Full Tilt Duet Box Set

by Emma Scott

  Here, but running late. Meet me downstairs?

  I raced down and got to the curb just as the driver opened the passenger door and Jonah climbed out. He froze when he saw me, jaw dropping open for a beat.

  “I got this,” he said to the driver, who tipped his cap and returned to sit behind the wheel.

  “Good evening,” I said.

  “You look…” He shook his head as he came closer and slid his arms around my waist.

  “You don’t have to,” I said. “I love your silent compliments.”

  “Every time I see you, I think, This is it. She cannot possibly look more beautiful than she does right now. And then I see you the next time.”

  Tears jumped to my eyes as I ran my hands down the lapels of his dark gray suit. “You look…so handsome, Jonah. God, what’s wrong with me?” I pressed the back of my wrist carefully under one eye, then fanned my face. “I don’t know what this is about. It’s a special night for you and I’m so happy and proud…Excited to see your beautiful glass. Shit, I should get a box of tissues to carry around. I know I’m going to need it.”

  Jonah bent and kissed my mouth. “Thank you for being here with me.”

  I could feel the tension coiled in his muscles. His expression was troubled, like he had a thousand thoughts on his mind and wanted to say more. But the street lights flickered on above us. Night had begun to fall, and Jonah turned to usher me into the limo.

  “Courtesy of A-1?” I asked.

  “God, no,” Jonah said, sliding beside me. “Eme sent it for me. It’s sort of ridiculous, but I couldn’t send it away and ruin the driver’s night. But I’m glad it’s not from A-1 or I would never hear the end of it from the guys.”

  “I love Eme for doing it,” I said. “You deserve it.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Jonah said.

  The limo pulled away from the curb and Jonah turned to watch Vegas go by outside the window. His leg jounced and I slipped my hand in his. He held it tightly the entire ride over, and then gave it an almost painful squeeze when we arrived at the Wynn.

  “Holy shit,” he muttered.

  The front of the hotel was a rotating cavalcade of sedans, limos, and cars, spilling out guests dressed in semi-casual attire.

  “I didn’t think there’d be so many,” Jonah said. “Eme must’ve invited half of Vegas.” He turned to me, his handsome face twisted by panic. “What do I do if they hate it?”

  I started to tell him they weren’t going to hate it, but I knew from my own experience of putting my soul on display, pouring my heart out into a song and then handing it to someone else. Of course they won’t hate it wasn’t much of a stopgap against that kind of anxiety.

  “Do you love it?” I asked. “Is the installation everything you envisioned?”

  Jonah nodded. “Yeah, it is.”

  I smiled and shrugged. “There you go.”

  He barked a short laugh. “Well, that was easy.” He stroked my cheek, studying me intently, and opened his mouth to say something more. He kissed me instead, just as the driver opened the door for us and it was time to go in.

  The long wing of the L-shaped gallery displayed the individual pieces for sale, each standing on plain, oblong stands of varying heights. Bottles and vases ribboned with color in complex yet precise patterns. Spheres and cubes that contained impossible bouquets of flowers. One cluster of purple and yellow wildflowers had bees hovering over it. Another looked as if it were suspended underwater, blurred and fluid in its shape. Other pieces hung from the ceiling in twists of multi-colored glass. Some were lamps, their bulbs hidden among the coils.

  I had to bite the inside of my cheek as we walked through the formally-dressed people taking in Jonah’s gorgeous work. They sipped champagne from crystal flutes or ate delicate finger foods off the trays of passing waiters. A current of muttered, awed conversation wove through the shifting crowd. Every direction my head turned, I heard guests exclaim how beautiful the glass was and how much they’d willingly spend to take a piece home with them.

  Jonah looked straight ahead, his hand holding mine tightly, as we made our way to the short end of the L, where his installation hung. We rounded the corner and joined the gathered crowd, all of their voices and gasps pointing up toward the ceiling.

  A sea…

  I stared up, too. Ten feet up to a waterfall of glass in every shade of blue. Ribbons and curls of it, some bearded in opalescent foam. It poured from under a sphere set at the center. A sun of orange, red, gold and yellow. A fireball full of molten lava.

  At the bottom of the waterfall, the water transformed into a placid blue made from flares of glass, like square-shaped plates with undulating edges, each a foot long and just as wide. Lily pads in green, topped with clusters of pink crystal flowers, dotted the azure lake spreading along the floor. Hidden lights at strategic locations illuminated the animal life among the water and greenery: glass fish with scales of bronze, cubes of coral and seaweed, and even an octopus, its tentacles fanned out and reaching.

  My hand in Jonah’s squeezed so hard, my knuckles ached.

  “Jonah, it’s…” I didn’t have a word for what it was. He turned to look down at me and I could only stare back.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  My eyes slowly picked out Tania, Dena and Oscar, Jonah’s parents and Theo within the crowd. Then Eme Takamura spotted us. Without a word she pointed, waited for the gazes to follow, then she began to clap. The rest of the crowd joined in as they realized the artist was with them. Soon the space was filled with applause and Jonah took a step back, overwhelmed. I gently nudged him forward.

  “It’s all for you,” I whispered. “Go get it.”

  The rest of the night was a bit of a blur. Dena, Oscar, and Theo stuck with me, as Jonah, Tania, and the Fletchers were ushered around by Eme, meeting various artists, collectors and critics. My eyes couldn’t get enough of Jonah being greeted and congratulated for his beautiful legacy. Then friends from UNLV approached and Jonah was surrounded and embraced, again and again, by people he hadn’t seen in almost two years.

  “His work is astonishing,” Dena said, admiring a large, egg-shaped sculpture filled with geographic shards, like a prism, pastel gemstones floating among them. “We’ve seen his work at UNLV but this… He’s taken it to a whole new level.”

  “He’s a damn genius,” Theo said. He was less dressed up than anyone else, still I thought he looked extremely handsome in a black button-down shirt rolled up to just below his elbows, revealing his inked forearms.

  “No date, T?” Oscar asked.

  Theo shook his head.

  “That’s a first.”

  Theo shrugged and muttered something unintelligible against the mouth of his beer bottle.

  “Is Chihuly here?” I asked. If Jonah’s idol arrived, the night would be complete.

  Dena scanned the crowd up and down the long L. “I don’t think so. At least not yet.”

  “He’ll show,” Oscar said.

  “He’d better,” Theo said.

  No sooner had he said it than the crowds parted, and a man walked through, flanked by an entourage of four. He was short, rotund and jowly, dressed all in black. His silver hair brushed his shoulders and a black patch covered his left eye.

  “Theo…?” I whispered, grabbing his hand.

  “It’s him,” Theo said.

  My hand in his squeezed tighter and my breath caught as this man, this master of glass, this legend strode up to Jonah and tapped his arm. Jonah turned. His face turned inside-out, morphing through awe, shock and reverence.

  “Jesus, look at him,” Theo said softly.

  I blinked away tears as Dale Chihuly offered Jonah his hand and Jonah shook it. I was standing too far away to hear any words, but Chihuly was animated as he spoke, his arms gesturing, fingers pointing at different pieces. Jonah’s head bobbed. His mouth shaped thank you over and over. Then he and Chihuly moved around the bend in the L and disappeared from our sight.

&nbs
p; “Oh, my God, Theo,” I whispered.

  I looked up to see him blinking hard, his jaw clenched so that muscles twitched beneath. He glanced down at me, his pupils dilated, now just letting the tears accumulate.

  “He came,” Theo said. “And he likes Jonah’s work. We saw it happen.”

  I nodded, fighting back tears.

  “We saw it,” he said. “You know what I mean?”

  I knew. Jonah met his idol. His hero praised the work. Theo and I witnessed it. It would forever be one of the most precious moments of our lives.

  For an hour, Jonah and Dale Chihuly sat on a bench in front of the glass waterfall, deep in conversation as the crowd thinned out around them. Finally, the master stood up, shook hands heartily with Jonah, then with Eme and Tania, and left the gallery with his small entourage.

  “Sold out,” Eme said, consulting her iPad. “The entire show sold out. Every last piece. Gone.”

  Jonah ran a hand through his hair, looking around at his work, his face happy, dazed, and a little bit weary.

  “Congratulations,” I said, embracing him tight. “But I need a better word. A bigger word.”

  “Even she doesn’t have words,” Oscar said, jerking a thumb toward Dena. “Not even a Rūmī quote.”

  A hand half covering her trembling smile, Dena shook her head. “I’m at a loss.”

  Oscar gaped. “You hear that, ladies and gents? Jonah reunited with old friends, sold out his entire show, met his idol, and—wonder of all wonders—rendered Dena Bukhari speechless.”

  Dena shoved him. “Unfortunately for you it was only a momentary loss.” She raised her wineglass. “Rūmī said, Let the beauty of what you love be what you do. I toast to our dear friend, Jonah, whose exhibit is the embodiment of those words. You’ve created so much beauty, my friend, the world cannot help but be grateful to you for it.”

  In the limo on the ride home, I sat with my temple resting on Jonah’s shoulder. “Dena’s right, you know,” I said. “The art world is going to lose their minds over you. And you deserve every bit of it.”

  He nodded against my head. “A legacy,” he said. “That’s all I wanted.” His fingers picked my chin up and he regarded me, his brows furrowed in the dimness. “I never thought to ask for more.”

  A twinge of unease tainted my happiness, like a drop of black ink in a clear bowl. “Are you all right? You seem a little…”

  “Tired,” Jonah said. “Tonight was…surreal. More than I’d ever imagined. I feel a little punchy.”

  “Let’s go to your place,” I said, my hand on his thigh. “To celebrate.”

  He smiled and took my hand in his. “Have something particular in mind?”

  “I can think of a few things.”

  But back home, after he changed out of his suit and emerged from the bathroom in his sleep pants, it was a different matter.

  “I know I’ll regret this later,” he said, his gaze trailing over me as I sprawled on his bed in my lacy red underwear. “But I’m about done in. Give me a few hours to recharge?”

  I took the raincheck and kissed him goodnight. I curled up next to him and closed my eyes, expecting to wake in the deepest part of the night by kisses along my neck—his customary line of attack. Instead, my eyes next fluttered open to full daylight. The clock on the nightstand read six a.m. Jonah was still sleeping, his warm breath wafting over me.

  No big deal, I thought. He’d been working nonstop on his glass for months. No surprise the bottom fell out. He needed—and deserved—a long rest.

  I dozed until his watch alarm went off an hour later, indicating it was time for his meds. He went into the kitchen and I drifted between awake and asleep, pleasantly anticipating his return, sure we’d make love now. But instead he slipped back into bed, wrapped his arms around me, and went back to sleep.

  Now I lay wide awake, listening to him breathe. In and out, a whispering metronome, keeping time, counting down minutes.

  When he finally stirred awake at quarter to nine, he frowned at the clock as if he couldn’t believe what it said. I saw a sliver of fear his eyes, and felt its twin slide itself into my heart.

  “Come here,” I whispered. I kissed him hard, and he responded immediately, gratefully. We fell into each other, grasping and rocking until the headboard banged the wall.

  Afterward, I told myself it was the intensity of our lovemaking that sent Jonah back into sleep again.

  Nothing more.

  Two days after the opening. Two mornings of Jonah sleeping late, waking only to take his meds, then going back to bed. Two days of him hanging around, skimming Facebook on his phone, hardly saying a word to me, or watching mindless noise on TV. Two days of increasing tension between us that had no source, but that scared me to my bones.

  On the third day, Jonah and I had breakfast at Baby Stacks café, a pancake house off the Strip. It had been my habit to order the same types of food Jonah ate, partially out of solidarity, but also because I ultimately felt healthier. Everything I had done since moving to Vegas had been better for my health, mental and physical.

  The waitress came to take our order.

  “I’ll have an egg-white omelet…” I began.

  “Jesus, Kace, get pancakes if you want them,” Jonah said. “Order whatever you want.” His smile came a little too late. “They have killer pancakes.”

  I stared as he turned to the waitress. “I’ll have a short stack, decaf, and a side of house fries.”

  “House fries are too greasy,” I said.

  He handed his menu to the waitress, not looking at me. “One order can’t hurt.”

  I ordered the egg-white omelet with a side of fruit and coffee. The waitress took our menus and left. Jonah’s eyes were on the table, brows furrowed as he rolled his spoon between his palms, like a mini blowpipe.

  “Hey,” I said softly.

  It took me three tries of saying his name before he looked up.

  “Sorry, Kace, what’s up?”

  “You tell me. You’ve been running hot and cold lately.”

  “Have I?”

  “Yeah, you have. I feel dizzy trying to keep up.”

  He wilted a little and reached across the table to take my hand. “I’m sorry. I’m a little distracted lately. I’m not used to so much time off. I don’t know what to do with myself. I guess it’s making me a little irritable.”

  Yes, okay. That makes sense.

  I squeezed his hand. “Why not go to the hot shop anyway? Make something just for you?”

  He shrugged and muttered something that sounded like, “Maybe,” and took his hand back.

  Silence.

  “Tania told me three different galleries want your installation,” I finally said. “London, Paris and New York. That’s the trifecta of the art world, isn’t it?”

  “Why, because Vegas isn’t good enough?” He waved a hand. “It’s glass. How they think they can move it across the ocean is beyond me, but they can try.”

  I sat back in my chair, feeling as if I were having breakfast with a stranger. Or worse, my father.

  Ten more minutes of silence squeezed by before our food arrived. I picked at my omelet, my appetite disappeared. Jonah stared at his plate of food and finally forked one wedge of potato. I watched from under my eyelashes as he chewed it slowly, as if it were a lump of gray clay. He swallowed hard and washed it down with sip of water. Then he pushed his entire plate away.

  “Guess I’m not that hungry.”

  After what I would forever call the Worst Breakfast Ever, we headed to Vegas Ink. I wanted a new tattoo and had set up time to visit Theo’s studio and see his work.

  Jonah said almost nothing on the drive over. But just when the silence was beginning to be oppressive, he suddenly found his smile, took my hand and pressed it to his lips.

  Vegas Ink was located at a mini-mall just off the Strip. Its walls were fire engine red and covered in framed examples of the tattoo artists’ work there. The chairs were overstuffed faux leather, also in red,
and three artists were bent over their clients, Theo among them. The buzz of the needles was almost drowned out by heavy metal blasting over the sound system. A receptionist with a shaved head told us she’d let Theo know we were here. We took a seat in the waiting area, which was really nothing more than an upholstered bench near the front door, facing a wall of photographs. Past clients revealed fresh tattoos, their skin still raised red.

  Jonah sank heavily onto the bench and picked up an issue of Inked magazine.

  “Any idea what you’re going to get?” he asked. It was the first time he’d voluntarily spoken all morning.

  “None,” I said. “But I’m eager to see your brother’s work.”

  “He’s talented as hell,” Jonah said. “My father gives him too much shit for it. You’ll see when you check out his portfolio.”

  I nodded and waited until Theo rounded the short corner, calling, “Hey, guys.”

  The mere fact he sounded upbeat and animated filled me with relief and I all but jumped to my feet. “Hey. Thanks for making the time for me.”

  Theo jerked his chin at Jonah. “You coming?”

  “You guys go ahead,” Jonah said. “I need to give Eme a call. See what’s happening with the sale pieces.”

  “You’re not going to help me pick something?” I asked, incredulous. I forced my smile to go wider. “Or where on my body it should go?”

  Behind me, Theo coughed.

  “Surprise me,” Jonah said. He pulled out his cell phone, conversation over.

  My cheeks burning, I followed Theo to his chair, passing the other artists. One was a huge, burly guy with a bald, tattooed head, who was putting a feminine spray of violet flowers on a woman’s arm. The other artist was a young woman in black clothes and heavy makeup. She had large pale green eyes, almost cartoonish in her petite face. She looked like a gothic fairy. She gave me a nod as she drew the blood dripping from a fang of a hissing cobra on the back of young man’s calf.