by Cari Quinn
“I’m a nobody.”
“So you say. Do you think all the artists in your little commune get as much freelance as you do? That’s a no. I know plenty of artists who are far hungrier for the work.”
“I can guarantee you don’t know what goes on here, lady.”
“All right. How about this? I think you have an interesting take on Ian. I even looked through the digitized Polaroids you created for Lila. It’s a different approach. One I wouldn’t have envisioned, and I think that might be helpful when it comes to him. He’s a wild card in many ways.”
“Truer words. And I get it. You’re one of those people who has a spin for everything. I’m just too busy to get involved in Ian’s kind of crazy.”
“All I’m asking is you think about it. It’s a good deal for the both of you. I’ll text you my details.”
“I don’t need to think—”
But the line went dead. I tossed the phone on my kitchen island. Save me from Type-A women who think they’re doing things for my benefit. Almost always, it was for theirs.
I shoved my fingers into my hair. Shower. I needed a shower before Ginny arrived. And I did not need to think about Sabrina or Ian any more today. It was bad enough he was larger than life on a dozen of my canvases.
Fifteen minutes later, I had my brushes soaking and I’d scrubbed the worst of the paint off of me. The shower did the rest. I took a few extra minutes to dress like a real girl and do something with my wild hair. My backup alarm told me I only had ten minutes. I rushed around my studio and put away the extra canvases that didn’t pertain to my collection. Except the one that was still wet. I wasn’t entirely sure I could make that one work in the collection, but at least it was sort of in the right vein.
I shoved extra supplies in my drawers, slamming them as I went. One bounced back open and the corner of the glossy photo stuck out. My fingers curled into my palm. Me and Ian on the beach. Me laughing at him as he strummed on his guitar. Well, I can only assume it was me laughing, since I remembered the day so well.
The black marker X over my face seemed unnecessarily cruel.
It was the second one I’d received. The first had been addressed to J Town with just my first name, but this one actually had gone to my personal P.O. Box. The one I only used for my freelance jobs.
I’d thrown out the first one. I wasn’t sure why I was keeping the second.
Considering the vitriol I saw on my Instagram account by the fans Ian had accrued in his short career, it wasn’t overly surprising. They didn’t even know me and a large percentage of them hated me. I had no real ties to Ian other than a few sightings and videos, but it didn’t seem to matter.
My phone buzzed, and I stuffed the photo deeper into the drawer and slammed it shut again. I grabbed my phone and flicked away Ian’s last three texts to find Ginny’s, letting me know she was on her way down to me.
Showtime.
I shoved my phone in my pocket, straightened my jersey wrap dress, and made sure all my parts were covered before opening the door. I peeked outside and, sure enough, Ginny was striding down the hall. She wore a candy-red column dress that accentuated her long, willowy form. Matching red cat-eye glasses were perched on her blade of a nose. Her blond hair was cut in a severe pixie-like style, which also showcased the angles of her triangular face.
“Hello, Zoe.”
I pasted on a bright smile. “Nice to see you, Ginny.”
“I hope you have something for me this time.”
“I do.” I held open my door. “Come on in.”
She walked around my space, her arms crossed while her long fingers drummed lightly against her forearm. As usual, she didn’t say a damn word, which dragged the urge to babble out of some deep, ugly place in the back of my brain. The part that wanted to scream and defend my work.
The place I had to sit on whenever someone looked at my paintings.
Artists had it easy—except not. On like eighty levels of not. I still hadn’t recovered from my first show during college. The teachers liked to rip us apart with glee. They said it was to ready us for the ugliness of the real world, but I personally thought that was a crock of shit. They got off on the teardowns.
Ginny glanced at her phone, then up at the four canvases I had displayed, before finally turning her back on the whole thing. “Explain to me again what your thought process is on this collection?”
I swallowed and forced myself not to fidget. “I forwarded you my—”
“No, I don’t want your college term paper. I want you to tell me why this is the thing that expresses your artistic nature.”
I should be able to do this. I wanted this residency more than anything. I’d learned so much about myself and my art just being here and surrounding myself with art and the community, but I didn’t have an answer for this. Which did not bode well for me.
“What I thought.”
I fisted my hands. “I’m creating amazing stuff.”
“No doubt about that.” She turned to the last canvas. “Your eye is amazing, as is your skill. And I have been keeping track of you, Zoe. I know you’re one of the most sought-out freelancers in J Town.”
Was I the only one not aware of this? “Then what’s wrong with my collection?” I stalked over to the center canvas. I’d spent eighty-six hours on it. “The juxtaposition of the glass and steel on the edges of the boardwalk with the businessman crossing into both. It makes people think.”
“And it’s amazingly rendered. And on its own is a perfect image for a magazine article. Which is what it should be. You have a gift with the commercial, Zoe. I’m not denying it, but it’s missing the heart of you. This isn’t you. This is what you’re capable of, but it’s not what speaks for you.” Her gaze zeroed in on the microphone stand painting I hadn’t been able to pull down before her visit. “That. What is that?”
I wanted to cross the room and drag it down off the wall. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing?” She plucked the beach and cityscape down off the wall and exchanged it for the one of Ian’s first show. She didn’t even strain under the weight of it. The edges were still wet and stained Ginny’s palms, but she didn’t seem to notice. “This is where you need to be.”
I bowed my head. “It’s just a concert.”
“You know it’s more than that.” She crossed to me and tipped up my chin to meet her gaze. “Why the hell are you hiding this?”
I stared at her stubbornly. I didn’t want Ian wrapped around my work. He kept infiltrating it no matter how hard I tried to keep him separate.
“Until you stop being afraid of where your talent is drawing you, you’re never going to move forward.”
“This isn’t about me.”
“Isn’t it though?”
I fisted my hands at my sides and stepped back. “So, you’re turning down my collection?”
She shook her head with a sigh. “Stubborn. Good thing you’re talented, Zoe. But imagine what you’ll be like if you actually trust yourself?” She glanced down at her palms and walked around to the sink in my kitchenette to wash her hands. “Follow this line or you’re out. I don’t want to play hardball with you, but I have forty artists on the waiting list for a spot here. If you aren’t going to push yourself, I can’t help you.”
I dragged in a startled breath.
“I was approached by Ripper Records to work with one of their artists.”
“The same one you painted here?” She nodded to the microphone stand that had started all my obsessions with Ian and him onstage. “It has a different feel than your other paintings.”
I crossed my arms over my middle. Because it looked like my diary paintings. The ones I never shared. “It’s a study from a Polaroid.”
Ginny shook her head. “You kill me. Who the hell uses a Polaroid?”
I lifted my chin. “I do.”
“And it makes you special. You straddle the digital and analog with your style. Embrace it. I want more of this. I know you have more. I’d
bet my Mustang you have more of it hidden along that tarped wall.”
My jaw ached from clenching my teeth.
“Four weeks, Zoe. Or you can start packing up.”
My eyes snapped to hers. “I have three months left.”
“At my discretion.”
Panic strangled me. “That’s not true,” I whispered.
She shrugged and dried her hands. “Read your contract.” Her face softened a little. “I don’t want to do this, but I know you’re more than what you’re offering up here.” With that, she quietly left.
I stalked over to the painting of Ian’s show. Part of me was tempted to drag it off the wall and toss it across the room, but Ginny was right. There was more love from me in that painting than anything I’d shown her.
I wilted to the floor, heedless of my dress, and sat cross-legged on my drop cloth in front of the eight-foot wooden structure I’d created. The texture bled through the black paint no matter how many coats I’d given it.
But it made it better.
It made the boot I’d added to the corner even more torn and battered to match the janky mic stand. “Fuck.”
I knew it was where I needed to go, but I so didn’t want to have anything other than me in my art. Not this man who fucked with my head as much as he fascinated me.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I dragged it out, knowing who it was going to be before I looked at the screen.
I thought I knew how to drink. I’m English FFS, but your whiskey here? Dangerous. However, I met a new friend. Unlikely cat—his kind of word. Cool AF. I missed you too much.
Before I could answer him, another one came through.
Whiskey kisses are a sore substitute.
“This kid is gonna kill me.” Instead of replying to his texts, I called him. “Why are you bothering me?”
“Nice to hear from you, too, Magic.” His voice was huskier than usual. And that was almost impossible without him being sick.
“Stop calling me that.”
“Nope.”
“Contrary man.”
“Lonely man.”
“Stop. I’m mad at you.”
“Why?” He seemed to drag in a deep breath and exhale. Smoking again? He rarely did it, but I’d caught him with a cigarette in his hand here and there.
“How dare you sic your manager on me. I don’t need your help finding jobs, buddy.”
“You’re a very self-sufficient woman. I have to admit that one was purely selfish.”
I swallowed. Well, that was certainly straight to the point. He usually charmed his way around a sentence or five before he got to the point. “You realize I have a job to do. And it’s not to be at your beck and call?”
“Allow me to incentivize things.”
“Been there, done that.”
“You wound me, Zoe.”
“Why do you sound like you’re in bed?”
“Because I am.”
I lowered my phone and glanced at the time, then put it back to my ear. “It’s four in the afternoon.”
“I told you I was up late. New friend and a show.”
“Female friend?” I wanted to snatch that back immediately. I had no right to ask. I’d made sure there were no strings.
Tried anyway.
“Jealous?”
“No.”
“Little liar.” He groaned and sheets rustled as if he was stretching. “My cock only seems to stir for a snarky American these days.”
“I’m sure you find plenty of those.” I thought of the picture in my drawer. Fans with a bit of an edge. Figured, since Ian seemed to have that too. The charm buffed the edges, but under them were the jagged bits that wouldn’t let me look away.
Stupid.
I was smarter than this, dammit.
He was on the rise and I was just a pit stop until the merry-go-round of fame swallowed him up. I’d do well to remember that, no matter what his hands and mouth could do to me.
“That is a fact, but the one I’m speaking of has purple-tipped hair and golden eyes. The fathomless kind that burn when I make you come.”
“Stop it.”
“I remember the little puffs of air between your groans. As if you can’t quite catch your breath when I touch you. I dreamt of you last night. Of that magic mouth wrapped around my cock, your strong hands digging into my ass as you took more of me. God, I woke with cum on my belly.” He laughed harshly. “Coming on my stomach like a thirteen year old. I couldn’t even shower the memory away. Why I’m back in my bed. It’s easier to dream of you when I can’t be around you.”
“Dammit, Ian. You can’t say stuff like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you just can’t.” My nipples beaded against the jersey material of my dress. I’d been rushing around and had only taken the time to put on a cami instead of a bra. Not like I had much to work with.
“Because you feel it too? Do you dream of me, Magic?”
“I’m not here for phone sex, Ian.”
“I can be there in thirty minutes, give or take an Uber.”
“I don’t mean that, either.”
He sighed. “It’s just a job, Zoe. No one gets me like you do. I’ve seen your paintings. Those that you let me see anyway. I want you to show people who you think I am.”
“I don’t know you.”
“Ah, but you do. More than anyone.”
I collapsed onto my back, the drop cloth cushioning my head. “I’m not part of your world, Ian. I don’t want to be.”
“Maybe for a little while. Just come with me this weekend. Let me show you what it’s like. And if it’s not for you, I’ll leave you be.”
I didn’t want that.
Immediately, I knew that was a fact. It had been days since I’d heard his voice and already my body was reacting to it. Not just what he could do to me, or the crazy sexual side he’d awakened—no, it was so much worse than that.
My brain was buzzy and full of creativity around him. And his music spoke to me on a fundamental level. I was afraid to let him all the way in. What would I do when he walked away?
Would I be better for having been with him? Or would I be just a low hum of static as if I was an instrument that had been tuned wrong?
“I don’t want you to leave me be.” It came out as a whisper.
“Ah, Magic. You kill me in the worst way. So contrary and so mine. Will you be mine tonight?”
“It’s not night.”
“My room is dark. Black-out curtains thanks to a little tinfoil.”
I let out a soft laugh. “I’m sure your landlord is excited.”
“I don’t fucking care.”
But he did. He tried to make everyone think he didn’t, but already I could see it was one of his fundamental traits. He wanted to prove himself on a number of levels. Part of what was so fascinating about him.
“I’d say the sun is screaming into your studio right now. Unless you pulled your shutters.”
I flipped off my heels I’d worn for Ginny. Sunlight striped over my legs from my large windows. “No, I haven’t.”
“Where are you?”
“On the floor.”
He shifted on the bed. “Why?”
“Trying a different perspective.”
“Is that right?”
I trailed my fingers over my neck. It was close enough to the truth that I went with it. “I’m looking at you on my wall.”
“Now it gets interesting.”
My lips slid into a slow smile. I could never seem to hold on to my anger for long around him. I liked to think I was above being charmed, but I wasn’t so sure. “From the first time I saw you. When you stole Matilda.”
“Ah, I remember. You stole my thunder, dear Magic. You in your cute little denims and slouchy hat hiding all that fascinating hair.”
“It gets in the way.”
“Don’t cut it.”
“It’s easier to put it up.”
“Good.”
“Ian?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“Ah, but you like it sometimes. I remember a sunshine-filled morning where you listened.”
My skin heated, not just where the sunshine hit, but everywhere. A flush that made everything seem hypersensitive. “Aberration.”
“I don’t think so. I think you like it when I make you feel something more.”
“You have a high regard for yourself.”
“Not really. But I do love to make you feel good.”
A little rush of sadness permeated the buzz. It wasn’t the first time he’d told me he wasn’t worthy. “You do. Too good.”
“Is there such a thing?”
“When you distract me from my work? Yeah.”
“Maybe you just need to let me inside. Fighting it is the distraction, not me.”
I didn’t have anything to say to that one. Perhaps just a little too close to the truth and the crux of my problem.
“I miss you.” His voice was a purr with that little touch of Britain.
Dammit, how was I supposed to combat this? When I so badly wanted everything he was offering.
“I miss your skin. It’s the softest thing I’ve ever felt in my life. All that ocean sticking to me after I touch you.”
My fingers trailed down my neck to the deep vee of my wrap dress. Memories of him peeking under my shirt to taste and to tease slammed into his soft voice.
“I wake up with the ghost of it on my tongue, buzzing along my fingertips.”
I dragged in a hiccuping breath.
“Are you touching yourself, Magic?”
“No.”
“I believe you’re lying.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “What are you wearing?”
“A dress.”
“A dress? That doesn’t seem like you.”
“I had a meeting with my advisor.”
“Ah, is that the reason for the heat before?”
“No. That was because of the call from your manager. She’s a pushy sort.”
“That’s the truth. She’s a damn barracuda in stilettos.”
“Noticed the stilettos?”
“Whenever that whisper of jealousy slides into your voice, it makes me hard.”