Sweet Muse

by Ava Cummings

  “Oh no!” I cry. “Looks like it was made by one of her kids.” I know it wasn’t the smartest idea to come here, to use Bernie’s office, but I knew it would be something he would like. And I want Alec to like me; I want him to like us. If I can make him happy, satisfy him, then “us” works.

  “Blame it on the cleaning crew,” he says, not wanting to lose the intensity of the moment.

  “But Bernie just knows…everything.” Somehow, she’ll know it was me and that we were here. My hands reflexively ball up into tight fists, my nails cutting into my palms.

  “Relax. She’ll never know how it happened.” He moves to tighten the tie around my eyes. “Come.” He pulls me into him.

  I want “us” to work, and my plan for tonight is unfolding as I’d hoped, even if we’re not at his apartment. I need tonight to be perfect. Right now, I need that more than anything else. If he and I are good together, then everything else will fall into place. I relent, knowing he’s probably right. There’s no way she could know.

  He moves in between my legs, slowly entering me. I feel his whole erection exciting each nerve inside me as he first moves back and forth then almost pulls out before diving back in fully. He grabs my legs and uses them as leverage as he thrusts. I prop myself up on my elbows on the desk and wrap my legs around him, hugging him close. He fills me up and starts to move in a circular motion, grinding into me. I’m literally panting with pleasure as the tension builds inside.

  He leans down and begins to kiss me passionately, biting my lips, as he continues to pump me hard. I kiss him back and absorb his fierceness. He moves down to my neck and starts to nip and suck on either side of it, like he’s trying to penetrate even deeper into me.

  Blindfolded, all I feel is sensation as he moves along and inside my body. Alec takes my heavy breasts in his hands and feels them fully, massaging and pulling my nipples. He reaches down with his mouth now, taking my left breast and sucking on the nipple as he continues to move inside me. Then he bites me and pinches the other nipple, sending me screaming in pleasure or pain, I’m not sure which.

  Without taking himself out of me, he flips me around so my stomach is on the desk.

  “That’s right, baby.”

  He helps to swing my leg over his body, so he’s taking me from behind. He moves in and out, pushing hard, thrusting inside me. He continues rhythmically thrusting in and out until I come in waves around him, quietly moaning as I grab the sides of the desk. Alec follows moments later and groans, the powerful release of a king.

  Without saying a word, he removes the tie blindfold and carries me to Bernie’s couch, on the other side of her office. I look out the window and see office lights on in the buildings next door.

  “You are amazing,” he says.

  “So, did anybody see us?”

  “I hope so,” he says, pausing. “And in your boss’s office…”

  “I’ll never look at it the same way again.”

  14

  Sweet Muse

  As we approach the entrance to the Whitney Museum, I spot an enormous sculpture of a red fire truck parked in front. I gasp and whack Cari’s arm repeatedly, “Holy shit, that’s amazing!”

  “Easy, killer!” Cari yanks her arm back, as we head into the crowded main lobby of the Biennial opening. I apologize, rub her arm as I lace mine through it, and scan the room for Sasha Slade, who’s my target tonight. She’s rumored to be on the sauce again, and Bernie wants a news item for the next issue.

  My finger finds the tender skin around my thumb and starts picking at it, bit by tiny bit. Finding the edge and gently tearing somehow soothes the feelings of worry bubbling like mad under the surface. It’s not about getting the Slade item—Bernie said it would be a “good to have” not a “must have.” It’s the uncertainty, attacking from every corner of my life.

  “You good?” asks Cari.

  “Fine. Totally.”

  “Really?” she says, slapping my hand. “Then stop that.” She pauses a moment, then says, “Out with it.”

  “What?” I say, playing dumb.

  Cari gives me a look. She knows me better than anyone, even my mom. As we circle the lobby, I break down and tell her that I wanted Alec to come with me tonight. As usual, he had to work. I get that he’s a master of the universe. That’s part of what draws me to him: The power he commands and the fact that he seeks control, always. I don’t have to think when I’m with him. I explain that for the first time in my life, I can sit back and not agonize over everything. In some ways, being with him is a big relief. As long as I play by his rules, I know I’ll be taken care of.

  “But he doles himself out one drop at a time,” I say, explaining that he rarely has time to see me, and it’s always last minute when he does—an 8:00 p.m. call for dinner one night; a drink grabbed at 11:00 p.m. It makes me feel…like I’m an afterthought.

  “And he still hasn’t taken me to his apartment…and I’m getting a complex about it.” He’s told me in detail what his place is like and where it is. The two-bedroom, two-bath at Park and 63rd has an unobstructed view of downtown, a balcony large enough to accommodate a party, and two formal living rooms. He says it’s empty most of the time and that he only goes there to sleep for a few hours a night. He has nothing in the fridge but a half-quart of milk for morning cereal, which his cleaning lady replaces each week.

  “It is a little strange,” Cari concurs. “But no one really hangs out in their apartment in the city.”

  “But we could sleep there!”

  Cari nods.

  “You need to say something to him about it, then. Straight on. Get out of your own way and tell him what’s on your mind.”

  I take a deep breath. Alec is so commanding—everything has to go his way. I can’t imagine how that conversation would unfold. If I said the wrong thing, I’m sure he would up and leave. I’d rather keep it in and preserve the status quo, even if the issue eats at me.

  “We’re going to dinner on Sunday, and I’ll try to say something then.” I don’t know what I’m going to do but decide to appease Cari to end the discussion.

  The museum feels abuzz with an energy that I haven’t felt at premiere parties or lounge openings. The artwork on display is a world away from the staid portraits and battle scenes that dominate the walls of museums I’ve been to. In fact, there’s hardly a canvas in sight; sculpture, mixed media, video, and performance art take center stage.

  The people are as much a spectacle as the artwork. I spot one woman whose electric-purple hair sprouts in every direction; she’s wearing cat’s-eye glasses, heavy black eyeliner, and a sculptural black dress, artfully torn and snipped, with huge shoulder pads sprouting on each side. A large, burly man with a shaved head, clad in black leather from head to toe, has piercings all over his face and up and down both ears.

  “Guy or girl?” says Cari, leaning in. She juts her chin toward the corner, indicating a person with short, hot-pink hair, a hot-pink feather boa, hot-pink platform heels, and a white pleather dress barely covering her or his assets.

  “Guy, definitely. He has an Adam’s apple…and no hips!”

  We head up to the second floor. I wait in line to grab us two glasses of pinot grigio at a nearby bar table as Cari takes a look around. Moments later, she races over to me with a crazed look.

  “Come see this piece. Right now. I swear on my grandmother’s grave that it looks like you.”

  I flash her a “what gives” look. “Oh yeah, I didn’t tell you I’ve been nude modeling to earn some extra cash. It’s hard to make ends meet on an editorial assistant’s salary.”

  “Seriously, you’re going to die. Or think that I need to be committed.”

  With wine in hand, we round the corner. An enormous head, close to six feet tall, made entirely out of sugar cubes comes into view. A small mob is gathered around the sculpture; it’s the centerpiece of the room.

  Cari says, “She has the same thin top lip and full lower lip as you, and the same nose. I love
your nose, but it is strong, and this looks the same. Same oval-shaped face, same flowing hair.”

  I crane my neck and look over.

  “I’m not the only long-haired, strong-nosed girl in New York.”

  A chill runs down my spine, though. It does look like me.

  Cari starts tearing through her program. “Shit, it’s by Damien Wolfe,” she says, shaking it at me.

  Suddenly, the world begins to slow, like a wind-up toy losing steam. My thoughts swirl into a twisted loop.

  “Isn’t that the guy from the Bubble Lounge?”

  When I look up, out at the crowd, I spot him. He turns his head, almost in slow motion, as if my presence is drawing him to me. I feel a bolt of lightning fire between us and get light-headed. There it is again. It feels like electricity, like a connection is being formed from across the room, energy uniting—a mystical, nonphysical coming together.

  Damien holds my gaze, almost trancelike. Then, slowly, a smile grows on his face. My hopes soar, followed by a muddle of confusion. I’m part frozen, part flying. I smile back, melting in the pool of warmth he’s created between us. That visceral connection we shared at the Bubble Lounge is here again.

  From across the room, I see him tap the shoulder of the man he’s talking to and say something quickly. He nods a few times, turns, and begins to walk toward me.

  “Look, here it is in the program.” Cari shoves it in front of me. I look down and see a picture of the sculpture, accompanied by the name of the piece and the artist.

  “Sweet Muse?” I read aloud, feeling my face go white with shock.

  Damien looks like a god as he strides over in dark-washed jeans that hang perfectly off his slim hips, a well-cut plaid shirt that hugs his muscled arms, and black, expensive-looking boots that complete his downtown look. Sexy without trying, he runs his fingers through his hair, smoothing it back, highlighting his male-model-worthy cheekbones and glinting hazel eyes that pierce through me.

  I feel his energy as he approaches, as if we’re being pulled together by a force larger than ourselves. I have a thousand questions racing through my head.

  “I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced,” he says, holding out his hand. “Damien Wolfe.”

  My head spins. Instantly, I’m hot and tingling from head to toe.

  “The Bubble Lounge opening. I caught you. In my arms,” he says, holding out his hands, cradling my arms, like he did that night. Fire courses through my skin where he touches me, and my stomach dances with nerves.

  “When I tripped.”

  “Yes.”

  “You remember?”

  “How could I forget? I’m in the middle of a sleepy conversation with one of my collectors, when, out of the corner of my eye, I see a body careening toward me,” he says, flashing me an intimate smile. Oh God, he’s perfect.

  “And you are?” He raises his eyebrows, inviting me to tell him my name.

  Again, silence. I feel so out of my head, I can’t form words. After that night at the Bubble Lounge, echoes of him kept appearing in my life, reminding me of him. Now, he’s here in front of me, and I’m stunned into speechlessness.

  “Your name? I know you have an aunt named Sylvie, but…”

  “Yes.” I finally manage to release a word from my mouth. “I’m Anna…Starr.”

  “Nice to meet you, Anna Starr. And this is?” he says, looking at Cari.

  I introduce him to Cari as he talks about that night and how his buddy dragged him out of there so quickly that we didn’t get a chance to properly meet.

  “I didn’t get a chance to thank you,” I manage to eek out. “If it weren’t for you, I would’ve broken a bone or God knows what. And then I would’ve lost my job. It would’ve been a total disaster.”

  “Just in the right place at the right time.” He holds his hands up in the air and turns his head to the side with an irresistible shrug and grin.

  “And you brought me sustenance.” Cari gently hits me. I think I’m literally mooning at him.

  “Just being a gentleman…to a beautiful lady,” he says, with a mock bow toward me.

  All three of us break into what feels like warm, genuine laughter, and the tension dissipates.

  “Cheers,” he says, raising his glass. “To meeting again, and for the first time.”

  We all raise our glasses and clink.

  “And cheers to you. Your work is…very emotive,” I say, remembering how Illusion hit me when I saw it in the window of that gallery in SoHo.

  “Thanks,” he says, giving me an intense, almost feral look. It burns into me. I feel myself connecting with him on another level—it feels like pure energy, emotions, something beyond words or thoughts.

  “For me, anyway.” Embarrassed, I backpedal slightly. “How many sugar cubes did it take?” I ask, gesturing toward Sweet Muse.

  The intensity dissipates slowly, and he comes back to the conversation. “More than 25,000.”

  Cari and I hoot and holler in surprise.

  “Always loved them,” he says. “Those crystalline white cubes—each one a perfect jewel, pure, pristine. Growing up, I’d sneak handfuls from the sugar bowl on the kitchen table and pop them like candy. They’re a great material to work with. Sharp and hard-edged like Lego blocks, yet impermanent. Totally without color…a three-dimensional blank slate, of sorts, that I can fill with meaning.”

  When he speaks, I want to soak him up. He’s wise in ways that I can’t comprehend. I feel a fierce need to know him—what inspires him, where he comes from, his story, his dreams.

  “Hey, I was going to run out and grab a smoke. Come join?” he says, looking directly at me.

  “Sure!” I say, a little too eagerly. I hardly smoke, but I want to be with him. I don’t want to lose him again so quickly.

  Cari gives me the I-got-your-back look, and Damien gently touches my shoulder, moving me through the crowd to a door leading to the back stairs. Blasts of heat cluster around the places where his hand makes contact with my body. I’m light-headed; I feel like I’m floating through the crowd. My reaction to him is so powerful. I don’t understand it. I just know it’s there. And I’ve never felt anything like this before.

  As we head downstairs and out the service entrance, this strange yet powerful connection keeps growing.

  “I hate these things,” he says.

  “But the Biennial…it’s like career rocket fuel.”

  He nods his head and gives me a gorgeous, knowing half smile. “I haven’t told anyone this yet, because it literally just happened, but I’m getting my first solo show out of it.”

  “Wow!” I say, while reaching out and hugging him, reflexively. He follows suit and we wrap our arms around each other. As our bodies touch, it feels like two pieces of a puzzle coming together, enmeshing to form a perfect union. Feeling his strong, muscled arms encircle me, I feel comforted, at ease, peaceful, for perhaps the first time in my life. Tears build in my eyes, not from sadness but from a well of emotion, energy swirling around us, as we embrace like two souls joining as one. Something in me doesn’t ever want to let this man go. We stand, entwined, for what feels like forever, on the loading dock of the Whitney.

  Yes, I know it now. It feels…like home.

  Finally, we pull apart. Damien gazes down at me with a powerful, serious look.

  Embarrassed, I cast my head down. “I don’t normally do that. I mean, just jump in and hug people. I was just so happy for you.”

  “Hey,” he says, placing his finger under my chin and tilting my head up to meet his gaze. The gesture is familiar, and I remember his response when I told him about Aunt Sylvie at the Bubble Lounge. His searing hazel eyes bore into me, creating an intimacy that both shocks and delights me. At the same time, I feel electrified, like I’m floating above the loading dock. “Don’t question yourself.”

  He hands me one of his Marlboro Reds and lights it, then takes his own.

  “Whoa, the strong stuff,” I say.

  He nods, not takin
g his eyes off me, and then pauses and smiles. He shoots his fists up in a victory pose, taking a moment. “My first solo show!” He states, as if it’s settling in for the first time.

  Then I see a flicker of emotion cross his face, something darker, maybe conflicted? As I try to read him, I’m a beat behind him in conversation and he’s already shifted the subject. “Enough about me. I want to know about you, and everything we didn’t get a chance to talk about last time we met.”

  I’m searching for where to start…part of me wants to go all the way back…but I start with the basics, telling him that I work at Celeb and that I was covering it for the magazine that night. I want to pick at my nails again, and beat myself up for not being more witty or funny.

  “Celeb,” he says, showing a little surprise. “I didn’t take you for that type.”

  “Well, it’s not my life’s mission to cover parties and openings, if that’s what you’re saying.” I feel just a little ruffled by his comment and then mentally kick myself for being so sensitive.

  “Hey,” he says, looking into my eyes again, setting my heart ablaze. “I’m saying there’s so much going on in there.” He points at my head. “I see it.”

  I look at him, confused.

  “You’re of the earth. Solid. Smart, in a deep way. You need to feel connected to nature to feel whole. You think differently from everyone else, so you never feel like you fit in.”

  My breath halts. How can he know me like that already—better than I even know myself?

  “And you feel more acutely than others.”

  Again, I feel a well of simmering emotion begin to boil over. Tears gather behind my eyelids. I feel out of control but so connected. I don’t know how to respond to him. His insights into me are unnerving yet oddly comforting.

  “I’ve never felt so close to someone I just met,” I say without thinking. My hand flies up to my mouth, as if trying to take back what popped out.

  Damien reaches up, takes my hand, and places it into his. We stand like this for what feels like minutes but is probably only a few seconds, and then he softly breaks the moment with his words.