Dirty Shots (21 page)

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“I knew what his reaction was going to be the first time, but I didn’t trust my instincts. I let myself and everyone else convince me it was going to be okay, and that he might surprise me. But deep down, I knew that wasn’t going to be the case. I think the same thing now.”

“The thing is, Anya, this isn’t just about you. He’s going to try to ruin the exhibition, assuming it goes ahead at all.”

Anya nodded. “I know he will. He won’t take this lying down.”

“So I have to go talk to him,” he insisted. “What hotel are your parents staying at?”

She named a five star hotel not far from where they’d attempted their meal the previous night.

“Okay, I’ll go and talk to him today.”

For once Anya didn’t argue with him.

He set about clearing away the dishes. Anya sat silently, but she was sad and worried, not sulking. He wanted so badly to make her feel better, and the only way he could do so was by making her father see sense.

He kissed her on the head. “I’m going to get dressed. You hang out here until I get back, okay? Make yourself at home.”

“Shouldn’t I come with you?”

“Maybe it would be best for us to be able to talk man to man. It’ll be harder for him to be objective if you’re with me.”

She pressed her lips together and nodded. “Okay, Eric.”

He reached out and touched beneath her chin, lifting her eyes to his. “I know this is hard for you right now, but it will work out in the end. I promise.”

He hoped it was a promise he’d be able to keep.

––––––––

E
ric couldn’t be bothered to
drive, so he took a cab downtown. He fought against his nerves as he watched the city go by from the back seat. He would talk to Anya’s father, Trent Bergman, man to man. He was Eric Rutherford, a successful artist in his own right, and even if he’d grown to fear art critics to a certain degree, he refused to let himself be afraid of this particular one.

The ringing of his cell from his pocket startled him from his thoughts. Though he’d just left her, his thoughts immediately jumped to Anya, but when he checked his caller display, the name ‘Logan Blanc’ glared out at him.

His heart sank. Logan. What the hell was he going to tell him? That the exhibition might be off? No, Anya hadn’t said anything about canceling, and he didn’t intend on putting words in her mouth. For the moment, he would simply have to stall and hope that his conversation with her father ended better than the last one had.

He pressed the green button to answer. “Logan, hey.”

“Hey, man. I hadn’t heard anything from you, so figured I’d better touch base. Everything okay on your end?”

He hesitated. Part of him wanted to have someone to offload onto, but he forced himself to keep Anya’s life private. “Yeah, everything’s fine here. How are the arrangements for the exhibition?”

“All good. I’ve sent out the private invitations already. I sent you one. Did you get it?”

Eric confirmed he had.

“So ninety percent of the invitations I sent out have already confirmed, and I suspect the few I haven’t heard from will be confirming in the next few days. And the phone has been ringing off the hook with people I haven’t invited hearing about the great Eric Rutherford smashing back onto the scene with an edgy project in a brand new direction,”

Eric interrupted. “Those sound like words you’ve put into their heads.”

Logan laughed. “Yeah, I might have been dropping a few press releases around mentioning those things.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Logan was known for his ability to get people talking as much as he was for selling art. The idea of the exhibition popping up in the local papers made his heart sink, though. While he knew the papers wouldn’t have any of his photographs, he could just imagine Anya’s father reading about it and blowing a fuse.

“Hey, I know my business,” Logan continued. “So when do you think you’ll have the pieces ready? I’d like them in the studio the night before the exhibition.”

Eric sighed. He was cutting things fine, but then he’d known that when he agreed to Logan’s date. He’d have to spend much of the next week working, even though he’d been trying to wean himself away from his work. “I’ll get it done, Logan. You know I will.”

“Yeah, just don’t go falling down the rabbit hole again.”

“I won’t.” Logan had been there to witness firsthand the mess Eric had been in the last time he’d allowed the obsessive dark thoughts to take over. He couldn’t explain it, how the fog descended on him, blocking off the outside world. He always felt that when he was speaking with Logan, the other man was cautious and careful, trying to assess him for any signs that Eric might be losing it again.

Logan paused, but he could sense he wanted to say something else. “So ... how’s that lovely model of yours?”

“Anya?”

“Yeah, of course, Anya.”

“She’s great.”

“No problems with the concerns she’d had then?”

Eric didn’t want to let Logan in on Anya’s problems with her father. He’d let Logan know only when a time came when he had no other choice than to tell him.

“Anya’s fine.”

“Did she speak to her parents?”

Eric hesitated, not wanting to lie directly to Logan, while unable to tell him the full truth. “She told her mom, and Saara Bergman was surprisingly okay about the whole thing.”

“That’s great. And if you ever want to set up that photo shoot we discussed, you know where I am.”

“Thanks, Logan. I appreciate that. The idea has played on my mind. It would be an amazing shoot. But I would need to discuss it properly with Anya first. It’s something she would need to be fully into.”

“Yeah, of course. I wouldn’t expect anything else.” Logan hesitated and then said, “Well, stay in touch, buddy.”

And he hung up.

Eric lowered his cell. The driver had already pulled up outside the hotel where Mr. and Mrs. Bergman were staying. He fought down his nerves. He had every right to be here, to challenge her father. The man had hit him, for God’s sake. He should be the one wanting to apologize to Eric.

But deep down Eric knew there was no chance of such a thing happening. Anya’s father might even refuse to see him.

He smoothed down his shirt and squared back his shoulders, lifting his chin. If he went in there cowed, he’d as good as already lost the argument.

Eric approached the desk. A pretty young woman saw him coming and flashed him her brightest smile. “Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?”

“I need you to call up to Mr. and Mrs. Bergman’s room, and let them know Eric Rutherford is in the lobby waiting for Mr. Bergman.”

“Are they expecting you?”

“No, but he’ll want to know I’m here.”

She placed the internal call, and gave him an awkward smile while they both waited. The time stretched on too long. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said eventually. “He doesn’t appear to be in.”

Eric kicked himself mentally. Of course there was a good possibility he wasn’t even in the hotel room. New York was a big city. Eric should have gotten Anya to call ahead to check where her parents were, but he’d not wanted to put her through any more altercations with her father. Never mind. If he wasn’t in, Eric would simply wait until he returned. And he would return. Trent Bergman wouldn’t leave this city, not until he’d torn Eric and Anya’s work to pieces.

“No problem,” he said to the receptionist. “I’ll wait in the lobby.”

“Of course. The bar is right across there if you’d like any refreshments.”

He didn’t trust himself with alcohol, so he ordered a coffee, keeping his eye on the lobby at all times. He sat, sipping his drink, watching and waiting for the Bergmans’ return to the hotel.

Finally, a tall figure with white blond hair, and a smaller blonde at his side, strolled through the lobby.

Eric leaped to his feet and rushed out. “Mr. Bergman?”

Trent turned at his name, caught sight of Eric standing there, and scowled. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I came to talk about your daughter.”

Anya’s mother nodded at her husband, pushing him encouragingly toward Eric. At least they had her on their side.

“Can I buy you a coffee?” Eric offered, trying to be civil.

“I don’t want anything from you.”

“Very well. Let me ask for something from you. Just five minutes of your time. Surely your daughter is worth that much to you?”

Trent’s face began to turn puce, but Saara stepped in. “If you won’t talk to him for Anya, do it for me,” she told her husband. “Unless you want to lose a wife as well as a daughter?”

Trent scowled at her, but said, “Fine.”

He stalked into the bar where Eric had been sitting, and flagged the waiter before ordering a scotch. He didn’t make any effort to ask Eric if he wanted anything—not that Eric cared.

Trent flung himself into a chair and sat forward, his elbows rested on his knees, his fingers laced together. “Let’s get this over with.”

“I’m here for Anya,” Eric said. “I love your daughter, Mr. Bergman, and I wouldn’t do anything to cause her harm.” He experienced a momentary stab of guilt as he remembered fucking her above shards of broken glass. “Once more, I want to offer you the chance to come and view the photographs before they go on display, so you are at least prepared for the exhibition and the reports that will follow.” Eric risked half a smile. “You never know, you might even be surprised.”

“Surprised is the last thing I want to be. I don’t even want to think about what you’ve made my little girl do, never mind see them! The only reason Anya is doing this is because she is in love with you. If she didn’t care for you, she would never show off her body in such a way.”

“You’re wrong. Anya is an artist. She knows exactly what she is doing.”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you saying you know my daughter better than I do? How long have you known her for, exactly? A couple of weeks?”

“I’m saying there might be parts of your daughter you don’t know as well as you think you do.”

He snorted. “I think you want to make sure the entire city knows my daughter’s parts.”

“It’s art,” Eric snapped, starting to feel like a broken record.

“If you continue with this exhibition, I will make sure you never work again. I’ll let everyone know that you pressured my daughter into taking these explicit photos. I’ll go to every paper, every art magazine and online review site. I won’t let this rest,
Mr. Rutherford
.”

Eric shook his head in dismay. “You’re supposed to be an art critic. Is there no way you can look at this objectively? Come and support Anya and see the pictures and how beautiful she is. Appreciate the art she’s been a part of creating.”

“I’ll die before that happens.” He pointed a finger at Eric. “And let me remind you that Anya is my daughter. I have raised her for twenty-two years, and if you think you can strut in here as if you’re something important in her life, you’re going to get a hell of a shock when she comes to her senses, turns around, and tells you you’re no longer able to exploit her body.”

Eric clenched his fists and spoke in a low, measured tone. “Anya is in love with me, Mr. Bergman. Do you remember what that is like, to be so utterly in love with someone you will literally do anything if it means being with that person? You will lose her if you continue to treat her this way. You can emotionally blackmail her as much as you want, but she wants to do the exhibition.”

“No. You’ve made her think she does, that’s all. She’ll realize what a huge mistake she’s making and come back to her family.”

Eric shook his head. “If you make her choose between you and me, you will lose.”

Trent Bergman picked up the shot of whisky he’d ordered and drained the glass. “We’ll see about that, Mr. Rutherford. When you’re alone and your career is lying in tatters at your feet, we’ll see who ends up as the loser.”

He slammed the glass back onto the table, got to his feet, and stormed from the bar.

Eric let out a sigh and ran his hand through his hair, sinking back into his seat.

Anya had been right about him not speaking to her father. He had a feeling he had just made things one hundred times worse.

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A
nya wandered from one part
of Eric’s apartment to the other, unable to figure out what to do with herself. She tried to watch Eric’s tastefully small flat screen, but everything on television felt fake and irritating.

She lay back down on his bed, but couldn’t get back to sleep, despite not having slept almost the whole previous night. Her mind kept turning over the argument with her father and what she was going to do.

In the end, she found herself sitting on his couch, chewing at her thumbnail while she stared out of Eric’s beautiful floor to ceiling windows which looked out onto the skyline of New York. As each moment passed, she imagined where Eric was and if he’d approached her father yet. She wanted to feel confident in Eric’s proposal to set her father straight, but he barely knew her father, whereas she’d known him her whole life. She should have trusted her own instincts before telling her father the truth, but she’d allowed herself to be persuaded. She couldn’t help feeling like she was also allowing history to repeat itself by letting Eric try to talk to him ‘man to man.’

The door buzzed and she sat up straight, turning toward the sound. No one could get up here without her buzzing the person in, unless someone else let them into the building. This was a possibility—it was something she’d done herself.

The door buzzed again. Could it be Eric? Had he taken a key? She couldn’t say for sure.

Her stomach churning, she got to her feet and headed over to the door. She reached out and pressed the button for the intercom. “Hello?”

A male voice came back. “Oh, hi. My name’s Jonathan Turner. I’m here from the arts department of the New York Journal. I have an appointment with Mr. Rutherford.”

Oh, damn. Eric must have forgotten.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Turner. Eric—I mean Mr. Rutherford—isn’t here right now. You may have to call him to reschedule.”