Dirty Shots (26 page)

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E
ric had been at his desk for hours now, barely hearing her when she’d tried to speak to him, focusing only on his work. He was surrounded in photograph prints and other sheets of paper, some screwed into balls and scattered across the floor. She’d made him coffee first thing and placed the cup on his desk, but it had sat untouched, until she’d replaced it with another hot drink, which had also gone unnoticed. He’d not eaten any breakfast, and she was starting to worry.

Biting down on her nerves, she approached his desk.

“How are you doing, Eric?”

He didn’t even look at her as he spoke. “The images need to be perfect. I only have a couple of days. If we’re going to prove to everyone—Jonathon Turner, fucking Gavin, and even your father—how wrong they are, I need to make sure I get everything right. I don’t want to give them any reason to tear you down, Anya. I won’t let it happen.”

Cautiously, she touched his bare shoulder. He’d managed to put on a pair of low slung workout pants, but that was all he wore. “I know that. I believe in you.”

“I know you do, but at the end of the day, it won’t be your opinion that matters.”

She tried not to feel stung at his words, biting her lower lip. “It’s past lunchtime,” she said, not wanting to start a fight. “Can I make you something to eat?”

He didn’t answer her, so she went to the kitchen and made him a sandwich anyway. His behavior was starting to worry her. She’d never seen him like this.

She suddenly realized what day it was.

Eric had missed his gym session that morning.

She knew he had a lot to think about, but he’d always said how important his workouts were. Was it just that he was busy, or did she have more to worry about?

Anya finished fixing him a sandwich—pastrami on rye—and took it over to him on a plate.

“Hey, I made you something to eat. I don’t think the photographic world is going to fall apart if you take ten minutes for lunch.”

He nodded to a tiny space on his desk, between all the stacks of paper. “Just leave it there. I’ll get to it in a minute.”

She hesitated. “Please Eric. It’s just ten minutes to eat. You need your strength.”

He snapped at her. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

She took a step back. “Yeah, sorry,” she muttered.

Anya stood, staring at the back of his head and chewing her lower lip. She understood that he needed to work, but he also needed to take a break. He needed a distraction, something to release the tension he’d been holding inside since she’d told him about the newspaper article that morning. She wished she hadn’t told him now.

There was one thing Eric had never been able to resist, and that was her. Even when she’d tried to distract him from his gym session a few days ago, he’d still fucked her before he’d left.

Taking a breath, she rounded the front of his desk. She wore a loose dress which was buttoned down the front. Standing in front of him, she slowly undid each of the buttons.

Eric’s gaze flicked up to her. “What are you doing, Anya?”

She gave a coy shrug. “Nothing. I just suddenly got really, really hot.”

As she said the word ‘hot’ she slipped the dress from her shoulders and allowed it to fall to the floor, so she stood in only her pink lace bra and matching panties.

His eyes went back to his work, and then darted back to her. Sensing she’d finally captured his attention, she reached behind her back and undid the clip of her bra. She shrugged the bra from her shoulders and allowed it to join the dress on the floor.

Tilting her head to one side and smiling at him shyly, she ran her hands over her breasts, cupping them as she massaged herself, pushing her tits together. She pinched her nipples between her fingers, teasing them into hardened points.

“Anya ...” Eric growled a warning.

She swiped her tongue over her lower lip, wetting the plump flesh, and then bit it gently. She was winning! She finally had his attention.

“I told you I was hot.”

One hand left her breast and she slid it down her stomach and beneath the waistband of her panties. Despite the situation, she found she was already swollen and wet, and her finger brushed across the engorged nub of her clit, moving between her pussy lips and into her slippery heat. She took a shuddery breath, her lips parting. Her eyes locked on Eric, wanting to gauge his reaction. All she wanted was for him to throw aside his work and push her over the desk, and fuck her hard. He had suddenly grown distant from her, and she wanted to drag him back again.

Her movement against her clit grew faster, and she felt her legs weaken, the muscles in her stomach tightening. Her breath came harder and faster, her cheeks heating and a flush spreading across her chest.

Eric was watching her, his dark eyes almost angry with lust. She could see his breathing had also deepened and was sure his cock would be erect under his desk. She wanted him so badly.

“Eric,” she gasped. “I need you. I want to feel you inside me.”

To her horror, he jumped to his feet, but didn’t round the desk. Instead, he placed both hands on the surface and glared at her.

“This isn’t a fucking joke, Anya!”

Tears filled her eyes, and she withdrew her hand from her underwear, trying to ignore the scent of her own arousal on the air. Her impending orgasm drifted away like a lost boat at sea.

“I know this isn’t a joke. I’ve given up everything because I love you, Eric, and I believe in you. But I’m also worried about you. You know it’s Wednesday and you haven’t been to the gym. You always go to the gym on those days.”

“Yeah, well, like I said, I’m a bit busy to do anything else right now. I have to get this right, Anya, can’t you see that? They have to be perfect.”

“They are Eric. They already are.”

“No, not yet. There’s always something more that can be done to improve them, and there isn’t enough god-damned time!”

“So let’s just cancel the exhibition. It isn’t worth it. It’s too much pressure on you.”

He slammed his hands down on his desk, the bang making her jump. “No. There is no way I’m canceling now. I will not let them all win. I won’t let the Jonathan Turners and Gavin Hollises and Trent Bergmans of the world think they were right, and that we’re ashamed of what we’ve created. I won’t do it!”

She placed her hand to her mouth and shook her head. “Eric, I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t be. Just let me get on with my work in peace.”

She stared at him, but he’d already turned back to the computer.

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A
nya didn’t have Logan Blanc’s phone number, or know where he lived. All she knew was the address of his art gallery.

When she arrived, she found the place open, with just a few people browsing the latest artist to be featured. The atmosphere was tranquil, reserved, like that of a museum or library. Pushing down her nerves, she looked around for Logan. This was the first time they’d seen each other since the photo shoot, and she felt weird coming here without Eric.

She spotted him, standing beside a massive floor to ceiling painting. He wore a light gray suit, his blond hair pulled back from his face and tied in a short ponytail. He was already talking to someone—a woman, also smartly dressed—but something must have caught his attention because his gaze lifted over the woman’s shoulder and locked with hers. Surprise registered in his green eyes and he gave his chin a slight jerk to acknowledge he’d seen her.

He leaned in and said something to the woman. She nodded, they shook hands, and the woman walked away.

Logan approached Anya with a smile, but also concern in his expression. “Anya, hi. Everything okay?”

Unexpected tears filled her eyes. “I’m sorry, Logan. I shouldn’t have come to the gallery, but I didn’t know where else to find you.”

It suddenly occurred to her that she could have just called the gallery, rather than coming down here. She hadn’t been thinking straight.

He frowned at her tears. “Is it your parents?”

She shook her head. “No, I haven’t even heard from them.”

“It’s Eric, then.” It wasn’t a question.

She nodded. “I’m worried about him. He’s not eating. He’s sitting working for hours on end. He even missed his gym session.”

“Shit.”

“I know it doesn’t sound like a big deal...”

“No,” he interrupted. “I know what he’s like. It is a big deal.”

She bit her lower lip, but she was thankful to have Logan to confide in, even if a tiny part of her felt like she was betraying Eric by speaking to his friend behind his back.

“He keeps talking about perfection, and how he’s going to show everyone. He got really angry with me when I tried to... distract him.” Her cheeks heated with shame at the memory.

Logan reached out and gently touched her arm. “It’s okay. It’s not about you, not really. He has an illness—a mental one. He’ll need to adjust his meds for a short time.” Logan sighed. “The difficulty will be making him see he’s ill again. When he gets like this, he convinces himself he’s just feeling inspired or working hard, and he doesn’t acknowledge it.”

Anya tried not to feel shocked at the idea of the man she loved having a mental illness. She knew a lot of people suffered, and that it wasn’t Eric’s fault. It might even be a part of what made him brilliant.

“Why didn’t he tell me?” she said.

“I guess he was worried he’d scare you off.”

“It would take more than that to scare me off.”

The faintest hint of a smile tweaked the corners of Logan’s lips. “Good.”

“So,” she started, not wanting to say the wrong thing, “what sort of mental illness does he have? I mean, I know he’s suffered from bouts of depression.”

“It’s bipolar disorder. He has periods of highs and lows—highs where he feels like he can take on the world and he won’t sleep, and he’ll go through these obsessive, creative phases—”

“Like he is right now?”

Logan nodded. “And then when he reaches the end of that phase, when he’s so completely exhausted and he can’t cope mentally or physically, he’ll drop into a pit of depression, and not even be able to speak to anyone.”

She put her hand to her mouth. The idea of Eric like that broke her heart. “Oh, my God. Poor Eric.”

“He’s managed to keep it under control for a while now—the meds help, as does the exercise and making sure he gets enough sleep—but the extra pressure of this exhibition must have put him into another spiral.”

She thought of the times they’d been making love all night and working all day. “It’s my fault. I should have given him more space.”

“No, not at all, Anya. You didn’t know. I’m more to blame for making him think running this exhibition so soon was a good idea. I should have known better, but I thought I’d just keep an eye on him and watch out for any signs. I didn’t expect it to hit him so quickly.”

She thought back to the times he hadn’t eaten or slept. She’d assumed it was all to do with her, and their relationship, and the exhibition, but actually it had been a sign he was going into another manic episode.

“So what do we do?” she asked.

“We’ll go and see him. He just needs to increase his medication. He’s been in this place before, and we can level him out again.”

“Thanks so much, Logan. I don’t know what I’d do without you right now. Eric is very lucky to have you, too.”

“Eric’s my best friend,” he said. “I wouldn’t be without him. I’m glad he’s got you, too.”

“When can you come and see him?”

“We’ll go now.”

“Don’t you have work to do?” she asked.

“I have an assistant. She can handle things for a few hours. This is more important than the gallery. Just give me ten minutes.”

Anya nodded. “Sure.”

He left her for the moment, and she wandered slowly around the gallery, her mind only half admiring the latest collection, the other half focused on Eric. It seemed crazy that, after tonight, all of these paintings would be removed, and photographs of her would be replacing them. Nerves churned inside her. Would there even be an exhibition if Eric was ill? They might have to cancel the whole thing.

Strangely, the thought of canceling filled her with disappointment. After all their hard work, and going through such emotional turmoil, to not see this through to the end felt like failure. For the first time, she truly wanted to experience the night of the exhibition. She wanted to be here, at Eric’s side, as people walked around, admiring their photographs. She wanted to learn what people would make of the images—though she knew it wouldn’t all be good. Perhaps some would be shocked, like her father, but she was also certain some people would see the beauty in the photographs.

Eric was a genius at what he did. Even if it wasn’t to everyone’s taste—and truthfully, what art was?—no one could deny he was good at what he did.

A hand touched her elbow, making her jump.

Anya turned to find Logan smiling at her. “Ready to go?”

She nodded.

They left the cool interior of the art gallery and stepped out onto the New York street. Someone was walking in as they headed out, and the person stopped abruptly.

“Anya?”

She blinked in surprise as she took in the sight of the familiar figure. “Dad! What are you doing here?”

Her father’s gaze moved to Logan. “I came to see Mr. Blanc, actually. I hear this farce of an exhibition is still going ahead.”

Logan lifted his chin. “Of course it is, Mr. Bergman. I’m expecting a full house.”

“Not if I’ve got anything to do with it,” her father snapped. “If this gallery shows photographs of my daughter in a couple of day’s time, I will make sure you go out of business.”

Logan laughed. “I’d like to see you try. You’re simply one art critic—one voice among what will be hundreds on Saturday night. I’ve seen the photographs of your daughter, Mr. Bergman, and they are exquisite. People will be talking about Eric Rutherford’s new collection for months to come, and having you complaining about them will be like a whisper in a storm. It won’t surprise me if the collection ends up on tour, and I expect Anya will be fighting off invitations from magazines to be photographed and interviewed.”