Complementary Colors (13 page)

A knock at the door punched me in the side of the head.

“Paris?”

I strangled on my reply. “Yes?”

“You need to hurry up. They’re ready for us.”

I nodded.

“Paris?”

“Just a minute.”

“You need to hurry.”

“I heard you the first time.” Couldn’t she see I was having some technical issues?

“Then get out here.”

I used a paper towel to wipe the crusty residue off my nostrils. I checked my shirt, my hands. I used a little water to clean a spot off my lip.

What a joke. Nothing about me would ever be clean.

I giggled.

“Goddamn it, Paris.”

“I’m coming.” I pulled the handle, but it wouldn’t move.

She knocked again.

“I’m coming just…” The lock. I needed to turn the lock. But which way? I leaned against the wall.

Right? Left? Up? Down?

I rubbed my face.

“Paris, open this door right now.”

The dead bolt wouldn’t turn to the left, so I tried right. It disengaged, and I stepped into the hall.

Nothing in Julia’s expression suggested I looked as yellow and pink as I felt. Either I was doing a really good job of holding all my pigments together or she was too worried about the interview to notice.

“Come on.” She led me to the studio.

Cameras surrounded an elevated stage backdropped in dark blues. Fat chairs with thick arms hugged the cushions in their center.

A woman fussed over a man with white hair and a spray-on tan. She patted his cheek with a sponge, dabbing away excess makeup.

Did mine need touching up? I figured if it did Julia would say something.

I was guided to one of the chairs by a slim blond-haired man. He caught my gaze under half-lidded eyes, and his plump lips curved up.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” I sat.

“Why?” He dropped the mic he was trying to attach to my shirt. It landed in my lap.

“Oops, clumsy me.” The cute blond reached between my legs to retrieve it. Along the way, he brushed his fingers over my cock.

“I wouldn’t do that either.”

He tipped his head. “And what do you plan on doing about it?”

I leaned closer, and he gave me his ear. “How about I put you on your knees and fuck your mouth until you can’t see straight?”

He turned his head. Specks of brown broke up the gray of his eyes. His mint-flavored exhale warmed my cheek. “I’ll look forward to it.”

The overhead lights changed angle, and the glare stabbed me in the temple. Static filled up the room, drowning out the voices.

Microphone boy ran a soft brush over my face. “You okay?”

What was he talking about? “Fine.”

“So about that threat?”

What threat? Knees, face fucking, blond guy with tight lips. I took a business card out of my wallet. “Here. Call me.”

Julia sat in the chair next to me. Glowing red streamers danced around her head.

“What are you looking at?”

“Ribbons.”

“Excuse me?”

“Do I have any?”

“Any what?”

“Ribbons.”

She leaned over. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing.” I bit back a laugh.

“Get your head screwed on straight, Paris.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was crooked.”

“Don’t you dare embarrass me.”

The ribbons tumbled onto the arm of the chair, and I brushed them off. A rich tone sang against my fingertips. I rubbed the fabric to see if I could make it louder.

Julia grabbed my wrist. “Stop that.”

I sank into my chair.

“Sit up, you’ll wrinkle your clothes.”

I sat up.

“How much did you take?”

“You said one line.”

“That doesn’t—”

Two men stepped onto the stage with a covered canvas. They adjusted a couple of hangers on the backdrop. The taller man removed the sheet. Everyone stopped talking, or maybe my heartbeat drowned them out.

Under the stage lights, the colors flowing over the canvas turned garish. The men lifted it up.

“Turn around,” Julia said.

But the only thing I could do was stare while two brutes manhandled a sliver of my soul. A woman wearing headphones directed the men on how to hang the painting.

“You need to tell them it’s upside down,” I said.

Julia shot a smile to someone as they walked by. “Don’t be so melodramatic. No one cares.”

“I care.”

“Turn around, Paris.”

I did.

The staff dropped colored bits all over the floor as they danced between the darkness behind the cameras and the offensive light coating the set.

Our host joined us on the stage. He sat in a chair on the other side of the coffee table positioned between us.

“Paris, this is Mr. Allen Rock.”

His rubber mouth stretched into a toothy smile. “Are you two ready for your interview?”

“Yes, thank you.” Julia flipped her hair back. “I just have to tell you what an honor it is to be on your show.”

I snorted. She probably never even watched it.

“The pleasure is all mine, I assure you.”

I sat forward in my chair, then back.

“Be still.” To Allen, Julia said. “Sorry. Paris has never been on TV before.”

“Well, there’s absolutely no need to be nervous. Just pretend we’re sitting in a coffee shop discussing art over your favorite cappuccino.”

“Vanilla,” I said.

Allen gave me a questioning look.

“My favorite is the vanilla cream mixed with the house blend.”

There was a second of absolute silence, then Allen laughed. “I did say your favorite, didn’t I?”

Julia turned her smile on me. Her mask of civility was perfect, but hell churned behind her eyes.

“We’re about to go on,” Allen said.

“So dear sister, what’s your favorite flavor of coffee?”

A crack appeared in Julia’s expression, and for the first time, fear radiated from her gaze.

I grinned at her.

A faceless voice in the darkness counted down from ten.

“Paris…”

I kept grinning. “Julia…”

Everything went quiet, and we were welcomed to the distinguished program by a theme song and canned applause.

Allen smiled at the camera. “Good morning, America. Today on the Allen Rock Show, we have a very special guest. Hailed as a revolutionary abstract artist, he has become one of the fastest growing names among collectors across the globe. And we at the Allen Rock Show have the privilege of hosting his first televised interview. Will you please join me in welcoming Paris Duvoe and his sister and agent, Julia Duvoe?”

The applause rose and fell on cue. Allen gestured to us with a wave of his hands. “I want you to know how wonderful it is to have you with us today.”

The smile Julia wore turned excruciating. “Thank you.”

“Last month, I was invited to do an opening at the prestigious Killian Gallery.” Allen crossed his legs and tugged on his jacket. “Although it wasn’t my first time attending an art exhibit, I am by no means a connoisseur. But standing in that gallery, between those works, I was completely overcome by the powerful presence radiating from them.” He addressed the camera again. “Now, those who know me will tell you I have never been a fan of abstract art. I guess, like a lot of people, I don’t understand what the artist hopes to accomplish by turning a still life into bizarre shapes.

“But that day in the gallery when I walked by those paintings?” If his smile got any bigger, it was going to run off and leave him. “I didn’t have to understand the picture. I felt it. After that, I had to meet the man who created those works.”

Julia beamed.

I stared at my feet. Still attached. So all was well.

“And now I get the opportunity to introduce him and his genius to the world.” There was another round of fake applause complete with whistles. “Mr. Duvoe—”

“Just Paris.”

Julia patted me on the knee. “Paris isn’t very big on formalities. He wants his people to feel comfortable with approaching him.”

Allen nodded at me. “That’s very thoughtful of you. I’m sure fans appreciate that.”

“Oh, they do. They do.” Julia gave me another pat on my knee, then a short squeeze that might as well have been a verbal threat.

To me, Allen said, “Over the past several years, you have gained popularity as a contemporary abstract artist. Your paintings have earned remarkable bids at auction that are usually reserved for legendary artists long gone, and yet, very little is known about you.”

I picked at a seam in the arm of the chair.

Julia cleared her throat. “Yes, well, Paris is a very private person.”

“And I bet that’s the secret to his success.”

Allen and Julia shared a laugh.

“So, Mr. Duvoe.”

“Paris.”

“Ah, yes, forgive me, Paris. Tell us about yourself.”

I raked my fingernails over the velvety fabric. Happy tones played through the air, and the millions of fibers caressed my fingertips one strand at a time. “What would you like to know?”

“Anything you like.”

“Could you narrow it down please?”

“All right. Why not start by telling our viewers when you began painting.”

“I don’t remember.” I think his shoes were a size or so too big. They looked more like spit-shined barges than expensive leather footwear.

Julia patted my arm. “What he means is, he was too young to remember. You see, Paris has always been the artist in the family. Always painting. Always drawing.”

“Makes sense.”

More sense than Allen did. I’m pretty sure his socks didn’t match. Of course it could have been the light. It was everywhere, running down the chairs, the walls, flowing across the floor.

“Then tell us when you decided to pursue it as a career.”

“I didn’t.”

“You didn’t decide to do this professionally?”

“No.” I rubbed my knees. The fabric of my slacks wasn’t nearly as colorful as the bumpy texture of the chair.

“What changed your mind?”

“Noth—”

“About twelve years ago an art collector saw one of his paintings,” Julia said.

Mr. Rock sat forward in his chair. “So someone discovered you?”

I rubbed my forehead. “Yes.”

“And who was that?”

Julia squeezed my arm. “Richard Nix. He’s passed away now, but he was the first to recognize the genius in Paris’s work.”

I only had faint memories of the man. I’d been so high on Thorazine I’m surprised I could even hold a brush. I think he was at the hospital to visit his brother. Or maybe it was his wife. Could have even been his dog.

I giggled.

Julia tried to laugh, but it fell flat.

Allen swooped in. “How old were you when this happened?”

“Sixteen,” Julia said. “A prominent business man had purchased the painting and put it in his gourmet restaurant in New York.” Julia tossed me a quick glance, dared me to say otherwise. “That’s where Mr. Nix saw Paris’s work.”

“Then would you say that was your beginning?”

“No, that was after,” I said.

“After what?”

The dirt turned black with his blood, and I huddled in the shadows, too afraid to come out.

“After his first showing,” Julia said. “It was small, but there were some known artists there. Both of the works he had on display sold for the highest amount.”

“And how did it make you feel when someone recognized your talent among the ocean of other struggling artists?”

Blues and oranges picked at my brain. A hint of bronze muddied the hue.

“Privileged,” Julia said. “It’s an honor and privilege to have so many esteemed individuals recognize Paris’s talent.”

I rubbed the arms of the chair with both hands and then my slacks. The music from the chair went even better with the light.

“Such humble beginnings for a man the art community has titled as the next step in artistic evolution.”

Is that what they thought of me when they looked at those terrible paintings? If it was, how did something beautiful make them feel? Like the boy who kissed me. The boy whose name I couldn’t remember.

“Mi nombre es…”
The space behind me was empty.

“Paris.” Julia’s grip tightened. “Mr. Rock has a question for you.”

I turned back around. Allen waved a hand at my painting.

“Tell me about the painting you brought with you today?”

“I didn’t bring it.”

Allen tossed Julia a perfect smile, but his eyes were confused.

“Julia brought it. I didn’t want it here, but she never listens to me.”

Rage burned through the ten layers of foundation on Julia’s cheeks.

I shrugged. “But that’s okay. I’m used to it.”

“Well, in my experience, most older sisters are like that.” He laughed. Julia tried, but I don’t think it could get past her gritted teeth. “Will this particular work be available at your next showing?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It isn’t for sale.”

“What Paris means is it’s a very special work that would need a collector who could understand and appreciate its sentimental value.”

“No, I mean it isn’t for sale.”

Allen came alive in his seat. “Really. Now why is that?”

“It’s private.” I sank in my chair.

“So you would never sell it?”

“No.”

“No matter the price?”

“That’s what ‘not for sale’ means.” I traced the ridges of the fabric on the arm of the chair. “What’s this made of?”

“Pardon?”

I tapped the arm. “This. This chair.”

“I’m not sure. Picking out chairs is the job of the prop director.”

To Julia, I said, “We should get a few of these. Our furniture never makes this kind of music.”

Allen laughed, and people behind the cameras joined in.

I laughed too.

Julia didn’t.

Would she kill me now?

“So, your painting.”

“What about it?”

“Would you tell us what you call it and why it’s so special to you?”

He had a better chance of getting me to cut off my dick.

“Paris, tell Mr. Rock the name of the painting.” The darkness in Julia’s glare promised terrible things if I didn’t.

But thanks to the X I’d snorted, I was too full of colored bits to care anymore.

I stared right into the camera and said, “My Vagina.”