Work of Art ~ the Collection

by Ruth Clampett

  “Ava, pick up your goddamned phone. I need to talk to you and find out what in the hell is going on! Fuck!” Sean is breathing hard and his voice sounds angrier, bordering on rage, and it freaks me out.

  “So, I’m wrapping things up, and I walk into the gallery to leave some paperwork for Adam, and your boy Max is sitting in the middle of the room with his head in his hands. I ask him what he’s doing and nothing . . . I mean he doesn’t even look at me. So I walk right up to him, and he ignores me so I shout his name, and all he does is moan like he’s been shot or something. What the fuck?

  “Ava, I need to know, and I mean right now. What did this asshole do? You would never leave the studio like you did, and he’s in this freaky state. If he did anything, touched a single hair on your head, I’m going to beat the crap out of him. I don’t care who the motherfucker is. And if you don’t call me right back, I might just do it anyway because he’s freaking me the hell out. Call me now, Ava! NOW!”

  The bile rises up my throat and I choke it down. The picture of Max broken down in the gallery is haunting, especially because since we’ve met, I’ve been the one to help him during his low times. I certainly won’t be helping him now.

  I wipe my tears and clear my throat. As my fingers fumble across the screen of my phone, I figure out what I can say to Sean to minimize the damage.

  He picks up during the first ring. “Ava, are you okay?” he shouts, his voice a mix of fury and concern.

  “I’m sorry, Sean. I’m sorry I left things like I did. That was so not cool, but Max really pissed me off, and I was afraid I’d say something to ruin the project. I just needed to get out of there for a while.”

  “You needed to get out of here for a while?” he repeats sarcastically. “What the fuck happened, Ava? The guy in the next room isn’t sitting there moaning because you had a little argument. What aren’t you telling me?”

  “He’s a crazy-ass artist. You know how unstable they are. We had an argument about the book and he got mad, and then I got mad and left. That’s it, so don’t beat him up—as much as I know you’d enjoy it—just get him out of there.”

  “And how do you propose I do that? He’s ignoring me. Should I hoist him onto a dolly and roll him out to his car?”

  “Very nice, Sean. No, just push him out the door. This is how he acts when he’s really upset. He won’t fight you.” Although I’m not one hundred percent sure Max won’t fight if Sean pushes him out, I hedge my bets.

  “Argh! Okay, I’ll try, but I’m calling you as soon as I’m done, and you better pick up the goddamned phone.”

  “I promise I will.”

  After I hang up, traffic starts to break up, and I actually make it down two streets in a row without hitting my brakes. I’m just a few blocks from home when the phone rings again and I answer.

  “Ava, that dude is messed up. You should seriously stay away from him. I had to push him all the way to his car, and he looked like the world had ended. It was fucking creepy.”

  “What happened after that?”

  “I went inside and wrapped things up. When I went to leave, he and his car were gone. He must have gotten his shit together enough to drive.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.” I sigh. “Look, Sean, I’m really sorry about all of this, and I’ll make it up to you.”

  “I’m going to make sure you do. You’ll be taking me out for drinks, wherever I want to go . . . even if it’s a sports bar or strip club.”

  “Okay, whatever you want,” I repeat numbly.

  I don’t know when I’ve been so grateful to be home from work. Riley greets me cheerily, holding three small hangers with tulle-laced confections.

  “Look, Ava. Our latest princess designs.” She beckons to me and holds up each of the miniature dresses, one at a time, for my viewing pleasure.

  I dump my bags down on the living room couch and groan. “Riley, doesn’t it bother you that you’re shoving this princess propaganda down little girls’ throats and teaching them they don’t have to work hard and develop their intellects to grow up to be strong independent women? Instead, they should focus on dressing up pretty and waiting for their prince to come along and take care of them? I think companies like the one you work for are ruining an entire generation of young women.”

  Her eyes widen and she frowns. “Rough day, Ava, or is there another reason I get to be the focus of your bitch-fest?”

  She pivots around in her platform shoes and marches back to her bedroom.

  Damn! Riley didn’t deserve that.

  I pick up the pink tiara from the table. The wires are strung with pink crystal beads and woven together in the shape of a crown. A medallion with the glowing portrait of a princess is glued to the front. I run my fingers over her printed face.

  What’s she so damn happy about? If there’s anything I’ve learned today, it’s that there ain’t no Prince Charming . . . just crazy-ass artists who want to fuck you in hallways.

  I sigh and walk slowly to my room, crawl onto my bed, pull my knees into my chest, and wrap my arms around them protectively. I wish I could believe that I’m better off without Max—that he’s trouble no matter what. But part of me doesn’t believe that. Part of me cares about him.

  It reminds me of a universal truth. There’s no better way to realize how much something means to you than to lose it.

  I show up to work the next day with my tail between my legs, prepared to kowtow to Sean to make up for yesterday’s transgressions. Luckily, he’s in a generous mood, and other than making me promise to take him to his favorite sports bar Saturday evening, he’s merciful and doesn’t make me grovel. I’m grateful it’s not a trip to his favorite strip club. To show my appreciation, I buy him his favorite drink, a venti blended mocha with extra whipped cream on my afternoon coffee run.

  We work hard to finish the print job, not just make up for the time we’ve lost, but to convince ourselves that this lucrative project hasn’t flown the coop. So far, we haven’t heard from Max or Dylan, so we soldier ahead.

  I haven’t told Adam about the disaster. I’m not feeling like I can handle his disappointment on top of everything else.

  As for Max, I suspect I won’t hear from him, but what I don’t expect is the idea of him, the physical manifestation of his impression, following me like a phantom all day. A flash in the corner of my eye has me looking to see if he’s next to me, but it’s only the edge of the printing press he leaned over the night before.

  When I peer down the hall into the gallery, I almost think I see him standing silently, waiting. But it’s the ghost in my shrinking mind . . . perhaps my attempt at denying my loss.

  At five twenty, I take my things into the bathroom to change for my meeting with Jonathan at six. We have a tight window because Jonathan has another obligation at seven thirty.

  I’m relieved the meeting will be shorter than expected. The idea of having to work on Max’s book tonight is so horrific I’m almost numb, but the sensation may help me coast through the work ahead.

  Hopefully, I can be professional enough that Jonathan won’t notice anything’s amiss. I get in my car and turn my radio up, giving myself a continuous pep talk all the way to his office.

  “Ava!” His greeting couldn’t be warmer, and the look of adoration in his eyes feels good, despite my conflicted emotions. It’s such a nice contrast to the discarding and shunning of less than twenty-four hours ago.

  We sit down at his table and catch up. When he’s done telling me about his trip to San Francisco, he brushes his fingers along my cheek and squints as he examines my face. “You look tired, beautiful. Are you working too hard?”

  I smile. “Yes, but I’m determined to get this book done on time.”

  “Well, you’ll like my news then. I’m very happy with the last round of edits, and we have minimal work to do tonight.”

  I clap my hands happily, and he laughs.

  “Let’s get to it!” I say.

  The words are now so familiar,
I doubt I have any perspective left on whether the work is decent or not. But Jonathan seems enthusiastic, so I have a reason to be optimistic. Some areas have changes and there is some additional writing.

  “Did Sebastian add this? It’s really good.”

  He smiles. “Actually, I added that while I was waiting for the flight. But I accept the compliment.”

  We tear through chapter after chapter, and because the changes are minor adjustments, the work goes quickly. After we’ve scanned the last page, he closes the folder with a great flourish.

  “Done!” His eyes light up. “Congratulations, Ava! Your first book is complete. I think it’s time to celebrate.”

  I’m so pleased. And to think, a matter of months ago I was at an art show handling shipping and installation, and now I’ve written a book for Taylor and Tiden Publishing. It’s hard to wrap my mind around the idea.

  “I’ve brought something special to help us celebrate.” Jonathan opens the mini-fridge at his bar. He takes out a bottle of Cristal champagne and grabs two crystal flutes out of the cupboard. He opens the bottle and hands me my glass, the champagne fizzing wildly. He lifts his glass to toast me.

  “You know, Ava, I admire you. It took courage to take on such a big project, to deal with a very difficult artist and a demanding publisher, and handle it all with poise and determination. It took tremendous tenacity to follow it through to the end . . . even when the road got rough. As a result, you’ve written an exceptional work. You’re really something, Ava Jacobs, and I expect see great things in your future.”

  I’m speechless and embarrassed from the unabashed flattery. That’s the most incredible thing anyone has ever said about me.

  He holds up his glass even higher, and I raise mine as well.

  “To jumping in with both feet.”

  I grin. “Both feet.” We clink glasses and take sips of the champagne.

  I walk over to his window and gaze across the Los Angeles skyline. Dusk is falling, and the city is twinkling a pale platinum glow. This stunning view, Jonathan’s enthusiastic support . . . it’s all so much to take in.

  “I’m sad about one thing,” I say, turning back to him.

  “What’s that?” he asks with a concerned expression.

  “Now that it’s over, we won’t be working together anymore. I’ve really enjoyed our time together.”

  He picks up the bottle, joins me at the window and refills both our glasses. The champagne’s decadently good and the buzz even better.

  “What makes you think we won’t be working together or seeing each other anymore? Now that I have a taste of you, Ava, I’m not letting you go.”

  I slowly turn to him. His expression is a cross between admiration and seduction.

  His phone buzzes, and he scowls before striding to his desk to activate the intercom. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Alistair, I’m leaving now. Remember you need to leave in twenty minutes to pick them up by eight.”

  “Thank you, Jacqueline. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  He returns to my side.

  “So little time,” he whispers. He trails the tips of his fingers down my cheek and my neck and stops just above my breasts.

  I decide that it’s finally time to address the elephant in the room. “Jonathan, one thing has weighed very heavily on my mind.”

  “Yes?” He lifts his eyebrows as he studies me.

  “This job’s been so important to me, life changing. So I feel really uncomfortable that I allowed things to get unprofessional with you.” I pause awkwardly. “Well . . . you know what I mean.”

  I see a frustrated look cross his face as he tips his head back. “Why do you blame yourself when I’m the one who crossed the line? We both know who initiated all of this.”

  “I’ve been a willing participant.”

  “That means we both consented to something that’s become very important to me. From the moment I met you, I was wildly attracted to you and, yes, I was determined to get to know you better, but I worried about the ramifications too. I tried to convince myself that you’re not a regular employee here at Art+trA, and therefore, it wasn’t so egregious. I wasn’t even originally going to be working with you directly.”

  “But you have the ability to make or break my career. Doesn’t that make this wrong?”

  “In a perfect world, yes. But show me a company where something like this hasn’t happened. People that work together often share passions and their intellects, and they have the luxury of getting to know each other over time. My mother was an operating room nurse and worked with my father who was a surgeon, and they fell in love. It happens every day. Is it really so wrong?”

  When he says it that way, it doesn’t sound as bad as I’ve imagined. Are the champagne bubbles making my head fuzzy? Of course, I’m craving an excuse not to feel guilty or foolish.

  After taking another sip, he sets his champagne flute down and steps up close to me. He rests one hand on my waist as he very slowly runs the other through my hair.

  “Is it so wrong for me to touch you like this?”

  I look up, wishing he’d touch me again. His gentle affection feels heavenly, his presence warm and secure, as if he’d always catch me if I fell.

  His eyes search mine for the answer to his desires. He lightly brushes his lips across my forehead, before moving down to my lips. “Is it wrong for me to want to kiss you so much?”

  I shake my head ever so slightly. He takes my chin in his hand and pulls me to him, his lips softly move over mine. I slowly open up to him and my heart pounds as everything moves forward. There’ll be no looking back once the current sweeps us into its powerful arms.

  This man is so tender with me. His attention is a complete contrast to Max yelling at me last night for not wanting him to fuck me up against a wall.

  Somewhere deep in my heart, I know I’m using this to fill the hole that Max tore through me last night. I know it’s wrong . . . a wrong that may become another regret in the morning. But none of the wrongs are compelling enough to make me stop when I’ve felt so undesirable all day. Jonathan’s attention feels so damn good.

  He slides his hand behind my neck and kisses me deeper. I surprise myself by kissing back with a surge of passion. I can feel his smile of satisfaction as our lips move together.

  When the kiss ends, he trails his lips down my neck and strokes my cheek with his hand, while pressing his other hand against the small of my back. He looks down at me.

  “Is it wrong for me to want to hold you in my arms? Is it, Ava?” His expression is even more intense as he pulls me closer. “Surely you know how much I want you.”

  He feathers his fingers down my neck, pausing several inches below my throat.

  “I can feel your heart beat,” he whispers. He follows by dragging his fingers between my breasts, then back up and drawing invisible little circles just above the edge of my blouse.

  “Your skin is perfect, you otherworldly creature,” he says with relish.

  “I’m glad you approve,” I tease.

  “Approve? That is woefully inadequate for the way I feel right now. I’m enchanted . . . completely under your spell.”

  I kiss him along his jaw and then whisper in his ear. “You cast a captivating spell too.”

  “Oh, Ava,” he says. There’s reverence in his voice, and it makes me feel beautiful. His breathing accelerates and his color rises.

  He pulls me closer and kisses me slowly as he explores my body with his hands. Everything is gentle, slow and sensuous. I feel worshipped. It’s heady and I like it.

  I need this.

  “How much time do you have?” I whisper between kisses as I work my fingers through his hair.

  He looks at me with eyes hooded with lust. “Time?”

  “Before you have to leave?”

  He gently releases me, and the cool air against my burning wet skin shocks me.

  “Why, beautiful?” he whispers as he leans forward.

  “I don
’t want to make you late,” I say softly, too timid to look him in the eye. “And . . . I’m wondering what you have in mind right now.”

  “Don’t worry, Ava, as much as I want to, I’m not going to take this any further tonight. It would be rushed and I want to linger . . . taste every inch of you.”

  I look back up at him and he gives me a sexy smile.

  “Really?” I ask, amazed that he has such restraint.

  He nods. “I have a very clear picture in my mind of our first time and I hope this fantasy will soon be realized. I want to sweep you off somewhere beautiful and take my time worshipping you.”

  For a moment, I’m reminded of Max. Why couldn’t he say those words, or at the very least want our first time to be important? Here’s Jonathan offering me the very thing I wanted from Max.

  Jonathan pulls me tightly against him. I can feel everything as he kisses me deeply.

  I glance up at the clock, remembering his assistant’s warning. “Oh no.”

  He looks at the time, sighs and nods.

  Our eyes lock while he pulls himself together. I don’t know what he’s thinking, but judging from his smile, it’s all good.

  As I smooth down my hair, I feel guilty. “I feel bad I’ve made you late.”

  “Believe me, it’s worth it.” He pulls me into his arms and murmurs softly, “Now that our project’s over, I’m going to plan something special. I’ll take you to Santa Barbara, somewhere fabulous, and we’ll play all weekend.”

  “Sounds amazing.” I love the idea of being treated so well. I can’t seem to resist the sentiment that bubbles up inside of me.

  To hell with Max. He doesn’t understand what he could’ve had.

  Santa Barbara, here I come.

  Chapter Twenty-One / Taking Flight

  Fasten your seatbelts, it’s going to be a bumpy night!

  ~Bette Davis, All About Eve, 1950

  “Why would you assume she did something?” Riley demands angrily. “He’s the crazy one. He always acts erratic and you know it.”