Player & the Game (11 page)

D
awn climbed out of the yellow taxi cab and slammed the car door closed behind her. She then tugged down the front of her incredibly short cocktail dress, cursing Stephanie under her breath as she did it. She never should have let her sister talk her into wearing this getup. The silver metallic dress was made out of some chainmail-like fabric that swayed and shimmered when she walked. She felt like a sparkling disco ball. It hit her just above mid-thigh, had a low back, and showed a great deal of boobage in the front. She couldn't bend down or lean forward without displaying all her goodies to the world.

Dawn had asked not to blend in, but she certainly hadn't expected to stand out
this
much. She'd be lucky if she didn't get stopped by the NYPD for streetwalking when she tried to flag down a taxi later that night on her way back to her hotel.

She opened the clasp on her purse and pulled out the sheet of paper on which she had scribbled the address of Razor's studio. Thankfully, it was only half a block away. Dawn began to walk in that direction, pulling her leather jacket tighter around her to ward off the evening chill as she trudged along. She heard music as she drew closer to the building—a renovated warehouse. A guitar riff sailed toward her, along with the heavy beat of a snare drum. A few seconds later, she spotted a crowd standing on concrete steps, gathered around an open doorway. The boisterous group snapped Polaroid pictures of each other. Dawn climbed the stairs.

“Excuse me,” she said, making her way through the throng. “Just heading inside, guys. Cutting through.”

“Oh, for Christ's sake!” one of the young women exclaimed with a groan, making Dawn pause. “Not another one of
you!
”

Dawn stared at her, confused. “Pardon me.”

“Pardon me?”
the young woman repeated back mockingly, making Dawn frown.

The young Brooklynite eyed Dawn from behind her thick glasses. Her glare lingered on Dawn's silver minidress, making Dawn self-consciously tug down the hem again. In contrast, the young woman was in full hipster gear, in a bleach-stained black tank top, plaid skirt, and skinny jeans.

“You're like the fourth one tonight! I swear you guys are stupider than you look! Get a clue! We . . . don't . . . shoot . . . models . . . here,” she said to Dawn in a patronizingly slow voice. She then tossed her cigarette to the ground before stomping it under one of her dirty Converse sneakers. “This is an art studio,
not
a photography studio. Razor may screw models, but he won't take pictures for your portfolio so . . . bye-bye!”

She then waved Dawn away like she was shooing off a fly. Dawn's frown now shifted into a scowl.

“God, Katy,” lamented one of the young woman's male companions. “Why do you have to be such a bitch?”

He was more eccentrically dressed than Katy with his bowtie, cargo shorts, and a beard that was entwined with several rubber bands and colorful beads. He lowered his beer bottle and turned to Dawn, giving her a sympathetic smile.

“Sorry, she's just saying that Razor isn't a photographer. A lot of models make that mistake. But that just isn't his thing.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Dawn snapped, now more than just a little irritated.

She wasn't sure if she should be flattered or pissed that she was now being mistaken for a model, especially since present company seemed to have such a low opinion of those who made their money on the runway.

“Look, I'm not here to get Razor to take my picture,” Dawn explained. “I'm here to see his work. I'm a gallery director.”

The group fell silent.

“So if all of you could just step the hell aside, I'd really appreciate it.”

Katy's brown eyes went wide as quarters. She cleared her throat and her face visibly paled under the dim streetlight. “Shit, I'm sorry! I . . . I just thought you were . . . well, because of the dress . . .”

Dawn ignored her and continued to climb the stairs. The crowd parted, making a path for the angry black woman in stilettos.

“Hey!” Katy shouted. “If you're looking for stuff . . . umm, I'm an artist too! I've got some paintings if you're interested. I've—”

“Not really,” Dawn replied bluntly before strolling through the open doorway.

She must be drawing close to the party. The music was getting louder. She climbed another flight of stairs and pushed through another crowd.

“Heads-up!” someone yelled as soon as she entered the doorway, making her hop aside. She just barely dodged a partygoer who stumbled toward her, holding his mouth as he ran for the door. He made it to the hall just before losing his lunch all over the black linoleum-tiled floor, drawing a series of shouts and groans from those who were smoking and lingering in the stairwell.

Dawn cringed.

“Sorry,” his friend said with a shrug as he passed her. “Carl's a real pussy when it comes to Jägermeister.”

“That's . . . quite all right,” Dawn said.

She was just glad that none of it had splattered on her Alexander McQueens.

Dawn gave his nauseated friend a wide berth, turned back around, and gazed at the jam-packed studio.

The music from the live band on the other side of the room was almost deafening, but the rowdy attendees managed to rival the noise. Those who weren't shouting, laughing, and dancing were lip-locked in corners. One amorous couple hadn't even bothered to find a secluded spot and were making out in the middle of the makeshift dance floor.

Standing there, watching the scene around her, Dawn felt all her thirty-six years. She felt like a geezer among teenagers. She hadn't seen partying this hard since college.

“Well, no use in just standing here,” a voice in her head egged on. “Go and find Razor so you can get the hell out of here and go back to the hotel.”

Dawn sighed resignedly. She just hoped Percy appreciated how much she did for this damn job.

She began to make her way across the room, spotting Razor in the distance. The photographs in the newspaper and online hadn't done him justice. He was even more handsome in person—and just as smug looking. The artist was holding court by the band, surrounded by a gaggle of young women who were fawning over him. Dawn excused herself as she went, though few heard her over the noise.

“
Dawn?
” someone shouted behind her. “Dawn, is that you?”

She hadn't expected to run into anyone she knew tonight, especially not in a place like this. She turned and smiled, relieved to have someone at the party who wasn't high, wasn't a decade younger than her, and didn't vomit Jägermeister. But her friendly smile withered when she realized who it was.

“Oh,” she said flatly. “Hello, Sasha.”

Sasha Duncan grinned and embraced Dawn, kissing her on the cheek, making Dawn flinch.

“I thought that was you! What on earth are you doing here?” The fifty-something blonde stood back and looked Dawn up and down, still holding her shoulders. “And what
on earth
are you wearing, dear?”

Dawn shrugged out of Sasha's grasp and scanned her eyes over Sasha's short, blue, sequined dress with its fringed bottom. “I could ask you the same thing!” she shouted in return.

Sasha was the director of Sawyer Gallery in downtown DC—one of the major competitors to Templeton Gallery. But that wasn't why Dawn disliked her. She disliked Sasha—in short—because the botox-laden, St. John-wearing woman was a sneaky, conniving, two-faced bitch!

When Dawn got the job as gallery director at Templeton, Sasha was one of the first to welcome her to the DC art community, introducing her to the movers and shakers in town. They ate lunch together on occasion and had even attended a benefit or two together. Dawn thought that in Sasha she had found a mentor and a friend. She had even consulted Sasha when she found out that a whisper campaign about her had started around town. Rumors had circulated within the art community that Dawn was a talentless hack who came from a family of brazen gold diggers. Some whispered that she hadn't gotten the position at Templeton on merit, but because she was sleeping with Percy. Worse, there were rumors that Dawn was robbing the gallery's artists blind, and no one would be wise to work with her.

Sasha had counseled Dawn to simply ignore the gossip.

“What's that old saying? ‘Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words would never hurt me,' ” Sasha had advised one day. “You should just rise above it, dear.”

Dawn took Sasha's suggestion, until word got back to her that the orchestrator of all the dirty gossip had been the very woman she had considered a confidante and friend: Sasha. When Dawn confronted Sasha, the woman vehemently denied the accusations . . . at first. But when Dawn gave her name after name of each person who had finger-pointed Sasha as the gossipmonger, Sasha finally relented and showed herself for the Brutus she really was.

“You should be grateful that I gave you entrée into some of the best social circles in town, Dawn,” Sasha had said snidely. “It's not my job to be your cheerleader too. And it's not like what they claim I said was a lie. You
have
gotten around, dear, and you
do
love men with money.”

The last dig made Dawn particularly angry, considering that everyone in town knew that Sasha—in her day—had “gotten around” quite a great deal herself. But the prim and proper married woman now looked down her nose at others who had done the same.

And there is nothing I hate more than a sanctimonious ho,
Dawn thought. She had run into many in her life: women who looked down on her and her family in public, but would hop from bed to bed when no one was looking.

Also, Dawn had caught Sasha more than once being rather touchy-feely with Sawyer Gallery director, Martin Sawyer. Dawn highly doubted from the way those two carried on that Sasha's and Martin's relationship was strictly platonic and professional.

Since her discovery of Sasha's betrayal, Dawn had cut off their friendship and hadn't trusted the woman as far as she could throw her. But for some reason, Sasha insisted on pretending that they were still on pleasant terms.

“So what are you doing here?” Sasha shouted. “Don't tell me you came to see Razor!”

The live band had benevolently decided to take a short break so Dawn didn't have to shout her reply.

“Actually, I
did
come here to see him . . . not that it's any of your business.”

Sasha's grin disappeared. “Well, frankly you're wasting your time, dear. Razor would never be interested in showing his work in the DC market. Not when he has the chance to show in some of the best galleries in Manhattan. Any gallery director worth her pay would know that!”

“Oh, really?
If that's the case, then why are
you
here? This doesn't exactly look like your type of crowd. Was there a ‘bring one fifty-year-old, get a beer free' deal at the bar that I wasn't aware of?”

“Very funny. No, I simply came tonight to meet a friend.” Sasha tossed her hair over her shoulder and raised her nose into the air. “Unlike you, I do have contacts in New York. Not all of us are limited to the Washington cultural wasteland.”

I'm sure your patrons would love to hear you refer to their hometown as a “cultural wasteland,”
Dawn thought. And she didn't believe for a second that Sasha hadn't tried to get Razor to show his artwork at Sawyer Gallery. More than likely, the young, up-and-coming artist had rejected Sasha's offer outright.

“Well, ta-ta,” Sasha said, waving her fingers. “Good luck with your little endeavor, though I highly doubt it will work.”

Dawn laughed. “Just because Razor turned you down doesn't mean he'll do the same for me,
dear
.”

Sasha hadn't been trained in the ways of charm and seduction like all the Gibbons girls had. Dawn believed she could use those skills to convince Razor to do what Sasha could not.

“But hey,” Dawn continued, “maybe I can even squeeze you onto the invite list when his exhibit opens at Templeton Gallery . . . You know, a little favor for old time's sake.”

Sasha clenched her jaw. Her face turned a bright crimson.

“Ta-ta!” Dawn then turned around and continued on her path toward Razor.

She paused to strip off her jacket. If she had to walk around in this sparkling minidress then she might as well use it to her advantage.

Dawn could tell from the double-takes some of the men gave her as she passed that the dress was working. One hapless guy almost dropped his beer-filled plastic cup because he was gawking so much. He managed to catch it before it fell to the floor, only to spill half of it on his T-shirt.

“Razor,” Dawn called out as she drew near the artist. He was regaling the group around him with some bawdy story that had them cackling. “Razor!”

“What?” he snapped, rolling his eyes and annoyed at being interrupted. He turned away from his adoring fans and tore the blunt that he had been smoking from his lips. But when his eyes settled on Dawn, the look of irritation instantly disappeared. His face broke into an impish grin.

“Well, hello!”

Two women who stood beside him glared at Dawn. One pouted while the other walked off.

“Hi, Razor,” Dawn said, extending her hand. “Dawn Gibbons. Pleased to meet you.”

He hesitated for a beat and looked her up and down. His bloodshot eyes lingered on her long dark legs, then her breasts, before finally settling on her face. He shook her hand. “Good to meet you too. But no need to be so formal, babe. We're pretty chill around here.” He then extended his blunt toward her. “Want a hit?”