Painless (57 page)

Fuck, my guts still knotted when I thought about my mom.

(
mom
)

“Thank you,” Brandon smiled his stock Mr. Pleasant smile. “Christos, can I talk to you for a few moments?”

“Sure,” I said. I raised my eyebrows at Samantha and Romeo.

“Let’s go look around, Sam,” Romeo said. He pulled Samantha off into the crowd.

“What up, Brandon?” I asked.

“I wanted to check in about your progress on your paintings. Care to take a stroll in the sculpture garden?”

I nodded.
 

We walked out back. The sculpture garden wasn’t quite as crowded as the inside of the gallery, and it was outside so we had a vague sense of privacy in the hedges mazing around under the starlight. Brandon was all about appearances, so taking me back here meant he had something to say that was going to irritate either him or me.

When we were secluded, he asked, “How’s that portrait of Isabella coming along? Did you make the changes like Stanford Wentworth suggested?”

I chuckled. As if.

“What?” Brandon smiled.

Did I tell Brandon now that I’d destroyed the painting of Isabella in a fit of rage? Or let him find out when it was noticeably absent from my solo show? Fuck it. I didn’t feel like dancing tonight. “I’ve decided to go in a different direction for the show.”

Brandon narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I’m trashing the idea of using models. It wasn’t working for me.”

“I thought they were looking pretty good.”

“You heard Wentworth,” I chuckled. “You were there. He said the paintings were lifeless.”

“I could sell them,” Brandon scoffed.

“You could sell a car to a canary.”

Brandon frowned, “Why would a canary want a car? They have wings.”

“Exactly.”

Brandon dismissed my comment. “Christos, you and I have known each other a long time.”

 
I nodded.

“I’m trying to build your career,” he said.

I said, “But I don’t want a career painting models I don’t give a shit about.”

“Beautiful women sell, Christos. They never go out of style.”

I arched an eyebrow and nodded at him.

“At any rate,” he continued, “I can’t build your career if I don’t have any paintings to sell. Here’s a suggestion. We sell the nudes you have now next month, at your solo show. Next year, we transition you into more meaningful subject matter. The important thing is we keep your momentum going. I have fifteen possible buyers lined up for your paintings. I even have one for the Isabella portrait. I don’t care what Stanford Wentworth said, I can get us one-twenty-five K for it.”

Whoops. I could use $125,000. Nothing like attorney’s fees to drain your wallet down to zero. Fucking Hunter Blakeley.

Sadly, if I dug the tatters of the Isabella painting out of the dump now, I don’t think Brandon would get fifty cents for it.

He asked, “How much longer do you think it would take for you to finish fifteen paintings?”

Brandon needed a reality check. He was under the impression I’d been busily working away in the studio these past few months, cranking out more paintings of his L.A. models. I’d kept hidden until now the fact that I’d fallen way behind because of the Horst Grossman trial and because I’d decided to go in a different direction with my art.

“Months,” I said.

Brandon’s eyes goggled. “Months? I don’t have months. I’ve got shows lined up for the rest of the year. I can’t shift things around. Christos,” he said, sounding deeply disappointed, “I can’t keep these buyers waiting around. If I don’t close them now, they’re going to go elsewhere.”

“Why don’t you sell them on some of your other artists?”

“These are big name buyers. They’re not interested in my other artists, Christos. They’re interested in you. They want the Manos magic. I need your paintings. Now. How many do you have?”

“Three are finished. The ones you’ve seen of Avery, Jacqueline, and Becca. I’ve got three more in progress.” I was thinking of the LOVE painting of me and Samantha, the solo portrait of her, and the surprise I had brewing for everyone.

“Six? I thought you had seven. I know I sent you seven models and you were working on all of them. What happened?”

“The, ahhh…well…” I was going to have to tell him, “The painting of Isabella is R.I.P.”

“What? Why?” He was frowning.

“I told you, it wasn’t working for me.”

“You didn’t change it, did you, like Wentworth asked?”

“No,” I scoffed. “He’s an idiot.”

“Good. Because I’m telling you, I can sell that painting for six figures for sure.”

Fuck. He may as well know. “It’s gone.”

“What, did you sell it already?” he chuckled nervously.
 

If I had, I would be a total prick and Brandon would reconsider our business relationship. I wouldn’t blame him. Lucky for me, I hadn’t. “I, um, tore it to pieces.”

Brandon’s eyes goggled wider than before. “Why the hell would you do that?” He actually sounded angry. Brandon never lost his cool. “I had a buyer lined up. The guy buys nothing but high priced nudes. He wouldn’t think twice about paying a hundred grand for yours. You’re crazy, Christos.” Brandon shook his head and frowned, looking half defeated. Then he paused and his angry expression eased into an easy grin. “You’re pulling my leg, aren’t you, Christos?”

I shook my head, “No. I tore the shit out of it and threw it away.”

Brandon’s eyes goggled a third time. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

I nodded.

“Christos, you’re killing me,” he sighed. “I can’t put up a solo show with six paintings. The gallery will look empty. I’m going to need more.”

I felt bad. I had put myself in this position. “Look, maybe I can make it nine.”

“Nine?” he asked skeptically.

“I never finished the three ones of the other models.”

“Why not?”

“I told you, I started on new pieces.”

“Christos, what are you doing to me?” he pleaded. “How far are you along on all the unfinished paintings?” He sounded totally exasperated. “Are you going to have any of them done in time?” Now he sounded like a disappointed parent.
 

Poor Brandon. I couldn’t blame him. I was fucking everything up and I knew it. I sighed, “The three new ones will definitely be finished. If I hustle, I can get the other three finished too.”

“You’ve only got a few weeks to do it, Christos. Is that going to be enough time?” He said it like he knew it was impossible but he was being too polite to call me on it.

“I hope so,” I said quietly.

Brandon eyed me like I’d gone from being his hot property to a thorn in his side in the span of five minutes.

Because I had.
 

I felt bad. I was taking a huge risk with my new artistic direction. Brandon didn’t deserve the stress I was piling on him. Despite the fact he annoyed me at times, he’d always been good to me and my family over the years, and he’d been counting on me to deliver a certain amount of work in a certain amount of time. Now I was blowing my deadline. But what the fuck. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life painting for other people.
 

I thought the whole point of this artist thing was to do what you wanted?

Fuck.

Maybe I was being a bit too narrow minded in my view of things.

===

SAMANTHA

Madison and Jake had already gone home from the gallery because they were getting up early to surf in the morning. Romeo was chatting with Dillon and Kamiko out back in the sculpture garden. Now that Kamiko’s painting had sold, she was ready to relax.

I wandered around in the main gallery, still entranced by all the art. It blew my mind that so many people had sold paintings tonight. Most of them were inexpensive by gallery standards, ranging between $500 and $3,000. That meant Kamiko’s had been one of the higher priced pieces to sell. I was so proud of her.

Maybe one day, I’d sell a painting for a thousand dollars.

Out the corner of my eye, I noticed Tiffany stumble toward the entrance. She looked totally drunk. I think she was leaving, but she was in no shape to drive.

I ambled toward the doorway as she left, watching her sway onto the sidewalk outside. Maybe she would wrap her car around a telephone pole on her way home and I wouldn’t have to worry about her getting me kicked out of college at my upcoming SDU tribunal hearing.

I sighed.

As much as I hated Tiffany, I couldn’t let her drive home totally drunk.

Then I noticed her stumble into a guy smoking a cigarette outside. He wore a tattered leather jacket and was leaning against a parking meter. She leaned into him and clutched the lapels of his jacket. He looked surprised. But then he took a good look at Tiffany and a smile crept across his face. He dropped his cigarette and tamped it out with his boot. I guess Tiffany knew him because he put an arm around her waist and held her up.

There were two young women smoking outside, huddled together and talking to each other. Had the jacket guy been talking to them when Tiffany came outside? I wasn’t sure. Odd.

Three guys from inside the gallery walked past me, laughing at something one of them had said as they stepped onto the sidewalk. Jacket guy stared at them. One of the three guys nodded at him and said, “Hey.”

Jacket guy nodded back.

“There you are!” Romeo said from behind me. “I’ve been looking all over for you. I think Dillon and Kamiko needed some private time, so I left them alone in the sculpture garden. Besides, I couldn’t take any more cartoon talk. They’re
still
talking about Adventure Time. I think Kamiko is in love. Do you want to see if the bar has any booze left?”

“Sure,” I said absently as Romeo grabbed my hand and pulled me inside the gallery.

We walked toward the bar. The crowd had thinned substantially. People were heading out the door. It wouldn’t take long to get a drink. Not that I was going to have any alcohol. I was the designated driver tonight.

Tiffany.

Jacket guy.

Something about that hadn’t looked right.

“I’ll be right back, Romeo,” I said to him, pulling my hand free from his. I danced past several people strolling casually toward the door.

By the time I was on the sidewalk, I knew something was wrong.

Tiffany and jacket guy were gone.

“Tiffany?”

I whipped my head left and right. I didn’t see her. I turned to the two girls still smoking outside. “Did you see which way that girl with the platinum blonde hair and white dress went?”

One of the smoking girls said, “You mean the chick with that guy in the leather jacket?”

“Yes.”

“I think they went that way,” she pointed with her cigarette.

“Thanks.” I took off at a dead run.

Oh my god, Tiffany.

Now that I was thinking about it, Jacket guy had looked a little too mangy to be her type.

“Tiffany!” I shouted.

I passed an alley and stopped. I peered down it into darkness. I didn’t see her. And I didn’t see anything they could be hiding behind like a dumpster or trashcans or whatever.

I sprinted down the sidewalk until I stopped at a four way intersection. My heart was hammering in my chest. Not from the running, but from the panic machine gunning in my stomach. I looked up and down the cross street. It had lots of bright streetlights in both directions. But straight ahead, the street was dark. I think I saw movement ahead.

Yup.

The small dot of Tiffany’s hair and white dress glowed faintly in the moonlight.

“Tiffany!” I shouted. The light was red, but I ran anyway. A car blared its horn and swerved around me. Luckily, it hadn’t been going very fast. I dodged clear and crossed to the other side of the street.

I sprinted down the sidewalk, screaming at the top of my lungs, “Tiffany!”

It was definitely jacket guy with her, his arm around her waist. They turned down a street before I caught up.

When I rounded the corner, jacket guy had Tiffany pinned against a brick wall. Her purse was on the ground. Tiffany was pushing at him with limp hands. She was too drunk to fight. She fell down on her knees. Jacket guy grabbed her by the sleeve and I jumped on his back, pounding the back of his head with everything I had. He stood up and stumbled backward, slamming me into the window of a parked car. White lighting shot up and down my back as pain exploded in my body.

I slid down the car. My butt thumped onto the sidewalk.

Jacket guy whirled around, looking surprised. His lips were peeled over crooked clenched teeth. He was hunched over like an animal. He swung his booted foot at my face, but I rolled to the side and scrambled to my feet. His boot clunked into the car door where my face had been, denting it. Then he lunged for me and I raked my nails across his cheek.

“You cut me, bitch!” he shouted.

I saw Damian Wolfram’s face fall into place over jacket guy’s. Anger blew up inside me like a neutron bomb and my vision went red. I swung my arms at him like helicopter blades, aiming my nails at his eyes. He stumbled back and tripped over Tiffany’s legs. I kept swinging my arms. I had no idea what I was doing, but I wasn’t going to stop.

My fingers peeled back skin from his other cheek. He scrabbled away like a squirrel on all fours. When he got to his feet, he stopped and glared at me. He touched his bloody cheek and examined the blood that came away on his fingertips.

“I’m going to cut you open, bitch,” he said as he pulled a knife out of his pocket. He flicked the serrated blade open with his thumb.

Oh no. I was screwed.

He advanced toward me. If I ran, he would never catch me. But I couldn’t leave Tiffany alone with him.

Jacket guy’s face was no longer Damian Wolfram’s. It was just ugly jacket guy who had fingernail gashes dripping red. I noticed spittle on his lower lip. I became obsessed with that spittle. It was so white in the darkness. I couldn’t stop looking at it, I think because I didn’t want to think about his knife. I didn’t know what to do. Someone was going to get stabbed but I wasn’t ready to accept that fact.

He took a step toward me.

Spittle. Spittle. Spittle.