by Alexa Land
“I had a good night.”
“What was his name?”
He thought about that for a minute, then said, “I have no idea, actually. But damn, was he sexy. I think he was Brazilian. Neither of us understood a word the other was saying. It was the perfect twelve hour relationship.” He winked at me before taking a drink from the fifty-five gallon drum of a coffee cup in his hand, and flipped his sunglasses up onto the top of his head.
All of a sudden, his expression became grave. “Sweetie, what happened to your face?”
“It’s nothing,” I said. He still looked concerned, so I added, “Seriously, I’m fine. No cause for alarm.”
“Did it happen on the job?”
“Yes. Now could we please stop talking about it?” I said.
“Do you swear you’re ok?”
“I swear. Please, let’s talk about something else.”
Hunter knit his brows and finally nodded, his blue eyes troubled. Kieran came into the living room a moment later, and Hunter hit him with a smile, letting the subject drop for my benefit. “Well hi there, you must be Kieran. I’m Hunter.”
My friend stuck out a slender, graceful hand, and Kieran shook it as he said, “Hi Hunter. Why do you look familiar?”
“Because you watch gay porn.” Hunter grinned at him as I fought back a laugh, and Kieran turned an interesting shade of pink.
“Oh. Um…right.”
I said, “Hunter is helping me with my term project. I forgot that he was coming over this morning.”
“Christopher is drawing, painting and sculpting me. Don’t worry, it’s all very tasteful. Disappointingly so,” Hunter said with a wink. Then he exclaimed, “Oh!” and set his coffee cup down on an end table. He flung open his messenger bag and pulled out a copy of the Chronicle with a flourish. “I almost forgot! Guess who’s featured in today’s paper?” A big color photo of one of my paintings was on the front page of the arts section.
“Shit,” I murmured, sinking onto the back of the sofa.
Hunter raised an eyebrow at me. “Hmm. I was expecting rejoicing and group hugs, not terse statements involving excrement.”
“I, um…I’m not in the new artists show at the Tremont Gallery anymore,” I said quietly.
“Why not?” Hunter wanted to know.
I explained what had happened with Ian as concisely as possible. When I concluded, Kieran was livid, and Hunter growled, “I fucking hate rich people. They think they can have anything they want. What a total douchebag.”
“I’m so glad you didn’t sleep with him,” Kieran muttered.
“Me too,” I said. “I knew I sunk my career as an artist when I left that hotel room. But there was no way I could go through with it when I felt so betrayed by him.”
Hunter looked from Kieran to me, then said, “So, um…looks like everything’s out in the open with you two now, huh?”
“Yeah. Kieran knows I’m a prostitute.”
“I’m glad you guys finally talked about it,” Hunter said. Kieran and I both shifted uncomfortably, and seeing this, Hunter blurted, “Well, anyway, it’s Tremont’s loss that you won’t be in his art show. You should read this article.” He was still clutching the newspaper, and held it up and gave it a little shake. “The reporter raves about your paintings, and people are going to flock to the gallery expecting to see them. Tremont’s going to look like an idiot when he has to explain that you’re not in the show any more because he was too much of an asshole to take no for an answer.”
“I’m guessing that’s not exactly the explanation he’ll offer. And shit, that reminds me that I need to go get my paintings back from the gallery this morning, before Ian throws them out or something. That’s going to be awkward as hell.”
“I’ll go with you,” Kieran said. “I’ll even go in uniform if you want, in case he gives you trouble about returning the paintings.”
“Oh yum, that’s right, you have a uniform,” Hunter purred. “Damn, I need to find me one of you. Do you have a brother, by chance?”
“I do,” Kieran said with a little frown. “He’s an asshole.”
“I don’t have a problem with that.”
“And he’s straight.”
“Says you.” Hunter was still smiling. But then he remembered the conversation in progress and said, “Wear the uniform, it’ll shake Tremont up. I’ll go with you guys, too.” He tossed the newspaper on the couch, then snatched up his coffee cup. “So come on. Let’s go rescue Christopher’s masterpieces from the big bad billionaire before the douche disposes of them.”
“This isn’t a group effort, Hunter,” I said. “I’m going to go get my paintings back by myself. I appreciate the offer, though.”
“Why would you do this by yourself?” Hunter exclaimed. “That Tremont asshole might give you a hard time, you need backup.”
Kieran sighed and said, “Christopher has a thing about accepting help from others. I assume that’s what this is.”
“Well, tough shit. I’m going along. Just try and stop me,” Hunter said, tilting his head back and looking at me with narrowed eyes, as if challenging me to disagree with him.
I sighed and said, “I’m going to get a shower. Then I’m sneaking out the bathroom window so neither of you tries to come along.”
“How about if we go with you, but wait in the car?” Kieran asked. “Does that violate your independence policy? We promise not to do anything that could be construed as helpful.” He was teasing me a little, a half-smile on his full lips.
I sighed and said, “Fine, you can wait in the car. But no macho jump-in-and-save-poor-little-Christopher maneuvers. I mean it. I’ve got this.”
“Well,” Hunter said with a grin, popping up the collar of his leather jacket. “I can try to reel in all this macho. But it’s not going to be easy.” I smiled at that and kissed his cheek on the way to the bathroom.
When I returned to the living room fifteen minutes later, Hunter and Kieran were glued to the TV playing my football video game. “Hey look,” I said with a smile, coming up to the back of the couch and absently gathering Hunter’s silky hair into a ponytail. “You found someone else to kick your ass at Madden.” I was dressed in my best outfit (a black button-down shirt and black pants, which made me look like a Hunter wanna-be), concealer cream hiding the bruise on my cheek and the already-healing split lip.
“I’ll have you know I’m winning,” Hunter said.
“But only because I’ve never played this before,” Kieran pointed out, his brows knit as he jerked the controller in a half circle.
I dropped Hunter’s hair back onto his shoulders and said, “You two have fun. I’ll be back in a bit,” then turned and tried to flee the apartment.
Both men dropped the game controllers and scampered around the couch after me. “Nice try,” Kieran said. “But you said we could come along, remember?”
“I only said you could wait in the car,” I said, and swung the front door open. I gasped at the sight of Stana Dombruso on my doorstep, skinny arm raised as if she’d been about to knock. She was dressed like an escapee from a 1980’s jazzercise video in a purple leotard, hot pink tights, purple legwarmers, and a thick, hot pink headband. The ensemble was topped off with a demure white cardigan and a giant black handbag.
“Oh good, I caught you at home, Christopher Robin,” she said. “I was just on my way to the gym to check out all the hunks. Seems like a good place to meet men, don’t you think? I wanted to see if you could come with me, maybe give me a few pointers on how to use all that exercise equipment. I don’t wanna look like a poser.”
I smiled at that. “I’ve never been to a gym in my life. But you know who has? Both of these guys. Kieran and Hunter would be more than happy to show you the ropes. I actually have something I need to do.”
“And we’re going with you,” Hunter chimed in.
“Oh,” said Mrs. Dombruso. “Where are you boys off to?”
Before I could get a word out, Hunter blurted, “We’re on
our way to get Christopher’s paintings back from a despicable gallery owner that wronged him.”
Mrs. Dombruso’s watery brown eyes lit up. “Screw the gym! That sounds like way more fun. Count me in!”
“Oh dear God,” I mumbled under my breath. Then I said, “I’m going alone. Thank you, all of you, but no.”
It was as if I hadn’t even spoken. Mrs. Dombruso rubbed her bony hands together and said, “Oh boy, I haven’t gotten to threaten a scumbag in ages! Hang on a second….” She fished around in her handbag, then shoved a huge pair of glasses on her face. She kept digging in the bag for another minute before pulling out an enormous silver handgun. “There we go. Good thing I brought along Dirty Harry. I almost went with a puny little Saturday Night Special today. But it’s as if I somehow knew I’d be seeing some action.”
Kieran immediately went into cop mode. “Ma’am,” he said, his body becoming tense, “I’m going to have to ask you to hand over the weapon.”
“Fuck that! Get your own gun,” she said, dropping it back into her handbag.
“Are you aware that it’s illegal to carry a concealed weapon in the state of California?” Kieran asked her. I had to grin.
She fished in her purse again and pulled out a wrinkled rectangle of paper. “Don’t get your shorts in a bunch, sexy. I got my permit to carry concealed right here. Damn, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear you sounded just like a cop. And that would suck, because I saw the way you made my Christopher Robin’s eyes light up at my grandson’s wedding. So I’d sure hate to find out he’d gotten himself mixed up with one of that kind.”
Kieran shot me a look, and I gave him an apologetic smile and a pat on the arm. Mrs. Dombruso whirled on the heel of her white Keds and said, “Come on, let’s go bust some heads!” She hurried out of the apartment.
“You both want to help?” I asked Hunter and Kieran. “Keep Mrs. Dombruso from wrecking the gallery, and/or shooting Ian Tremont.” I rushed after her.
I was surprised to find a white stretch limo double-parked in front of the apartment. “I feel like I’m going to prom,” Hunter said with a giggle as he and I climbed in after Mrs. Dombruso.
“Nana, why didn’t you return the limo after the wedding?” I asked her.
“I figure, life is short. Especially when you’re eighty. Why not live it up a little?” she said. I couldn’t argue with that logic.
Kieran pulled the door shut and slid onto the seat beside me, and we were off. He picked up my hand and held it firmly on the drive across town. Even though I was acting tough, he knew I was nervous. I couldn’t let myself be intimidated by Ian Tremont though, because my paintings were too important to me. I’d given him the very best I had for the art show, and they were coming home with me.
When we pulled up in front of the pristine white gallery, I hopped out at the curb before the limo had fully stopped moving and gaped at the front of the building. Two vertical fabric banners, each about five by twelve feet, hung on either side of the front door. New Artists Show was spelled out at the top. And on both banners was a huge full-color reproduction of one of my paintings. It was actually an intensely personal piece depicting a five-year-old boy standing alone at the side of a road. I’d struggled with the decision to include it in the show, but it was the single best thing I had ever done, and I’d wanted it to be my way of introducing myself to the art world. Seeing it used as advertisement and hanging outside that asshole’s gallery filled me with rage.
Kieran went ahead of me and held the door to the gallery open. Impulsively, I grabbed both banners, one in each hand, and pulled. They fluttered from their moorings, and I dragged them through the door.
A camera flash caught me off guard, but I didn’t break my stride. Several people were in the center of the gallery, Tremont among them, and they all turned to me wide-eyed as I swept in, the banners billowing behind me.
“Who the hell are you?” a stuck-up sales associate with a pinched face wanted to know.
I ignored him and marched up to Tremont, letting my indignation carry me along in place of actual confidence. I decided as long as I was making a spectacle of myself to take it all the way, and said in a loud voice as I dropped the banners on the floor, “I’ve come for mah paintings, Tremont. Ya’all obviously won’t be needing ‘em anymore. Not after kickin’ me out of the new artists show and threatenin’ to blackball me in the arts community because I refused to sleep with you.” Damn, my accent dial was set to Maximum Scarlett O’Hara. But other than that, I was proud of myself for holding it together as well as I was.
Tremont went full-on deer-in-headlights and stammered, “Now Christopher, let’s just calm down, ok? Some things were said yesterday, you and I had a bit of a misunderstanding. Of course I still want you in the show, you’re our featured artist.”
An elegant-looking woman of about sixty exclaimed, “Featured artist? Is this C.R. Andrews?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, extending my hand, which she shook. “You can call me Christopher.”
“I’m Melanie Malloy, Fine Arts editor of Stylemaker Weekly. Mr. Tremont didn’t mention the fact that you were out of the show. In fact, he told me he’s representing you, and was just singing your praises.”
“Forgive me for sayin’ so ma’am, but Ian Tremont is a lyin’ sack a shit. I’m not under contract with this gallery, and in fact, I’ve just come to collect mah paintings.” God I wished I could reel in my accent, but it was off and running like a – if you’ll excuse my total southern breakdown – thirty pound catfish on a twenty pound line.
“Oh,” Melanie said, raising a well-shaped eyebrow. “Then who represents you, Christopher?”
“No one.”
“Yet,” Hunter chimed in from somewhere close beside me.
Melanie grinned at me. “I’m guessing you’ll be getting plenty of offers after the article in today’s paper. That reporter was highly impressed with you, and after seeing your work and meeting you in person, I can see why.” She gestured to the left, and I noticed my paintings neatly displayed on a white wall in an adjoining room.
“It was a pleasure meetin’ you, Ms. Malloy. Now if you’ll please excuse me, I’m going to collect my paintings and be on my way.”
The photographer ran ahead of me and began snapping photos. I assumed he was with Ms. Malloy, but I didn’t really know or care. I reached my first painting and gingerly removed it from the wall, then popped it carefully from the frame Ian had put it in. I set the frame down and handed the painting to Kieran, who was right beside me. He gave me a big smile as the flash went off again. Hunter and Mrs. Dombruso saw what I was doing and also began removing and unframing my paintings.
The photographer said, “Damn, this is some good stuff,” as he kept clicking away. “And here I thought this was going to be a dry puff piece about an upcoming gallery show. Instead, we’re witnessing the birth of art’s new bad boy.” That was so ridiculous that I had to grin.
It took only a minute to remove the paintings with all of us working together, and then we headed for the door, each of us carrying two canvases. The photographer hadn’t stopped taking pictures, and he asked me, “Who are these people with you, Christopher?”
“We’re his entourage,” Mrs. Dombruso chimed in. “All the best artists have one, you know.” She flashed him a big smile as he snapped her picture. “Is my photo gonna be in Stylemaker Weekly?” she asked him. “I was just on my way to work out when I got called in to help Christopher,” she said. “Normally my personal style is a lot more, you know. Edgy.”
I held the door open for her and my friends, and they filtered out in a row. The photographer followed us onto the sidewalk and snapped a few photos of Hunter before suddenly lowering the camera and stammering, “Oh my God, you’re Hunter Storm! I’m a huge fan. Huge!”
My friend grinned at him. “Dude, that’s like walking up to someone and saying, ‘Hi. I watch a ton of porn.’ I appreciate the sentiment, though,” Hunter said with a wink before climbing into th
e limo.
I handed one of the canvases I was holding to Kieran after he climbed in the vehicle, and the photographer said, “Could you hold that one up, Christopher?” I did as he asked, and he fired off a dozen shots. I happened to be holding my favorite painting, the one of the young boy, which had been printed onto the banners. Ok, the one representing me as a kid right before my mother’s funeral. Like I said, this one was intensely personal.
Ian, who had frantically been trying to explain himself to Melanie Malloy during all of that, caught up to me and said, “Christopher, can I have a moment? Maybe we can work something out here.”
I leaned in and whispered, “Can you even begin to comprehend what a total lowlife someone has to be to get turned down by a prostitute?” And then I got in the limo and pulled the door shut.
As we rolled down the street, my friends erupted into cheers and applause. “I stand corrected,” Kieran said with a big smile. “You really didn’t need any help with that. You were amazing.”
I leaned in and kissed him, then collapsed against the seat. “I’m grateful for the moral support. That was scary as hell.”
Hunter said, “You seemed cool as ice. Well, except for your accent going full-on Jimmy-Jeb-Joe-Bob. But oh my God, the way you dragged those banners in behind you! Way to make an entrance, you diva!” He looked absolutely delighted.
“I was just really angry. I wasn’t actually trying to make a scene.”
“Since when are you southern, by the way?” Kieran asked with a grin.
“He’s from Georgia, but pretends he’s not,” Hunter supplied helpfully.
“That was more fun than I’ve had in ages,” Mrs. Dombruso said, her dark eyes sparkling. “Beats the hell out of the gym, I’ll tell you that right now. Though it would have been even more fun if I’d gotten to brandish my piece.”
“Christ,” Kieran muttered.
She dropped us back at my apartment, and Hunter and Kieran helped me carry my paintings upstairs. Hunter kissed my cheek and said, “You’re my hero, Christopher Robin. Way to stand up for yourself. Now I’d better run, I’m going to try to make it to yoga class since I’m not posing for you today.”