Ruin Me

by Jamie Brenner

  The first item that shows up is, surprise surprise, a blog post by Damian Damian.

  Phantom of the Art Gallery

  Guests of Mary Sterling at her new Chelsea gallery space (still months away from opening to the public) got more than just a sneak peek of the latest entry in the West Side art world gold-rush: Upon arrival, bold-faced names such as artist Dustin McBride, Joan Rivers, socialite Nina Saroyin, and artist Brandt Penn were showered with piles of fake cash coming from the sky above. Lest there be any thought that this was a performance piece sponsored by Madame Sterling for their amusement, a close look at the crazy-making currency revealed the slogan, “In GoST We Trust.”

  We do trust we will be seeing more of this street-art provocateur, whose paintings have been popping up all over Manhattan the past few months. The question is, how did this underground upstart know about an intimate, invite-only party for those nearest and dearest to the Sterling Gallery? Anna Sterling, beware: there appears to be a GoST whisperer your midst.

  Oh my god. It’s worse than I imagined. A “GoST whisperer” in her midst? Could he know? No. He’s just being provocative—that’s his M.O.

  I close out of the site and check the coverage on other blogs, more mainstream press. New York magazine has a paragraph about it on their home page, with a photo of the rain of bills coming down. Visually, it’s stunning. If I didn’t feel so guilty, I’d be proud. I wonder if GoST follows the media coverage of his work. Or at the very least, the blog and Twitter posts.

  I’ll have to post about this on Tumblr. If I don’t, it will be a glaring omission.

  I know I should stay away from GoST. Today was my one get-out-of-jail-free card. Either I’m going to get busted by the police, I’m going to be busted by my mother, or—and this is the worst-case scenario—I’m going to get busted by GoST.

  It never even crossed my mind that he would know who my mother is. Now I feel like such an idiot for trying to interest my mother in his work. I should have known he would never want any part of her gallery.

  He was right to be wary of me.

  And my mother is right: She knows what her clients want. I need to keep my focus on the gallery. This summer is about learning to be an asset to her, not chasing after GoST.

  I look at myself in the mirror and run a comb through my hair and put on a fresh coat of NARS lipstick. It’s the same deep-red matte Inez wears, and I love it—though it looks better on her.

  Outside the bathroom, I’m disoriented. I wander down a hall and spot one of my favorite Rothkos—White Center (Yellow, Pink and Lavender on Rose).

  “There you are,” Brandt says. “Where’d you run off to?”

  “The bathroom,” I say. “Look at this.”

  He barely glances at the painting.

  “Rothko’s overrated,” he says, taking me by the hand.

  I wish we’d had some time to really talk at the gallery. The conversation we need to have is weighing on me. But for the next few hours, we will have to present, as my mother would say, a “unified front.” We have to be a couple—a happy couple. And it’s not that I don’t want to be with him. I just want to get the reality in sync with the surface.

  “Your mother wants to introduce you to some people,” he says.

  It kind of annoys me that he’s acting like her ambassador. But would I really want to be with a guy who didn’t respect my mother?

  I think of GoST. The rain of money.

  And I follow Brandt into the party.

  *** ***

  It was unspoken protocol that Inez did not stay at parties after Anna made her departure. And so when Anna breezed by her and said, “I’m saying my good-byes,” Inez knew it was time for her to do the same.

  The last hour of the party had been the best part of the night. Brandt and Lulu had already left, and as soon as Anna’s little princess was out the door, the other guests got a whole lot more interested in talking to Inez—including Anna herself.

  God, it burned her ass to see how Anna beamed with pride over Lulu. And for what? Because they shared some DNA? And then there was Brandt—that lapdog. One minute, he was completely on board with Inez—the next, Anna shows up, and he starts acting like their conversations never even happened. The second Anna told him that his show would launch the official opening of the new flagship gallery, all was forgotten.

  It didn’t matter, really. The whole notion of poaching Brandt and getting a job at a rival gallery was the wrong strategy. She had been hurt by Anna’s plan to ship her off to Asia, and she had acted emotionally. Carelessly. She could see that now.

  No, she wasn’t going to leave the Sterling Gallery. If anyone was going to be pushed out, it was Lulu. That was the campaign that she needed to be on. And tonight had given her an excellent start. That “GoST whisperer” line in Damian’s article was pure genius.

  Her phone buzzed. Yet another annoying text from Bianca. Ru done w/work? I want 2 party. She rolled her eyes.

  Nina’s manservant showed them to the front door.

  “Can I share a car with you?” Inez said. Anna looked at her like, if you must.

  “Did you forget to call one for yourself?” The private elevator whisked them to the lobby.

  “No. I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  “Can it wait until tomorrow, Inez? It’s been a long and exhausting day.”

  Inez glanced at her boss. She showed no signs of weariness. Each glossy dark hair was perfectly in place, her lipstick was still intact, and her black Prada dress did not show even a hint of a wrinkle. It was, by any account, a successful afternoon and evening. And yet, the chaos outside of the gallery must have rattled her.

  “It’s about Lulu,” Inez said.

  The doorman turned the revolving door for them. Outside, they approached the waiting Town Car. The driver stepped out to open the door for Anna.

  “Get in,” Anna said to Inez. “But no talking in the car.”

  Of course not. Anna was the queen of discretion. Which would make this conversation all the more delicious.

  Chapter Twenty

  “I don’t think re-hashing an argument is the best way to get past it,” Brandt says from the kitchen. He opens a bottle of red wine and sits next to me on the couch.

  He’s changed into jeans and a gray John Varvados t-shirt. His hair is slightly tousled, and there’s a hint of gold in his five o’clock shadow.

  “I’m not suggesting we re-hash it. I’m just saying that it was really hurtful to confide in you about my hard time … um, coming. And then you lash out at me that you can’t deal with it because you’re under work pressure? I mean, what’s that about?”

  He runs one hand through his hair, then leans forward, focusing on me. “I shouldn’t have said that. Look, guys take that personally. I didn’t handle it well. I’m sorry.”

  I nod. When he puts it that way, I understand. I think on some level that’s part of why I didn’t want to tell him about it. I knew it would make him feel bad.

  “It’s okay,” I say. He leans in and kisses me.

  “Besides—tonight I’m going to fix all that,” he says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m going to make you come tonight. I mean, now that I know, it’s just a matter of focusing.”

  “I’m not sure more focus on that is what I need,” I say nervously. “I wasn’t telling you to get you to do something different, per se. It was more in the spirit of full disclosure. Sexual honesty. Um, something like that.”

  He doesn’t seem to hear me, and walks back into the kitchen. When he returns to the couch he announces, “We just need to have fun with it.”

  And then I noticed he’s carrying a little baggie.

  “Since when do you do coke?” I say, trying not to sound as dismayed as I feel. I’m not a big fan of drugs. Probably because my father died of an overdose.

  “I dabble,” Brandt says with his trademark charismatic grin. I don’t smile back.

  I don’t think I ever told
Brandt explicitly how I feel about hard drugs, but he definitely should know by now that, at the very least, I have no interest in them.

  He passes me a cut straw.

  “I’ll pass,” I say, shooting him a pointed look.

  He’s about to bend down and do a line, but reconsiders.

  “Are you mad at me?” he says.

  “I seriously didn’t even know you were into this.”

  “I’m not into it. I just thought it would be a fun thing for us to do together.”

  I stand up and pull my bag over my shoulder. “Look, it’s been a long day. I should probably just get going.”

  He follows me to the door. “Come on, Lu. Don’t.”

  I look into his beautiful blue eyes, and I know that if I leave, I’m continuing a really bad pattern of stops and starts for us lately. We need a good night together. I need a good night with him. Because even as I’m sitting here, trying to communicate with Brandt—I’m still thinking about GoST. I’m wondering if he went out painting tonight, or if the stunt at my mother’s gallery was it for the day. I wonder if he liked having me along. I wonder if he’s thinking about me at all.

  Brandt takes my bag off my shoulder. I let him lead me into the bedroom.

  The room is cold. I wrap my arms around myself to contain a shiver.

  “It will warm up in a minute,” Brandt says, pulling me onto the bed. “In fact, it’s about to get extremely hot.”

  I force myself to smile. I’m not in the mood—not for sex, not for flirtatious banter. I wish I’d never told him the truth. Now we’re both going to be completely self-conscious.

  Brandt starts to take off his clothes. I dutifully pull off my dress, because I know it will only be a tangled mess if he tries to get it off of me. But I leave on my bra and underwear. Maybe he’ll get the hint, and we’ll just kiss and cuddle and then we can go to sleep.

  But Brandt’s touch—on my breasts, sliding down to my thighs, pulling off my panties—is unmistakably determined.

  He spreads my legs and licks the outer lips of my pussy. I close my eyes and try to get into it. It feels good, but good in the way that a back massage feels good. Relaxing, not stimulating.

  Something is wrong with me, for sure.

  He fingers me, deep, while his mouth moves to my clit. He doesn’t usually focus on this particular part of my anatomy, but tonight he’s sucking on it and I feel a sharp flash of intense pleasure that is gone so quickly, it’s almost as if I imagined it. His mouth continues with the same pressure, but the feeling doesn’t happen again.

  Brandt slides up beside me, moving his mouth to my breasts while his hand strokes between my legs, alternating between fingers inside me and pressure on my clit. I almost feel it again, that surge, a pinprick of ecstasy. And just as quickly, it’s gone. It’s like when a bright light flashes in front of you, and you see colors, and then it disappears.

  “Show me what you like,” he says.

  “This is, um, good,” I say.

  “No, really. I want you to show me. I was reading an article, and it said if you let me watch you masturbate, I’ll have a better idea of how to make you come.”

  “I can’t do that. I mean, I just don’t … ”

  “I’m trying to help, here, Lu.”

  “I know,” I say. “But I don’t want to be overly focused on that. I’d be happy if you came. Honestly.”

  His breathing is heavy. I reach down and touch his cock, rock hard and ready. I think maybe I should start sucking him off, but he’s already switching positions.

  “Let’s try it this way tonight,” he says, pulling me up to my knees. “I’m going to fuck you from behind.”

  I know a lot of women find the doggy style position degrading, but it doesn’t bother me. It’s the same as any other sexual position: he comes, I don’t. So I get on my hands and knees, and he enters me from behind. He goes in harder than usual, and I gasp. But then he slows into a rhythm I’m comfortable with. I know that there is no chance, now that he is penetrating me, that I will feel that spark again. But it’s fine—I don’t expect to. I just want him to be satisfied.

  Brandt slides one hand between my legs, in the front, stroking my clit. He had never touched me while fucking me before, and it does heighten the sensation I feel.

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “You like that, baby?” he says.

  “Yeah.”

  He fucks and strokes me, and it feels warm and wet but not particularly good. His thrusting grows faster and harder. “Come with me, baby,” he says, his hand moving away from my pussy, holding onto my hips as he bucks into me with abandon and a deep, throaty moan that tells me everything I am missing.

  He pulls out, and flops onto his back, pulling me down next to him so my head rests on his arm.

  “Did you come?” he asks, excited as a puppy.

  “Yeah,” I lie.

  He kisses the top of my head. “See? Not such a big deal after all.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Inez wordlessly followed Anna up the cut-steel staircase into the gallery at 133 Greene Street. After spending the afternoon in the new space, it felt small.

  Anna flipped on a few of the lights. Dustin McBride’s paintings looked stark and lovely in the empty room. The stillness, the late hour, made for the perfect mood to view the paintings. Inez realized, in that moment, that Brandt did not have the same level of craft. He might have talent, but he wasn’t there yet. And she wondered if maybe Anna was rushing the one-man show. If anyone should launch the new flagship space, it should have been Dustin. Was it possible that Anna had actually given Brandt a jump start because of Lulu? That would be incredibly disappointing. But no. If anything, it was a rare case of misjudgment. As was her decision to try to dispatch Inez to Asia.

  Tonight, she was going to give Anna a whole new perspective on things.

  “You’ll have to come upstairs. I want a cigarette,” Anna said.

  Inez tried not to appear too jubilant at the invitation to Anna’s upper-level apartment.

  Anna looked impatient and uncharacteristically weary in the glass elevator that transported them to Anna’s third-floor living room, a stunning art deco space done in silver, black, and chrome with accents of bold splashes of color. The furniture was all streamlined, made of exotic wood; the floors were covered in zebra and sharkskin rugs. The wall fixtures were ebony and marble. It was a space that reeked of money and taste, and gave Inez a rush that was almost sexual in its intensity.

  “So let’s hear it,” Anna said, sitting on the curved black couch. She lit a cigarette, and crossed her legs. Inez thought she had not seen such a sexy, challenging, nearly confrontational demeanor in lighting a cigarette since Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct.

  God, that movie got her hot.

  She told herself to get her head in the moment. This was a crucial, game-changing conversation. Afterward, she could go to Bianca’s and let off some steam by fucking her senseless.

  “What did you think of that little episode outside the gallery?” Inez said.

  “Don’t play games with me, Inez. Do you know something about it?”

  Inez sat next to her on the couch. The scent of her Chanel perfume was still potent, even at the end of a long day. She opened her Chloe clutch and fished out the GoST money. She handed it to Anna.

  “Have you really looked at it?” Inez said.

  “Why did you hold onto this?”

  “I noticed something on there I thought you should see. Read the top.” She watched Anna’s sharp eyes move over the words IN GoST WE TRUST.

  At first, Anna didn’t say anything. Inez was patient. Best for her to come to her own conclusion.

  “I know that name,” Anna said.

  “I thought you would,” said Inez.

  “Has Lulu spoken to you about him, too?”

  Inez nodded. Anna drew deeply on the cigarette, then exhaled. “Lulu has always had a taste for the subversive. An underdog mind-set. I’ve tried to quell tha
t, but it must be in her blood.” Anna glanced at a metal sculpture in the far corner of the room. Like father, like daughter.

  Inez knew she had to tread carefully. “I know it seems like a stretch to think Lulu was involved in that stunt this afternoon. But the timing of her arrival was quite a coincidence.”

  Anna shook her head. “Why would she do that? To get me to notice his work for the gallery?” And then she smiled. A smile that was the opposite of what Inez hoped to see. “If so, that was quite ambitious of her.”

  “No,” Inez said quickly. “He’s a graffiti artist with an agenda. People like that have no interest in people like us. They see us as part of the ‘art conglomerate.’ Trust me, that episode today was mocking us—not courting us.”

  Anna’s face, behind a haze of smoke, was contemplative. Inez knew she had to punctuate the conversation, to drive home the fact that Lulu was consorting with the enemy, or at very least could not be trusted.

  “Lulu should stay away from him,” Inez said. “And get him to leave our gallery out of his pranks. What’s next? One of his ‘fuck you’ paintings on the side of this building?”

  “I don’t believe Lulu is actually consorting with this person,” Anna said. And from the tone of her voice, Inez knew she was signaling the end of that particular conversation. But Inez knew that, for once, Anna’s impeccable instincts were off. And she would have to find a way to prove it.

  *** ***

  Brandt is snoring softly next to me. I know that I’ll never sleep.

  I’m anxious, filled with a deep-seated sense that something is wrong.

  My thoughts volley back and forth between what happened with GoST this morning, and my night with Brandt. It’s a mental ping-pong game of trying to pinpoint the source of my restless ache.

  I know that I have to go home. But I can’t just leave in the middle of the night without a word. It would seem like something’s wrong. And obviously something is wrong. But I can’t explain it to myself, never mind Brandt.

  “Hey,” I say, shaking him gently. “Brandt. Wake up for a sec,” I say.