Masterpiece (6 page)

This is not good news.

I have
no savings.
I’m out of a job in a matter of weeks.
I have loan repayments and rent due on the first day of each month.

Even if I do get Fleur on board, sell a few paintings that don’t yet exist in advance for a January exhibition, that still leaves … six months’ worth of bills to pay with no income. And I know how hard it is to find a job these days after listening to the complaints of some of my friends.

I try to look on the bright
side. At least she’s
thinking
of signing with me. Which means my dream of owning a gallery isn’t dead. It’s just going to be delayed. I can always wait tables until January (even though I’ve never waitressed). Or work as a temp (even though I can barely type).

I have one talent and this is it.

Shit shit shit.

“Oh, that’s okay,” I say brightly. “
That’ll give us plenty of time to work the buyers into a bidding frenzy.”

I’ll figure something out.

I have to.

Maybe I can find another
artist to exhibit in October. Some genius whose work will
be so good and so original, it’ll sell like goddamn hotcakes and solve all my problems.

Sure.

“Grub’s up,” yells Travis from another room.

I follow Fleur around the corner into a dining room. And I stop dead in my tracks.

Holy shit.

There are three paintings hanging on the walls and each one is lit with a tiny spotlight, so the paintings glow to
their full effect. They’re abs
tract, but you can still make out the striking images: of a charging bull, a galloping horse, a beautiful woman’s face.

“Elle?
Elle
.”

“Oh my god,” I manage to gasp. “Fleur. Are these yours?”

“No.”

“Whose are they?”

“They’re … a local artist’s. Who’s not available, unfortunately. Do you like them?”

I’m stunned into silence again. The paintings are so alive, so colorful and intense it’s almost like they’re moving. Or maybe my head’s just spinning with the possibilities. With the feeling – no, the
certainty
– that the
se are the ones. I need these.

“I have to have this artist,” I say.

I’m able to pull my gaze away from the paintings long enough to look at Travis and Fleur. They’re both looking at me, then at each other, with this indecisive expression, like they’re grappling with a dilemma.

“Please,” I say. “Please tell me who painted these. They’re in
credible. They’re
so
unique
. It’s such a difficult thing to do … to be completely free of comparison. I can’t even see it: who are this artist’s influences? Definitely not art-school taught, that’s obvious.
Ther
e’s nothing here except pure originality.”

Fleur and Travis share another meaningful glance, then Fleur says. “What are you doing tomorrow, Elle?”

“I … I’m not sure. Why?”

“Tomorrow’s the third and last day of the Bozeman Rodeo. I think you should come with us to watch the show.”

Chapter Seven

“
No
,” I say again. “How many fucking times do I have to say it, Fleur?” Then I instantly feel like shit. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to swear at you. I meant to swear at him.” I glare at Travis. Travis smiles but I don’t smile back. The crowd is roaring, the sun is hotter than hell and there’s dust in my eyes
.
I can barely make out a flock of girls standing nearby, tittering and waving at me.

“Jesus,” I say, pulling on my leather gloves
. “Your timing sucks. I’m getting ready to ride an angry two-ton bull. I’d appreciate it if you
two wouldn’t talk
about this right now.” Some shit about New York and some fucking art gallery.
I really couldn’t care less.

Besides, I need to concentrate. I easily rode the full eight seconds yesterday and the day before that
. But the taste of victory wasn’t quite as sweet as I remember it.
I’m not even sure I
want
to ride today, which is a completely new feeling. I
always
wanted to ride. Before.

“Later, then,” insists Fleur. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

I glare at Fleur. “I’m busy later.”

“Come on, Max. I think you’ll want to hear this.”

“Sorry, sweetheart. No can do. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a bull to ride.”

“I just want to introduce you to someone.” Fleur can be irritatingly stubborn sometimes.
“Max, this is Elle.”

I notice her then, standing n
ear Fleur and Travis.
She’s as tall as Fleur, and curvy but slim. Her hair is tied
up in a tight little knot. It’
s dark but catches sunlight in hints of red and gold.
Her olive skin is so flawless she almost doesn’t look real.
She’s wearing black-framed glasses like the ones you see in movies about city people trying to look trendy. Her clothes, too, make it obvious she’s not from around here. She looks so out of her element it’s almost comical. But she’s cute, in an uptight kind of way. Like one of those hot librarians who, if you locked her behind closed doors and stripped her of her clothes and her prim pretences, she’d morph into a sex-crazed wildcat.

The thought gives me an instant, raging hard-on.

Fuck.

This is
not
what I need right now.

I don’t bother exchanging niceties with the little librarian.

I storm away, and climb up the fence to take my place as the headline act of the show.
As usual, fucking Jimmy Hogan’
s non-stop commentary splices straight through the middle of my concentration.

Can he continue his winning streak, ladies and gentlemen, or will Max Cash reacquaint himself with the hard ground and the crushing agony of defeat? Today he rides King Tut, the wily beast who unseated him all those terrible months ago!

Shit. I didn’t even realize
that
was the bull
I’d be riding today. The
same fucking one that almost killed me.

He’s got to be feeling the nerves today, folks. He looks calm but underneath that stoic exterior his heart must be racing.

It is.

But there’s nothing else to do but ride the hell out of this
fucker. I can’t walk away. I
want
to walk away but I won’t. I’ll face my challenge and win.

Or I’ll die trying.

I have a feeling that, this time, it’s one or the other.

“You got this,” Jack says.

“Easy as pie,” Beau says.

Sure. Easy as pie.

I climb onto the bull and something strange happens. I start picturing my parents. Certain snapshot-like moments from my childhood. Christmas when I was seven and got a BB gun.
Swimming in the river, diving
for gold nuggets that always turned out to be stones. But we didn’t care. They might as well have been gold nuggets for all the fun they gave us.

My life is literally flashing before my eyes.

Maybe this is it.

Maybe this is where I meet my maker.

I guess I’ll never find out if the little librarian is a wildcat or not, I find myself thinking.

I climb
onto King Tut.

This is it, ladies and gentlemen. The ultimate show-down.

I feel surprisingly calm.

“Ready, Max?”

I grip the rope tight.
“Ready.”

The gate swings open and the bull bolts forward, leaping and twisting before he
even hits the ground. I almost lose my grip, but somehow I hang on.
Fucking hell, this one’s a maniac.
The bull surges left with a quick jerk to the right and I’m fucking flying but still on. Still
gripping with my legs and
holding that rope with everything I’ve got.

Five seconds.

King Tut bucks and writhes. Everything about his moves are unpredictable so I don’t try to predict
anything. I just
hold on tight and pray for dear life.

Seven seconds.

Another twist and another buck. This time he does a comple
te 180 in mid-air. I’m
not expecting this
and I feel my grip break. I feel the air between me and the bull and there’s a lot of it. Then, as if in slow motion, I see the ground rush towards me and it knocks the wind out of me and makes my ribs sear with pain but somehow I roll away.

Just in time.

His hooves land inches from my head.

I can hear the horns of the clowns as they run into the ring to distract the bull and drive him back towards the pen.

I stand up, shaken.

I’m alive.

I can barely hear what Hogan’s saying through the noise
of the crowd. T
hey’re waving their flags and cheering.

He’s
done it! Eight point zero
two five
seconds! Mad Max triumphs over King Tut but not without a painful reminder of exactly why this bull holds the record for unseating more riders than any other
in Montana …

Holy fuck.

I stagger to the side of the ring and my brothers pull me out.

“You all right, Max?” Beau’s saying and his face is bleached with worry.
“I thought we’d lost you
, man.”

“Jesus Christ, bro,” Jack says. “That was some fucking ride.”

Someone hands me some whiskey and I take a drink. Someone else puts my hat back on.

I need to get the fuck out of here.

“I’m going home for a while,” I say.

“You want me to drive you?” Beau says.

“No, I’m okay.”

I leave them and push past the media who fire questions at me
.
I don’t answer.
I find my pick-up and peel out until there’s nothing but a cloud of dust in my rear-view mirror.

When I get back to my house I take a beer from my fridge and grab the bottle of Jack Daniels and sit outside for a while, savoring the peace and the quiet.

I have this feeling I won’t be riding bulls anymore.
Maybe not ever again.

My phone vibrates in my pocket.

I pull it out
and look at the screen. Fleur
.

“Hey.”

“Max, are you okay?”

“Yeah, fine.”

“That fall looked like it hurt.”

“It would’ve if he’d landed two inches to the left.”

“Max, you left before I could talk to you. I’m sorry, I know this probably isn’t the best time to talk about this but it’s about your paintings –”

I’m seriously
not in the mood for this.
“Sweetheart, I love you like a sister. Always have.
But if you don’t drop all this art shit I’m going to drive over to your house
, take those paintings I gave you and burn them right there in your barbecue pit. Then I’m
going to drive back over here and burn all the ones I have here in the biggest bonfire Montana’s ever seen. You might even be able to see the smoke from all the way over there. Let’s make a party out of it, in fact. You and Travis are welcome to join me while I chug the hell out of this bottle of Jack until I’m passed out on the floor. Then you’ll have nothing to hound me about and you can get on with your life.”
      
“Max
.
Please.
Something’s come up
that I
really
think you’ll want to hear about. Seriously. I wouldn’t bother you with it if I didn’t think it was worth your time.”

I take another drink.

“Max?”

“So go ahead.”

“You’ll wait until I’ve said everything before you react?”

“I can’t promise that, no.”

“Max.”

“I’m gonna hang up if you don’t start telling me what you insisted on calling me about.”

So she starts blurting it out real fast.
“Her name’s Elle Parker. She’s from New York. She’s on her way over to your house and – I swear – Travis had absolutely nothing to do with this. It was all me. I just thought it was such an incredible opportunity and no one here even has to know.
No one in New York knows who you are. I mean, the
money
, Max – she totally knows her stuff and she –”

“She’s on her way over to my
house
?”

“Please don’t be mad at me. I know we were sworn to secrecy but this offer is too damn good to refuse.
Please just listen to what she has to say.
”

I can feel my patience starting to fray at the edges.
“Being sworn to secrecy means you don’t
tell
anyone
, sweetheart.
That’s what a secret is.”

“
I know. I’m sorry,
Max, but she’s so incredibly persistent
.
And totally
obsessed
with your art.
She saw the paintings
at my house and she just about died. She
couldn’t stop talking about what a genius you are. She owns her own gallery, Max. Or she will soon.
And she’s some kind of expert. S
he says she can probably get you a hundred thousand each
, Max.
A hundred thousand dollars. Each!
Think about what you could do with that kind of money. You could quit rodeo, if you wanted to
. Like today. You wouldn’t have to put your life on the line anymore just to earn a crust –”