Private Internship

by Kitsy Clare

  “Coffee and some fruit salad?” I hear from behind me. Really? Caz is inviting me for a cheery lunch after what we just went through.

  I pretend I didn’t hear him. Instead, I retrieve the fallen drill and inspect it. One dent, but, hey, it’s not cracked in half. Gingerly, I place it on one of Caz’s studio tables.

  Not to be ignored, he slips up behind me again and touches my shoulder. An electric shock passes through him to me. It tempts me to spin around and touch him, slide my fingers across his sculptural lips. This is so damn crazy, all of it. “Didn’t you hear me?” he asks quietly.

  “No,” I lie, not turning around.

  “Sorry I scared you,” he murmurs softly. “Want a snack?”

  My heart pounds out of my chest. He’s offering me food again. I feel a rush of warmth toward him, which is so damn confusing. What did he mean when he said I didn’t know my friend? And why does he burn so hot and cold? What’s with all of his bizarre tests?

  We sit at the makeshift dining nook, and I relent to eating the fruit salad. The pineapple that Tommy has dutifully cut up in cute little squares is tangy and delicious. Again, I find myself face-to-face with Caz. He stares mournfully at me, his wide, striking head propped on his palms, the inked chain on one arm circling suggestively up to his chiseled jaw.

  “Did you think about what I said about being able to describe your art precisely, in one line?” he asks me.

  “Sure, a little.”

  “And?”

  I bite my lower lip. “I create abstract fantasy jewels that we can place all of our impossible hopes and dreams in and spin them, sort of like prayer wheels.”

  “Better.” His eyes shift from dark mahogany to amber-brown. It’s like sun after a dark storm. Sensual, unpredictable, unexpected.

  “And you? What is the point of….” that monstrosity “a sugar cauldron with holes?”

  “What do you think it is?”

  I grin. This game again. “Nope, I asked you first.”

  “I know, but I don’t have to say.”

  “Not fair! How is it that you get away with ignoring your own advice to other artists?”

  “Because I’m rich and famous at twenty-nine, I can afford to leave the interpretations up to the underpaid, bitter art critics.” He sighs and leans farther into his palms. “Life isn’t fair.”

  So he’s not yet thirty, wow. He’s seven years older than me, but younger than I thought. I want to ask him why he’s so jaded. What part of his life is unfair? He’s wealthy and powerful, so what does he have to complain about? Life has been more than fair to him. But that would be going too far. A little sass seems okay in his playbook, but no big leaps into his private, dark spaces.

  We’re silent for a while, the only sound the scraping of fork tines against our china fruit bowls. It feels like the warmth of that moment has passed and Caz is chilling rapidly.

  “I don’t know what to have you do if you refuse to drill the holes,” he says. “Maybe nothing. Maybe you could call it a day.”

  I’ve got nerve, countering the great Casper Mason. Who do I think I am, arguing with the famous glitterati?

  Provide him with some ideas, quickly, I tell myself. I suddenly feel that I don’t want to leave, or be fired. Not yet. I’m still too curious. I haven’t seen that room Harper was talking about. “You must’ve had enough work to hire two interns,” I dare. “Isn’t there another part of the installation I can help with—on the ground?”

  He shrugs. “The inside.”

  “Okay, perfect.”

  His impish grin is back, and it gives me goose bumps. “So, then, you’re good with shoveling about a ton of yellow sugar into wheelbarrows to load it into the vat?”

  Not sure which task is worse. Is the vat going to piss yellow sugar? What could that possibly represent? My brain refuses to wrap itself around that one.

  He slaps his hands together. “Sienna! Snap out of it. You’re staring at me with a very blank look.”

  His loud hand slap does the trick—startles me out of my Caz stupor. He walks me over to another side studio. I wonder how many side studios are in here. Is it configured like some kind of metal flower petal with all of the rooms springing out from the main one?

  This studio is filled knee-deep with dyed-yellow sugar crystals. It’s like a gaudy neon beach scene. I wallow through it to where the shovel is stuck at an angle. When I do, the crystals get in my shoes, my nostrils, and stick to the grooves of my corduroy pants. Caz hauls in a wheelbarrow, lifts it over the fake sand, and sets it down by me.

  “Get digging! And, remember, you chose this work over the drilling.” With that, he spins around and disappears into his main studio. He cranks a new playlist to a deafening decibel—an old Nine Inch Nails track—and I wonder how close I am to the locked room that got Harper in trouble.

  ***

  By the time I get to my East Village walkup, it’s dark and cold. The October wind is beginning to bite through my jacket and pull most of the crimson leaves from the trees. I’m hungry but too exhausted to cook.

  And I’m lonely. It’s been three long weeks since Erik flew off to man his string of shows. He’s been so busy granting interviews and meeting with important new clients, we’ve only Skyped twice.

  I glance at my wall calendar where I write down scheduling stuff. It’s time again! My heart pings with anticipation. This is better than food. I text Erik. Skype? Your time 8 a.m.?

  The time difference is tedious. If I call him late at night, he’s just barely getting up for his first coffee after a busy night of wining and dining clients.

  Let’s do it, love, he texts back.

  My heart soars with today’s first triple shot of joy. We were inseparable all summer after we got together, taking lazy walks in Central Park, posing for mutual painting sessions, slipping into galleries and museums, and making lots of love in his wide bed under his luminous portrait of me.

  Who would’ve predicted that Erik, a live drawing model from my art school, could’ve turned out to be the most talented artist I know? Who would’ve ever imagined that he’d get so famous, so fast? Not unlike Casper Mason. Except that’s where any similarity ends.

  Erik is nothing like acerbic Caz. Erik is a gentleman; he’s polite and patient. I remember how he waited until I was totally ready to take off my robe the first time I posed for him in the school studio. And I also remember how he brought me a white rose to pin on my dress when we went to his show. He would never have tested me like Caz or made me climb a mess of rusty, unstable pipes merely to entertain him.

  Or see how far my loyalty would extend in maniacal games.

  I’ve bathed and slipped into a silky black PJ set that Erik likes. He can’t smell my perfume, but he’ll see the love in my eyes.

  I log onto Skype. He’s already online! My heart swells when his handsome face pops onscreen. I drink in the vibrant green of his slightly almond eyes, his high, sculpted cheekbones, and his tousled blond hair.

  “How are you, babe?” he asks. “God, you’re so beautiful. Miss you.” His eyes, through the digital screen, are taking in all my curves, the way the pliable PJ fabric clings to my nipples. It warms me, all the way to my belly and below.

  “Miss you, too,” I exclaim. “I want you here in my bed to keep me warm. It’s getting so cold out. October already. How’s the weather there?” I ask as an afterthought. It sucks thinking of Erik in such a far-removed place, with different weather and new, exotic people. I’d like to grab him through the screen and pull him close to me, claim him back from across that too-big ocean.

  “The weather, hmm. It’s hot here in Dubai.”

  “You’re in Dubai? I thought you were still in France.” Plus, now I’m confused about the time difference. He must’ve factored that in. But why didn’t he tell me before?

  “We flew out yesterday. My people have me hopping.” I ache for him. Does he ache for me, too? I’d like to reach through the screen and stroke his chiseled cheek, run my fingers t
hrough his hair. “I went swimming last night,” he adds. “Would’ve been fun to swim here with you.”

  “Aw, that’s nice.”

  “Heck, it looks like Miami Beach with all of the deck chairs and fancy waiters.” Erik laughs, an easy laugh, just like the rest of him. A pang of jealousy hits me, that he can be so carefree, so apparently happy without me. And I see behind him a bustle of swarthy businessmen in crisp white headgear, and behind them a line of potted palm trees. I also hear faint Middle-Eastern beats. He must be in the hotel lounge.

  “Who did you go swimming with?” I hate how uptight my voice sounds.

  “Oh, my gallerist, Betsy, her son, and a bunch of the artists in her stable.”

  Stable sounds like prizewinning horses that this Betsy owns, grooms, and cares for. Betsy’s an American-sounding name. Is she an expat? I wonder if she’s pretty and rich? Must be, to own a huge gallery in Dubai. I hate the image in my mind of Betsy lusting over Erik in a skimpy bathing suit. I know how gorgeous his body is, and I don’t want to share that.

  Sienna, stop torturing yourself.

  “So, after Dubai, you’ll be coming back? Or is there one more show, in England?”

  “Well, there’s London, and then.... ” He sighs. I hate the heaviness in it, and the screen can’t hide the sudden guilty slackness in his face. “That’s one thing I need to talk to about.”

  “Okay, shoot.” My heart starts hammering even before he explains.

  “The shows in France and Dubai went so swimmingly that we sold out—”

  “Wow! That’s great. So?”

  “So, Betsy’s setting up other shows, really fast, all over the place.” The sadness in my face must be obvious. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. You know I want to be back with you more than anything. I miss you so much.” He looks as stricken as I feel. This is some comfort. It’s not that I’m glad, but at least I know he cares.

  “You need to do this. I get it. It’s your career.”

  He exhales a gust of air. “Glad you understand. It’s money for us both. A lot.”

  “I don’t expect you to support me, Erik. You know that.”

  “No, but can’t I buy you some treats? Some deluxe printing paper for your digital art? A necklace?”

  “That’s so nice, really.” I air kiss him through the screen, and he does the same. “The best present will be getting you back in the States.”

  “Patience, Sienna. I may be here for a while.” The gravity of his voice makes me shudder.

  “How long?”

  He hesitates. “Could be up to a year.”

  “A year?” My heart drops to the pit of my stomach. “Wow, I figured a few more months at most.” If he’s making big money, he could afford to fly me over between his shows. I wait for him to make the offer, but he doesn’t. I’d never ask him, either, it would have to come from him. I don’t want him painting Betsy’s portrait like he did mine. I don’t want her to wander around museums with him and have deep discussions about art like he and I did. It all sucks.

  “I know, I know, it’s rough,” Erik admits. We’re silent as this sinks in. “So!” He brightens. “What have you been up to?”

  My heart is still stinging, but I need to stay positive. “I got that internship.”

  “Um, what internship?” He sounds distracted. How could he have forgotten? Harper and I were blabbing about this incessantly the week before he took off. Geez, his mind must already be firmly planted overseas.

  “The one with Casper Mason. That filthy rich artist who does installations with sugar.”

  “I’m not too up on conceptual artists.” Erik’s tone sharpens. “Filthy rich, eh?”

  “Yes, his art’s in MoMA and even the Met.” Why does this give me a distinct stab of pleasure to report? Part of me must want to get Erik back for spending so much time with Betsy, for swimming and dining with her—and who knows what else. My old insecurity from when he was a sexy model, posing in a revealing loincloth for a bunch of oversexed art students who flocked around him during break, crashes back into mind. It’s an unwelcome memory.

  “So, what’s the guy having you do?” he asks me.

  “Work with him on his installations. He’s doing one with a massive metal sugar vat from the original factory. The sugar factory is incredible! It still smells like boiled sugar. Can you believe it? Sugar was literally cooked into the walls.” It does sound impressive. Minus the scary pipe incident and Caz’s erratic moods.

  “Hm. Sounds like he already trusts you with a lot.” He’s certainly tested me. “Just don’t get too close,” Erik advises. “Don’t let him lure you out of the studio and into his bedroom.”

  Did Erik actually say that? Jealous, eh? Why would he immediately snap to that scenario? Is that what he’s doing with his star-struck followers? The irony is compounding. If Erik only knew that Caz caught me, saving me from crashing twenty feet to the floor today—that Caz held me tightly in his arms—that our faces were inches apart.

  “Better get home fast before Caz makes a move then,” I chide.

  “I wish. You’re on a first name basis? Be careful, Sienna.” Erik glances at his watch and groans. “God, I’m late. Got to get out of here.”

  I feel a tug of regret. We’ve wasted so much time sniping, we’ve had no time for virtual romance. We could’ve been giving each other more intimate peeks, having a digital lovemaking session.

  I log off, curl up under my covers, stare out the window, and watch the dried-up leaves do crazy dances under the cold glow of the streetlights. There’s a white flurry—of sleet? Fall just got here, and yet it’s almost winter.

  I wonder what Caz is doing right this moment. Is he lonely in that haunted art castle of his? Is he buried under his own quilt, gazing out into the raw skyline? Does he wear PJs and snuggle under a goose-down quilt or sleep in the nude under a furry blanket?

  Or is he working into the night, dangling upside down from his warlock cauldron, drilling a myriad of holes to complete his iron hourglass? I picture him in his sexy tank top then peeling it off; his tatts telling stories while his gleaming muscles flex and stretch. What tales would they tell—of former loves, old family memories? It rouses my curiosity about Caz. How he got to love games, tests. How he got so damn sexy. Swallowing hard, I hug my pillow. It feels traitorous, fantasizing all of this right after my talk with Erik. My emotions run the gamut from guilt to anger to loneliness to lust.

  It’s irrational, I know, but I find myself looking forward to the internship tomorrow, to taking another ride on the startling, exhilarating rollercoaster called Casper Mason.

  5 CHAPTER FIVE

  The next day, Tommy lets me in and we power walk down the pipe-laden labyrinth to the studio. I’ve switched from flats to sneakers, so my steps are even steadier on that slippery, black sugar-sheen. I’m catching on.

  Today, Tommy has switched to pants—plum-colored, distressed skinny jeans. “Skirt season’s over,” he advises. “My legs were getting chilled.”

  “Great pants,” I tell him, and pat my thighs. “Got my trusty sweats on.” I’ve worn my tightest, butt-hugging sweats. Good compromise between fugly work clothes and fashion. “According to weather.com the temperature’s dropped to thirty-four degrees. Arctic gusts from Canada.”

  Tommy shudders. “These old factory windows let in all the cold.” With that, he winds an oversized gray scarf tighter around his neck. “They’re also saying the hurricane down south might travel north later this week.”

  “I’ve heard that, too. But you know....” I make a face. “Weathermen are often wrong.”

  He shrugs. “You never know.”

  In the studio, Caz is blasting discordant contemporary opera that sounds like mourning coyotes. He’s drilling again, and preoccupied, so it’s kind of an anticlimax from whatever rollercoaster fantasy I was rocking last night. No fiery rant, no lecture on the wretched history of sugar, not even any insulting too-personal questions about my art.

  No more tests, at least
, for now.

  But lots of shoveling. And he’s right; I can’t complain because I asked for it. At 2:00 p.m., when Caz sticks his head in the door, my hair is thoroughly dusted with yellow grains, which have also spilled into my sneakers.

  “Come up for air,” he advises. “I’ve got some special victuals and a game for later.” Victuals is a good old Chaucerian term for food, ha! I guess Caz has gone to college. But more worrisome games? Meh.

  I breathe in the nutty steam of his gourmet coffee, and my mouth is watering at an earthy, spicy aroma that I can’t quite identify.

  Casper escorts me into the studio kitchen. He’s put on a lavender shirt that accentuates the molten tones in his hair. He motions me to one of the chairs and even pushes it in for me. This rebel knows some good manners.

  Tommy has set us up with actual cloth napkins, two large bowls, and silverware. Caz brings out a steaming pot of stew and ladles it into our bowls.

  Joining me at the table, he sits forward in his chair instead of straddling it. “My own concoction,” he announces. “Pheasant chili.”

  “What a treat.” I take an experimental bite. The flavor detonates in my mouth. “Man, this is great! Where’d you learn to cook?”

  “From an old Texan migrant down in the Smokies.” Sounds dubious, but what do I know? I know that I appreciate a man who can cook.

  We gobble the food down. Something about hard physical labor—you work up quite an appetite.

  Afterwards, Caz wipes his mouth with the napkin and clears his throat. “So, why don’t you bring in a few of your pieces tomorrow? I should know what my intern is doing.”

  My pulse spikes. I’m partly flattered and partly terrified—especially after his scathing critique on that very first day. “You sure? I mean, it’s not about my work, it’s about your—”

  “Be more sure of yourself,” he barks. “I can’t tolerate insecure people.”