Chasing Me

by Jennifer Probst

  The exhibition was advertised by the art museum and local shops in the area and brought out a huge crowd, along with interested patrons, buyers, and art dealers. Basically, it was exposure that was pretty much priceless.

  If I had wanted to use my parents' connections, I could probably make a few calls and get someone to take a look, but I wanted this on my own. Wanted it so badly I woke up in the middle of the night, craving the opportunity like I'd used to crave getting off with a girl as a teen. Was this what it was like to be part of the everyday crowd? No special deals to be made, or palms to be greased, or bargains to be made? Just you and your talent up against everyone else's?

  I wasn't stupid. I still knew politics were important. But this was the first time I was fighting for something on my own, and it felt good, like I was coming into myself. I wanted to prove to myself and Quinn I was worth the risk.

  Ava walked in. She was back to her usual black and wore silk pants, a low-cut blouse, and jacket. Her red hair was twisted in a severe chignon, emphasizing her pale skin and ruby lips. She looked...cold. Formidable. Ready to tear down whoever was blocking the empty road in front of her.

  She began speaking immediately, going over the rules of the exhibit and asking everyone to turn in their final projects.

  I worked nonstop for the next few hours, skipped lunch break, and finished up. I had a late night shift at Joe's, and hoped to swing by the center to see Quinn before her extra class started.

  One by one, the students went to see Ava in her office with their project. We were all nervous as shit, but trying to pretend we didn't care. She called me last, which was fitting, because I didn't want an audience when I came back out.

  I brought in my portrait of the woman, along with the sketch of naked Jason from my portfolio, which I actually really liked. Ava was sitting behind the desk, clicking away at her computer, ignoring me. I gritted my teeth, took a seat across from her, and waited.

  "Give me your final project, please."

  I handed it over. She didn't even glance at it, just put it in a toppling pile behind her with canvases, drawings, and one sculpture. Finally, she faced me, crossing her legs and leaning back slightly in her chair. Her face was devoid of emotion.

  "You think you're hot shit, don't you, Mr. Hunt?"

  Oh, yeah, that was it. I'd officially had enough and was gonna tell it like it was. She was going to do whatever the hell she wanted anyway, regardless of my mouth. "Not really. But you do."

  A smile touched her red lips. "The moment you walked into my class, you thought you were better than anyone else. Fought me on structure, basic ground rules, and techniques, saying you were ahead of the rest, though you had no formal training. Am I correct?"

  I refused to squirm in my seat. Yeah, I'd been pissed to start off at an introductory class, but now admitted I had needed it. I shrugged. "You proved your point."

  "I know who you are. Who your parents are. That you're a trust-fund baby. Why not make it easy on yourself? Make a phone call and get your own showing. You don't need ours."

  I watched my dream slip away because of a bitch with a need to show me my place. "You know nothing about me," I ground out. "I don't know what sick mind games you're playing, but you're not dragging me into them. I'm going to administration. Maybe you can suck the Dean's dick, in addition to your male model's."

  I went to get up, but her voice cut like a whiplash. "Sit down, Mr. Hunt. I'm not done with you."

  "What did I ever do to you? I just want to fucking learn and have a fair shot at the exhibition."

  "Because I don't want to waste my time," she shot back. "When I take on an artist, I go full throttle, and I don't want someone who's playing around to kill some time before he goes back to his trust-fund money."

  Un-fucking believable. I gazed at her in astonishment. "Who are you, anyway? I don't need you to mentor me. I need you to judge my work fairly and give a recommendation!"

  "You don't get it, do you?" she asked. Her red nail tapped the blotter on her desk. "This exhibition is the beginning of a whole new world. The last three years, the students I personally chose hit the big time. Private showings. Art dealers begging for their work and artists setting their own price. I mentored every single one of them, bled on their behalf, and pushed them beyond their limits. I pick one student to mentor, Mr. Hunt, and that's the only one who ever succeeds."

  Her ego was massive. I stared at her, trying to get my brain to click back on and understand what I was dealing with. "I don't need your help or your private mentorship," I shot back. "Did you do this with the others? What kind of school is this?"

  "No, I didn't do this with the others. You're an extreme case. You can go ahead and let the Dean know. I'll admit to having an affair with my male model and that you walked in on us by accident. I'll tell him I pushed you, was rude, and called you out in class. We can conference, and you can go through channels, but it's not like I'm blackmailing you with sex or favors to get ahead."

  "What the hell was that shit with Jason? What are you trying to prove? You looked at me. You planned for me to walk in and catch you."

  Her gaze locked on mine. She leaned forward and lowered her voice to a husky growl. "You have passion in your work. More than passion. It's a raw, rough quality that grabs an onlooker and makes you stop to look deeper. You can't teach that. But it was too undirected and unformed, and that quality wasn't in every one of your sketches. Only a few. I figured it could be a fluke, so I conducted an experiment."

  I felt like I was being led deeper into Wonderland, and it was a drug bust instead of a happy retreat. "What experiment?"

  "Your girlfriend was quite interesting, Mr. Hunt?"

  Red misted my vision. My hands clenched. "My girlfriend has nothing to do with you and your crazy-ass games."

  "You love her?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, that love is killing your muse."

  I blinked. What the fuck? I laughed humorlessly, shaking my head. "You're crazy."

  "Every time I pushed your buttons, you delved deeper. Darker. When I let you slide, and you went back to your comfortable life, that's what you gave me. Comfort. People don't want comfort. They want to feel things, mostly awful, dark, secret things."

  She reached out and grabbed the portrait of Jason from my hands. Jabbing a finger at it, she turned it to me. "See this? Look at his expression. The lines of his body. There's something almost sexual, and wrong, and shameful about this pose. Not one of the other students gave it to me--they just sketched a good-looking naked guy staring into space. You used the emotions you saw the other day when you caught me with Jason, dug deep, and gave me something different."

  I stared at the sketch I was so proud of. And saw it. The sexual gleam in his eye, the way he tilted his jaw, the slight thrust of his hips, as if imagining something he never wanted to delve into. The tiny facets of light and shadow and meaning exploded forth, and in that moment, I got it. Got what she was saying, though it was crazy, and impossible, and a road not to be followed. I thought back to those raging emotions when I watched Ava sucking him off, and realized I'd translated it back to the page.

  My hands shook. "That's not true. Just coincidence. You're looking for an excuse to keep playing your mind fuck."

  Her smile was flawless as she threw the portrait down. "You like a good mind fuck, Mr. Hunt. It's what you were built on. Trying to change it by settling down with a good girl and working at a coffee shop, fading into the woodwork, is eventually going to destroy you."

  "I love Quinn. She saved me. Don't you get it? I was numb before her."

  She studied me thoughtfully. "You believe it, don't you? That love can save you? Make you better? You don't need saving. You need to hone your talent so you can have a lifelong career pursuing art. You need to get down and dirty and be truthful with yourself. But you need to make a choice."

  "My career or my girlfriend? There is no choice. I'd pick Quinn every time. But I don't believe in that shit. I don't need to mak
e a choice. I can have both."

  "Not if she doesn't allow you to tap into that wild part of you. The untamed, inner you that makes no sense. Because that is what drives great art."

  "She does."

  "I met her, Mr. Hunt. Girls like her don't inspire that type of ugliness. I don't believe you. And if you don't take this seriously, I'm not interested in going further. If I took you on, we'd be spending a large amount of time together. I wouldn't let you be afraid of being who you are. In fact, I'd demand it. Push you." Her gaze turned sexual, flicking over my body in a way that made me want to squirm. "And I bet you'd like it."

  I burned from the inside until I wanted to rage, throw things, howl. I breathed deep, trying to get calm, while she smirked. "So, you're saying unless I dump my girlfriend, you won't put me in the expo?" I finally asked.

  "I said no such thing. I just told you to get your priorities in order and make sure you can deliver. Some of us aren't meant to be civilized or contained, Mr. Hunt. The sooner you realize that, the better you'll be. You're dismissed."

  I leapt to my feet. "I don't need your threats, or your fucking expo, or your school."

  "Very well, then. Good luck."

  I slammed the door, cursing nonstop, feeling the wild rage pour out of me in choppy waves, ready to drown me alive. My whole body shook, and I headed out into the streets, walking and trying to clear my mind.

  It was over.

  There'd be no show. Who gives a shit? I thought. I didn't need the Brush Institute. I'd enlist somewhere else, or find a mentor, or study by myself. It had been working before. I'd heard of these hard luck stories of artists getting discovered and making it big, of never quitting and finally achieving success.

  But where? the inner voice taunted. Joe's Cafe, smelling of sweat and coffee? The corner of Millennium Park, painting passersby? The art department in some office building?

  I'd find a way. I had Quinn and a strong mind, and I was capable. I just needed to sit down and think of my options, then make a new plan.

  My phone shrieked. I grabbed it, assuming it was Quinn, and spoke into the receiver. "I'm on my way to the clinic to see you."

  "James? Where are you? What are you talking about?"

  I stopped mid-flight, squeezing my eyes shut. Well, wasn't this shit day getting worse. My mother's voice held a tinge of worry, but I knew already it wasn't for my welfare. Oh, no, she'd heard the gossip, and called personally to make sure her only son didn't humiliate the family name.

  "Mom. Sorry, I thought you were someone else. What do you want?"

  "You never returned my last two phone calls. Your father was angry, but I explained you were probably quite busy and planned to get back to us soon. Are you very busy?"

  Her barbed intent hit home. Funny, I didn't remember many soft times between us, the way a mother and son were supposed to be. At least from what I saw in the movies or witnessed with other guys. She never fussed over me or babied me. The nannies raised me, gave little comfort, and I spent most of my time trying to catch my father's attention. My mother had already checked out, making sure I was bathed and dressed and polite at all functions. Making sure I fit the ideal image of what she wanted me to be, but she rarely delved deep enough to seek out who I was. I mourned, rebelled, and did all the normal things, but then I just detached. She made it kind of easy. She was never mean, or cruel, just distant. After a while, it seemed like I was fighting for...nothing.

  "Yes, I'm busy."

  "Serving coffee for our friends' children in Chicago?"

  Displeasure rattled her voice. "I'm putting myself through art school. I told you last year, Mother, I intend to make it on my own. I'm not touching my trust fund. I left Key West, sold the yacht, my bike, and all my other stuff. Isn't that what you always wanted for me? To be independent and honorable?"

  I made sure to sweeten my voice, forcing her to play her hand. "Honorable, yes. But not at this expense. James, we gave you that trust fund for your future. We expected you to use it to find a career and make a man out of yourself, not to make a mockery of your family. Do you realize the position you put us in? All of your father's friends called to find out why you're working at a coffee shop. He was humiliated and forced to make up a story. Why would you do this to us, James?"

  I should've have been upset or disappointed. Not after the past. I knew better. But damned if every time I spoke with my mother or father I didn't pray something would change. I realized then, for the final time, nothing ever would. I could become a hot-shit artist, well known around the world, and still my parents wouldn't approve or be satisfied. Maybe if I'd gone into business, or done medicine or law. Maybe. But even then, they wouldn't have cared if I were happy.

  I stood in the middle of the busy street, in the cold, with the phone pressed to my ear. A flood of raw emotion made my whole body shake, but there was nothing to do but stand up for myself.

  No one else would.

  I took a deep breath. Normally, I'd bitch and rage at my parents in a frustrated attempt to get them to listen. But today, I spoke calmly. "Mother, I'm sorry you don't approve. But I'm not taking that money, at least, not any longer. The work sucks, but it's honest, and it helps pay the rent. Just tell Dad's friends I'm experimenting with being a starving artist."

  There was a long pause. I felt her thinking of how to fix the situation to make it palatable. Finally, she spoke. "Come home, James. We'll start over. Find you something you'll be happy with, maybe find a girl you can settle down with. It's not too late."

  My heart twanged. Come home. How many times did I wish and pray for them to want me to come home? But this was for their own benefit, so they could control me. My throat tightened. "No, Mother, I can't. I'm already in love with someone. Her name is Quinn, and that's why I'm in Chicago. She's amazing."

  "Another so-called artist?" my mother asked snobbily.

  I let out a breath. "No, a social worker. She's way too good for us."

  My mother's sharp gasp made me smile. "We can't let this happen, James. Please don't force us to interfere. If you must pursue art, at least use your money to set up a gallery or something respectable."

  God, it would be so damn easy. Open up my own business, display my art, get investors. But my success wouldn't be valid, and I needed to finally do something on my own. Something important.

  My voice hardened. "I'd advise you to keep doing what you've always done, Mother. Ignore me. Let me live my life on my own. We've been perfecting it for over twenty years now, right?"

  "James Hunt! You will listen to me, or you'll be talking with your father."

  "Thanks for checking on me. Goodbye." I clicked off as gently as possible, already knowing the shit had hit the fan. Dad would be next, but I'd screen. Eventually, the gossip would die down, and they'd get distracted with something else until I faded from their minds again.

  I hurried my pace, desperate to see Quinn.

  Chapter Thirteen

  QUINN

  I CHECKED MY PHONE, hoping to have heard from James, but no one had texted. I knew today he'd handed in his portrait for consideration in the show. I thought of that awful teacher giving him a hard time after all his work, and wanted to punch her in the face.

  Very unlike me.

  I was so tired. The additional classes at New Beginnings were great, but between the heavy workload for the Spring semester and my two jobs, I was exhausted all the time. Still, if I could only push till May, everything would fall into place. I'd graduate, get a full-time job, quit my volunteer position at the nursing home, and concentrate on building a life. With James. My master's degree could wait for a while, or maybe I could do it part-time and take it slow.

  "Quinn?" Brian stepped out of his office. "Can I see you for a moment?"

  My heart pounded. I hoped I hadn't done anything wrong. The trial classes were almost finished, and I'd bonded with the other students, hating that we seemed to be competing for one available position. Still, we were very alike, and I had a feeling we'd st
ay close no matter who was chosen for the job. I tried to act professional and cool as I walked into his office and took a seat in the chair.

  Brian didn't sit behind the desk. Instead, he took a seat on the side, closer to me, hooking one ankle over his knee in a casual gesture that bespoke a confident, professional male.

  "I've made a decision about the full-time position," he said.

  I held my breath.

  "I want to offer it to you."

  I exhaled in a long whoosh, feeling a bit giddy and unstable even seated. A warm smile curved his lips at my obvious joy, though I tried to act cool and pretend I had always believed I'd get the job.

  "Thank you, Brian. I know it was a hard decision, but I promise you won't regret your decision."

  He nodded, scanning my face, his gaze probing mine. That weird jump in my stomach happened again, but I ignored it. "I know I won't, Quinn. Believe me, I've been watching everyone carefully through these classes. I was going to wait to make my decision in May, when the opening occurs, but I didn't want you to wonder or stress during finals. You've worked hard. You earned it. It's not going to be easy. Unfortunately, with most of these types of jobs, the hours are too long and the pay isn't great. Double shifts are common. I'll need you to cover odd weekends and nights, and your schedule won't be structured for a while. You'll be put through the paces, but I believe in you and what you can do for this clinic."

  I blinked away the ridiculous sting of tears. It had finally happened. All my hard work had been worth it, and the only thing I wanted to do was run through the streets and tell James. I wanted to celebrate with him, to feel his mouth on mine. See his smile and hear him tell me he always knew I could do it.

  "Thank you," I said again.

  He grinned, got up from the seat, and handed me a thick folder. "This is all the paperwork regarding the job. It details pay, bonuses, benefits, and vacation policies. I'm going to ask you to keep it under wraps until I can personally speak with the others."