Masterpiece (2 page)

I can sense him even though I can’t see him.

I
want
to see him.

I walk closer to where he is. Into
the shadows. The darkness grows thicker and I like
this. I like that I’m
drawing away from them. Closer to
him
. I want to be
alone with him. And there he i
s: a shaded silhouette. A perfect one. He’s sitting on a wooden bench, leaning against a wall. I can tell that he’s tall, that his legs are long and his shoulders wide and solid. That he’s moody and maybe even dangerous. It’s a seductive danger, and one that will bring far more pleasure than pain, somehow I know this. He’s wearing a cowboy hat that obscures his face but I can see that his hair is dark, and long enough so that the strands of it flick out from under his hat, which looks worn. Like he might use
that hat for real. Like it’s
seen sun and rain and sweat.

The thought of his sweat affects me like a pleasure-drug. My skin feels tingly. I can
feel my pulse between my legs. Growing stronger. Throbbing and
swelling, making me wet.
A ravenous
need rages in me like a wild thing. He knows I’m here, I can feel this. He hasn’t looked up yet and I want him to. I want him to see me and I realize then that I’m
naked.
I don’t mind this. I don’t mind that my most intimate places are exposed for him. I’m
relieved
, in fact, that my breasts a
re bare. My nipples
ache in the hot night.

I take a step closer and stop
. One more step and I might be able
reach out to touch him. I can feel the heat of him. It radiates into me, feeding the pulse that opens me and makes me wetter than I’ve ever been. I can
feel the slippery desire of my own body. Overwhelming me.

He looks
up. Slowly.

His face is cloudy, somehow, yet more beautiful than I ever imagined. His neck is corded and tanned, and his chest is built and strong-looking un
der his shirt. His
large hands rest on his powerful thighs. He wears faded jeans and well-worn cowboy boots.

His eyes caress me as his gaze paints
my body with heat. “Come closer,” he say
s, and his voice is so deep, so dark, it touches
me like a physical force.
There.
I’m so
close
.
To his mouth.
I can feel the pleasure rushes waiting there, ready to overflow at the lightest touch.

I would do
anything
that voice asked me to do. Anything. I obey him, stepping closer, standing in front of him like an offering. My feet are slightly apart and I’m fully revealed
to him.
My pussy feels like it’s been dipped in warm, sweet honey
.
Needy and hot.

He breathes me in. And then, slowly, he leans closer.

Closer.

I can feel his bre
ath.

His tongue licks me.

The swell is excruciatingly
beautiful, consuming me. I co
me in violent, whole-body surges. I moan
from the magnitude of pleasure.

My own cries wake me and I find myself twisted in my sheets, sweat-soaked and gasping.

There are tears on my cheeks from the power of it. And the loss.

He was only a dream.

“What do you want first: the good news or the bad?”

I can feel what my boss is about to say before he even bothers emitting the words. I stare warily at my employer, whose name suddenly seems
more than a little ironic.
Powers. His actual name is Archibald Powers. I only know this from the occasional governmental or official-looking piece of mail that comes
to the gallery. Powers
prefers to think of himself as a one-name entity, like Rihanna or Jay-Z, which is ridiculous, but whatever; I have to humor him, since he’s in control of my paycheck.

“The good, I guess,” I say.

I’m in a surly mood this morning.
My dreams were especially vivid, starring …
cowboys
, of all things. I can only blame it on a series of erotic romances I’ve developed a secret addiction for.
Those rugged, fictional heroe
s with their big cocks and bad attitudes are just so wildly entertaining
.
I’ve been reading late into the night lately, so I haven’t been getting
enough sleep.

Last night, my dream was so intense I feel quivery just thinking about it. I woke up tangled in my sheets, soaked in sweat and infused with a lingering sensual bliss that left me, even now, awed.
I’d never been so disappointed to wake up before in my life. To have a dream end
.
And now, finding myself back in the daily grind of reality, I wish I could bask in the glow of my orgasmic memories without interruptions.

But Powers will have none of it.

“Elle, we’re sending you to the Fleur Jensen exhibition. In Bozeman,” Powers says. This causes
me to do a double-take. Had
I heard him correctly?
“Wherever
Bozeman is.
I’ve got to get ready for the Ransom show and I need Astrid here to help me. Her eye is impeccable.”
And I have an all-access pass to her pussy, too, which means she ain’t goin’ no place no how
, I imagine
him imaginarily imagining. Jerk
.

I know what he’s referring to, of course: Rain Ransom is the hottest new artist of the season and we’d somehow managed to secure her for a solo exhibition at the small gallery I work at and which Powers owns. Astrid and I are both assistant curators, both twenty-three
.
The difference between Astrid’s lowly status and mine is that Astrid happens to be getting down and dirty with the boss. A detail I do not envy her for, even if she does get to help set up the Ransom show, which will no doubt be spectacular.
Powers
is thirty-nine and divorced. He works out but can never quite rid himself of the paunch that takes the edge off a handsomeness which probably peaked around ten years ago.

“Bozeman?” I say, a ripple of something I can’t identify swirling through me.
“
Isn’t that in Montana?”

“Somewhere like that. Or Idaho. I can never keep those two straight.
Normally I’d go myself but I’
m obviously too busy right now. And you’ll need to leave tomorrow. You can pick up the tickets at the travel agent now, then take the rest of the day of
f so you can go home and pack.”

Pack? Montana?

Powers is still talking.
“What I want you to do is sign Fleur Jensen for the November exhibition.
She’
s had some big sales lately and her trajectory is impressive.
Do you think you’re up to it?”

Powers is a condescending asshole, but I feel an urge right then to give him a big hug. Yesterday I would have complained about an assignment that’ll see me venturing further afield than I had any desire to go. I was a New Yorker through and through. So were most New Yorkers I
knew, come to think of it. New York
City is the center of the universe and there really isn’t much point going anywhere else, i
s the general consensus in these parts. Why leave when everything that’s interesting
and happening and cutting-edge and relevant is right here on our dirty doorstep?

Today, I have an entirely different reaction.

There are cowboys in Montana.

Aren’t there?

Of course it’s idiotic to get even mildly excited about this. Now that I think about it, I’d read an article about Bozeman once, saying it was one of the wealthiest towns in the west. It’s probably full of turtleneck-wearing yuppies who drive Range Rovers that never get muddy. Maybe cowboys have all been phased out by now. Maybe they only exist in Brad Pitt movies and erotica novels.
Even so, my
mood has taken a decidedly upbeat turn.

“Sure,” I
say. Then I remember
my boss isn’t finished doling out life-changing pronouncements, and I have a feeling I know what he’s about to say.
“What’s the bad news?”

“Well … I’m sure you realize your contract expires at the end of the month
…” H
e looks almost genuinely remorseful for a milli-second, but then it’s gone
.
“S
orry, Elle, but we won’t be renewing it.”
We.
Him and Astrid, I
can
only assume. “
Our turnover is still down and I can’t afford to keep both of you on.”

I glance at Astrid
.
She has shiny blond hair she wears short, like a seventies bowl cut. Styled, it looks hip and modern but now, tousled from a recent romp with Powers, possibly, it looks weird.
Her round, brown eyes are
apologetic.
We’re friends and I like
her.
We’ve worked together for two years and we’re close, as these things go
. Occasionally we
go for drinks after work, on the Friday nights when Powers i
s busy.
I can hardly blame her for using her feminine wiles to keep her job.

Powers is still talking, to the wall, where he adjusts
a hook.
“If you sign Fleur, I
might
be able to keep you on through October. But after that, I can’t guarantee anything.”

This is exceptionally bad news. I have gargantuan student loans to repay and can barely afford the small room I rent in Brooklyn, the tiny back basement of a brownstone, where the subway rumbles through the wall at ten-mi
nute intervals, day and night.
I rent the room from a friend named Sabine, whose parents gifted the two-story apartment and its ginormous mortgage to her when they decided to move back to their homeland: New Jersey
. Sabine
works two jobs and is putting herself through a
degree in film studies. She
eats ramen for dinner and sighs when the electricity bill arrives, stacking it with all the other bills in a little wicker basket on top of the fridge.
In other words,
she doesn’t have the resources to float a loan and/or let me stay rent-free.

I need another job.
P
ronto.

Maybe the ranches in Montana are hiring
.

Sure. And maybe a phantom cowboy will sweep me off my feet and take me for a ride on his black stallion
.
He’ll tip his hat back to finally reveal that rugged, flawless face.

Come closer.

Powers interrupts my mini-
joyride. “I told the travel agent
down at the corner to expect you
.
Your flights, hotel and rental car have already been booked. It won’t be overly deluxe, unfortunately.
A Super 8 or some such, I’ve told her.
It’s hard enough stretching the budget to cover the costs at all.
Y
ou’ll be picking up your rental car at the airport. Economy class.
Rent-a-Wreck, to be exact.
I wouldn’t have bothered with it if it wasn’t completely necessary but apparently Montana is …” Powers pauses, taking a step back to assess the alignment of the hook he’s hanging.

“Big?” I venture.

“Yes,” Powers says, d
ismissively. Something
occurs to him and he glances briefly in my
direction. “You can drive, right?”

“Uh … yes, I do have a license.”
I’ve
only driven a couple of times and there’s no need to tell him about the last time I drove. That small fender bender I got into (actually it wasn’t that small but no one was hurt, which is the main thing).

“And if you can’t get Fleur to sign, well, I’m afraid I won’t be able to pay you past the end of the month.”

“I’ll get her to sign,” I hear myself reply. It’s the first day of August. If I can secure Fleur for October, that’ll give me three
more months of employment. Plenty of time
to find something else to pay my bills.

“I’ve left your ticket open-ended for now,” Powers continues. “You can book the return flight as soon as you get Fleur to sign, which could take a few days. Apparently she’s
already refused two New York offers. She’s holding out for the big time, since she knows she’s
got the street appeal.”

“I’ll pin her down,” I say. I feel pretty confident I can get the job done. I can be convincing when I put my mind to it.

“You’re going to make her an offer she can’t refuse,” Powers says.
“And if she does refuse, you’re going to be persistent.
You’re not going to take no for an answer.”

“Right,” I say.

I
have
to get the job done. Spending winter in a cardboard box does
not
sound like fun.

Maybe a little jaunt to the outer reaches of the Wild West is exactly what I need, cowboy or no cowbo
y. Maybe Big Sky country will
kick-start my life into new and fabulous directions.

And maybe my dream was some weird, random premonition. Like I’d become a seductive psychic whose
stars were suddenly aligned or something.
I laugh this off but at the same time, in some defiant little recess of my mind, I decide to go with it. An unfamiliar thread of optimism and excitement colors my outlook in a way that makes
the humid, overcast day seem brighter. Sultry and thick with possibility.
Like the dream.