The Art of Love

by Anne Whitney

  “And the more realistic option?”

  “There’s this amazing new thing called talking to people. I hear it works pretty well.”

  She does have a point, I have to admit. If I don’t just talk about things with him, then they’ll get buried and fester away until they overwhelm us both. I make a silent pledge to face this issue head-on and just ask him outright what is going on between us. If I must be a brand new person, then I can at least be a bold one.

  Viridian’s phone buzzes in her pocket. She pulls it out and reads the text.

  “Fitz wants me to tell you to head back to the apartment,” she says. “The gallery wants to talk to him about space and requirements and all that crap. Tell him to buy you your own cell!”

  We stand up, smooth down our outfits and pick up our many bags.

  “So are you going to sort this out?” Viridian asks me.

  “Yep. I’ll just come out and ask him what’s going on.”

  “The first option’s a lot more fun.”

  CHAPTER 14.

  The American Modern Art Museum is just as I pictured it - a giant building full of weird objects. Even during the reception for invited artists, filled with booze and socialites in gaudy cocktail attire, the strange is on display. A pile of sticks towers over the lobby, dripping with a constant stream of paint from the ceiling. In another room, a video of a naked obese woman screaming is on continuous loop.

  Let’s just face it - I don’t get modern art. Any of it. At all.

  “It’s a Marvin Schecter,” Fitz says as I scrunch my nose at a pail of overturned garbage. “It’s about global warming and pollution.”

  “It looks like a bunch of trash to me,” I say.

  He frowns over his shoulder. “It’s beautiful. Marvin is a master at his craft.”

  I shrug my shoulders. “You’re the artist.”

  “And you are, too.” Fitz winks at me, a reminder to fall back into the role I’m supposed to be playing in the great charade that’s saving my life for all I know. “We never figured out what kind of art you do. And you are supposed to be my assista-”

  “I make pots,” I shoot. “I’m not going to take off my clothes and prance around like some spring chicken if that’s what you’re going to say. No thanks, but feel free to strip down right now and run around giggling like a school kid if that’s what you think is needed. Really, I wouldn’t mind one bit to see that.”

  Fitz side eyes me and walks forward into to the crowd of hoity-toity types. I pull down on the hem of the short dress, another creation raided from the closet at Derek’s office. It has to be two sizes too tight, a turquoise number bound in black embroidery and feathery fringe. I said it was hideous. Derek said it was adorable. Fitz’s look was the only thing that sealed the deal - a look I took as approval.

  I want him to like me and I don’t even know why. My heart yearns for something it knows little about: love, affection, caring, and sex. Lost in this world of strange art and naked men with soft lips, I did the only thing I could think of doing.

  I let a gay man do my hair and makeup and send me out the door without looking at the mirror.

  Oh, the things you do in the pursuit of lust...

  Or it could just be the crazy amount of fear and adrenaline in my system messing with my mind. I barely know Fitz, but here I am, posing as his date and assistant, salivating over the curve of his muscles beneath his shirt. The buttons are popped open down his sternum, the tattoos that line his body in view. I almost cower in his presence as the tiny girl at his side with the weird dress and even weirder hair and makeup.

  “Why are you freaking out?” he asks from the corner of his mouth in a low voice.

  “Anyone here could know about me,” I say.

  “They’re looking for Marina Phillips,” Fitz says. “You’re Mary Fenton. Marina Phillips is somewhere in Washington in some crazy man’s basement.”

  I force a smile as someone looks in our direction. The man, wearing a shiny black suit with a thin red tie, gives Fitz a little wave before wandering off with the much younger cute brunette hanging daintily onto his arm.

  “You’re not helping me feel more confident about all this,” I say.

  “My agent is here,” Fitz says. “Let’s forget about Marina and do this the right way.”

  “And what way would that be?”

  “Simple,” Fitz says. “We upstage every other person in this room and prove that we’re meant to be here.”

  Frowning, I say, “You’re the artist, Fitz. I’m the nobody.”

  “When I’m done with you, you’re going to be the star of the show,” he whispers in my ear. His voice is almost seductive, and the look he gives me as he pulls away slowly just reaffirms my suspicions. My knees shake as a minor earthquake raging inside my body rattles my bones. I’m far too easily distracted by him and he knows it, but we can’t avoid the obvious forever.

  “We need to talk,” I say with as much seriousness in my voice as I can muster. “After we’re done here.”

  “Sure. About what?”

  “Us. And yesterday.”

  He pauses and stares at the floor, lost in thought. I can feel one of his hands hover over my back, achingly close, yet afraid to touch. The bruising will take a while to disappear and it still occasionally throbs with pain, but I barely notice it. I don’t want Fitz to hold back out of fear of hurting me. I’ve lived through far worse pain than he knows about.

  “Mary...” he starts. He still won’t touch me.

  “Tonight,” I assert. It feels strange to be the confident one out of the pair of us for a change. Driven by boldness, I push myself against his open palm behind my back, glad to finally feel his touch again. He momentarily flinches but does not pull away, instead moving his hand upwards across the scant fabric of the dress, and our eyes meet again. I’m working so hard to cling to the calm and strong-minded composure of Mary Fenton, but I know that Fitz’s growing smile and increasingly confident touch on my back could so easily send me tumbling back to my old trembling little girl state.

  “Don’t be so scared,” he whispers.

  “I’m not.”

  “I can feel your heartbeat. You’re definitely scared.”

  Fitz pushes me gently toward him and his lips grace my forehead.

  “We’ll talk later, I promise,” he breathes against my hair. “Just relax and enjoy yourself for now. You belong here as much as I do.”

  I highly doubt that, I think. I’m still trying to figure out how a pile of smelly garbage can suddenly be intrinsically artistic just because it’s sitting on a gallery floor and not in some damp back-alley downtown. I kind of like Fitz’s work - although I’m not the most unbiased person to discuss that - but I struggle to call it art. If I’m going to pass myself off as a budding artist and potter (why the hell did I pick pottery?) then I’ll need to do my homework.

  “I’m not interrupting anything private here, am I?” A man approaches us, tapping on Fitz’s shoulder. The pair heartily shake hands.

  “Not at all,” Fitz replies. “Time for some introductions. Mary, this is my agent, Jack Sandel. Jack, this is my new assistant, Mary Fenton. Basically, the pair of you does all my dirty work for me.”

  “Ah,” he says knowingly as he shakes my hand. “So this is the one I’ve heard so much about?”

  “You have?” I ask, growing worried.

  “You’re quite the topic of conversation amongst my clients, Miss Fenton. Fitz taking on an assistant is a pretty big deal and it doesn’t happen that often. Are you a performance artist yourself?”

  “Oh no,” I say a little too quickly. “No, nothing like that. Pots, dishes, the occasional pan.”

  “Mary’s a potter,” Fitz says, cutting me off. He brings his arms around my front and embraces me, my back to his chest. My shaved nape rests against his bare chest, warm and welcoming, and suddenly my heart is hammering. I fear it may be loud enough for the whole world to hear. “Although I personally think she’d make a bril
liant performer.”

  “I really, really wouldn’t,” I insist, trying to laugh away my nerves.

  “She’s got great potential, Jack.” Fitz’s hand rests across my heart. “A wonderful nervous energy that I think would go down well with others. She’s like a hummingbird.”

  “I prefer pots.”

  Jack laughs.

  “Well, I’m glad to see you two getting on so well,” he says. “You got a piece ready for the big show?”

  “I’ve got something in mind,” Fitz admits. “Inspired by Mary, actually. She’s been quite the inspiration to me lately.”

  I tilt my head upwards to see Fitz smiling mischievously. I hadn’t expected to hear that, although I shudder to think in what way I could have possibly inspired him, given his usual artistic endeavors.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Jack says. “If this show’s a success - and it will be, don’t worry about that - then your name will be big for all the right reasons. You might even be able to make some money out of this!”

  “Wishful thinking, Jack.”

  “Hey, it’s not the easiest job in the world trying to sell a performance. You can’t hang it on the wall in some CEO’s office, although I know a few ladies who would love to do exactly that with you, Fitz. Anyway, I do have other clients to comfort over not getting the gig, so I’ll leave you to it. Lovely meeting you, Mary. I hope you continue to be an inspiration.”

  “Nice to meet you, sir,” I reply.

  “And so polite! Hang onto her, Fitz. You need a girl to keep you in line. Do you know how hard it was getting that last scandal covered up?”

  As Jack heads toward another group of artists as he bursts into laughter, Fitz’s embrace tightens around me, and the hairs on my arms stand on end.

  “I’m your inspiration?” I ask, trying to suppress my grin.

  “Among other things. I’ll tell you about it when we get back. After our talk, of course.”

  I hold his arms in place as we gently rock back and forth on the spot. The blissful comfort we share has returned and I couldn’t be happier. We still have so much we need to sort out, but for now, nothing needs to be said. If only we could remain like this, undisturbed by the world.

  “How much did you have to pay to get here this time, Fitzroy?”

  A cold voice calls out toward us. Fitz’s hands form fists and he quickly releases me from his embrace. Immediately, the lack of contact feels alien. From across the room, a bald man with stubble and a look of thunder approaches us, dressed in a crumpled navy suit and carrying a glass of champagne. His presence has unnerved Fitz, who takes my hand and squeezes it a little too tightly.

  “Good to see you again,” the man continues. “I guess it’s only right that you talk to an artist who actually earned his place in the exhibit.”

  “Nice to see you’ve crawled out of your hole long enough to interact with real human beings for a change,” Fitz fires back. “It must get so lonely being surrounded with crime scene photos all day.”

  “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your...” He looks me up and down dismissively. “Friend?”

  “Drop dead.”

  “Ooh, someone’s in a bad mood. Did daddy refuse to pay the rent this month? Pleased to meet you, I’m Dan Condy.”

  He holds his hand out to me, but I ignore it. I instantly dislike this man, whoever he is. Not just because Fitz clearly despises him but because I’m sick of being looked at like he looked at me.

  “Quiet one, isn’t she?” Dan laughs. “How much did daddy pay for her?”

  “Shut the fuck up, Dan, or I swear I’ll make you part of your own exhibit,” Fitz says. His voice is calm and even but he sounds ready to snap. I stroke his hand with my thumb, willing him to not let this creep win whatever battle they are embroiled in. Even if this jackass did essentially call me a prostitute, I don’t want Fitz to ruin his life for me.

  “At least I earned my place here,” Dan sneers.

  “So did I,” Fitz fires back.

  “Oh, please. Nobody believes that one. The Cottrell-Iver name can buy a lot of things but it can’t cover up hack-work. Face it, Fitzroy the 4th, your presence here will sell a lot of tickets and a lot of newspapers, but not because anyone thinks you’re any good at this.”

  “How’s the police investigation going?” Fitz asks, regaining some of his spark. “I imagine all those evidence leaks have caused quite the scandal. How many years do you get inside for buying information from the cops?”

  Dan’s smug smirk disappears. I squeeze Fitz’s hand with encouragement.

  “I’m sure it’s about the same as for rioting, but some of us don’t have rich parents to bail us out. The real world functions with a different set of rules. Give my regards to mommy and daddy, Fitzroy. How many husbands has your mom gone through now? Is it four?”

  Fitz moves to approach him but I tug him back. He’s strong but he doesn’t resist as I cup his arm and bring him toward me.

  “We should go now,” I say. “You have an interview with Nylon at six.”

  “Yes,” Fitz growls. “It’s good to do interviews where you’re not under oath. Isn’t that right, Dan?”

  We head toward the exit without another word, but Dan has to get the last word in.

  “See you on opening day, Fitzroy!” He yells across the crowd, who turn to watch us as we leave.

  Fitz remains silent, tight lipped and fuming, as we climb into the back of a cab and head back home. His entire body is rigid against the seat and under my touch. I run my fingertips across the back of his hand, trying to coax him back to his normal self. It doesn’t seem to work; he remains tense and ready to snap. Sighing, I slide across the seat to sit as close to him as I possibly can, and force his arm onto my lap, where my dress has ridden up to expose an almost obscene amount of my thighs. My head flops against his shoulder and we remain like that for a good few minutes. Eventually, he softens and moves his arm around me. We stay silent, but now the calm has returned.

  For now.

  CHAPTER 15.

  Back at the apartment, Fitz holds my hand tightly as we slump onto the couch. He looks so spent from that brief but wholly nasty interaction with Dan, and it hurts to see his earlier joy from winning a place in the exhibit completely drained from him. Despite all this, and despite myself, I cannot help but internally jump for joy at having him be so affectionate with me, our fingers intertwined as he leans over and smells my hair. I know we need to talk, and if we don’t do it now then I’ll surely lose my nerve, but I can’t disturb this peaceful moment.

  Soon, his hands roam freely and he pulls me onto his lap. I yelp with surprise, which brings a much needed smile to his face. Knowing I’m the cause of that smile is an indescribable joy, and I want to do it over and over again. Finally giving into my less civilized urges, I run my hands across his bare chest. His heart is racing like mine. I open my mouth to tell him this, but he cups my cheek and our lips meet, feverish and full-on.

  This is both exciting and frightening at the same time. I can do nothing but moan dreamily into his mouth as my body molds against Fitz, who has thrown all hesitancy out of the window and kisses me with such force that I almost forget how to think, how to breathe. Never pulling away from our kiss, he maneuvers my body until my legs are straddling his thighs.

  Oh my, I think, taken aback by this development. I wonder what I must look like right now; panting and red faced, on top of this gorgeous specimen, lustful and desperate for more.

  I want more.

  With force I didn’t know I had, I yank Fitz’s shirt off his shoulders, thankful that he doesn’t seem to ever button up his clothing. My adventurous moment only encourages him, and his lips move down my face to my neck, while his hands drift down to my thighs and work their way under the tight fabric clinging to my body. They push up the feathered hem until I am suddenly aware that my backside has been revealed and that curious fingers are tugging at the elastic of my panties.

  “Stop!” I gasp. Immedia
tely, Fitz pulls away and looks up at me.

  “Too soon?” He asks breathily. I nod.

  I do want this, I think. Just not now.

  “When I’m ready,” I tell him, pulling his shirt back into place. “This is just a bit much right now.”

  “Say no more.”

  I stand up and straighten out my dress while Fitz does up a few buttons of his shirt.

  “I have to admit, Marina,” he pants, face red and body trembling. I can’t believe I have caused him to become as undone as he makes me. “It’s getting harder and harder for me to keep my hands off you.”

  “Why Fitzroy, I am honored,” I laugh.

  The mention of this name makes him wince, and I instantly regret repeating anything Dan said.

  “I’m sorry, Fitz.”

  He shrugs. “Don’t be. It is my real name, after all, although nobody calls me that but my parents. And Dan Condy. And the New York Times.”

  “I don’t care what you call yourself,” I tell him. “That would make me a hypocrite. Although Fitzroy is a little bit... You know...”

  “Ridiculous?” Fitz suggests.

  “I was going to go for old fashioned, but you said it, not me.”

  “Master Fitzroy George Benjamin Cottrell-Iver IV,” he says, as if reciting the name from some official document.

  I try not to laugh, but can’t quite suppress my smile.

  “Really?” I ask. “Master Fitzroy?”

  “Yeah, I know,” he groans. “It’s true what they say about the relationship between money and sense.”

  “Please tell me Derek has a name like that too.”

  “Sadly not. My mother had the decency to make sure husband number two had a surname you could fit onto a birth certificate. Husband number three, not so much.”

  “Your parents are rich?”