Wicked Muse

by Lexi Whitlow

  “I want to feed you,” I say, locking her lovely gray eyes on mine. “We’re going to go out, and then we’re going to crawl into bed and do unspeakable things to each other until it is three in the morning. You get to sleep in tomorrow. You don’t have to be at Mary’s ‘til ten.”

  “Okay,” she replies, wickedly turning her lip in a smile. “If you insist.”

  “I insist.”

  Half the city is on vacation and making the most of every bar and restaurant to revel in the holiday spirit. I don’t want to deal with the rabble, so I call my old standby, the Soho House. They’re busy too, telling me it will take at least two hours to get a table, offering the upstairs bar as an alternative.

  “If you’re eating you’ll get a rooftop table. We have a heated tent and it’s surprisingly comfortable.”

  I’m game, and I know the novelty will entertain Chloe.

  The club isn’t packed, but it’s more crowded than usual. We take the elevator straight up to the top floor, then head for the bar. It’s the third time I’ve brought Chloe here, and each time she’s found something new to distract and amuse her. Tonight, it’s the fact that all the fireplaces are lit with actual wood fires. As incongruous as it seems, the addition of traditional fireplaces to this otherwise purely urban, contemporary space, is a bonus.

  “Good lord, I love this place,” Chloe says beaming, taking in the scene. “It’s so freaking bourgeoise.” She starts laughing, casting her eyes around at all the artists, actors, musicians, filmmakers, and their hangers-on. “This is what happens when you give the Drama and Art Club kids their own top-secret party house.”

  She’s spot-on, as usual. She’s also turning heads in the crowd. I catch more than a few young men—guys my age—checking her out. I love having her on my arm. Part of me loves that others appreciate her beauty and her spirit, but it scares the hell out of me that I’m going to have to leave her in a few days, and all these guys will still be hanging around. I need to suck it up and trust that she’s not interested in anyone else.

  Trust, and pray. Hard.

  Our meal is nearly perfect, except for the fact of too many people around us. After dinner, on the way out, I’m struck by a small wave of nostalgia. Like Chloe, I’m fond of this place and it pains me that it will likely be many months before I can return to share an intimate meal with my girl. It’s become kind of our place in my mind. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to come here again without thinking of her.

  Chloe puts on music as soon as we get inside her place. She kicks off her worn out boots, heading to the kitchen. She pours me a glass of wine, pours one for herself, and then she just dissembles me with the sweetest smile I’ve seen from her yet.

  “I couldn’t have done all this without you,” she says, tipping her glass to me. “Thank you. For everything.”

  “It was all my pleasure,” I assure her, tasting my wine. “I can’t think of anything I’d rather be doing than getting elbow deep in printer’s ink and solvent—with you.”

  A few moments later we’re laid out on the couch together, Chloe pulled up tight, her back to my chest, the lights low, the music playing softly in the background, sipping wine. She’s relaxed against me and for the first time in many days, she’s not worried about all she still has to do, or where she needs to be. She’s completely in the moment, here with me.

  I’ve been anxious about something, and this reflective moment seems like a good time to broach it.

  “Have you given any thought to what’s going to happen if Mary signs you?” I ask. “How that’s going to change things?”

  Chloe shrugs, sipping her wine. “I really haven’t,” she admits. “I’ve been so wrapped up in getting ready for tomorrow, I haven’t had any time to think about much.”

  “You need to think about it,” I say solemnly.

  She sits forward, turning around so she can see me. “What do you mean?”

  I pull her legs around so she’s facing me, lifting her calves onto my lap. “Things will happen—quickly. First, there will be notes in the art papers about you, critics discussing your works. Sometimes not so positively. The local art scene stalkers will notice you. They’ll want your photograph for the ‘out and about’ section of their papers. The notoriety picks up from there. You’ll get invited to a lot of parties…”

  With this, I see Chloe’s brow furrow.

  “If you don’t go, they’ll say you’re snubbing them, and if you do go they’ll tell everyone what you had to drink, and who you were with, dissect what you were wearing. That’s just the start of it.”

  “Shit,” Chloe says.

  I nod. This is exactly why Guy encouraged me to go into academia instead of going to work as a designer, or pursuing fine art. He knew I didn’t have the temperament for the latter, and too many scruples for the former.

  “If Mary does her job well—and we all know she does—the money will start flowing. You’ll be like a top-40 pop star, with a lot of cash coming in all at once, but you need to know, it usually doesn’t last. Even if you make it big, you’ll get paid once for the first sale. After that, it’s only the owners and auction houses that profit. So… If I could give you a few words of advice? Anything you make, put it in the bank. Don’t quit your day job.”

  Chloe’s expression goes grim with realization. She’s listening.

  “Okay,” she says, nodding.

  “You’ll be tempted to spend—for clothes, for other people’s art, for anything that makes you feel like you’re cool enough to be in the room with all the people buying your work, or taking your photo. Keep in mind, they walked into that room with money. The idea is for you to leave those rooms with their money. The less you try to be like them, the more they’ll be attracted to you, and by default, your work.”

  It’s a cold hard truth, but it’s real.

  “And baby, if you need any help managing financial issues, I know people. Please ask. Don’t get in trouble.”

  She nods again, her expression pained. “You’re telling me all this, because you’re not going to be here to help with it,” she says. “You’re going back to Richmond, and you think all this is going to happen while you’re gone?”

  “Yeah,” I admit, not wanting to. I want to be here, beside her, for all of it.

  “Okay,” she says, leaving it at that.

  “I’ll be back over spring break,” I say, trying to ease the inevitable. “It’s just a few months.”

  She nods again, then puts her glass down on the table beside us. “I know. It’s not long. But in the meantime, we better make the most of the time we have.”

  With that she leans forward and kisses me, her hand raising to my cheek, her fingers crawling around to the nape of my neck. Her advance surprises me, but in a good way. I meet her lips, circling my arms around her, pulling her over me until she’s on top of me, straddling me in her skinny jeans and bare feet.

  We make out on the couch like a couple of teenagers for an inordinately long time—hungry kisses, over-the-clothes dry humping, and breast fondling until I’m just about to burst the zipper on my jeans.

  “We need to go in the bedroom,” I huff in her ear, her tit cupped in my hand, her Levi’s clad thighs wrapped around my hips.

  I don’t wait for her response. I scoop her up in my arms. She’s light as air and take her into her room, laying her down on the bed, on top of the covers, then crawl on over her.

  Her mouth tastes like red wine; cherries and aged oak. She smells of light Chanel perfume and printer’s ink; it’s an intoxicating brew. Her skin is soft, slightly salty to my tongue, and hot.

  I methodically peel layers of clothing away, exposing pale white flesh and concealing lace. My mouth finds her tender inside places; behind her knees, inside her thighs, under her arms, and that especially sensitive location between her delicate folds.

  It pays me to take my time. It’s early yet, and there’s no rush. My hands explore her depths while my tongue laps at her silky sex, sucking her into
me, tasting her, making her moan and then gush against my hand and chin as she comes, wave after wave, crying, eyes seared shut, her body riveted to my touch.

  When she’s exhausted, laying limp on the pillows, spent, I kick her knees apart and haul myself over her, letting my cock dance, rock hard, over her belly. That wakes her up.

  “C’mon,” she urges me, spreading wide, lifting to meet me.

  I keep myself still, reserving the pleasure—spreading it out over time.

  “You want me?” I ask her.

  I’m looking right at her, biting my lip ‘til it’s blue.

  “I want you,” she whispers, her eyes dark, hooded with pleasure. “Inside me.”

  A second later I’m obliterated in the depths of her, swallowed whole, drawn in and under by the grip of the most beautiful, smartest, most talented women I’ve ever known, and she’s all mine. Our bodies liquify together, blending, rocking in time to the music playing in the next room.

  This thing we do, the way we do it, it’s not like anything I’ve ever known with someone else. I pour my soul into her, flooding in, draining out, again and again, the perfect ecstatic pleasure flowing between us without words, without implication, with nothing except the fact that she and I were made for this. Made for each other.

  I feel a distant tremor in her, like a shock through warm water. Then another.

  Her fingernails dig into my shoulders hard, her heels crush against my ass cheeks.

  “Oh, god, Hayes…” she whimpers against my neck, her molten walls tightening against me like a clenched fist.

  Her body is such perfection, this hint of her building orgasm piques me. My cock grows, my balls draw up hard, threatening to unload.

  “C’mon baby… my angel…” I fuck her deep, drawing back slow and steady.

  She implodes all at once, crying out. Her body quaking with her snatch in tremors, shuddering my cock like an earthquake rolling between us.

  I can’t hold on. I explode, releasing my essence inside of her. The lightning strikes deep in my core, the sweet, deep feeling of satisfaction coursing through my body.

  “Fuck,” I growl, “fuck… fuck… fuck…” I shove in, again and again, her gripping muscles milking every drop out of me.

  When it’s all over and I pull her against me, cradling her onto my chest, her head on my shoulder, she’s oddly silent.

  Hours later, I wake in pitch-black darkness. The music has stopped. The only sounds are from traffic in the streets far below us. Chloe is no longer in my arms.

  Then I hear her. Muffled whimpers, crying. I feel her small shudders, her shoulders nearby, heaving with sobs.

  “Angel,” I whisper, groggy with sleep. Finding her clinging on the far reaches of the bed, I pull her into me, cocooning her inside my embrace. “Oh, baby, I love you. Please don’t cry.”

  She stifles her sobs, melting into me, her fingers wrapping around my hand.

  More hours pass, and I wake again to the sun streaming in through the windows. Chloe isn’t here, but the scent of brewing coffee hangs heavy in the air.

  I find her in the kitchen nursing an early cup. She’s already showered and dressed, turned out smartly for her meeting with Mary Boon.

  She hands me a cup, smiling.

  “I’m jittery,” she says. “Nervous about the meeting. I couldn’t sleep.”

  Maybe I should ask her about the middle-of-the-night sobs, but I don’t. I want to, but I don’t want to start her day off on a minor note. We have time. I’ll get to it. Today, right now, she needs to be on her game.

  Chapter 23

  Chloe

  Taylor is a god send. He parks the car, and then helps me carry two of the three largest rolled up pieces—and they are very large—to the gallery. While the receptionist calls Mary, Taylor graciously disappears.

  Mary inspects my originals with interest.

  “This is nice. A bit morose, bleak sells. I can do this,” she says. “The scale is bigger than I anticipated. Is all your work this large?”

  I nod. “Yeah,” I say weakly, unsure of the implication.

  “Wonderful. Scale fills the space. I like it. It owns the room. Nothing worse than some over-tight little miniature maker who wants you to squint to see what he’s up to.”

  She turns to me smiling broadly. “Guy understood that too. He wrapped entire treatises around the walls. But your work… it’s a step beyond even that. It punches you in the gut and then doubles down.”

  She shrugs. “Whatever you do, don’t think about changing yourself—or your work. This is dark, but relevant. It screams about the damage we do to one another. Don’t soften it. Keep going with it. I can make this what everyone is talking about.”

  When she puts the contract in front of me, I hesitate only long enough to consider what Hayes said last night. If things really do change, then I need to be ready for it.

  Once my signature is inked, but before it’s dry, Mary smiles at me.

  “Leave the three originals with me,” she says. “In three weeks I have a show opening in Chelsea, 21 Under 21. It’s a group show of the 21 best up-and-coming artists in the city. I’m putting you in it. I’ll send you the details. I’m thinking of a spring solo for you… April. I’ll find some dates and start working on it. I’ll need at least twenty pieces.”

  We spend another thirty minutes talking about my work and The Foundry, about Scott and Danny who she knows only in relation to my father.

  “Guy was one of the most self-disciplined artists I ever worked with,” she says. “He never missed a deadline. He never made me crazy. He always had his shit together. The only downside was he wouldn’t sell his originals. He was sentimental.”

  Without really meaning to, I tell her about the auctions, and Kendall Chandler buying everything my father ever produced, holing up a cache of his work in a storage unit across town.

  “Really?” Mary Boon asks, animating more than usual. “That’s fascinating. I need to call her. We may be able to do something useful with this intel.”

  “It’s done,” I speak softly into the phone, feeling my hands tremble. “I’m signed. She loved everything.”

  I hear Hayes breath catch on the other end of the line. “Congratulations,” he says. “Let’s celebrate. I’ll see you when you get here.”

  He’s at my place waiting for me, waiting for my call. He’s been at my side, consistently, for ten days, and in those ten days so much has happened. But we only have a few more days together. He’s leaving on New Year’s day, and then I’m back to flying solo. As usual. That idea is damned depressing.

  An hour later, bumming through Chelsea Market on Hayes’ arm, sampling scrumptious food, sipping cappuccino, taking in all the ultra-coolness and over-the-top pretense of the best and worst this neighborhood offers, my mood brightens.

  We wander into Artists and Fleas and I’m drawn to all the interesting hand-crafted wears, from jewelry to one-of-a-kind t-shirts. The prices are high, but the offerings beautiful. I find myself lingering covetously over a case full of rings and heavy silver bracelets, their design reminiscent of something the Vikings might have worn as they plundered the shores of England.

  “That would look great on your wrist,” Hayes observes, peering over my shoulder, assessing a dense, knotted silver cuff I’ve lifted out of the case for a better look.

  It’s solid and meticulously crafted. It feels smooth and cool, invested with confidence.

  It would look better on his wrist.

  “You like it?” Hayes asks me.

  I check the price tag; two-twenty.

  “It’s okay,” I say, slipping the thing back into its slot in the open case, turning my attention elsewhere, wandering to another vendor’s offerings.

  When we’re done wandering the market, we take the High Line back to The Foundry, enjoying surprisingly warm afternoon temperatures with a few lingering pockets of snow clinging in the shadows. Hayes pulls me under his arm, hugging me close as we walk the few blocks home.
r />   He suggests we spend the evening gallery hopping, checking out my competition and getting a better feel for the scene before I’m plunged into it head first.

  “Only if you promise not to tell anyone I’m signed,” I beg. “You know everybody, and you like to talk me up.”

  He grins. “I’ll make no such promise. I’m proud of you. I want to talk you up to the entire world.” He hugs me tighter. “One day, you’re going to have to accept the fact that I adore you, and I want everyone to know it.”

  Yeah, but he’s still leaving in just a few days.

  We part company only long enough for Hayes to go back to his place and change clothes for our evening out, which gives me just enough time to tear back down to 15th Street with the intent of buying that cuff bracelet for Hayes. It’s not like me to be sentimental or romantic, but when I held the thing in my hand, it reminded me of him; substantial, solid, and classically beautiful.

  When I get there, the bracelet is gone.

  My crushing disappointment is written all over my face. The young man behind the cases sees it.

  “It’s okay,” he assures me. “Lemme see what I have here.”

  He turns, bending down, retrieving a bin from beneath his table. Lifting the lid, he pokes around, then comes up with an envelope stuffed with merchandise.

  “Was this it?” he asks, handing me a plastic zip-lock containing a bracelet very similar to the one I held earlier. It’s not identical, but it still has the necessary characteristics; weight and beauty entwined into its intricate design.

  “I’ll take it,” I say, satisfied. “Can you box it?”

  I hate Christmas, and I put Hayes off because honestly, I hadn’t even thought about gifts. I haven’t exchanged Christmas gifts with anyone in years. It’s not a holiday I ever look forward to, and I was happy to let this one pass by myself. Hayes was disappointed. He wanted me to come to his parents for Christmas dinner, but I just couldn’t insert myself into a happy family’s holiday ritual. The idea of that makes my own bleak view of the day that much darker, but seeing this cuff bracelet inspired me to gift-giving.