So Damn Beautiful (A New Adult Romance) (11 page)

As I drifted off, the last image in my mind
was of Chase’s green eyes, as tortured and intensely beautiful as a
storm-tossed sea.

I did what
any girl in my position would do. The next day, I swallowed my
pride, and set out to find Chase to see if he might be willing to
help me. I dreaded what I imagined would be the look of smug
satisfaction on his face at the discovery that I needed him for
something, but I was desperate. If I was going to come up with an
artist who was willing to be commissioned for a massive piece to be
made in just a little over a month, I would require a bevy of
names, which I didn’t currently have. And because I knew that
notoriety on the streets was gained through word of mouth, rather
than through whose website got the most hits, the bird’s-eye view
didn’t quite work here. I needed to swoop in and find the
insiders.

That morning, I’d approached Kendra to get
the scoop on Chase, since she’d known who he was and where to find
him the first time we’d met. But I tried to play it cool; the last
thing I needed was Kendra scolding me about pursuing bad boys like
Chase or, worse yet, grilling me for minor details—like whether or
not he had any cute artist friends.

“Ken, remember that place we saw Chase Adams
a couple weeks ago?”

“Mmm-hmm,” she mumbled absentmindedly as she
lay belly-down on her bed, ankles crossed in the air, thumbing
through a fashion magazine.

“What do you know about . . . how often
street artists gather to make work in that area? I mean, is it,
like, a regular thing?”

She looked up at me suspiciously. “Why?
You’re not going by there, are you? Because if you do and you see
that asshole, you should totally hand him a bill for that dress he
ruined. That was Carolina Herrera, not Forever 21!”

I smiled at my friend’s priorities.
“
And
I got it secondhand, so it’s no biggie. Also, I’m not
planning on running into Chase Adams anytime soon.” I felt a little
bad lying to my best friend, but what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt
her. “I just wanted to see if I could check out more work is
all.”

Kendra studied me for a long moment, and for
a second, I thought she saw through my flimsy cover. “You live in
the craziest city in the world, Annie. I’m sure that if you wanted
to, you could find a street artist on pretty much every
corner.”

I groaned. “Oh, it’s no use, Kendra. I feel
like a total failure. I don’t know the first thing about what I’m
doing, where to go, who to talk to. I should just give up right
now, because there’s no way I’ll be able to find an artist to
commission in time for the meeting next week. Game over! Annie,
zero.”

Kendra tossed her magazine aside and propped
her head in her hands, looking at me with concern. “Annie, you’re a
bright girl. Don’t even start talking that way, because it’s won’t
lead to anything good. Buck up, kiddo! You’ll find the perfect
artist for this project—I just know it.”

It was nice that my mom and my best friend
had faith in me, but it wasn’t enough. “I don’t know,” I said. “The
clock is ticking.”

“Well, if it helps any, there’s some kind of
street-art team that gathers in that area of the Meatpacking
District most days of the week, so you should be in luck,” Kendra
said, retrieving her magazine to show me. “Art’s hot right now,
especially since Quentin Pierce is in town. And I may not be
working with all that boring shit you guys on the committee are
doing, but believe you me, I’m definitely honing my PR skills by
making sure I stay very 2014 about the scene.”

“But it’s 2013.”

“Exactly.”

I smiled as she went back to her magazine.
“Seriously, Kendra, I’m not sure what I’d do without you.”

“Well, if you wanna thank me, bring home some
Pinkberry tonight, yeah?”

“Will do.” I grabbed my coat and headed for
the door.

“And, Annie?”

I turned around to see Kendra with an impish
grin on her face.

“Yes?”

“Say hi to the asshole for me.” She ducked
under her magazine before I could throw a pillow at her.

“I’m
not
going to see Chase
Adams!”

“Just sayin’!”

I decided to let her comment pass and headed
out. As it turned out, Kendra was right. There was some kind of
weekly tag-team effort of street artists who gathered to paint
murals in dank and smelly alleyways, make permanent chalk drawings
on sidewalks, and snazz up street lamps with interesting potpourri.
There were a few video cameras there as well, but it looked more
like MFA film students shooting a documentary than some local TV
station.

I looked around at the small handful of
people, mainly somber-looking guys with sweaty T-shirts and intent
expressions, all of whom were painting. A boom box on the ground
was blasting early-’90s rap music. While a few onlookers stopped to
marvel at the creations, the area was relatively devoid of
tourists. This was the kind of stuff that would cause a public
spectacle back in Apple Creek, but I guess it just went with the
territory in New York City.

I looked around to see if Chase was in sight.
I guess I could have talked to any one of the guys painting the
walls and sidewalks, but they seemed pretty fixated on what they
were doing. And while Chase wasn’t the most approachable guy in the
world, many of the ones here seemed even less friendly. In fact, a
fellow who was busy embellishing his version of the puffy
Marshmallow Man from
Ghostbusters
on a brick wall yelled at
me, “Get the fuck out of the way—can’t you see the cameras?” when I
asked him if he knew Chase Adams.

I turned around to see some of the cameras
I’d spotted earlier; they were off in other areas of the alley.
“Uh, yes, but they’re not anywhere near us,” I said, confused.

The guy sighed in exasperation and responded,
“No shit, Sherlock! But if they decide to turn around, they won’t
give me the time of day if they see some stupid tourist checking
out my skills with goo-goo eyes.” He looked at me, fluttering his
eyes in mockery.

Another rude street artist? Would wonders
never cease?
First of all, I’m not a tourist. Second of all, I’m
not giving your ‘shit’ goo-goo eyes, because it sucks!
I
thought. But of course I would never say it, so I just turned on my
heel and walked away.

I didn’t have to walk far, though. At the end
of the alley was Chase, a cigarette between his lips,
spray-painting a wall just as feverishly as the guy I’d just talked
to. I suddenly felt like a fool. What was I trying to do—rack up
more insults from the king of them all? I didn’t know exactly how I
would appeal to Chase’s better instincts, but one could hope, all
the same. Before I could think of some not completely asinine way
to greet him, Chase turned around. Weirdly enough, he wasn’t upset
to see me—he had a smile on his face, in fact.

“Well, well, well, how did I just know you’d
be back, Goldilocks?” He took the cigarette between his thumb and
index finger. “My Spidey sense has been tingling for a few days
now.”

I rolled my eyes, hoping I’d have the
patience to withstand his cockiness long enough to be pointed in
the right direction. “My name isn’t Goldilocks.”

He smiled again, assessing me with those cool
green eyes. He was clean-shaven today, and since the air was a
little crisp, he was wearing a hoodie over his T-shirt, with the
hood low over his head. It didn’t matter, though—Chase Adams
couldn’t be inconspicuous if he tried.

He turned away from me and back to his
artwork. “I know, Annie Green with Envy.”

Anger bubbled in my veins. “What exactly do I
have to be envious of?”

He looked at me and smiled. “All my admirers.
Remember?” He put the cigarette between his lips again.

I scowled when I thought back to the night of
the Quentin Pierce gallery event. Chase was kidding himself if he
thought I was jealous. I recollected the look of hurt, resignation,
and humiliation on Daisy’s face when she saw Chase with me. I wish
I’d gone after her and convinced her that hooking up with her
boyfriend was the furthest thing from my mind, and that if she knew
what was good for her, she’d keep him away with a ten-foot pole.
But that would’ve been out of line, I suppose. Chase may have been
something of a pusher, with his raw sex appeal and cool sarcasm,
but it wasn’t my job to save girls from him. And I resented his
implication that I was one of those girls who needed to be
saved.

I took a deep breath.
Calm down, Annie.
You came here for his help—nothing more.
Perhaps if I made it
strictly business, Chase would be willing to show me the ropes. It
was a big
if
, but stranger things could happen.

I looked at the piece Chase was making. Just
like the last one I’d seen, it was breathtaking. A panoramic splash
of peacock feathers, dragonflies, flowers, pyramids, stars and
planets, fairies, and mythical beasts burst out from the single
image of a young girl with dreadlocks and baggy clothes, eyes
closed and cherubic face smiling sweetly as she covered her
headphones with her hands, as if she were drinking in the music.
The piece was beautiful and dreamy, and almost meditative, a
combination I hadn’t particularly expected from Chase. “Wow,” I
breathed. “You really outdid yourself here. You might want to show
the guy down that way how street art is done,” I said, pointing
back toward Marshmallow Man.

As usual, Chase couldn’t take a compliment.
Smirking, he grabbed the cigarette again and said, “Whatever,
kid—this is street art lite. See, the way it usually works is this:
the city rounds up a bunch of roughnecks from the Bronx and Queens
and tells ’em they won’t go to jail for tagging if they ‘give back’
to the community. They do this by coming into Manhattan and
painting daisies and unicorns on the walls of cafés with tasteless
ethnic food and five-dollar cups of coffee. It’s fuckin’ bullshit,
but if you get really good, well, people start taking notice and
you’re not throwing up your art for free anymore. You even start to
gain control over what you’re creating, subvert the usual fare with
some authentic truth. Of course, people are too busy eating it up
to notice you’re fucking with their heads, adding in some
subliminal tags and other things that’ll remind ’em, at least on
some level, where all of this stuff really comes from.” He dropped
the cigarette and stubbed it beneath his shoe, then shoved his
hands into the pockets of his hoodie.

I almost smiled. It sounded like a graffiti
conspiracy theory.

“But you yourself said you actually have
control over what you’re doing. So why do you care?”

He looked at me, his eyes wide. “Are you
serious? You really think
this
is the shit I live to make? I
mean, don’t get me wrong—it’s nice and all.” He leaned a little
closer, like he was going to tell me a secret. “But I don’t give a
fuck about creating work that gets the stamp of authority. It’s the
other shit I’m more interested in.”

“The other shit?”

“Listen, Goldilocks, if a relatively
well-known street artist like me got caught in the act of doing
illegal art, he would be arrested, just like anyone else. But don’t
let this facade fool you.” He gestured to his painting. “Most of us
who’ve crossed over enough to keep the cops off our asses are night
crawlers—the best kind. Our rap sheets are nothing to joke about.”
He looked stern and proud.

I was not about to get started on Chase’s
“illegal” art—I was afraid of what I’d find out. Besides, I didn’t
want to end up being some kind of accessory to a crime. So I
pretended I hadn’t heard him. “So, where do all the street artists
hang out? Is this a popular place?”

“No way! This is a day job for most of us,
but Manhattan ain’t shit when it comes to cultivating your creative
chi.”

I frowned. “Wait a second—didn’t you grow up
right here in Manhattan?”

He studied me for a moment. “Been snooping
around, Goldilocks? Turn up anything interesting?”

I blushed and fiddled with my backpack
zipper, embarrassed to admit I’d been doing my fair share of
sleuthing—when Kendra wasn’t voluntarily pressing me for details,
that is. “No . . . I’ve just . . . heard a few things is all.”

He stepped closer, causing me to inch back a
little. Chase Adams was clearly not a guy who believed in the
importance of personal space. Not that his presence was unpleasant,
but a safe and respectful distance was necessary here, considering
my brain got kind of foggy whenever our skin was close to touching.
“Yeah? What kind of things?”

I met his gaze this time, not wanting to
admit I felt a little intimidated. “Just . . . stuff. Something
about a stepdad, a brother, drugs—I don’t remember the details.”
Chase continued to stare at me; it was terribly destabilizing to my
already fragile mind, which was brimming with questions about
whether or not the stories were true.

“And you believe all the shit you hear via
the rumor mill?” He tsk-tsked. “I had higher hopes for you,
Goldilocks.”

“So, none of that stuff is true?”

“When people want to manufacture a celebrity,
they manufacture a story. If it’s in any way associated with the
streets, the harder and more dangerous the story, the better. The
truth is . . .” He stepped back over to his work and continued to
add a few touches with spray paint, addressing me somewhat
distractedly. “I was smeared by a
New York Post
writer, some
broad who was itching to get a piece of this, naturally.” He looked
over at me and smiled. “But I wasn’t remotely interested—once you
end up in the sack with a girl like that, she’ll be running her
mouth from here to Long Island, giving up people’s tagging aliases,
revealing their secret spots and whatnot. So I tried to let her
down the easy way, but I guess she wasn’t the kind of girl who took
too well to hearing no. So she started some fantastical rumor about
me offing my stepdad and my brother dying of a heroin overdose. You
really believed it, Goldilocks?” He shook his head in either
amusement or disappointment. “I guess there’s gotta be at least one
myth behind the legend, so no harm, no foul. Outta-control stories
excite some people, you know?”