by Piper Lawson
“They’re as good as self-evident.”
I thought I saw Sam’s shoulders shake, and pleasure rushed through me.
Oh, yeah. This girl was different.
I wanted to know who she was. Where she came from.
I wanted to know everything.
“Epic sent some concept art. Assuming you’re awake enough to take a look,” I told Max the next day in his office.
I opened the attachment on my phone. Max scanned through the half dozen images of the title character, the Phoenix, and her band of misfits.
“What do you think?”
“It’s crap.”
“You get that when a studio options your work, it gives them exactly that. Options.”
“Remind me why we did that?”
I scribbled a number on a Post-It. Underlined it. “Tristan’s college tuition. Grad school in his field of choice. A down payment on his first house, depending on whether he opts for two years of grad studies or four, and the neighborhood…”
Max shot me a look.
“Payton thinks I’m funny,” I insisted.
“Payton cares about the feelings of all living things. She found a spider in the stairwell last week and carried it outside to the garden so it wouldn’t get stepped on.”
With a few keystrokes, Max pulled the images David had sent up on his monitor. “Still shit,” he declared. “Would you go see this movie?”
I studied the first image on the screen. A composite of the full cast, in comic-rendered glory.
Except that Max was right. It wasn’t glorious.
I clicked through to the next image, a wide pan of a battlefield. It didn’t look like some surreal world.
In fact…
It looked like my uncle’s hundred acre spread in Kansas.
“What if we send them something better? In the spirit of collaboration.” I recalled what David had told me about them being open to our input. “Can Katie do this?” One of our artists in Cape Town was responsible for much of the original work on Phoenix.
Max shook his head. “She’s at capacity on Omega.”
“What about Sam.” The idea popped out of nowhere.
“Sam who.”
I blinked at him. “What do you mean Sam who. Sam Martinez.”
“She paints landscapes.” He glanced toward a wrapped white rectangle leaning against the wall.
I retrieved it, unwrapping the canvas and carrying it to Max’s desk.
This was one of the smaller paintings from the gallery; I could hold it in my arms.
In contrast to the art on the monitor, Sam’s work took on moody, surreal shapes. Even the trees looked alive.
“She didn’t always.” Without waiting for a response, I set the painting down and jogged downstairs. No one at their desks looked up as I crossed to my office, where I dug in the closet for a file box in the back, then returned upstairs.
I dropped the box on Max’s desk a few minutes later, shuffling through photos and yearbooks to get to the bottom.
“Shouldn’t this shit be at your house?”
“Doesn’t match my décor.” I found what I wanted, then flipped open the cover of the binder, revealing sketches that were tucked carefully into plastic protectors.
The first was Sin City characters.
The second X-Men.
The third was a world we’d made up in our own minds, talking and dreaming like kids with their whole lives ahead of them.
Max pulled the last image out of the binder, holding it up next to his screen.
The characters were different, the quality was different, but Sam’s looked larger than life.
“I’m going to ask her,” I decided.
Max’s skeptical look as he replaced the sheet of paper had me folding my arms. “What?”
“You expect me to believe this is about helping Titan?”
“What else would it be about.” My voice had a warning edge.
“You haven’t had a girlfriend in a while. Now you run into Sam, the living breathing one that got away.”
“I'm still waiting for your point.”
“You miss having someone to… woo,” he said finally.
I raised my brows. “You think I’m looking for someone to ‘woo’? This isn’t Elizabethan England, Max.”
He passed the drawings back to me without another look. “If you was anyone else I’d say you miss having someone to fuck. But you don’t operate that way with women. It’s more—”
“Civilized? First, sue me if I’d rather date than get hammered and grope some girl at a bar I won’t even recognize the next day. And second…I’m not trying to make Sam either of those.”
“You sure about that.”
“Yes.”
I strode back down the stairs with my box, feeling renewed energy.
The Pit, made up of desks, beanbag chairs, arcade games and other stuff befitting a game company was filled with coders. Again, no one looked up as I dropped into a chair in the empty glass conference room, staring out at the team.
Right now they might as well have been dollar signs as people. I thought about the cash flow statement I’d been reviewing before the call from LA came in.
Which brought me to Sam.
Sam could help us out. If I could buy a slice of her time, her talent, it would pay off big time.
Epic would take her ability to transform raw materials into energy and emotion and turn that into money. For them, and for us.
That was all this was. Business.
Max was sleep deprived and delusional if he thought otherwise.
I hadn’t seen the woman in ten years. This wasn’t about finding out what she’d meant when she said she expected more from me.
Nor was it about closure, though seeing her again made me wonder if I’d ever gotten any.
I crossed to the kitchen, jerking out my phone and the business card I’d picked up on my way out of the gallery.
On impulse, I copied a picture I’d taken of Max, Payton and Tristan at the hospital, smirking at my friend’s buzz cut and the baby’s dark fuzz.
* * *
Riley: Thought you might like to see this. Tristan’s the dude with the hair.
* * *
I went to the fridge which held rows of neatly lined up energy drinks. I popped the tab on one as I waited for her to respond.
Nothing.
I set my phone down and took a swig of the drink, leaning a hip against the counter as one of the coders walked by to grab a granola bar from the cupboard.
I went back to my office and started going through some overdue paperwork.
It was almost two hours later when my phone buzzed.
* * *
Sam: Cute
* * *
I looked up from my work.
* * *
Riley: There’s more where that came from. I could show you in person
* * *
This time, the response came almost immediately.
* * *
Sam: If you’re trying to hold me hostage by my ovaries, it’s not working. I have zero maternal instincts
* * *
I barked out a laugh, the only sound in my office besides the dull buzz of conversation from the Pit outside my open door.
I started writing, then erased it.
* * *
Riley: Max and I want to ask you something.
* * *
I should’ve felt guilty for not telling her Max wouldn’t be there. But they don’t let you into law school without a little moral ambiguity.
* * *
Sam: Okay
* * *
Riley: How’s tomorrow. Got lunch plans?
* * *
The text sent and my screen stayed motionless. I frowned, clicking the power button to make sure it wasn’t frozen.
Finally, dots appeared.
* * *
Sam: Twelve-thirty. I’m coming from the gallery
5
One feel
Sam and I’d agreed to meet at a restaurant, but I like to keep people guessing.
Which was why I crossed the parking lot to the gallery, my long coat bracing against the wind, fifteen minutes early.
The sign out front said Closed, Opening at Noon. But the door was unlocked.
I stepped inside, expecting warmth. Instead there was only a slight reprieve from the wind.
A man dressed in coveralls was working on the fireplace.
“Something wrong?” I asked.
He cast a look at me over his shoulder before returning to his task. “Just an issue with the venting.”
I wandered around the gallery, taking a moment to appreciate the paintings again. In an empty room in daylight, they were beautiful in a different way than they’d been the other night. The fields and gardens Sam had painted gave the impression the entire gallery was outdoors.
Nearly half the canvases said SOLD in discrete lettering on the plaques. I might’ve taken credit for one of the sales, but the rest had been all Sam.
Pride swelled up in me, though I had no right to feel it.
She was talented as hell. On the surface, it appeared effortless.
It wasn’t.
Mastery of anything wasn’t about the moments of inspiration, but the moments of pushing through when things got hard.
When I reached the far corner by the window, voices in the hallway distracted me. “I can’t, Jonathan. I’m leaving for lunch.”
“With who?” I couldn’t hear her answer. “I’m fronting you the space for this show, Samantha.”
“I’ve told you I’ll pay for it. You refuse to tell me how much it costs.”
I turned as the voices grew nearer.
“It’s not about the money. This is an investment in your career. I thought we understood one another. I’m holding the rest of the paintings as a show of good faith.”
They came into view as they walked down the hallway, stopping short when they saw me and realized they weren’t alone.
In fitted black leggings, a gray sweater that hung off one shoulder and Converse sneakers, Sam looked five years younger than she had the other night. It was like seeing a ghost. Her hair was shorter, brushing her shoulders, but without the makeup her face was fresh.
The eyes I'd spent countless hours reading, assessing, drowning in locked on mine. “I said I’d meet you at the restaurant.”
I shrugged a shoulder under my coat. “I got anxious.”
“Where’s Max?”
“He couldn’t make it.”
With a pointed look at me, she turned back to Jonathan. “We’ll finish this later.”
Jonathan’s mouth tightened into a line. “Mr. McKay.” He looked me over like he wished he had laser vision and could slice me into ribbons with his contempt alone. “It’s finished, Samantha. I’m keeping the rest of the paintings until we work this out. Privately.”
“Hate to intrude, but maybe I can help.” I gestured to the wall nearest to me. “There’re twenty paintings in this exhibit. At five to ten grand a pop. That’s a hundred large.” I inspected the vaulted ceiling of the building. “Rent in this part of town… probably fifteen. This show is two weeks including installation and takedown. So let’s call that another eight.”
I glanced at the bar setup in the corner, where clean wine glasses sat ready for the evening ahead. “I’m no connoisseur, but that wine wasn’t ninety grand. No offence. How’s my math, Sam? We took math together,” I added for Jonathan’s benefit.
“I’m not looking for a mathematician,” Jonathan bit out.
“Good. I’m not one.” I took advantage of my height and build, stepping closer to Jonathan. “But I am an attorney. Which means that if you keep those paintings, I’d not only be capable of suing your ass off on Miss Martinez’ behalf, but delighted to do so.”
Some people are surprised when they meet me for the first time, because I don’t check the boxes on the rich nerd list in their minds.
Partly it’s the fact that I work out at the climbing gym five days a week. The hours of pushing my muscles to physical exhaustion offset the long days and nights at computers, on airplanes, and in meetings.
Plus, it’s fun to know I can drag my body fifty feet up a sheer rock wall.
Jonathan lifted his chin to meet my gaze, hating as he did it. Lines creased around his eyes, but not from smiling.
“You impetuous prick. This is my gallery, and you have no right.”
“It’s true. But if I was Miss Martinez’ attorney—” I spared a glance at Sam, who stood, lips parted in dismay like she was watching a car crash, “—I’d tell you that there are two ways we can do this. You can keep the commissions on the paintings you sold. Which I’m guessing is more than the cost of keeping the lights on and serving cheap wine. Or you can return the commissions, provide an itemized invoice for the costs incurred, and you will be compensated accordingly.
“Now. I’m hoping you got all that. Because I can repeat it, but I have a busy afternoon and a lunch to get to.”
Jonathan’s face went a deeper shade of red.
He turned to Sam. “So you won’t fuck me but you’ll fuck this asshole?”
Beside I could even channel the liquid contempt that rose up in me, Sam stepped into him. Fire flashed in eyes turned copper with passion, her stubborn chin tilted up like a shield against all men who might try to tame her.
“You know what, Jonathan? I will fuck whoever the hell I want. And no matter how long the list gets, it will never include you.
“I’ll pick up the paintings when the show’s over. Send me a bill.”
With a swish of dark hair, she turned on her heel and stalked toward the door.
She was the Sam I’d grown up with, and some new creature I didn’t recognize. The shy, sarcastic girl replaced by a warrior woman.
And my entire fucking body vibrated in response to her.
I lifted a shoulder at Jonathan. “Women,” I offered before turning to follow her out.
“This is really good,” Sam murmured.
“Best in Boston. Definitely celebration worthy.”
Sam speared another bite of the whole cherry pie between us and popped it into her mouth, making a sound low in her throat.
I’d nabbed us a booth at my favorite lunch spot. It was peak time, but they didn’t care. I’d be buying a second pie to take back to the office like I did most weeks.
She turned to look around the tiny café as I stabbed a bite for myself.
Damn, these people did magical things with cherries. The flaky pastry and rich filling melted on my tongue and I closed my eyes on a groan. “Is it possible to have an orgasm that starts in your mouth?”
Before Sam could answer, our waitress, a grandmother of six named Thelma, bustled up to the table. “How can you eat that and not gain a pound?”
“Rock climbing.”
She stuck her hands on her wide hips. “Why on God’s Earth would you want to do that.”
“I have this recurring dream I’m being chased up Mount Everest. I want to be prepared.”
“Well, honey,” Thelma started. “I have this recurring dream you stand in that window naked eating pie. I’m more than prepared for that,” she offered with a chuckle before she sashayed away.
Sam raised an eyebrow and I grinned. “What?”
“You love the attention that comes with being famous.”
I lifted my fork at her. “I’m not famous. Thelma has no idea what I do for a living. So whatever attention she gives me? It’s all about this.” I waved a hand down my body.
She rolled her eyes. “So where’s Max.”
It was my turn to shift in my seat. “How mad would you be if I told you he was never coming?”
She started to get up and I grabbed her arm. “I’m sorry. But he did sanction this meeting. It was practically his idea.”
What’d I tell you. Moral ambiguity.
She sat, a warning expression on her face. “Okay, hit me.”
Deciding she wasn’t a flight risk, I relaxed into the booth, stretching my arms across the back. “Tell me one thing first. How’d you end up doing art for a living? Last I saw you, you were bound for pre-med at Northeastern.”
“I went.” Her fingers played with the end of the fork as she lifted it, inspected it. “But in third year I couldn’t do it. I was seeing this guy who happened to be my chem TA, and—”
“Wait, when did you get this thing for older guys?” I interrupted, thinking of Jonathan.
She folded her arms over her chest and shot me a look. “Not the point. He was in grad school. He’d worked his ass off, got the lab placement he wanted, and all he got was more work.”
“You dropped out.”
“My dad wasn’t impressed.” Sam reached for a sip of water, and I wondered if she was stalling. “I thought about it and realized… when was it going to stop? If I made it through med school, all I’d be is some shitty doctor to people who deserved better.”
“When did you start painting?”
“After leaving school, I worked at a coffee shop for awhile and took a watercolor painting class. Started spending more and more time painting. Eventually I applied for art school.”
“In Boston?”
The faint smile on her face had me fascinated. “Paris.”
“Wow. Bougie.”
“Hardly. My dad was still pissed at me for dropping out, so I scraped together the money I had and shared this little apartment with a girl from Turkey.”
“What about your comics?”
The smile fell away. “I don’t do that anymore.”
“Since when.”
“Since a long time ago.” Sam’s hesitation made me wonder if there was more she wasn’t saying. “I want to make it as an artist. There’s no way anyone would take me seriously if they knew about that. The art world is exclusive. Discreet. And bordered by high walls. In order to be in demand, someone who matters needs to decide you matter.”