by L V Chase
And the last art piece is mine. The two intertwined bodies on the canvas are locked together with colors fading in and out, blending together, and pulling apart. Near the thighs, the paint strokes make the bodies appear splintered while the heads are so close together that the only way you can see they’re two different heads is from the two different colors—arctic blue and currant red. I’d added flecks of paint, creating dimensions to it.
It’s odd to be scrutinizing it now with everyone else. I’ve worked on it for so long that it might as well have belonged to someone else because I used to be someone else. And I worked on it in solitude over intensely private emotions, so everyone else taking it in is terrifying. They’re unqualified therapists, delving into my messed-up head.
I take a few steps back. I watch people examine it. They seem to spend as much time looking at mine as they look at Jay’s. I can’t risk assuming that’s a good sign, but the optimism sneaks in.
It’s hard to not see it as a war. Every person who stops and shows some interest in the art piece is another bullet. It’s all ammo, and it’s either helping me or killing me.
And the cannon in this war is my mother, treating those champagne flutes like they’re chips. Anxiety burns at my temple along with eighteen years of resentments. I take deep breaths, but nothing can calm my nerves.
My fingers trace over my clothes around the tattoo that Grayson gave me. I close my eyes, thinking about him pressing it against my skin.
Everything is going to be fine.
“Hey.”
I turn around. I nearly stumble backward, seeing Grayson. An easy smile comes.
“Hey,” I echo. I grab his hand in an awkward shake as I don’t know how to react to him in public. “I’m glad you came. I wasn’t sure…”
“Of course,” he says. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Because your stepmother is here?”
He grimaces. “Hardly.”
I point to the art pieces. “Have you seen everyone’s art?”
“Yes,” Grayson says. “You shouldn’t have been worried. You’re competing against amateurs.”
“Jay isn’t an amateur.”
“He’s decent, but it’s nothing notable,” he says. “It could be in an adult coloring book.”
His hand settles on my back before falling down to grasp my hand. People are watching us. They must think I’m another girl being groomed by him. It should bother me. It should remind me that he set up the process for Diana to be groomed. But I’m not bothered. If anything, my anxiety smooths over, its sharp edges dulled by his touch. I can’t suppress a smile. The world isn’t a spinning mass of fuck-ups.
Trisha Voss walks over to the four art pieces. She resembles a scarecrow. She’s wearing a cotton candy pink dress, a pearl necklace, and kitten heels, which would normally make her resemble Jackie O. But her skin is a yellowish-white, her bones protrude like they’re being pulled up out of her skin, and her hair is dull and straw-like.
“Your step-mom seems stressed,” I whisper to Grayson.
“Yes, and that’s my father being lazy with his revenge,” Grayson says. “He knows exactly how to destroy people, and he enjoys it.”
I keep my fingers tightly twisted around his fingers. As everyone congregates to the center of the art show, we stay where we are, slightly off to the side of everyone else.
“I bet I can read your mind,” he whispers.
“Does it say that I’m thinking about getting a cheeseburger after this?”
“You’re trying to tell yourself that you don’t care if you win or not, but you care. It’s good to care.”
“It’s terrible to care,” I say. “It feels like I’m staring up at the blade of a guillotine.”
“That’s a good sign, because the person being decapitated is looking down.”
I give him a dirty look. He smirks at me, but the softness in his eyes conflicts with his mouth.
I’d be thrilled to paint him for the rest of my life. I’d sit in a small art studio while he sat on a stool or leaned against a wooden counter. I’d paint him over and over, but it wouldn’t do him justice. The lines would never be aggressive enough for his jaw and never multifaceted enough to show how easily his eyes shift between a hurricane in the ocean, causing shipwrecks and destructive storms, and a hot spring, sinking me deeper in his heat.
If I’m honest with myself, I don’t want to feel this way. I love my mother, and it’s only ever hurt me. And Grayson is worse because it would reveal to everyone—especially to myself—that I’m the same as the other girls that I scoffed at for chasing after wealthy men. I’d be a broken hypocrite.
I turn back to the front of the room. A man in his fifties has been addressing everyone, but his voice is mellow enough that it’s difficult to hear over the whispered conversations. I take a small step forward. Grayson follows, our hands still tightly clasped together.
The man clears his throat. “And, finally, we have to thank all of our judges, who deliberated over each piece with a deep love and respect for art. Now, for the moment we have all been waiting for…”
Trisha Voss hands him an envelope.
“Thank you, Trisha,” the man says. He nervously looks out at the crowd. “I am honored to announce that the winner of the Daniel Comstock Art Award is…”
He fumbles as he pulls a small card out of the envelope. He studies it for three or thirty seconds.
His head jerks up. “Jay Winters!”
The room explodes into confetti congratulations and firecracker praise. I yank my hand out of Grayson’s grasp, but as my hands smack against each other, my clapping feels hollow. In my periphery, Grayson’s head swings back and forth, either shaking in disbelief or confusion.
Jay doesn’t look like someone who’s won. His hands are shoved in his pockets, and he keeps his head bowed as he steps forward. I thought I’d felt like I was at the guillotine, but he looks like a man walking right up to it.
He should be overjoyed. This is everything he’d built his life up to. But as he accepts his trophy, his shoulders are slumped and his smile wavers, a flag carried by an indecisive wind.
His eyes skip over the area where I stand, but when his eyes land on Trisha, she gives him a small nod.
It could mean anything. Maybe they’re sleeping together. Maybe she’d given him words of encouragement earlier. Maybe he’s a—
“Spineless shit,” Grayson says, loud enough that several people turn toward us. “He made a deal with her.”
Grayson’s face is contorted in rage, his jaw clenched so tightly I expect to hear his teeth crack. Looking at him, it hits me. I lost. All that time and effort, and I lost. The future I’d planted in the back of my mind—the tiny sapling where I won—it’s shriveled and turned to dust. I threw myself into this, and Grayson convinced me I could win, but I didn’t.
I lost.
I turn around. Grayson’s hand settles on my arm.
I give him a quick smile. “I need a moment.”
I pull away before he can say anything. I skirt around the celebratory crowds and slip out the front door, the cold air coming as a welcome interruption to my congested thoughts.
I could see how people give up everything—never leave their hometown, settle for a job they hate, or sink into a bottle of vodka. I put everything I had into this, and the results were exactly the same if I hadn’t tried at all. I’m emptied out and have nothing to show for it.
How quaint. How dumb of me.
The door swings open. I brace myself, expecting Grayson or Jay. But it’s a man with gray-flecked hair. He smiles at me.
“Miss Reeves, correct?” he asks me.
I nod once, forcing on a decent smile because self-pity would be a catalyst for turning into my mother.
“I thoroughly enjoyed your painting,” the man says. “Incredibly evocative. It’s unique as well.”
“Thank you,” I say awkwardly.
“Those qualities are rare to find. There are hundreds of thousand
s of talented artists. There’s a handful of unique ones. There are even less evocative ones,” he says.
I shrug. “I guess.”
He offers me his hand. I shake it.
“My name is Calvin Raston. I’m the president of Invonire. Our company creates elaborate, massive murals to advertise for various clients—companies, musicians, organizations, and the like. We need artists with talent, a vision, and the ability to create new, eye-catching, and distinctive works of art. I believe you’re capable of such feats.”
I tilt my head. “Did Grayson send you to make me feel better?”
He smiles. “Grayson suggested that I come to the art show, because he knows we’re always looking for talent. He told me that you had it in spades. Nevertheless, the Voss connection is not only irrelevant but detrimental.”
I frown. “The Vosses were important enough to convince you to come here.”
“I’ve never heard Grayson Voss praise anyone,” he says. “I was curious, and he was correct about you. The Vosses have had their run as a family of influence, but from the whispers I’ve heard, the whole family is about to go down in flames. Some companies and families can endure a scandal, but this one far exceeds the normal parameters. Jesus, bless His holy name, wouldn’t survive this scandal, and the Voss men aren’t Jesus. Consequently, if there’s anything between the two of you, it would have to end before you could work for us. We’re distinguished for our work with various organizations that fight against corruption, sex trafficking, and violence against women, so we can’t afford any connections to the family. Even if they’re found innocent in a court of law, public opinion can be far more damning.”
I look down at my hands. My skin is starting to crack from the dry weather. “That’s a lot of assumptions.”
“It’s decades of working in the industry.” He plucks a business card out of his pocket, holding it out to me.
I take it. The card has a metallic sheen. As I tilt it, the words change, switching from the word Invonire to Calvin Raston’s contact information.
“Here’s my card,” he says. “I can hear the hesitation in your voice. I know better than to pressure someone into a decision they have reservations about. I’d like an answer within the next two weeks, and before too many people decide that your name is stained by the Vosses. This is about your future in art, Miss Reeves. At best, you might get one more chance like this, and that chance still won’t come if your reputation is tarnished. Consider the big picture, and call me.”
He pivots, walking past the studio’s door and down the street. He stops at a sleek black car and gets into it. I watch the car as it pulls away.
I rub my hands together, trying to get warm, but the weather is more bitter than usual. So am I.
I walk back into the studio. Jay is waiting at the door.
“Cin, let me explain,” he says, his words rushing out.
“I’m not really interested,” I say, walking past him.
He grabs my arm. I turn, glaring at him.
“I had to do it, Cin,” he says. “This is…this means more to me than you could ever understand. I’ve dreamed about this for so long. I would have done anything, so I did. I—"
“I get it,” I cut him off. “Given the choice, I would have considered it, too. But I wouldn’t have done it.”
“I know it was wrong—"
“It’s not over that,” I say firmly. “Where I come from, ethics are an afterthought. Survival’s what counts. No, my problem is that it means I’d never know if I earned it—and you could have earned it, Jay. You could have won without any help. I didn’t doubt you until I saw you look at that bitch.”
I yank my arm out of his hand as his gaze drops to the floor. As I look for Grayson around the milling crowd, someone grabs my arm. I prepare to give Jay a clearer message of my feelings toward him, but I turn to find my mother.
“Oh, my God, Cinnamon, I’m so sorry that you didn’t win,” she says.
Her words are fuzzy at the ends. She’s drunk, but she’s the nice drunk. When I was a kid, I called it “Santa drunk.” It was partly because she got the ruddy cheeks, the deep chuckle, and the abnormal kindly spirit, but it was also because she told me that Santa wasn’t real during one of those times.
“Thanks, Mom, but it’s okay,” I say. The urge to impress her forces my mouth open again. “I just got a job offer from this great company, Invonire. It sounds like it could be a phenomenal experience.”
“Invonire? I’ve never heard of it.”
She nearly drops her phone as she pulls it out of her pocket. I peer over her shoulder as she struggles to type the company name into her phone. She gets it close enough for the search engine to correct it.
“Whoa,” she mumbles. “It says they made 8.4 billion dollars last year. That can’t be right. It must be some kind of scam. They wouldn’t be trying to recruit a high school student.”
“It was the president of the company,” I say. “His name is right there. Grayson suggested he come by.”
She shakes her head. “No. It makes no sense. There has to be a catch.”
“Technically, there is,” I say. “He doesn’t want anybody in the company to be associated with the Vosses, so I’d have to…not hang out with Grayson.”
“What?” she asks, her tone turning aggressive. “Are you stupid? You wouldn’t dare give up on Grayson over some dumb job.”
“A job is more important than some fling,” I say, though the word fling feels disingenuous.
She shakes her head in disgust. “You’re ridiculous.” She stumbles back, nearly running into an elderly woman. My mother drinks the rest of her champagne, setting the glass down on the floor near a wall.
“How many of those have you had?” I ask.
She snorts. “Only a few. Why? Are you my mother? My parole officer? You never want me to have any fun. Just because I’m your mother doesn’t mean I don’t get to have any fun.”
“I can’t deal with you right now,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m going to call you a cab. They’ll take you back to our apartment. You can get your car tomorrow.”
“No.”
She stomps her foot, but I’m already walking away. I find Grayson standing in front of my painting. A few other people are standing with him.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Grayson says to the man beside him. It’s the same man who announced the winner. The winner of the Daniel Comstock Art Award is…Jay Winters. “It reminds me of the point of art. It’s not just about being aesthetically pleasing, but to evoke buried emotions. It takes more than talent to do that. It takes someone who knows herself and is willing to get her hands dirty to uncover the truth.”
“It’s stunning,” the man agrees.
I settle my hand on the small of Grayson’s back. He jerks away in surprise, anger crossing his face until he recognizes me. He softens, his hand falling on the back of my shoulder.
“And here’s the artist,” he says to the man, his hand settling on my waist. “Cin Reeves, this is Mike Mastin.”
“Hi. It’s nice to meet you,” I say.
“The pleasure is mine, Miss Reeves,” he says. “Spectacular art. You have a real eye for these things.”
“Thank you, that’s very kind of you to say.”
“The truth is never kind, Miss Reeves. It’s only ever justified.”
He bows his head at both of us.
“Excuse me,” he says. “But I need to find Jay Winters to discuss his winnings.”
As he walks away, Grayson touches my brow, smoothing a wrinkle.
I look up at him. “Could you drive me back to campus?”
“Absolutely,” he says.
I glance at my painting as his arm wraps around me. His lips brush against my cheek, barely noticeable, but it still brings heat to my face. Our hands tangle together before settling into a comfortable congruity. The colors in my painting seem to leap off the canvas. For once, I don’t see a need to make it any better. The emotion I was
chasing while painting it is right here.
20
Grayson
Cin doesn't say anything while I drive, but I know that she's pissed. When I glance over at her again, she's still staring out the passenger window, her head leaning on one fist, turned away so that I can't see her eyes.
It kills me to see her like this. I know how much the art contest meant to her. And to top it all off, her bitch of a mother had the nerve to show up and blame Cin for everything.
I reach out with my right hand to take Cin's hand in mine, but she just sits there stiffly, her fingers unmoving. I let go.
I had thought I could make her happy today, take part in something she loved. Her art. Fuck Jay. Fuck Trisha. Fuck Kat. Fuck everyone for messing with Cin.
I don't know what to do. I've never had to comfort anyone. Act soft, or whatever the fuck you're supposed to do. Be nice. All my life, Dad's told me to control others and dominate them, but I don't think that's what Cin needs right now. Then, what? What the hell am I supposed to do?
I squeeze her hand gently once and grip the steering again. "How about we go to my place."
"Sure," Cin mumbles. "Back to school, I guess."
"Not the dorms. I mean I'll take you to my house."
I can see Cin turning towards me out of the corner of my eyes. When I look over at her, though, she's back to staring out the window.
"Whatever," she says.
I try to talk to her, but she's silent for the rest of the ride until we pull up into the driveway to my place.
"I'll show you around inside, like a tour," I say as I unclip my seat belt.
Cin finally gives me a small smile. "Alright." Then, she frowns slightly as she gazes out the windshield, bending slightly and glancing up to take in the full size of the building.
I'm not sure what she's thinking, so I lean over and give her a quick peck on her cheek. "Come on."
Once we're inside, I head down the stairs to the basement level. "We'll start form the bottom and go up."
I hear Cin's footsteps follow me down the stairs. She stops at the bottom, but I beckon for her to follow me down the hallway.