Sweet Muse

by Ava Cummings

  “Okay,” I say tentatively, getting my head around this new plan. We dig into our little picnic. It’s edging on 7:00 p.m., and there’s not much going on. We keep our eyes on the building, looking for lights in windows and any movement, scanning for Goodall.

  “So, last time I saw you, Starr, you were pretty…upset,” says Jesse, filling the time.

  Oh…this conversation. I look down and start picking at the tender skin around my thumbnail. “God, Jesse. I was a complete mess. You were actually a gentleman.”

  “It does happen from time to time. Don’t sound so surprised.”

  “Thank you,” I say with an audible exhale. That wasn’t as excruciating as I thought it would be. “I never told you how much I appreciated you taking care of me—and not taking advantage of the situation. You kept me from doing something that I would regret.”

  “Slow down there, boss. Regret being with me? Never,” says Jesse, giving me that irresistible prep-school-boy smile.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “The night of dares was fun, though, wasn’t it?”

  “For the books,” I say, then switch the subject as we wait and watch, eyes glued to the windshield, encased in cover of darkness. With eyes stuck on the desolate, eerily quiet scene, we talk without looking at each other. Somehow, it makes it easier. It’s like we’re in a cocoon of safety, miles from our complicated lives in the city.

  “What happened that night at Julien was a mix-up; I jumped to conclusions.”

  “So Damien’s not like all the other guys in New York.”

  “It’s different with him. Shit, I know that sounds cliché, but it is.” I try my best to explain the powerful connection, how he knows me better than I know myself, how he studies me, and how I somehow serve to inspire him.

  And then there’s the instant comfort in his strong arms, the way our bodies fit together like pieces of a puzzle. The flood of emotions he’s cracked open in me. Damien is like a coming home, but I keep that to myself.

  “Now for the most important question,” he says. “How’s the sex?”

  “Jesse, seriously, of course you would ask.”

  “Come on, Starr. Is he better than me?”

  “Not answering that.”

  “He’s not. I knew it. Nobody can top this,” he says, motioning to his pants.

  “Ladies don’t kiss and tell.”

  “You just don’t want to admit that I was your best,” he says, cocky as ever, goading me on.

  In the safety of the front seat of our little old Ford Taurus, far from the city, I tell Jesse something I haven’t even told Cari. In the comfort of the cover of darkness and miles of emptiness, nothingness, I just say it. “Something freaky happened,” explaining slowly, still hesitating. “I actually cried when I was with him—like during sex. And not just a little. Sobbing, heaving, tears rolling down.”

  Jesse continues to look straight ahead, takes an audible deep breath, and quietly says, “That actually happened one time with me. With a girl, I mean.”

  Gone is the overconfident playboy, like a flash—replaced, suddenly, by an emotional, sensitive soul. His ever-present persona of confidence and egotism has evaporated, and in its place is a wide-eyed, heartsick man.

  “There was this one girl…the one that got away.” He pauses. The mood in the car shifts; the silence feels heavy. “Of course, I fucked it up.”

  “Jesse, maybe it mea—”

  Suddenly, Jesse motions with his chin toward the entrance. “Shit, someone’s coming. Get down.” He yanks my arm again and we crouch low.

  A van with a Verizon logo on it rolls in. The gate sweeps up in one of the bays next to the office space, and the van slowly turns to drive in, allowing us a quick peek into the driver’s side. I lift my head up and strain to see.

  “It’s him. That’s Goodall. I saw the dark hair, the eyebrows. It was him.”

  As the gate begins to roll down, Goodall jumps out of the parked van, and we get another peek. He heads for an inner door inside the garage, and he’s gone.

  “Let’s go! We’ll nail him!” I move to open my door and again Jesse yanks my arm back.

  “Slow down, Starr. We don’t have anything yet to confront him with. If we go in now, we’ll never get him. What we have now is a lead. Now, we leave, go home, take what we’ve learned, and do more digging.”

  “No,” I say, taking my arm back. “This is when I go in there and confront him, tell him that I know he’s up to something with Chelsea.”

  “You do that now and we’re done, Starr. He’s been around the block more than a few times. If we’re going to get him, we need to be smart, take a little more time, and build our case.”

  I fold my arms across my chest and crinkle my forehead. But before I yell “Hmph!” like a petulant three year old, Aunt Sylvie floats into my consciousness and her words on following the story and how seeing where it goes takes time.

  Reluctantly, I give in, knowing he’s right.

  22

  Her

  Heaving open the monumental glass doors of the Gary Lehman Gallery, I restlessly check my watch—4:03—and tuck my purse under my arm. Damien’s huddled in a corner with his dealer, and a woman whose back is to me, dressed in the most beautiful Louboutin heels, with their trademark red soles, and toting a Hermes Birkin bag. I might have been a teensy bit nervous and instantly feel inadequate in my jeans and vintage ’70s suede belted wrap coat that I achingly put together.

  When Damien looks over, his face brightens and his eyes penetrate my very being, creating an intimate moment between us. I breathe in a tiny sip of confidence. He strides over to say hello. And I tingle as I take him in—his ink-black jeans and a black button-down with the sleeves half rolled up, exposing his muscular, olive-skinned arms. As the woman in the Louboutins turns around, I squeeze my nails into my hand and a cavernous pit widens in my gut.

  “Hey, Anna,” says Damien, leaning in and planting a soft kiss on my cheek, “there are some people here I want you to meet.”

  “Do you know who that is?” I say quietly, moving my eyes over. “Do you have any idea how famous she is?”

  “You mean Mandy Malone.”

  “Who else would I be referring to?” I say, panicked.

  “She’s an art collector and fan of my work. Come, I’ll introduce you.”

  As Damien loosely takes my hand in his and walks me over, I explain in a quiet, urgent whisper that Mandy is notoriously media shy after getting burned a couple of years ago during her divorce. HollywoodInsider ran an unsubstantiated story claiming that she was having an affair, and though it wasn’t true, it cost her millions in the settlement.

  If I were to score an interview with her, it would make my career. She has literally talked to no reporter in years. An interview with her is considered one of the industry’s biggest gets. Even if it were a puff piece, it would sell millions of copies of Celeb. I would become known as the reporter who could get even the toughest interviews.

  “Hi,” I manage to say, smoothing my shaky, damp palms down my jeans. “So amazing to meet you.” My mind runs dry, and I’m reaching for something to say. And then I remember Aunt Sylvie’s advice: Talk to celebrities like they’re real people.

  “Nice to meet you, too.”

  “I guess we have something in common.”

  “Really? But we’ve just—”

  “Damien,” I rush to say. “I’m a huge fan, too…his work. It’s both smart, acerbic, intellectual—and a little bit scary.” She gives me a funny look. “…Because if he’s right and all we care about is fame, then we’re all in real trouble.”

  “Yes,” I see her eyes soften and her shoulders relax. “I think I’ve said almost the same thing about him.”

  My ambition wins out. I can’t help myself. I know I’ve connected with her, and, goddamned it, I go for it.

  “Mandy, your interest in the arts is so cool, and it puts you on a totally different plane from every other Hollywood star. I would love t
o show the world this side of you—no one has seen it.”

  She gives me a confused look.

  “Let me explain. I work at Celeb. I could do an interview with you. To tell this story, your story. I could even guarantee you approval of the copy before publication. It’s not something we ever do, but in your case, for you, I think I could make it happen.”

  I see her tense up. “Anna, I don’t do interviews,” she says. “The press hasn’t been kind to me.”

  “But this would be a chance to show the world the real you, and I would take the utmost care.”

  “Anna is true to her word,” Damien turns from a nearby conversation with his dealer and cuts in. “She’s the real deal.”

  Mandy looks like she might be softening, but she’s still not quite there.

  “Listen, Mandy, I have an idea,” says Damien. He looks at me and flashes his smile, the one that says he’s going to take care of me, take care of everything. “You need to get back out there, and there’s no better writer to do it with than Anna. I know you loved that sculpture I did for the London museum. That one’s still not available. But if you do this interview, I’ll make one more in that series…just for you.”

  “Making me an offer I can’t refuse. You know how much I loved that piece.”

  “It would be just for you,” he says, going in for one more sell.

  “Well, my manager keeps telling me I need to raise my profile,” she says, moving the Birkin bag from one hand to the other, passing her free hand through her warm brown shoulder-length locks. “Anna, if you give me copy approval, I think I’ll do it.”

  I give Mandy my warmest, broadest farm-girl smile, and momentarily flash my eyes up, thanking Aunt Sylvie.

  “Here’s my card,” she says, handing me a thick, beautifully embossed square. “It’s my manager’s number. Call him tomorrow, and we’ll get it set up.”

  As Damien shows me the Ancient Greek wing at The Met, he explains how modern art collecting is big business. The rich put their money into art—another investment, like the stock market. As one of the industry’s rising stars, Damien said they all see him as a good bet, guaranteed to make them money.

  He grabs my hand and laces his fingers through mine. The feel of his rough skin against mine makes my body sparkly alive with tingles. When he grasps my hand a little harder, I wonder if part of him is holding onto me, for something more. My good artist is excited about his wild, promising future, but perhaps not so comfortable with the other, more complicated parts.

  And me? Well, I’ve lifted off and am floating through the air as we walk the crowded halls of the museum. Totally consumed by his presence, this emotionally handicapped young thing has become a creature of emotion on her way to—dare I utter the godforsaken words—growing up.

  The rooms are gargantuan and packed with people—tourists in sensible shoes with cameras hanging around their necks, older couples dressed up for an outing to the city’s biggest museum, and families with children running in circles, aching to touch everything. The energy feels frenetic, and I’m dizzy from all the movement.

  The museum is a maze of halls, and the mass of a crowd jostles us along. I hear at least six different languages being spoken as we stroll through the rooms.

  “I haven’t actually been here for a long time. Years…” says Damien, leaving the thought unfinished, hanging between us.

  “When you live in the city, you don’t do the touristy things much,” I say, in an effort to complete it. “You’re too busy living your life.”

  “Something like that,” he says quietly, using his artful charm to abruptly change the subject. “Anna Starr, tell me more about you. I simply won’t be satisfied until I know it all.”

  My hand flutters up to my face, and I ache to chew on my nails, to release the nerves. He’s so interested in me. I’ve never felt the heated gaze of such intense male attention, or any attention for that matter. “What do you want to know? I’m not all that interesting.”

  “Who gave you your first kiss? Let’s start there,” he says, swinging our hands in the air as we walk the halls.

  “Ricky Torrance. Kindergarten. My sixth birthday party. We were all playing in the front yard, hanging out on the chaise longue and playing tag around the willow tree, and then—boom!—he tagged me and went in for the cheek peck.”

  “Lucky guy, that Ricky,” he says, giving me his trademark half smile. I’ve never told anyone about my first kiss. I want to jump into Damien’s arms and live there forever, in the comfort and strength of them. A warm feeling washes over me, as though my heart were physically opening, urging me to tell him everything, even the hard stuff.

  “What about you? Who is the infamous ‘Wolfe of the Art World,’ as New York magazine called you?” I say, trying to squeeze something, anything more out of this deep soul that I know has so much lying underneath it.

  “Read that, huh?” he says sheepishly, eyebrows up, head shaking in defeat, rubbing his hand on the hint of stubble on his chin. “Well, that’s all Gary. My art dealer makes me do that stuff. But it’s not real. You know that better than anyone. They turn you into what they want.”

  We round the corner and come upon a cavernous room flooded with light. The sun pours in from a wall of windows that open up to a verdant expanse of Central Park. Even in its vastness, the room is peaceful, almost silent. Inside sits the massive Temple of Dendur, looking just as majestic and awe inspiring as it must have when it was first erected thousands of years ago.

  “The temple was built in 15 BC and transported from its former home in Egypt to the Met by boat in the late ’60s,” he says, while leading me forward and keeping a firm grip on my hand. “These rooms were used for making offerings.”

  We walk through to the last room in the back.

  “This was the sanctuary for Isis,” he says. “She was worshipped as the ideal mother and wife, as well as the patroness of nature and magic. She was the friend of sinners, artisans, and the downtrodden. Her power was strong—it was believed that when she cried, she filled the Nile River. She was worshipped like a cult figure in ancient Greek times.”

  Experiencing art with an artist brings each piece to life and imbues meaning into something that otherwise would just be another painting or sculpture—taking it from something cool to understanding its context in history. Listening to him share his knowledge is intoxicating, too. Seeing the works through his eyes allows me to know him more deeply.

  When I break from his gaze, I notice that we’re alone in this small, cramped, heavily walled room. Damien has stopped talking and plants his mouth on mine.

  “I need you. Now,” he says, through furious kisses.

  Someone could come in at any moment, but my mind has gone blank, and I fall into his arms. He grabs me, pulling me as close to him as he can, our bodies melded together. My stomach clenches and the blood rushes to my head. I go weak in the knees, and Damien, sensing it, catches me and lifts me up, wrapping my legs around him.

  I’m panting, breathing hard, as his tongue dances with mine, exploring every corner of my mouth. Our hands race over each other’s bodies with extreme urgency, as though our lives depended on it. He drinks me in, and I give myself over. He nips at my lip, covering my faces with kisses, marking me as his own. I’m smiling in between kisses, and we’re both lost in each other as the world recedes.

  “Break it up, you two,” a voice booms behind us. “Now.”

  A security guard soldiers toward us, an aggressive growl embedded on his face.

  “Get a room. Come on, move it along,” he continues, as I make eye contact with him and darken to a crisp shade of crimson. Damien hurriedly collects me, and we scamper out of the temple.

  We hurtle down the next hallway we find, wound up and giggling.

  “I needed you, Anna. To connect with you.”

  “Me, too,” I say, gazing up at him, continuing to move at a swift clip.

  As we round the next corner, holding hands, still delighting in the un
restrained moment in the temple, we come within inches of an enormous sculpture of a woman’s face. “Her, by Luke Laraby,” I say, looking down at the information card in front of me. “Oh, I think I learned about him in col—”

  Damien’s body shudders and his entire being contracts, almost as if he’s experiencing a sharp, physical pain like a knife wound, a gun shot. His eyes fill, like two seas of emotion, vast and deep, dark and stormy. In a burst of anger, he shakes my hand from his.

  “Hey,” I reach to grab his hand, to reestablish that moment, not just for me but for him, for both of us.

  He backs away, wincing as if in pain.

  “This,” he says shakily, as he points to me, and then back to himself. “Me. It won’t end well. There are things about me. A lot of things that you don’t know, things that will scare you. They scare me. I thought I could do it. I thought I could escape…me.”

  He turns. I try to reach out to him, to make that connection I know will bring him back, bring us back, but he’s disappeared into a throng of tourists.

  My skin starts to itch—the flare of hives beginning to build. His sudden abandonment unleashes all the hurt from my past. My eyes fill with tears, my shoulders cave in. I feel more alone than ever.

  I took a risk in letting him in, opening up for the first time, feeling like some of those wounds from my past, from my dad, were beginning to heal. And I thought I could do that for him, too. I thought that what we had might be enough for both of us. That through our connection, we would both be able to love.

  I’m filled with a kind of manic need to find him and tell him all this, tell him that together, we can do this. My eyes go wide as saucers as I scan the room for him. I take off and run down the halls, retracing our path, feeling with each slap of my feet that I’m trampling the perfect memories that were just made in these galleries.