Work of Art ~ the Collection (4 page)

As I follow Adam, I begin to regain my composure. Dealing with this difficult client will bring me back down to Earth.

Mr. Barenholder lives in a museum-like mid-century home with terrazzo floors and walls of glass. It’s perched on a bluff overlooking L.A. As spectacular as it is, his house seems barely lived in and always feels cold. Jess’s painting, which he’s now decided should hang in the foyer, will liven things up, but we have to go over every detail at least three times. Every meeting with him is fraught with anxiety. By the time I finish the final notes with Mr. Control Freak Extraordinaire, the crowd disperses and Samuel packs up his gear.

Suddenly, I hear Jess’s voice coming from the viewing room, and she sounds pissed off. Concerned, I move closer to the doorway to listen.

“What are you fucking doing, Max? You’re so goddamned transparent. She doesn’t need to be your next conquest, your thirty-one flavor fuck, so just leave her the hell alone.”

“What, you too? Why does everyone seem to feel the need to protect Ava from me? She seems very capable of making up her own mind. Besides I’m not fucking with her. I just danced with her, for God’s sake. You make it sound like I’m about to drag her by her hair to my cave.”

I sway and lean into the wall to steady myself. They’re talking about me. I consider walking into the room to speak for myself. Once I assure them I’d never be interested in someone like Max, there’d be no reason to argue. But my feet are glued to the floor, and a feeling I don’t understand holds me back.

“Oh yeah, just dancing, and I paint by numbers,” she says sarcastically.

“Does she have a boyfriend? Is that what this is about?”

“I’m not going to even answer that,” Jess says.

“What, is this because you
like
her? I bet you want to get into her pants.”

“Fuck you! That’s so
muy macho
. You think a lesbian can’t have a friendship with a straight woman, that all I care about is getting between her legs. I love Ava because she’s extraordinary in every way. She’s a loyal friend, and she deserves the best. That’s why I’ve made sure she wasn’t around at events when you were these last few years.” Jess fumes and lowers her voice. “You know it’s not just Ava I’m worried about. I’m worried about you.”

“You have no reason to worry about me.” He sounds offended.

“Yeah well, you just seem to be all over the place—partying too hard, a parade of vapid women. It’s like you believe this fame bullshit. What really matters to you these days, Max?”

He doesn’t reply.

“I just wish you had someone to help you navigate all of this, someone to enjoy the success with. I haven’t seen you with anyone you cared about since Chlo—”

“Stop! Don’t go there. Just don’t go there.”

“All right, I’m done. You know, the irony is, the guy you used to be, that sensitive brilliant guy I roomed with our first year at Pratt, he’s someone that would’ve been perfect for Ava. Is that guy still in there?”

“Stop,” he moans, sounding like he’s in pain now.

“I hope so . . . I really liked that guy.” And with that, she sweeps out of the room and turns in the opposite direction of where I stand. I quickly walk over to Samuel and grab my third glass of champagne. I guzzle the contents and the fine bubbles tickle my nose. I don’t turn around to see Max leave the room.

“Are you all right, girl? You look whiter than usual,” Samuel says, concerned.

“Uh, Samuel, do you mind if I catch a ride with you? I want to get out of here and my hotel’s just a few blocks away.” I twist the edge of my shirt nervously. He agrees and I let Adam know that I’m leaving.

It rained while we were in the hall, and the cool air feels good against my face. All the streetlights glow, their colors reflecting in the wet asphalt. My mind swirls with everything I’ve heard. I jump up into the van next to Samuel and we take off.

“So, who was the guy?” Samuel asks playfully.

“Do you mean Rico Suave?”

“Yeah, Rico. He sure seemed to have a thing for you. Are you dating?”

“Hardly. We just met today, and no, I’m not interested.”

Samuel’s eyes widen as he shakes his head. “Could’ve fooled me. That was some pretty powerful chemistry burning between you two.”

“Oh, you’re such a romantic,” I say, trying to keep it light.

He pulls up in front of my hotel and I give him a goodbye hug. “Thanks. I’ll call you tomorrow to settle things up.”

I watch him drive off before I stop at the hotel bar and order a glass of wine to take up to my room. Alcohol seems like the best way to take the edge off my tangled mind. It’s been one hell of a day, and right now all I can think about is the hungry look in Max’s eyes right before Adam pulled me away.

Chapter Three / Fascination Street

Art is what you can get away with.

~Andy Warhol

A
s lovely as it is for the hotel bartender to give me a wink and fill my wine glass almost to the brim, the combination of that and the three glasses of champagne in my petite frame is a bit much. Perched on the edge of my hotel room bed, I’m clad only in my fishnets and black tank as I hold onto my knees, hoping to correct the tilt the room has taken in my head. I focus on the framed print in front of me, and chuckle. Normally I hold hotel room art with great disdain, but right now, I find it completely fascinating.

I wonder if the person who created this blend of colors and stack of rectangles felt as serious about their art as the artists who are represented in the best galleries. Who’s to say the Rothko hanging in the Museum of Modern Art this artist knocks off is any better?

“Good God, Ava, You’re sooooo drunk.” I slur, flop back on the bed, and lift my right leg up in the air to admire the fishnet tights I’d been embarrassed about earlier. I rub my hands up and down my thighs and turn my legs in the light. At first the texture captivates me in my drunken stupor, but the more I rub my hands over my legs, the better I feel.

As soon as my sexual feelings kick into gear, that damn Max pops into my head, and no matter how hard I squeeze my thighs together in protest, I can’t get the image to leave. I remember the hot look on his face when I defended him against Dylan. It was more than simple attraction. It was as if our meeting was transformative and we were about to share a secret that would change our destiny.

I close my eyes, slide my hands up my inner thighs and picture him—long and lean, with formfitting black jeans over his strong thighs.

Oh, and his shoulders, his arms . . .
I sigh.
He must work out . . . a lot.
I imagine those strong arms and shoulders holding me, and I slip my hand under the fishnets to relieve the pressure where I’m aroused.

As my fingers moves back and forth and my breathing gets heavy, my phantom Max pulls me against his body, and looks at me with those burning blue-gray eyes.

“Ava,” he whispers, brushing his full lips against my hair, close to my ear. “Dance with me.” And as we slowly move together to the exotic music, I feel my arousal pulsing through my body.

My desire becomes more intense with each movement. He cups my ass, pulling me even closer, and his hardness presses against me.

My hand’s working fast now as my climax builds. I desperately want him to kiss me, to feel his tongue slide against mine before he takes me. I look up, my lips parted.

What the hell?
. . .

Music blasts from my cell phone and interrupts my delicious fantasy. It’s a text, so I grab the phone with my free hand, the other still working under my tights.

Text from: Maxfield Caswell

My right hand speeds up again while my left clutches the cell phone. He’s not just in my head now; his words are in my hand. I can feel the electrical pulse between us, knowing the phone is still in his hand while he’s thinking of me.
Oh my God!
I touch the screen and read the tiny words across the screen.

You didn’t say good-bye.

And with that I throw my head back into the pillow. He’s on me, and in me, and it’s so damn good I surge to a fierce climax, waves of fire flaming over my body and bright lights flashing through my head.

The new light of morning illuminates my room as I slowly wake and try to figure out where I am and why my head’s throbbing. I shiver. I’m on top of the covers and spread eagle across the bed with one hand still wedged down the front of my tights. My left hand is stiff, and as I uncurl my fingers, my phone drops to the bed.

Wow, I really was loaded last night.
I glance at the glowing red numbers of the clock on my nightstand. It’s just before six o’clock.

I stumble out of bed, peel off the tights and tank top, and slide into my PJs. After brushing my teeth and gulping down a tall glass of water and two aspirins, I crawl into bed to get in a few more hours sleep. I hope I feel human when I wake up.

The next time I open my eyes, my room is much brighter. After room service coffee and toast, I decide to disregard my hangover and enjoy my free time this morning with a museum visit. Adam said I don’t need to be at the exposition until one this afternoon. I put extra care into my appearance to make up for the out-of-control feeling last night, and as I approach the Guggenheim Museum in my tailored navy coat, high-heeled leather boots and sleek hair, I feel quite the New Yorker.

The current exhibit,
Paris and the Avant-Garde: Modern Masters from the Guggenheim Collection
, is right up my alley. I take the elevator to the top and start the corkscrew descent that defines Frank Lloyd Wright’s unique design for the museum. The exhibit is heady stuff: Chagall, Gris, Picasso, Braque and, my favorite, Joan Miró. I’m delighted with Miró’s
Carnival of Harlequin.
The whimsical shapes create a surrealist party, and I get lost in that little world. I take my time in front of each painting, savoring the experience of seeing the works of art I’ve studied in books come to life in front of me.

The feeling reminds me of the time my mom brought me to New York when I was in high school. She fell short in many ways, but she did try to share her love of music and art. She was always checking art books out of the library and teaching me about artists from different periods. Shortly after my dad died, she took some of the insurance money and we went to New York for a week. Every day we visited a different museum. The Guggenheim was in the middle of the trip and, after seeing the exhibit, we ate a fancy lunch in the restaurant on the lower level. That was a defining trip for me and certainly affected my decision to study art history.

I reach the bottom of the Guggenheim spiral with just enough time to catch a cab to the hall. Adam is already busy getting ready for the day and gives me a warm smile. I debate whether to ask him about his conversation with Max last night, but decide with a steely resolve to push him out of my mind. With only two more days left of the show, I won’t be likely to see Max again for a long time.

We’re busy with clients all afternoon and, right when it’s time to wrap up, Jess and company breeze in.

“I thought we’d go by Zadi’s event first, and then stop by Max’s show.” Adam gages my reaction, but my face reveals nothing. This had been part of the planned trip, and I’ve prepared myself.

“Am I okay in this?” I ask Jess, since my attire last night required substantial revision. She glances at my sleeveless knit sheath, which stops mid-thigh above my boots. A long pendant made from various antique Venetian beads knotted along a silk cord hangs around my neck.

Jess tips her head and smiles. “Only a figure like yours could pull off that dress. It’s like a second skin. Is it cashmere? It looks so soft.”

I nod and put on my coat, relieved to know I won’t have Laura working me over tonight.

Zadi’s show,
House of Shadows,
is at the International Center of Photography on 43rd Street, and it’s already crowded by the time we arrive. Her large black and white photographs, still lifes, and interiors from abandoned insane asylums are positively haunting. I appreciate the emotion they evoke, but I certainly wouldn’t want one of the prints hanging in my house.

I wander through the show, saying hello to some of my business acquaintances. There’s a burst of laughter and loud voices at the front of the gallery. It looks like Jess has run into a few old friends from Pratt. She waves me over and introduces me to the impossibly hip group. Joe, who’s heavily tattooed and pierced, commands everyone’s attention.

“Hey Jess, Ba-roque Beat is set up in Times Square. Let’s check them out.” He turns toward me and smiles. “It’s just too damn quiet in here.”

“What’s Ba-roque Beat?” I ask him.

“They’re a group of performance artists led by our friend Alessandro, who also went to school with us. He’s a performance artist and street performer.”

I nod, realizing Jess has painted him several times in her current series. I’m happy to be included with the group, and we head to Times Square on foot, laughing and joking the entire way.

As we near the open area of Times Square at 6th and 42nd, I hear a thunderous pounding. We join the large crowd around a group of men sitting in a row with varied sizes of plastic tubs in front of them. They’re beating the tubs in synchronization with large wooden sticks. In front of them is a man in a black body-stocking making the strangest shapes with his body.