He stops in his tracks and looks around to see if any of the other guests or reporters are spying. I still can’t get over that he has gold teeth that match the chains hanging around his neck and tie. “Michelina, I find this so unfair.”
“Dude, my work is here and people are seeing it. What’s unfair is your percent of the commission.”
Sharon nods in agreement.
“Change your attire, just for the interview.”
I exaggerate glancing at my college sweatshirt, black pants, and red Doc Martin boots. “What is wrong with what I’m wearing? I am an artist, not some red carpet socialite that gets off on other people’s attention.”
“Yes, that may be so. But the reporter will not interview you because of your sweatshirt. And a broadcast of your show in my gallery will greatly benefit us.”
“What is wrong with my shirt?” I ask. “It’s just a college sweatshirt.”
His face droops, then he sighs.
“I doubt there’s such a place as…as that.”
“As what?” I ask, doing what I can to suppress a smile. God, if he could only say it I might take the sweatshirt off and do the interview in my bra.
“That. That.” He points to my shirt.
I shrug and shake my head, continuing my fake innocence.
“Okay, I’ll take it off, but just so you know I’m not wearing a bra,” I lie. “Is channel 2 okay with broadcasting my sixteen year old boobs?”
Sharon stifles a laugh, but Koongi’s anger shoots out of his eyes.
“You must train her better for these types of situations.” He storms off.
Sharon giggles in her champagne. “My, you would think he never heard of Fuck U.,” Sharon says.
“I know right?” I ask. “So should I drop by for my good little girl training sessions tomorrow?”
Sharon rolls her eyes and shakes her head.
I walk the galley and find Kim Gordon and an art writer from the Village Voice. I’m so glad I’m not one on one with Kim because the woman intimidates me so much. Not just because I want her to like my work, but that she’s like the mom any freak girl wishes they could have growing up.
Later, I make a break for the bar and swipe a glass of champagne off the tray. The bartender doesn’t give me a second glance. I drink half of it down when I notice a familiar face studying the 6x9 foot painting of my World Trade Center Memorial. He’s super cute in a dark blue suit and leather boots with those metal wing tips on the end. I approach him, the champagne fueling my bravery, and tap his shoulder.
“Glad I didn’t make a bet,” I say.
Chris turns around and smiles. “Oh, I don’t know. A wager would have been fun.”
I wonder what he would have bet for. A kiss?
“Okay, so I’m correct to assume you knew who I was at the park,” I say.
He blushes, smiles, and shrugs. “Guilty.”
“Well, shit, man. Now I’m at a disadvantage. You have to confess who you are,” I say. “It’s only fair, right?”
“Absolutely.” He offers his hand. “Christopher Chandler. Of the Chandler Chemical Corporation, maker of fine insecticides and house-hold cleaners for the greater USA and most of Asia and Europe. How do you do?” he says in a fake corporate voice.
I smile as he takes my hand and kisses the top of it. Suave.
“Damn, you weren’t kidding when you said you came from money,” I say.
“So you’ve heard of me?”
“No.”
He laughs.
“But, I have heard of your company,” I say. “I might even have some of their products at home.”
He turns to the painting. “Well, I’ve decided that I have to have your product in my home. This is stunning.”
I feel my cheeks burn from blushing. “Thank you.”
“I love how you managed to incorporate the many religions surrounding the original memorial. It’s a true testament to peace and compassion which I’m sure will piss off all those people who protested the mosque.”
“Yeah, I hope so.”
“And the texture with the shards of glass are amazing,” he says. “Is it safe to touch?”
“I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“So who do I see about buying?”
I point to Koongi hamming it up with a reporter. “See that little tight ass with gold choppers in the loud suit?”
“Him? Really?”
“He’s your man.”
Chris takes a breath and then shakes his head like he has to walk a mile on hot coals. “The things I do for the sake of art.”
I sip my champagne and watch Chris talk to Koongi. I don’t know what I’m happier about, the fact that I made a high five-figure sale or that he wants me in his home.
LIMOS
After saying good night, I put on my leather jacket and let Chris escort me to the street where a large black limo waits. A driver steps out and opens the side door.
I stop and ask, “No way. This is yours?”
He rolls his eyes and blushes in embarrassment. “Please don’t hate me. Some things my family will not let me do. One of which is travel without the driver.”
Even though I’m lucky enough to make a lot of money I still take taxis or walk the city. Chris’s family has to be millionaires. “No, no. It’s cool. I just wasn’t expecting it.”
I enter the stretch limo and sit on the plush gray leather seat. The damn thing could fit at least ten more people. This is like ‘rock star’ limo. I smile and watch Chris lean over and open the wet bar. “What will you have?”
“You sure this is cool?” I ask. “Don’t want to get your driver in trouble. I heard that some wouldn’t let kids drink in their limos.”
“This isn’t the prom, darling.” Chris laughs politely and pats my shoulder. “I know you’re underage. I am too. I’m only 19.”
“Oh, well. Shit, if you’re going to drink.”
Chris pours us a couple of Jamisons over ice. My kind of wet bar! We settle back and sip our drinks. The golden whisky warms me from tongue to belly.
“Feels good to be out of there,” I say.
“Don’t like crowds?”
“Fucking hate them,” I say. “Don’t get me wrong, I like showing my art off and selling it to people who want it, but…I don’t know.”
“It feels like you have to act a certain way in front of them. Like, fulfill the standard of being a celebrity or someone important?”
“Exactly. I’m no Lindsay Lohan or Miley Cyrus, ya know?”
“Yes, I can see that. Judging by the charming sweatshirt you’re wearing, I’d say you do a good job of breaking other people’s expectations and standards.”
I place my hand on the shirt and run the fingers down the FUCK U. lettering. “You like my shirt?”
“Fantastic. Where can I get one?”
“Can’t. Made it myself. One of a kind.”
I pass him my empty glass for a refill. He pours me another drink and says, “So it’s a Michelina Radicci limited edition? You mean there’s no Fuck University?”
“Sort of. From what I hear all universities either fuck you or you fuck them. So in a way all college sweatshirts are basically from FUCK U.”
I laugh, not believing I said that. Must be the alcohol. Chris smiles and shakes his head.
“You’re amazing, Miki.”
We fall into one of those weird moments where our laughter slows down and we look into each other’s eyes. I love moments like this. I love it even more that he leans closer and graces my lips with his. The drinks settle on the armrest table and our hands hold each other instead. He works his tongue in my mouth and the alcohol swishes between us. I try to take more of him, grab at his coat and feel what he has under it. God, this boy is so intoxicating.
The side door swings open and the driver waits outside. We break off, giggle, and fix our clothes. No way we can erase the blushes from our faces, though.
“Guess we’re here,” he says.
I smile,
wishing we weren’t.
BUILDING THE BOY
A line of rich, upper class couples run out of the Midtown Italian restaurant called Fasino’s. They don’t appear too happy and I don’t blame them. The temperature must be 20 degrees tonight. And I’m sure seeing Chris and I walk out of the limo and into the restaurant without waiting on line pisses them off too. I couldn’t care less.
The maitre de smiles at Chris and offers his smooth manicured hand. “A pleasure to see you, Mr. Chandler.”
Chris shakes his hand and asks for a table for two. Before they escort us, a woman in her twenties and a skintight evening gown takes my leather jacket and Chris’s wool overcoat to hang in the coatroom. We follow the maitre de to our table. The dining room is huge. Marble pillars reach up to a high ceiling painted to look like a clear blue sky while the walls depict an Italian landscape. A violinist wanders through the tables and plays slow tempo classical songs to doe-eyed diners.
I don’t know if it’s the alcohol or the image of a sharply dressed Chris with a short, dark haired Italian American girl from Jersey in dress pants, red Doc Martins, and a FUCK U sweatshirt walking past tables of women wearing the finest dresses ever to strut down a runway scoffing at me, but I cannot stop smiling.
When we sit at the table and the maitre de leaves us with menus, Chris smiles and asks, “Having a good time?”
“Place could use one of those mirrored glass disco balls. But yeah, I’m kicking.”
After we place our order and the wine guy fills our glasses, Chris asks, ”Have you ever eaten here before?”
“Nope. Not a big fan of Italian food.”
“Really? Radicci is as Italian as you can get.”
“Technically I’m Sicilian.”
“Oh. Sorry.” He holds up his hands in defense.
“Yeah, my people didn’t take Mussolini’s shit when he bowed down to Hitler in World War II. I guess they were terrorists and helped fight against the Nazis,” I say. “At least that’s what my Grandfather says.”
“Admirable people, the Sicilians,” Chris says, sipping his wine. “Is your grandfather alive? Sounds like an interesting man.”
“He’s alive. He lives with me.”
He nods. “Wow, you paint and take care of your grandfather.”
“Take care? Hell no. The man still drives a Midtown bus. Sometimes it feels like he’s taking care of me. He cooks dinner most nights even though they’re my grandmother’s dishes. I think it’s his way of keeping her alive, you know? My grandmother was great. Funny as the shit in George W. Bush’s head,” I say. “So, yeah, I kind of stay away from places like this. They don’t make it like real Italians do. No soul. Although there’s this great pizza place down the block from where I live. Real pizza. Not that Dominos/Pizza Hut shit.”
“And he didn’t come to your show?”
I shrug. I never know why people keep asking me that.
“Why should he?” I ask. “He lives with me and sees everything. Besides, he has work in the morning.”
“Maybe he’s like you and doesn’t like the crowds.”
“That could be true.”
The waiter brings over a dish filled with raw sliced tomatoes and mozzarella drizzled with virgin olive oil. Chris and I pick at it, placing some of each on our little dishes. By the time we’re done, I’m soaking up the oil with pieces of warm bread and eating it.
“So, if I can believe the press, you have no contact with your parents?” Chris asks.
“None,” I say, chewing.
“Sorry if I’m getting too personal.”
“Not at all.” I shrug “I’m used to it.”
“I sometimes get antsy when people bring up my father.”
“Oh? Should I dare to ask?”
“You don’t know?”
“All I know is I keep your dishwashing detergent under my sink next to your roach spray.”
He smiles and nods his head. Seriousness pulls his face down. I’m starting to wish I didn’t push the issue with his father.
“He was killed a few years ago.”
“Shit, I’m so sorry.” I swallow the bread. “We can just end this right now.”
“No, it’s okay. As long as you don’t mind hearing about it. It was all over the news when it happened. It’s not like it’s some dark family secret.”
“Um, okay. If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure you’ll hear about it later so you might as well get it straight from me,” he says, patting the table. “He and his mistress were murdered at this hotel.”
I shake my head, having no idea what to say. What can you say? Then I feel a sadness radiate off him. He doesn’t appear like he’s going to cry; maybe he’s been telling the story so long he knows how to say it without showing tears. All I know is if my grandfather got murdered I would be sobbing before the first word of the story hit my lips.
“The killer was never found. Not like the police didn’t try. My father was an important man in the business world, even with politicians. Like me, he inherited the company, but he was the one who made it global.”
I look into his eyes - mine wet with tears - and take his hand. “So sorry.”
“Thank you. I’m okay. I mean, I’m still freaked out about it, but I’ve learned to move forward. My mother, though, has had a hard time. She kind of lost it.”
“I’m sure. Going through the death of your husband and to find out he was with another woman when it happened,” I say. “She must have been devastated.”
“She was. She couldn’t talk and her mind was very absent. She couldn’t remember how to do simple things like brushing her teeth. So after a year, I made the decision to go to school up here and to place my mother in a new environment.”
Damn, does this guy get the son of the year award?
“How is she doing with the change?”
“Good. She’s functioning better. She’s able to care for herself. She even leaves the apartment and explores the city to shop. Although she isn’t able to handle the business aspects my father left to her, she’s able to listen to the advisors that run the company until I am of age.”
“Wow. Must be some big shoes they got lined up for you.”
“Overwhelmed would not cover how I feel, but I think I can do it. And I’m going to make sure I’m not my father’s son. Personally, I mean. I just can’t get over what he did to my mother. When I found that out, I just…went crazy, you know?”
I nod my head like I know what he’s talking about but I’m just smiling inside noting what a good boyfriend he would be. In a sad way, through tragedy, he’s been programmed not to cheat. Low maintenance. Big points there in my book.
STUMBLE HOME
I’m drunk off my ass and the world is tilting around me like a see-saw as Chris helps me out of the limo. I giggle and fall into his arms. Chris pulls me up onto my feet and then kisses me. I grab his coat and press close, but it never feels close enough. As he works his mouth down my neck, I notice the driver standing to the side looking the other way. The street in front of my building is quiet. I think it’s around 2 AM. I go back to kissing Chris and run my hands down his open overcoat. I explore his neither region and feel confident that we could get away with sex on the street, maybe on the limo. Why not, the driver is ignoring us.
“We should get you to bed,” Chris says, panting icy air.
“Mmm, now you’re talking,” I whisper in his ear.
Chris wraps his arm around my waist and escorts me to the glass entrance of the lobby. Behind us, the driver closes the door and walks back to his side. I take my keys out of my jacket pocket and somehow open the door.
“Do you need help upstairs?” he asks.
I flinch at him. “Thought you were going to get me to bed?”
“Don’t you have roommates? Your grandfather?”
I work my tongue down his neck. “Hmm, then let’s go to your place. Should be no traffic on the way to Midtown, right?”
Chris moans and I know I
have him under my control. “I wish we could. But my mother lives there too and…you know her condition.”
My libido drops like a safe off the Verrazano Bridge. But then the safe stops in mid-air. I motion to the couch next to the mailboxes in the lobby. “That couch looks comfy.”
Chris jumps up and down like he’s trying to get warm, but I know he’s just shaking the horniness out of his system. “No, no, no.” He laughs, then pecks my lips. “Another time. Trust me, I so want to. But…we have plenty of time.”
The safe splashes into the water. But it floats back up.
He hugs me. I press my cheek to his chest and squeeze him back.
“I’ll call you after my classes tomorrow. We can have dinner.”
“Sounds good.”
I plant one last kiss on his lips, my tongue working with his in a sweet dance, and then back off. Like I wanted, he appears drained by my kiss. “Good night, Christopher Chandler.”
He waves and grins, so cute with ruffled clothes and hair. “Good night Miki Radicci.”
He watches me board the elevator. I press the three button and we wave one last time before the doors seal. I lean against the railing and close my eyes. I see nothing but Chris. My God, I just may be falling in love.
I enter the condo and keep the lights off. The studio is quiet, like I expect. Everyone else either has work or school in the morning. I take off my boots so I can soft step across the hardwood floor to my bedroom across from Corey’s. I close the door behind me and strip off my clothes. Before I put on an old t-shirt for bed, I check the bruises around my belly and chest. The blood stuck to my skin must be breaking off; the wounds I experienced through Katherine Moore are turning yellow. Bypassing brushing my teeth - I know I will regret this in the morning - I slip under the covers and reach over to the nightstand to shut off my phone and the light. The cell vibrates and gives off a message ring. I check the screen and see that it’s not a message but an email. It’s blank. The address is from an undisclosed recipient. But there’s a JPEG attachment. Normally I would just delete it as if it was spam or some kind of computer virus, but a weird feeling runs over me. I open the JPEG. The breath is sucked right out of my lungs.
A Black Deeper Than Death (Miki Radicci Book 1) Page 6