by Vera Roberts
I gulped. Twice. All of that art? There had to have been thousands of pieces here. I needed to know all of them? Holy crap. “Okay.”
“We have art curators on board to help you and they’re well-trained and highly educated in their field.” Rose let out a deep breath. It was clear she was not fascinated with me and just tolerated me. Yay.
“I will ask them for their assistance,” I faked a smile to somehow relieve the cold front between us. “Thank you for the help, Rose.”
“Not a problem.” She started to say something then hesitated before she finally decided it was worth mentioning. “One thing about Ian,” she briefly looked around to see if anyone could hear her, “he might seem detached but that’s just who he is. He doesn’t mean to be curt nor does he mean to be insensitive. If he seems like he’s any of those things, he’s been through a lot and doesn’t have time for unnecessary drama.”
I wasn’t quite sure what she meant. What drama could a billionaire have gone through? “Like what?” I asked.
“One day he’ll tell you the story about Lula Jean. That affected his entire life more than he wants to admit.” Rose smiled at me. I think it was a smile. It was a cross between a small frown and a tight grimace your parent gives you when you’re acting up in public and they’re trying to give you a warning to shut up before they beat the black off you.
She softly placed her hand on my arm and patted it. “Good luck.” She began to walk away.
I’m curious who Lula Jean is. Was she an ex-lover? A former wife? Whoever she was, I’m assuming, made Ian into the no-strings attached playboy. She was important enough to have a room named after her. “Rose!” I called after her and she turned around. I quickly walked up to her. “How many assistants did Ian have prior to me?”
Rose smiled again. Gone was the grimace and replaced was Grandma with the Werther’s. “None.”
~~~~~
I spent my day at the Ferguson overwhelmed and feeling like my head was just above water.
With a legal pad and pen, I began to study every piece of art, room by room. The name, the year, the timeframe, what type of art it would be considered as. By the time I was done with the second room, I needed a new note pad.
I finally ventured my way until the infamous Lula Jean room where I stopped before I entered. Rose’s words heavily hung in the background like a stern warning and I was afraid my mere existence in that room was a big, fat ‘uh-uh.’
Yet, I’m here. Ian hired me and it was rather silly for me not to go into this room. I opened the glass doors and entered. It was a very large room, probably the equivalent of a football field. The stark white walls almost blinded me and the room felt colder than the others. It might have been true or just my imagination working overtime as usual.
On the walls were female artists. In fact, the entire exhibit was nothing but female artists. Georgia O’Keefe. Frida Kahlo. Marie Bracquemond. Kara Walker. Lynette Yiadom-Boakye. Gwendolyn Knight.
The room had a definite feminist feel to it. Okay, Lula Jean was a feminist and somehow connected to the Fergusons. Got it.
I looked around the room, hopefully to spot some art she’d done and look up her history while I was at it. “Lula Jean…Lula Jean…where are you, Lula Jean?” I softly whispered.
“What you’re looking for, you won’t find.” A booming voice suddenly answered behind me.
I nearly jumped out of my skin and dropped my note pad and pen. It was Ian, looking gorgeous as ever with black slacks and open collar blue shirt. I’ve must been so lost in my thoughts, I didn’t hear him enter the room. “Ian!” I placed a hand on my chest to stop the Tommy Lee pounding of my heart. “You scared the crap out of me!”
“I apologize for that,” he kneeled down to pick up my items and handed them back to me, “I see you’ve been busy.”
“Homework?” I showed him my notes. “I was told to learn all of the art pieces here.”
Ian chuckled and shook his head. “That’s a waste of time. Rose told you that so you wouldn’t be bored but you don’t have to learn all of them.”
I had a feeling Rose was a shiesty bitch.
“It does help that you have a familiarity with some of them so when someone asks where can they see a certain artist, you can point them in the right direction. It’ll be rare you’ll deal with the public but it might happen from time to time.” His eyes flickered with enthusiasm as if he was up to some mischief. “Want to get out of here for a little while?”
I would go anywhere with him. “Gladly.”
~~~~~
We drove to a different restaurant, Mastro’s Ocean Club, up the coast in Malibu. It was far enough from L.A. and almost in a different world. I get the feeling Ian often goes by his own rules without any regard to anyone else. While I admire him for it now, I would find out later how incredibly frustrating that could be.
We sat at the restaurant, overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The last week has been a small blur. I was on the verge of being kicked out of school, contemplating a life of stripping and sexing for the ‘Gram, only to have my white knight (no pun intended) to save me. I feel like Cinderella with Jimmy Choos instead of a glass slipper.
Ian introduced me to a lifestyle I could only dream of and read in my trashy ebooks. The joke wasn’t lost on me. I became what I’ve read about. I wonder when my book will turn into a movie. I just hope Nicole Beharie plays me. She’s my twin in my head.
“So, how do you like your first day?” He began over appetizers of smoked salmon and fried calamari.
My first day was overwhelming. I would love to say it was a breeze and all I did was kick back and update my tumblr but it was anything but. It was clear to everyone at the Ferguson why I was hired and I felt like it was a running joke there. “Entertaining,” I answered.
Ian raised an eyebrow and grinned. He seemed to know I knew my position of his assistant was full of shit. “I’ll keep you busy,” he promised.
“Oh, I don’t doubt that.” I replied. “Other than that, it hasn’t been bad.”
“What do you think about the Ferguson?” He asked.
I thought it was pretentious, stuffy, and grossly outdated. I see why it only catered to a certain group with big pockets who were also melanin-deficient.
Other than the Lula Jean room, there was nothing too exciting about the museum except it was on a beautiful piece of land and the architecture was one for the history books. “It’s interesting.”
Ian chuckled as he wiped his mouth and set down his napkin. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“We are?”
“I know you’re on your p’s and q’s to keep everything politically correct for me, but I really don’t have time for that shit.” He bargained. “Tell me what you really think about it.”
This man doesn’t know what he just asked for. “You’re catering to the right audience,” I replied.
“Which is?”
“Your family wants Pat Boone and not Little Richard,” I replied. “The Ferguson wants Friends but not Living Single. You want Home Improvement but not Martin.”
“I know what the first example is,” Ian waved a finger at me, “but I’m not familiar with the last two.”
Of course, he wouldn’t be and I don’t have the care to explain to him otherwise. I’m sure if he made a reference to Coldplay I would look at him strangely as well. “Your family likes to play it safe and while that’s great, you have other museums in the area who are playing it loud and proud. I constantly hear about events at the Huntington, the Geffen, and MOCA. I hardly hear anything about the Ferguson.”
“What do you suggest?” He asked.
I wasn’t sure if he was sincere or if it was his way of firing me on the first day. “Have open mics where the best spoken poets have their night to shine. Celebrate different cultural months like Latino, Black History, and Asian. There’s an International Women’s Day you could spotlight in the Lula Jean room.” I thought about the real question I wanted to ask. Who is L
ula Jean? What I told Ian was more important than me being nosey. “There’s a lot to be done with the Ferguson.”
Ian took another bite of the fried calamari as I waited on baited breath. The silence was between us was the loudest sound I’ve heard and I honestly felt I just shot myself in the foot. “I agree,” he finally stated.
I don’t know if Ian truly agreed with me or if it was just his way of humoring a college student who knows nothing about art. “Okay,” I cautiously replied.
“No, I’m serious. We need more diversity in the museum. We need other people than the usual suspects,” he winked at me and flashed that brilliant, panty-dropping smile of his. Le sigh. I don’t think I would ever get used to it. “You have great ideas and I really like them.”
“I’m glad you do,” I finally take a bite of the fried calamari. Not a fan of squid or anything that has tentacles but hey, this is not bad at all.
“You’re going to be the one presenting them at the next board meeting,” Ian calmly replied as if I asked him what time it was.
While I’m grateful I didn’t choke on the calamari, I’m pretty sure Ian wasn’t a fan of me spitting it across the room. The shock Ian just delivered tells me I really did break off more than I could chew with him.
Geez, I’m such a noob.
Eight
Ian slowly glided in and out of me. He kneeled on the bed and gathered my legs, resting my feet on his shoulders. I tightly wrapped around him and he moaned in my ear. Damn, he felt so incredible. Every inch of him was thick and delicious and it seemed my center hugged him with each movement.
“Domi…Domi…” He pushed in more and I screamed out his name. “Yes, baby, say my name. Say my name, Domi. Say it.”
“DOMINIQUE!”
I was in the middle of daydreaming about Ian when I glanced up from my computer and locked eyes with a man who looked similar to him. I don’t know if I was relieved it wasn’t Ian or if I was pretty pissed off that it was only a silly daydream.
I noticed he had brown eyes instead of blue and his demeanor was a bit quieter. He wasn’t flashy. He didn’t have the swagger Ian did. But this one was authoritative and also had an air of no time for bullshit.
“So, you’re my brother’s new assistant?”
I’d been at the Ferguson for a couple weeks already and started to get into a bit of a routine. I knew when was the best time to hit the coffee machines and when I should just stop by the nearest Peet’s. I knew how long it took me to get to the Ferguson from my off-campus apartment (around 40 minutes and that’s not bad considering L.A. traffic) and what time I needed to leave to avoid the traffic jam going home.
While at the Ferguson, I met with a few art curators and began to curiously learn about what they do and the different periods of art. I had a long way to go in terms of being any type of expert but I knew more than I ever have. I was rather proud of myself.
I immediately stood up and introduced myself. “I’m Dominique Kimbrough.”
He shook my hand and sat before my desk. Oh, okay. I guess we are having an impromptu meeting. “I’m Gerald Ferguson, Vice-Chair of the Ferguson Gallery. My father, Anthony, is the Chair. We make all of the decisions around here.”
It didn’t go unnoticed he deliberately left Ian’s name out. I have a feeling this is going to be a painfully excruciating meeting.
“Rose told me you were the new hire of Ian’s and quite honestly, I’m surprised. I didn’t know my brother was so busy he needed an assistant,” Gerald tapped his fingers on the chair’s arm.
I swallowed the shade that was rising in my throat and forced a grin on my face. “Apparently he does,” I softly replied.
Gerald nodded as he continued to eyeball me. It was clear his brother didn’t impress him and I’m sure my presence didn’t make it any better. Oh dear.
“I saw you were on the schedule to give a presentation to the board this week.” He kept tapping the arm chair and I began to wonder if he had a tick. “What’s your presentation on?”
“Well, I walked around the Gallery and it’s amazing but I think it would be nice if it could have other artists featured. I suggested to Ian it would be nice if the Gallery had different months to feature African-American artists, Latino artists, and Asian artists. As well as a month dedicated solely to female artists.” I enthusiastically nodded.
“What’s wrong with what we have?” Gerald deadpanned.
Any enthusiasm I had, Gerald just sucked the life right out of me. “There’s nothing wrong. I just thought if you wanted more people to come in through the doors, it would be nice to change it up a bit.”
“Do you have an art degree, Dominique?” Gerald sucked his teeth.
“Well, no, I don’t. I just…”
“I think it’s best you keep your suggestions to yourself until you attain one and worked here for a few years. We have some of the best art curators in the world in this very gallery. I’m not going to take the opinion of a twenty-something year old plaything of my brother’s over their opinions.”
When people often experience stress and traumatic events, they often black out what happened because it was so damaging to their psyche and just go on auto drive. All I could remember about my day after Gerald’s nasty comment was his screeching voice when I threw my overpriced hot coffee on him and rushed out of the Ferguson.
Fuck you and your mama, too.
~~~~~
“Look at it this way, he’s paid for your tuition and the car. Even if he takes back the car, you have tuition paid for and you got a pretty sweet check.” Helen rubbed my back.
After being told off by Gerald, I went home and curled up in my bed. Word must’ve gotten around about what happened because my phone started blowing up an hour after I left with many calls from Ian and some from Rose. All of them went ignored and I finally just turned off my phone. I do want to talk to anyone named or connected to Ferguson ever again.
“You did cash the check, right?” Michelle asked.
“It’s in a trust fund,” I shrugged, “I couldn’t touch that money even if I wanted to.”
“Smart girl,” Michelle nodded.
“So now what, Sister?” Helen asked.
“Nothing,” I shrugged. “No job, no prospects, and I’ll start a new internship somewhere else.”
Helen nodded as she thought of another plan. With her, I can never tell if her plan is a good one or she plans to get us all drunk. On second thought, that’s not a bad plan, either. “I have a weed contact at MOCA. Let me get in touch with him.”
“She doesn’t need weed,” Michelle admonished.
“No, silly! He’s a weed dealer but he works for MOCA as his side job.”
MOCA stood for Museum of Contemporary Art. They were known to shock and awe and straddle the fine line of classy and obscene. “You mean he works for MOCA and is a weed dealer on the side?” I corrected.
“No, I said it right the first time,” Helen insisted. I’m starting to wonder where she’s finding these characters. “Anyway, let me get into contact with him and see if he has any openings there for an internship. You have some amazing ideas and they’re always changing it up. I’ll put in a good word for you.”
“Thanks,” I sniffled, “I’ll be fine. I just thought it would be a great opportunity but hey, better to love and lost than never at all.”
“That’s the spirit!” Michelle cheered. There was knocking on the door and we all looked at each other. It was only Wednesday and the partying didn’t start until Thursday night. Maybe someone wanted to start early. “I’ll go see who it is.” She left the bedroom.
Helen turned to me. “You need anything?”
“I’m good,” I nodded, “just sleep.”
“Sleep it off! Tomorrow is a new day.” She promised.
“Um, Sister? You have a visitor.” Michelle walked back into the bedroom and closed the door behind her. “It’s Ian Ferguson.”
My mind couldn’t decide if it was angry at him, while my body te
nsed up like I was about to go 12 rounds. My heart surprisingly did little pitter-patters. I hated that even when I wanted nothing to do with him, my heart was ready to embrace him. “What does he want?”
“He wants to talk to you. He said he was trying to get a hold of you all day.” She shrugged. “I can go back out and tell him no.”