“I mean it, Annie. As my girlfriend.”
My heart just about stopped right then and there. I did a double take, expecting Harrison to crack up laughing at any moment. But nothing of the sort happened. He looked almost as eager as someone who’d gotten up the courage to propose marriage. I had to admit that while I was a little confused (after all, I was accustomed to the idea that guys kind of “grow into” a relationship, rather than formalize it with a declaration of their intent), I was strangely moved by the gesture.
All the same, I couldn’t stop myself from blurting out, “Seriously?” and then covering my mouth in apology. “I’m so flattered . . . but . . . are you sure?”
He took both my hands in his, which felt cool and solid and certain. “Listen, Annie, I don’t know what’s going through your mind right now, but I’ve loved spending time with you. And, contrary to the way a lot of guys around here operate, I know a good thing when I see it—and while I’m totally cool with taking it slow, easing our way into this, not doing anything too hasty, I don’t like to hedge my bets. This may sound silly, but I’ve been looking for something special for a long time, and I’m pretty damn certain that’s exactly what you are. I just don’t see any point wasting my time on petty shit, when we’re both standing right here.”
I felt tears rise to my eyes. I was somewhat torn, not because I didn’t like Harrison, but because I wondered how ready I was to get into a relationship at all. My mom’s words about taking these years to focus on my life and what I wanted rang like an alarm bell in my head. At the same time, Harrison didn’t seem like the type of guy to derail my ambitions—clearly, that was a big reason he was into me to begin with. When he could’ve chosen any other girl on campus, picking a nobody like me seemed bold, stupid . . . and undeniably sweet.
He looked at me expectantly. “So . . . what do you say?”
I squeezed his hand. I was still a little in shock, but when was another opportunity like this going to come my way? Harrison was most people’s idea of the perfect guy: handsome, smart, sweet, gentlemanly, and from the kind of family that would probably be able to connect me to some very important people. I winced at the idea that the last factor was even a consideration at all, but if I were perfectly honest with myself, it wasn’t something I could just pass up without taking a chance.
Besides, I could always change my mind . . . right?
“Yes, Harrison, I would be honored to be your girlfriend,” I said, attempting to keep a straight face when I said it, since it seemed so formal.
He swept me up in a bear hug. I could feel the eyes of his teammates and other onlookers on us both, and I felt . . . lucky. I couldn’t wait to call my mom and tell her what had happened. You’d think I had a ring on my finger, given the palpitations of joy in my belly.
He held me for a long time, before an impatient “ahem” interrupted us. Harrison put me down, and when I turned around, there was Elsie, looking as bored and beautiful as ever. Her hair was swept up away from her neck, long tendrils hanging around her mannequin-pale face. She was dressed simply yet stylishly in an oversize T-shirt, black skinny jeans, and a pair of Miu Miu stiletto heels.
“Hey, Cuz,” Harrison said, stooping toward her for an obligatory hug, kiss, and hair ruffle—which made her squeal.
“You jerk. I just came by to tell you that you guys kicked ass today. I couldn’t see for shit, as usual, but those last two minutes were certainly suspense-filled,” she said with a dose more pleasantness than usual . . . while conveniently ignoring me.
“Elsie, you remember Annie?” Harrison asked, looking at me with a warmth in his eyes that managed to thaw out the cold feeling I had inside with Elsie there.
Elsie didn’t look at me. “Hey, Harrison, do you think you can hook a girl up with one of those cups of iced coffee?” The table was about three feet away, but Harrison was a gentleman, so he went for it, leaving the two of us alone together.
“So, I have a bone to pick with you, Blondie,” Elsie said when Harrison was out of earshot, a controlled rictus on her face.
I sighed and rolled my eyes. Now that I was Harrison’s girlfriend, I was sure I’d be encountering Elsie more often, and I definitely wanted to attempt to be the bigger person, even if my first impulse upon seeing her was usually to rip her head off like she was a Barbie doll.
“First of all, why are you here?”
I rolled my eyes. “In case you didn’t notice, Harrison and I are involved.” Piece of cake.
She crossed her arms. “Seriously? You know Harrison goes through girlfriends faster than a box of Kleenex, right?”
I frowned. I was pretty sure she was just trying to upset me. “Was there something you wanted in particular?”
“Yes, actually.” She paused. “I want to know exactly how you got Chase Adams to do a piece for Quentin Pierce.”
I swallowed hard. I still hadn’t figured out a way to fix my snafu about Chase’s having agreed to be commissioned for the project. I wasn’t worried about Elsie’s intimidation tactics, but I was worried she was mean enough to uncover the truth on her own if that meant getting me kicked off the committee.
“I . . . I don’t know. Like I said at the meeting, he admires Quentin and he wants to participate. I don’t see why it should matter to you.” I added a hint of steely authority to my voice and mimicked Elsie’s posture.
She smiled sardonically. “See, I don’t buy that. I heard through the grapevine that our humble artist has some kind of vendetta against Quentin, so I strongly suspect there’s some foul play involved here, if you know what I mean.”
“That’s ridiculous—Chase told me he has high regard for Quentin.” At least that part was true—if we were talking about Quentin’s early oeuvre, that is.
Elsie went on like I hadn’t spoken. “On top of that, I was at the mural section in the Meatpacking District—the one where Chase and his street-artist friends hang out like clockwork. He wasn’t there, but when I asked all the other guys if they remembered some ditzy blonde hunting Chase down, they had no memory of you. Weird, huh? I mean, I’m assuming you didn’t drag yourself out to the Bronx to tag with him.”
My heart started to race. So now Elsie was beginning her own investigation? It was just a matter of time before she found Chase and stumbled upon the truth: that I’d been lying to save my ass. I didn’t want to continue to play her game, however, so I coolly excused myself by saying, “As usual, never a dull moment with Elsie. I’m going to find Harrison now.”
As I walked away, Elsie didn’t trail after me, but I could hear her words ring out behind me: “I swear, Annie Green, I’m getting to the bottom of this.”
Harrison wasn’t at the iced-coffee table, but Kendra was, looking somewhat bored. When she saw me, she shrugged and said, “I guess Yannis wanted to check out Harrison’s boat and get a play-by-play of what happened, since he isn’t that familiar with rowing. Harrison said he’d be back in a minute. But damn, girl! I saw that giant hug. What’s going on with you two?”
I reached for a cup of iced coffee and a straw. As I peeled the straw out of its paper, I casually said, “Oh, nothing . . . just that he asked me to be his girlfriend.”
Kendra widened her eyes and lifted a hand for a high five. “Way to go, Annie!” She paused before coming in for the landing. “Wait a sec. You did say yes, right? Or do I have to shake some sense into you?”
“Don’t worry. I said yes.”
She hugged me. “I’m so happy for you. You know what this means, right? Double dates!”
“For sure! You know what else it means? Having to put up with the queen of mean!” I nodded in Elsie’s direction. She’d managed to surround herself with a small fleet of hunky crew guys and was flirting up a storm, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she’d just delivered an ominous speech to me.
Kendra snorted. “Never mind that bitch! She can’t ruin things for you—Harrison’s way too into you. Yeah, you might have to put up with some bullshit at the family dinner t
able, but who knows? Maybe you’ll be braiding each other’s hair and confessing secrets to each other like sisters somewhere down the line!”
I shook my head miserably. “I don’t think so,” I mumbled, but then smiled and tried to change the subject. When Harrison and Yannis came back, Harrison flung his arm around me and gave me a little squeeze.
“You doing okay?” he asked. “I know Elsie can be a handful sometimes.”
I smiled, trying my best to ignore her presence behind me. “It’s all good.”
He kissed me on the forehead. “She’s a tough nut to crack, but I swear she’ll love you when she gets to know you.”
I didn’t want to tell him that I highly doubted it. I felt terrible. The happy occasion was being ruined, once again, by the specter of my damn Quentin Pierce project . . . and that damn Chase, whom I seemed to be inexplicably dependent on. Whatever my gripes were against getting in touch with him, I knew I had to—before it was too late.
Chapter Fourteen
I did the thing I’d been dreading most. It was Monday morning, and I had to find Chase before the next committee meeting. I took my chances and headed to the permission wall in the Meatpacking District, hoping I might run into someone who’d be able to tell me about Chase’s whereabouts. Granted, I hadn’t met too many people who might be willing to give me any leads, but I was better prepared this time, with some choice words and pepper spray.
Time to toughen up, Annie, I told myself. I had to be a warrior this time around if I was going to make my request land effectively. Luckily, I didn’t have to look for too long. Chase was actually there, talking to a couple other street artists. I’d expected his gorgeousness to get old over time, but no such luck. As he leaned against the brick wall, I admired his toned biceps, which were hugged by a thin, dark sweater. I walked nervously up to him, at which point he turned to look at me. He quickly straightened up, which took me aback a little bit.
Chase Adams was surprised to see me.
He muttered something to the other guys, who looked me over with a bit of interest and then sauntered off, presumably back to their own work.
“Well, well, well, Goldilocks,” he said, smiling broadly so that I could see his dimples. “Back again so soon? Didn’t think I’d see the day. How’s your boyfriend doing?”
I was confused at first, but then it struck me that Harrison actually was my boyfriend now. It felt weird to call him that, but, seeing as it wasn’t really the point of the conversation I wanted to have with Chase, all I said was, “He’s fine.”
Chase raised an eyebrow. “I was wondering how much he got out of that movie in the park. You sure he can even read? The Wordsworth reference seemed to elude him.” He swept his hand over his head, as if to indicate Harrison’s cluelessness.
I gritted my teeth, forcing myself not to let Chase’s teasing thwart me. He seemed to notice my irritation, so he backed off.
“Look, Goldilocks, I really didn’t mean to make your date unpleasant. I was just trying to tell you that I was sorry about my friends fucking with you. They really didn’t mean to get you all worked up—they’re just assholes is all.” He grinned. “So, whaddaya say? We cool?” He offered his hand to me affably for a peacemaking fist bump.
“Apology accepted,” I responded, figuring out how to choose my next words. “And . . . also, I kind of need something from you.”
He was all ears. “Oh yeah?”
I took a deep breath and blurted it all out. What did I have to lose? “Listen, the reason I’m here is that I was selected to be one of Quentin Pierce’s student curators for his upcoming show. I know we didn’t exactly get off on the right foot, but I do respect your work and I wanted to know if you’d like to be a part of the exhibit. We’re commissioning four New York–based artists to create original pieces that capture the spirit of the city and that’ll change the way we think about contemporary art. I know you’re probably not interested, but I just wanted to say it’s a great opportunity to share your work with the kind of people who—”
“Yeah, okay. I’ll do it.”
I was astonished. Before I could even go into my carefully scripted list of reasons about why this would benefit Chase’s art, he had already said yes! He took a cigarette out of his back pocket and lit it with a match.
“Um, seriously? I thought I’d have to blackmail you or something.”
“I don’t take well to threats, Goldilocks, but I’m definitely open to bribes.” He beamed at me playfully. I felt a blush rise to my face.
“I’m grateful you’re saying yes, Chase, but . . . are you sure? I mean, I want to make sure you realize what a huge commitment this is,” I said, afraid he was messing with my head again.
Chase shrugged. “I’d already heard about the show, and I’d been expecting you guys to come up here any day now to court me and get me on board.” He stared penetratingly into my eyes, which made my cheeks turn a deeper scarlet. “I didn’t know it would be you, Goldilocks, but I’m glad it is.” He puffed on his cigarette some more. “And yeah, I know what the commitment is, and I’m down. But you do owe me.”
I frowned. “And what exactly do you want from me?”
He smiled mysteriously, the cigarette hanging from his lip. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
I didn’t entirely want to imagine what he had in mind.
“We should set up some time to do the paperwork. There’s a significant stipend coming your way, and I want to be sure you’re apprised of all the parameters.”
He waved his hand dismissively. “Parameters shmarameters! You’ll have to take a rain check, Goldilocks, ’cause I’m pretty swamped right now. And tonight’s no good either, ’cause I’m writing with my boys.”
“Oh, uh, you’re a writer?”
He gave me a sardonic look. “Graffiti writing? Tagging?”
“Oh!” I felt stupid, but I didn’t quite understand. “But isn’t that what you do . . . like, during the day?”
He scoffed at my ignorance. “Nah, this is what I do during the day.” He gestured behind him at the gorgeous mural I’d seen him working on the last time I had been there. “This is the legal shit that makes you money. But tonight I’m bombing. Since you don’t know what that is, I’ll break it down for you: in this world, the bombers are the ones who do mostly tags—that’s like the artist’s signature, but highly stylized—and throw-ups . . . you know, the stuff most people call ‘vandalism.’” He made giant air quotes around that last word. “Money isn’t the goal, but fame is. That’s achieved through sheer quantity, style, and the danger level of the spots they choose. You become a man of interest when you’re good and your tag shows up often. But this stuff?” He pointed at his mural. “It’s what you call piecing. It’s the ‘nice’ graffiti, the kind the public is readily willing to acknowledge as art. With bombing, some people shun it and others embrace it—but that’s where you get the biggest rush as an artist.”
“And it’s illegal?”
Chase nodded. “Unless the NYPD’s changed their rules, which I highly doubt. Basically, the city became a maze of surveillance cameras after 9/11, and places like subways—where artists have traditionally gone to throw up their tags—were considered targets for terrorists. That meant there was a shitload of video evidence of faces to be used in court, and beyond that, people with cell phones were able to call the cops immediately. This put a cramp in our methods, but if you look around, you can see that graff is everywhere, despite the obstacles.”
I frowned. “I just don’t understand why you’d want to risk getting caught, though,” I said carefully, not wanting to offend him. “People know your work, and they respect it. So why risk that reputation?”
He stubbed out his cigarette on the wall. “I’ve never wanted conventional fame—I already told you that. I’ve always been more interested in the contact high of making stuff in places I wasn’t supposed to be. Besides, that’s how I intend to see the world. There’s this whole network of underground ta
ggers who travel to different cities. Sometimes that happens when they’re invited to an art festival or gallery show, but once they’re there? Well, you know.” He grinned.
“So . . . do people know that’s what you do?”
He grunted. “No fucking way! There’s the Chase Adams everyone knows, and then there’s the guy who does these.”
He pulled out a can of spray paint and looked around before letting loose with it on a patch of empty wall. What I saw stupefied me. Unlike the majestic pieces I’d seen him create, this was both more sparse and more sinister. A complex diagram of crescent moons was interlaced with a spurt of bubbly text that I barely recognized to be the letters “L” and “B.” This was way more aligned with what I thought of as being “graffiti,” in the most pejorative sense, but it was strangely elegant, like a piece of cuneiform.
“What do the letters stand for?” I asked.
“‘LunaBomber.’ That’s my tagging name,” he said. “But don’t tell anybody that, or I might have to kill you.”
I smiled back uneasily, although I couldn’t tell if he was serious or not. “What you do in your off time is your own business, Chase. I’m here purely to discuss the Quentin Pierce project. Do you have an email address or phone number I can reach you at to set up an appointment?”
He rolled his eyes. “It’s always business with you, ain’t it, Goldilocks? Lighten up a little—it’s not good for the soul to be so serious.”
I could feel my jaw tighten. “You’re certainly one to talk, Mr. Dark and Broody,” I snapped.
For some reason, my bad mood seemed only to amplify his good mood. He whistled a tune as he sprayed over his recent tag until it was indecipherable. “Shows how much you know, Goldilocks. I’m a lot more multifaceted than you’ve given me credit for.”
I could feel my fists tightening into a ball. Was he really going to lecture me on the importance of giving people the benefit of the doubt? Before I could say anything I might regret later, he had gathered his cans of spray paint.
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