Ruin Me

by Jamie Brenner

  I’m nervous watching Rory and Banger load it onto the truck.

  “Is the refrigeration turned on? I don’t know if it’s good for the metal,” I ask, squeezing into the front between him and Rory. Any vulnerability I felt absconding with the sculpture is gone. I feel like I’m in an armored vehicle.

  “You hanging at the gig tonight?” Banger says, deftly maneuvering the hunkering truck through the narrow SoHo streets. Except for his full sleeve of horror tattoos on both arms, he looks like a tech geek, kind of a Bill Hader type.

  “Yeah,” Rory says. I wonder what “gig” they’re talking about. Where does Rory hang out?

  There aren’t any legal parking spots in front of my building, so Rory suggests I stay in the truck while the two of them carry No. 7 up to my apartment.

  I hand over my keys, a gesture that feels extremely intimate. And then I wait, thinking about the note I left my mother.

  *** ***

  “It just wasn’t the right time or place to gauge interest in Brandt’s show,” Inez said, leaning against the glass elevator inside the gallery. Anna looked weary, and she threaded her hands through her ropes of Chanel pearls in a familiar gesture of nervous energy. Inez had never been a huge fan of Chanel—something about it just seemed a bit Upper East Side ladies-who-lunch. But then Miley Cyrus wore those fabulous chain belts and cuff bracelets while promoting her last album. Instantly, Chanel went from matronly to must-have, and Inez scoured secondhand shops for anything similar she could get her hands on.

  Anna sat on the sofa without turning on the lights. Inez had never seen her anywhere this close to despondent. She took the liberty of turning on one of the corner Tiffany lamps.

  “Oh my god,” Anna said.

  “What?”

  “I’ve been robbed.”

  It only took Inez a few seconds to identify the source of Anna’s distress: the large empty space in the corner where Shane Holland’s No. 7 used to be. Anna walked to the spot and bent down.

  “I’ll call the police,” Inez said, looking through her bag for her phone.

  “Wait,” Anna said, straightening up, a small and colorful Post-it note in hand.

  One quitter and loser deserves another. This belongs with me.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  “What are you going to do with it?”

  Rory and I stand in the middle of my living room, looking at No. 7. Banger is long gone.

  “I have to just leave it here. It won’t fit in my bedroom.”

  “No, I mean—big picture,” he says.

  “I’m going to try to get it in MoMA.”

  He nods, circling it, reaching out to gently touch the corner of it. “Your father really was a genius.”

  Something about hearing him say that makes a sob catch in my throat. I nod, not trusting my voice.

  He’s taken off his hat and dark glasses. I’m trying to get used to seeing his face, but it affects me new and fresh every time I look at him. He is so beautiful, with those lush bedroom eyes and fine cheekbones and lips that were made for kissing. I know he thinks the scar is a big deal, but if anything, it saves him from being too perfect. It only makes him hotter.

  “I want to get this into a museum. And also, stenciling on the wall last night, I felt something. I don’t have that thing inside me that you must have—the drive to do this night after night, saying all sorts of things with the art. But putting my father’s sculpture on that wall meant something. I mean, it literally meant something because I was trying to communicate with you. But it also felt good to make his work more visible.”

  “So do more of it.”

  “I was thinking about that.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  “You will?”

  He nods, walking closer to me. “I probably owe you a few nights of work before we’re even.”

  I feel like if he were any other guy, he’d kiss me. But he’s not just any guy—he’s GoST.

  Nothing will happen if I don’t make it happen. The night I kissed him I’d done it on impulse—as if my mind and body weren’t even connected. But tonight, no such luck. I’m nervous.

  But I want him so much—like I’ve never wanted anyone. I touch my mouth to his, a butterfly kiss. He doesn’t move, his hands still even as his mouth opens to me. I put my arms around him, touching his hair, his jaw, kissing his neck, my body vibrating with feelings that overwhelm me.

  I press myself against him, and finally his arms circle my body. Emboldened, I tug at his t-shirt, and he lets me pull it off. His chest and shoulders are wiry with muscle, the body of an athlete, though I know his only sport is scaling buildings and running from the cops.

  I see scars on his chest and upper arms, and I trace them with my fingers, then bend to kiss them. I slide lower, kissing his stomach, then down still, until my lips feel the hard bulge under his jeans. I undo his zipper, my heart pounding.

  “Lulu,” he says, as if he’s going to tell me to stop.

  “Let me,” I say, my voice husky, almost unrecognizable. I take him into my mouth, and my stomach flutters with excitement. I feel his hand in my hair, and a small moan escapes him. I’ve never been more excited, and as much as I just want to keep doing this, to make him feel good, I selfishly can’t resist the intense need I have to feel him inside of me. He’s so mercurial, I don’t know if he’ll ever be with me like this again. In a day or two, it will feel like a dream, and I want that dream to be complete.

  I pull back for a minute, pausing to catch my breath before telling him, “Wait here just a sec.”

  Hurrying into Niffer’s room, I rifle through her bedside drawer for a condom. I almost laugh at the sheer volume and variety she has on hand. I quickly pick the one with the least bells and whistles and not some crazy color.

  Rory is sitting on the couch, his jeans back on.

  “What are you doing?” I tell myself not to feel rejected, but I’m crushed.

  “This is a bad idea,” he says.

  “What? Why? I mean, you don’t want to?”

  “It’s not that. But I’m not—this isn’t my thing.”

  “What? Sex?”

  He smiles. “I have sex. I don’t get involved.”

  “We don’t have to get involved.”

  “Don’t push, Lulu. It’s for your own good.”

  “I think I know what’s good for me or not.”

  He puts his head in his hands, then sits up again but looks off into the distance.

  “You deserve better than me, all right?”

  “Bullshit,” I say, standing in front of him. He still won’t look at me. So I start taking off my clothes. He needs to know how much I want him. And I need to know if he wants me.

  When he finally looks at me, I get my answer. Without his mask on, he’s as transparent as they come.

  “You’re so…” he says.

  “What?”

  “Beautiful.”

  Rory stands up and pulls me into his arms. He gently runs his hands down my back, as if I’m made of porcelain. He jeans fall to the floor, and he kicks them off, his hands running all over my body. And then his hand finds mine, taking the condom. When he puts it on, I am vibrating with nervous excitement.

  He kisses me, our naked bodies pressed together, and I feel his raw, brutish need. It’s thrilling.

  He pulls me to the ground, moving on top of me. He kisses my breasts gently, breathing raggedly. And then eases inside me. “Lulu … ”

  It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before. For once, sex isn’t just about trying to feel good or make the other person feel good. I need him inside of me, and once he is, it’s like I’m breathing for the first time.

  His thrusts grow more urgent, but then he seems to stop himself, as if I’m fragile. But I’m pulling at him, sinking my nails into his back, pressing him harder and deeper inside of me, wrapping my legs around him.

  “Fuck me,” I breathe.

  I feel the moment when he finally gives into it, when he stops holding b
ack. His controlled strokes become faster, vibrating with intensity like the strings of an instrument. The movement of his body in mine triggers something, a deep pulse of pleasure that swells from my pelvis up through my chest until even my lips feel like they’re buzzing. My entire body is one exposed nerve, and when I feel his final thrust before he shudders with elation, that nerve is pressed. And my flesh becomes liquid, a soaring rush of ecstasy that is beyond anything I’ve imagined.

  “Oh my god,” I say, over and over. It’s like our bodies are feeding off of one another, and the pleasure ebbs and flows between us, until our rocking together finally comes to a stop. Even now, after the most complete pleasure I have ever known, I don’t want him to pull out of me.

  I love him so much in this moment

  “That’s never happened to me before,” I say, when our bodies finally separate, and we are laying side by side on the floor, only our shoulders touching.

  “I dunno the last time it was like that for me, either,” he says, reaching for my hand.

  “No, I mean I’ve literally never felt that before. I’ve never, you know….”

  He sits up, propped on his elbows.

  “You don’t have to say stupid shit like that with me.”

  “I’m not—that’s not some sort of line. I really thought something was wrong with me.” And then I start to cry.

  Rory holds me tight.

  *** ***

  “You’re just going to let her walk out of here with a million-dollar sculpture?” Inez asked, pacing in Anna’s living room.

  Anna lit a cigarette and shrugged off her Stella McCartney cape.

  “I feel a burden has been lifted by not having it here,” she said. “I should have sold it a long time ago.”

  Yeah, but you didn’t sell it, Inez thought. You just gave it away. She could not believe Lulu had the balls to march in here and take something so valuable. And whether or not Anna wants the damn sculpture, she should be coming down hard on Lulu just on principle—just for her sheer audacity.

  Maybe Anna was losing the thirst for blood that had won her so many tough battles over the decades.

  “Can I make a suggestion?” Inez said, taking Anna by the arm and leading her to the couch.

  “If it involves calling the police, I’m going to repeat: not necessary.”

  “No, forget the sculpture. This is a larger issue. I think you are fighting, as they say, a war on all fronts. And when people do that, they lose. So I need for you to let me take care of at least one of those fronts.”

  Anna shook her head. “I know what I’m doing, Inez. Don’t overstep. I have no intention of fighting a war on all fronts, which is precisely why I’m not going to waste energy on a piece of art that is a thorn in my side. I’ve tried not to see him every time I look at Lulu, but her recent choices have made that increasingly difficult. Let her have the damn sculpture. We have bigger things to worry about.”

  “Fine. Let me make a personal suggestion then: You shouldn’t do all of this alone. You’ve been on your own long enough. Let me be by your side.”

  She brushed her hand over Anna’s thigh. The older woman looked at her, a bemused smile on her face.

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Let me move in with you.”

  She was already unbuttoning Anna’s delicate silk blouse. By the time her mouth found her breast, Anna said, “I’ll think about it.”

  Chapter Forty

  I ask him how he can live underground.

  “It’s no big deal to me,” Rory says. We have moved from my floor to the couch, and my clothes are draped over me like a blanket but I haven’t fully committed to actually getting dressed.

  “Yeah, I get that. But why isn’t it?”

  “My parents were squatters half the time I was growing up. What I’ve got underground is better than some of the places I’ve lived in.”

  “Are there other people down there? I mean, that man … “ I shudder, and Rory pulls me closer.

  “Lots of people down there. I’ve seen areas that have whole families—but that’s rare. Most people down there are pretty far gone, really checked out. Violent. That’s the one problem with it.”

  “Did your parents have jobs?”

  “My father drove a cab for a while. My mother had jobs on and off, but she kept losing them. When I was in second grade she moved upstate. Some commune. She changed her name. I haven’t seen her since.”

  I wonder if the burns happened before or after she left. These are things I can’t ask. I’m so awed by the fact that he’s opening up to me. The conversation is fragile and precious and I don’t want to crush it by pushing too hard. But I want to know everything about him.

  “How did you get into art?”

  “I punched a teacher.”

  “What?”

  “I was a bad kid. Started with vandalism. Stealing. By the time I was nine I pretty much accepted the fact that I was headed for jail sooner or later. One day I just snapped. Punched my teacher at P.S. 42. It could have been anyone, but for some reason it was her. And I was fucking lucky, because instead of trying to get me locked up she decides she’s going to save me. Made me stay after school every day, and we painted, did sculpture. She took me to the Met. It changed everything. I mean, I don’t think it changed as much as she wanted it to. I didn’t get good grades, I didn’t want college. But I realized that the stuff I was doing on the street—the random, shitty vandalism—could mean something. It could be something bigger, and it gave me, I don’t know, purpose, I guess.”

  I wish I could have known him then. It’s crazy to think that while all this was going on, I was uptown at Spence, living my sheltered life. And now here we are, naked, wrapped in each other’s arms.

  “Do you keep in touch with her?”

  “I did for a while. Not so much anymore. She stopped teaching and became one of those art therapists.”

  We fall back into silence. I’m afraid he’s going to leave.

  “Will you stay here tonight?”

  With any other guy, I would never ask that. It sounds weak and needy, but the truth is I can’t stand to think about him going back to that place.

  “I gotta meet Banger in Brooklyn. We’re working on something.”

  “Oh.” I try to hide my disappointment.

  “You can come.”

  He doesn’t have to ask me twice.

  *** ***

  We meet Banger at a warehouse party on a dark, abandoned street in Bushwick. I hear the thumping music before we even walk inside.

  The place is teeming with people, and I feel underdressed in my jeans and black tank. It’s not that everyone else is dressed up so much as they’re dressed right—it’s an Inez crowd, full of the beautiful people who are simultaneously hip and chic. I’m pretty sure it’s one of those roving parties from masters of nightlife, Ladyfag and Seva Granik. Niffer always tries to make it to the bimonthly extravaganzas, especially when X & Y are spinning.

  Rory is hiding behind his hat and sunglasses. Here, at least, no one would find this unusual. He exudes his own effortless cool.

  “How are we going to find him?” I yell. Rory takes me by the hand and we weave through a crowd full of actors and models. I see Dustin McBride and for a minute my stomach clenches that Brandt could be here, too. I haven’t, for one minute, regretted ending the relationship. But that doesn’t mean I want to see him.

  “He’s spinning,” Rory says, taking me by the hand and leading me to the DJ booth.

  “Lulu! Lulu fucking Sterling,” someone calls.

  I turn around and there’s Niffer, weaving through the crowd, tugging Umberto along with her.

  “My roommate’s here,” I tell Rory. Ex-roommate.

  “Catch up with me later,” he says, dropping my hand and pushing his way to the DJ booth.

  Niffer reaches me, breathless, her cheeks flushed and her eyes shiny with whatever she’s smoked. She’s wearing a black romper paired with super-high Louboutins. Her long
hair is loose, and she has a sequined bandeau around her forehead.

  “I can’t believe you’re here,” she says.

  “Yep. I’m here.”

  “I missed New York,” she says. Then, to Umberto, “Didn’t you miss New York?”

  “I missed you,” he says, kissing her.

  “You didn’t even know me.”

  “Guys, great to see you, but I have to run.”

  “Who are you here with?”

  “Just … a friend from the gallery.” I kiss her on the cheek. “Call you tomorrow.”

  I’m sure she’s mystified why I’m blowing her off, but I don’t want to lose Rory.

  A throng of people block my path to the DJ booth, and I panic. Crowds like this always make me feel like I’m drowning. The music is pounding, and it’s a hundred degrees despite the giant fans stationed every fifteen feet or so.

  “Lulu.”

  He’s behind me, and takes my hand to lead me back the way we came in. I keep my head ducked down, hoping to avoid seeing anyone else I know. Banger is walking nearby, so between Rory and him I feel somewhat hidden.

  Outside, I gulp air like I just came up from under water. And it’s blissfully quiet. I’m a little disoriented, but Rory’s still holding my hand, leading me away from the club.

  “Lulu,” someone calls from the street. I turn in the direction of my name, and a flashing light goes off.

  “This way.” Rory pulls the hood of his sweatshirt more tightly closed, and we follow Banger around the corner. The paparazzi must be waiting at the club for an A-lister and a photo of me was just a small bonus.

  We walk briskly, in silence, until we are a block away from the club.

  “Did they get a shot of us?” he asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Fuck.”

  “You’re completely unrecognizable. No one will be able to identify you.”

  He seems unconvinced. We walk in silence until I ask where we’re going.

  “Banger’s place.”

  Nothing around here seems residential. We walk for another five minutes before stopping in front of a small, dilapidated warehouse.

  Now that we’re away from the crowd I feel a renewed sense of adventure. Yeah, it would have been great to spend the night just curled up against him in my apartment. But Rory is a nocturnal creature, and I am happily along for the ride.