughts and visions.”
Crew stares, his gaze appreciative, his voice low and rough when he speaks. “I love how passionate you are about art. And beauty.”
I blink at him, surprised by his compliment. “I like pretty things.”
“So do I.” His gaze sweeps over me, as if he’s really taking me in for the first time. “Speaking of pretty things, I like your outfit.”
When his eyes linger on my chest, I don’t even mind. “Thank you.”
“Not what you usually wear.”
I lift my chin. “You only ever see me in a uniform.”
“True.”
“I am trying something different though.”
“I like it.” His smile is small. “Buy the painting.”
I don’t even think when I answer him. “Okay.”
His smile grows. “And after you buy the painting, we can go to lunch.”
“You want to go to lunch with me?” I’m frowning. If we do this, if I go with him, it could change the dynamic between us.
It could change my entire life.
“Yes. Do you want to go to lunch with me?”
My nod is slow, my heart beating heavily. “Yes,” I whisper.
“What do you think of the exhibit, Miss Beaumont?”
The spell broken by the gallery assistant, both Crew and I turn to find Kirstin standing in front of us with a smile on her face.
“It’s wonderful,” I tell her. “I’m having a hard time deciding which piece I want.”
“Oh, so you’ll definitely be making a purchase? I’m excited to see which one you choose.”
“She’s thinking about this one,” Crew says, indicating the painting we’re standing in front of.
Kirstin laughs. “It’s very striking, from her use of color to the name. I think the artist wanted to shock a little bit with this exhibit.”
“It’s the color,” I say, glancing over at the painting yet again. Realizing that Crew is watching me very carefully. It’s almost unnerving, how he’s staring at me. “I love the green.”
“It’s beautiful,” Kirstin says wistfully, her gaze now on the painting as well. I can see it in her eyes. She wishes she could own it. Own all of them. It’s why she’s working here. She’s most likely an art history major, a woman who wants to surround herself with art that speaks to her soul. Pretty things that make her feel like she’s going to burst.
I know the feeling.
“I’ll take it,” I say, and I can see the approval on Crew’s face with my choice.
“Wonderful. I’ll go write up the bill of sale,” Kirstin says before she turns away and heads for the front of the building.
“Great choice,” Crew says after she’s gone.
“Thank you. I do love it.” I stare at the painting—my painting—my chest growing tighter the longer I look at it. “I don’t know where I’m going to hang it though.”
“At your house?”
“I suppose. I just don’t want it in my parents’ collection. This one is mine.” My gaze finds Crew’s once more. “All mine.”
