Shameless

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “Thank you, Josh.”

  “You’ve always been stunning, Faith,” Macom dares.

  Nick looks at him. “Macom, right?”

  “Yes,” he says. “Macom Maloy.”

  Nick arches a brow. “I believe I’ve heard the name, outside of what Faith has shared in graphic detail, of course. Up and coming, aren’t you?”

  “Up and coming?” Macom replies tightly. “Not many people call me up and coming.”

  “Ah well, they will, I’m sure. Hang in there. You’ll be a Chris Merit in no time who is a big fan of Faith’s by the way.”

  Macom’s lips tighten. “So I hear.”

  “On another topic,” Nick continues. “I should say thank you. Aside from the fact that you lost Faith, which led her to me, I love chocolate. Faith and I ate that shit up.” He glances at me. “Didn’t we, sweetheart?”

  Considering Macom looked at me like he wanted to lift my skirt, clearly baiting Nick, I don’t so much as miss a beat. I look from Nick to Macom. “Yes, thank you. The chocolate and the flowers were lovely. And it was unexpected considering our last communication.”

  Macom’s lips twist wryly. “That was interesting, but something tells me this night will be as well.” He glances at Josh. “I need you at the stage in forty-five minutes.” And on that note, he leaves.

  Josh exhales. “Holy hell. Let that be it. Awkward, fucked up, but done.” He pins me in a look. “Head to the second level. That entire floor is the party. At eight o’clock there will be a ceremony, at which time they will announce the top new artists of the year. And I’d tell you that might be you, but I won’t see your work until I walk up those stairs.”

  “It’s displayed tonight?” I ask, suddenly anxious.

  “Some of it. Each year, the show’s top two executives pick the top three pieces for each artist. No one is allowed to see those picks in advance.”

  “Isn’t Macom a part of the board in some way?” Nick asks.

  “He is,” Josh says, “but his role is more public show than anything. He didn’t get a vote on entries and he didn’t get a vote on the winner that will be announced tonight. He does most likely know the winner, as he’s presenting the award. Which unfortunately, means it’s not Faith. If it were, he’d have told me.”

  I didn’t even know about the award. I didn’t hope to win, but that announcement still cuts.

  “Well, as far as I’m concerned, her accepting that award from him would be poetic justice for the way he put himself above her.”

  Josh declines to comment, which isn’t a surprise, since Macom is his biggest client. “You’re already a winner tonight,” he says to me. “I need to handle a few things. Go upstairs. Drink. Eat. Revel in this night. In half an hour, I’m going to find you and you will come with me. We will meet some powerful people you need to know.” He leaves.

  Nick turns me toward the lobby, his arm around my shoulder. “You okay?”

  “You loved the chocolate?”

  “I’d love it better melted and on you, so I could lick it off. Let’s decide that’s going to happen sometime this weekend.”

  I laugh. “You’re so damn bad, Nick Rogers.”

  “In case you didn’t get the memo, I’m not a nice guy. You think Macom noticed?”

  I laugh, and we’re about to head up a winding set of stairs when a couple in their late fifties to early sixties, and in casual wear, steps in front of us. “Nick Rogers,” the man says. “Holy hell. It is you.”

  “David,” Nick says, shaking his hand before looking at the woman. “Elizabeth.” His hand returns to my back. “This is Faith.”

  “Nice to meet you, Faith,” they both murmur.

  “What brings you to L.A.?” the man asks. “Playing shark, or what is it, Tiger?”

  “Actually, Faith is a gifted artist that’s in the L.A. Art Forum.” Pride fills his voice and warms my heart. This man supports me. He loves me. Life is good and Macom is a blip on the screen.

  “Oh my,” Elizabeth says. “You’re an artist, Faith? That’s why we’re here. We’re going to the public event tomorrow. I can’t wait to see your work. We love to discover new artists.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “I’d love to have you view my work.”

  “And on that note,” Nick says, “we have a party to celebrate her art tonight.”

  “Understood,” David says. “But as a quick side note, we’re actually considering taking our company public. We’d like to have you on board.”

  “That’s a conversation for Monday. This weekend is about Faith.”

  “Of course it is,” Elizabeth says. “We will see you tomorrow, Faith.” She touches my arm. “Good luck.”

  And then they are gone and we are walking up the stairs. “Were they important?”

  “He’s worth about a billion dollars.”

  “Nick. You just blew him off.”

  “Tonight isn’t about him. If he has a problem with that, fuck him.”

  “Nick Rogers,” I say, giving his sleeve a tiny tug, that earns me the focus of those navy blue eyes.

  “Yes, sweetheart?”

  “I’m a little too crazy about you.”

  “Not yet,” he says, giving me a wink that does funny things to my belly. “But we’re getting there.”

  We reach the second level and the entire floor is literally the party, clusters of women in fancy dresses and men in sharp suits everywhere. Elegant multi-colored chandeliers dangle at random locations from above. Waiters work the crowd with drinks and there are tables filled with finger foods. “We still haven’t eaten,” Nick says. “Shall we grab a few snacks?”

  “I’ll drop it, spill it, and generally make a mess.” I glance at him. “I need to know which three pieces they picked.”

  “I’d like to know, too,” he says, motioning me toward a sign that leads to the display room while another, next to it, points to the ceremony’s location.

  We walk that way. “Why am I suddenly so nervous?”

  “Because in your mind you know your top three picks,” he says, as we reach the doorway, “and you’re about to find out, if the judges agree.” He halts us and turns me to face him. “Name your top three.”

  “You. An Eye for An Eye. An older piece I called Sonoma Sky. What do you think?”

  “My picks as well.”

  “Do you know Sonoma Sky?”

  “I studied, and admired it when we packaged it up. Let’s go look.” He starts to turn and I catch his arm.

  “I want you to be there.”

  “Why, Faith?”

  “Because that painting was the first one I painted for me in a very long time. And you’re the first thing I’ve done for me in a very long time.”

  He reaches up and drags his knuckles down my cheek. “I’ll show you how much that means to me later, alone.” He motions to the door. “Let’s go look.”

  I nod and we enter the room, people milling about displays, and of course, Macom’s is the centerpiece. And maybe it’s my nerves, but heads turn as we walk the crowd, seeming to land on Nick and then me. Which is quite possible since my heart is racing so fast that I can barely breathe. Finally, we reach my display and I step inside to find exactly what I’d hoped for: Nick, An Eye for an Eye, and Sonoma Sky. Nick’s hand settles at my back. “How do you feel?”

  I glance up at him. “Validated.”

  “Good. You need that. You lack confidence you need to find. I should buy the one of me.”

  “If you buy it, then it looks like I can’t sell it. I’m still inspired. I’ll be painting you again.”

  “Is that right?” he asks, heat in his eyes.

  “Oh yes. And I’ll know every piece of your story, before you tell me your story.”

  Something flickers in his expression that I can’t name, there and then gone, but before I can ask him about it, Josh suddenly appears, standing beside us, and cursing under his breath. “Holy hell. Who painted these?”

  I face him. “You hate them.”

/>   “I fucking love them. They aren’t you.”

  “They are me. The real me.”

  “Interesting.” He glances over my head at Nick and then back to me. “Come. Let’s go meet important people. Alone.”

  I turn to Nick and his hand settles at my hip. “I’m fine, sweetheart. This is about you, not me.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Go. Meet people.”

  “What are you doing to do?”

  “Drink insanely expensive whiskey, watch people, and find us a spot in the ceremony room.”

  Josh steps to my side. “Time is ticking.”

  I push to my toes and kiss Nick. He cups my head and kisses me again, this time with a sexy slide of tongue. We share a smile and I join Josh, who looks more than a little irritated, but any thought that he might voice that irritation is quickly sidetracked. Almost instantly, within a few steps, we’re intercepted by one of the show’s sponsors who wants me to meet another sponsor out on the party floor. It snowballs from there, though not many of the meetings feel important. I search for Nick, and occasionally find him in the crowd, sharing a small smile with him.

  This continues for a full hour before Josh points at a small standing table that is now free. “Let’s talk,” he says, as we claim our spots across from each other, his fingers thrumming on the wooden table. “I hate to do this here, but it’s important, since the rest of the weekend will be open to the public. And it’s clearly a challenge to get you away from Nick ‘fucking’ Rogers.”

  “Nick ‘fucking’ Rogers is supportive of me and you. He rented the bungalow in the hotel with the thought that you could invite clients for a private party this weekend.”

  He ignores the offer. “You painted him.”

  “Yes. And obviously it was a good decision. Every person we met mentioned that painting.”

  “The painting is good, but as your agent, I see a habit.”

  “Habit?”

  “Things become bigger than your art. Macom. The winery. Nick.”

  “You and Macom made him bigger than me.”

  “That’s not true,” Josh says. “He was my client before you. I was trapped in your own submission to him. And now it’s happening with Nick. You didn’t want to leave him to meet people.”

  “He’s my guest and inspired me to paint again. He helped me get a grip on the winery.”

  “And there it is. I told you. He fucks you and uses you. He wants the winery.”

  “He does not want the winery.”

  “Make sure before it becomes a devastating realization that shoves you into a corner again. Because we’re going to get offers. I don’t want either of us to look like fools. Better yet, sell the damn winery, Faith. It’s a distraction. You’ve made eighty thousand dollars in two weeks. More will follow.”

  “The winery isn’t a distraction,” I say, though those words might be a bit half-hearted. “Additionally,” I add. “I moved to San Francisco and I’m working at the Allure Gallery, with Chris and Sara Merit. The pay and the opportunity are both great.”

  “Why am I just now finding this out?”

  “You knew I was part of the gallery opening.”

  “Why am I just now finding this out?” he repeats.

  “I don’t want Chris used to move my career ahead,” I say, only now admitting that very real concern. “Chris and Sara are my friends. Promise me.”

  “I’ll talk to Chris—”

  “No. No, you will not. Promise me.”

  His lips tighten. “I promise.” He is silent for several beats before he says, “We’re friends. I care about your success. Come to L.A. in a couple of weeks. Alone. Let’s do some career planning.”

  Nick’s warnings ring in my head, driven home by the way he’s kept me far away from him tonight. “Are we too personal, Josh?”

  “I care. Most people want an agent that cares.”

  “But are you too personally involved with me?”

  “We’re friends.”

  “Macom is your friend.”

  “You are too, Faith. And I’m the best damn agent out there. You need me. I deserve you. I’ve ridden the highs and lows with you. You don’t get to leave when you have some success or when I push too hard. We’re a team. Agreed?”

  He’s right. He has stuck it out with me. “Yes. But you need to know that I have moved in with Nick. He’s not going away, so please treat him accordingly.”

  “You moved in with him,” he states flatly.

  “Yes. Please treat him—”

  “Understood,” he says, glancing at his watch. “We need to get into the ceremony.”

  “I am going to go freshen up,” I say, not about to let him come up with a reason to separate me from Nick for the ceremony. “I’ll see you inside.”

  He studies me several beats. “Are we okay?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  He gives a short incline of his head. “You need to be seated in ten minutes.” He leaves then and I turn to find a bathroom, and run smack into a hard body, big hands catching my waist. The musky scent of familiar cologne washes over me even before my gaze lifts, and I find myself looking into Macom’s green eyes.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Faith

  I push away from Macom, but he tightens his grip on my waist. “We need to talk. Let’s set a time and place.”

  “Let go of me, Macom, or I will make you let go of me.”

  “When the ceremony is over. I’m in room—”

  “You need to be on stage,” Josh says, suddenly by my side. “They’re looking for you.”

  Macom’s eyes meet Josh’s, anger crackling in their depths. “Now?”

  “Now,” Josh confirms firmly.

  His jaw tenses and he looks down at me. “10:10. After the show.” He releases me and fades into the crowd.

  I turn to Josh. “Thank you.”

  “I told him not to pull this shit, but look, Faith. For what it’s worth, he talked to me last night. He was torn up. He has regrets. He feels like a shit. He seems to just need to apologize in person and if you don’t want him, he’ll accept it.”

  “He doesn’t want to apologize. He wants to make me another conquest.”

  “All I can tell you is my take, and I don’t see it that way. But moving on. I’ll see you inside.” He steps away from me and there is a ceremony announcement. The crowd immediately starts moving and I end up in the crunch of bodies, a sardine in a can, as we slowly ease toward the door. Impatient, I slip my purse across my chest, and then try to find a hole to break free.

  More aggressive actions work, and I push through the bustle of people with a good amount of speed. The bodies bottleneck near the door though, and I’m stuck, unable to proceed forward. That’s when a hand comes down on my arm and suddenly I’m folded into Nick’s arms. “Hey there, sweetheart.”

  I smile with the realization we’re just inside the ceremony room, against the wall and out of the rush. “You saved me again.”

  “I’ll always save you, but I think you know that by now.”

  “I had a Macom encounter.”

  “And?”

  “I ran into him, literally. He took that opportunity to corner me. Josh intervened and Macom backed off. But I don’t think me avoiding him is going to work. I need to just handle him, once and for all.”

  “How?”

  “I need to get through this ceremony and then figure it out. Let’s sit at the back so we can escape when it’s over.”

  “You sure you want to do that?”

  “Oh yes. I’ve met everyone and anyone, and that’s an entirely different story.”

  There’s another announcement. “Please take your seats now,” someone says over the intercom.

  Nick drapes his arm around my shoulder and we quickly scan the rows of seats facing the stage, before locating, and claiming back row seats. Not more than a minute later, one of the event founders that I’d met earlier steps to center stage and begins to speak without wasting time o
n fluff. She gets right to the point of the event: The artists. A big screen is lowered and it starts rotating with images of this year’s artistic participants, as well as the top three picks for each that were on display tonight. The name “Winter” places me at the end of that line up, and when they read out An Eye for an Eye, I cringe with the certainty that it will garner Macom’s attention. Nick knows, too. His fingers flex on my leg where his hand rests. But soon, the moment is muted as the speaker launches into an anecdote about the first event held by the organization fifteen years ago.

  Finally, it’s time for the award to be announced, which means Nick and I can escape, and the real experience, the show, will be only hours away. Macom steps to the podium to announce the winner, thankfully a really long way from myself and Nick. “Each year one blossoming talent is picked from the show’s participants,” he says. “Tonight is no exception. Tonight I will announce one shining star that will be featured at tomorrow’s show at the entryway as all visitors enter the showroom. In the past, we’ve named such artists as Mallery Michaels, Kat Martin, and Newman Wright. Famous names I know you all recognize. If you’re lucky, you own one of their creations. And so tonight, in the tradition of greats, I will announce a new great. I have to tell you, this one is special. I’m close to this person. She has always been a shining star in my eyes.”

  I suck in air at the “she.” Nick leans in even before my name is even called and says, “Poetic justice, sweetheart.”

  “This year’s winner,” Macom says dramatically, “is Faith Winter. Faith, come to the front, please.”

  Shock rolls through me. “This can’t be happening,” I whisper, applause clamoring around me.

  “It is happening, sweetheart,” Nick says. “Go accept your award.”

  “I’m trembling,” I say. “Nick, I’m trembling hard.”

  “I got you, sweetheart,” he says, standing up and taking me with him, guiding me to the center row, which from the back, now looks incredibly long for someone as unsteady as I am right now. Nick seems to know this, hitching my hand to his elbow before taking a step, walking that one, and every one that follows with me. “Deep breath,” he murmurs softly.