“So, spill it all like a broken beanbag.” Echo handed Casey a glass of Peter Vella and half of a Chips Ahoy. “You and me and Pete are going to talk details.” Her expression left no room for refusal. She narrowed her eyes. “If I’m covering for a con, I at least get to hear the good story.”
“Okay.” Casey put down the impromptu snack and leaned back on their orange thrift store couch, a piece she’d fallen in love with for the brilliant color and the elegant lines, the juxtaposition of ragged and majestic. It fit perfectly with the eclectic art on the walls, none of it expensive like Hunter’s, but everything working together in an orchestra of color and form. “I will. Give me a minute to adjust to Normal Town.” She sighed and waved her hand. “Okay. Acclimated.” She opened her eyes. “Echo, I don’t even know how to explain.”
Chapter Six
“It’s not that hard. You open your mouth, and noises come out. If they sound like words, then you did it right.” Echo nodded. “Like I’m doing. Try.”
“Shut up. So I went, right? To this apartment on Lake Shore Drive. The entryway alone cost more than our whole building. There was priceless art on the walls, everywhere. Dom Perignon as the house drink. I felt out of place.”
“But the sex. Get to that part.”
“Well, I didn’t have any.” Casey crossed her legs and leaned forward. “Maybe you don’t want to hear this. Maybe I don’t want to say it.” She shook her head. “You’re going to judge me.”
“Probably.” Echo bit her half cookie. “But I grade on a curve for you. Talk.”
“Okay, but you can’t tell anyone, ever.”
“Duh.”
“I gave Sofia’s name, and they let me in. Welcomed me. Everyone was beautiful. The host, or the owner of the club? He was the sexiest man ever. Better than David Beckham and Josh Duhamel and Daniel Craig and every hot man I’ve ever seen. Early thirties. Green eyes, brown hair, muscles under his tux. Sexy voice. Nice lips. He… made me call him Sir.”
“Ooookay.”
“And then I met some other people. And then they—all right, and this is the part that’s going to make you freak out, so don’t freak out: They asked me to strip and stand naked in front of the entire room, kind of like an initiation thing, and so I did it, and then they all cheered for me, and then later on Hunter kissed my neck. The sexy owner guy. Oh, and I met a girl who does threesomes, I think she was hitting on me, but I’m not totally sure. But I had my clothes back on at that point.”
“Shut the front fucking door.” Echo was rapt. She put down the cookie. “You did what in front of the room? Are you messing with me?”
Casey felt small. “Please don’t mock me. It was scary and strange and exuberant. I’m not joking. I had to do it to prove myself. The Mistress Alexa person, she’s in charge, sort of, told everyone to clap for me because I’m beautiful. That they couldn’t touch me unless I said yes. It was kind of… awesome.”
Echo’s eyes slid back and forth, from Casey’s eyes to her mouth, to her hands. “I just—I don’t even. Casey? Seriously?”
Casey just nodded. “For real.”
“Oh. My God.” Echo drank her wine down in one gulp. “Casey, that’s ridiculous.”
“Well, yeah. It was. But it was also artistic and surreal. I was a Venus de Milo, Echo, with actual arms. I felt like a Botticelli masterpiece. Like the whole Sistine Chapel. The looks on their faces, when they saw me? It was something else. Nobody ever…” She shook her head. “Normally I’m regular old Casey in my black art gallery outfit with the shitty boss, who buys the buffalo hot sauce hummus at Whole Foods when I have some extra cash. But tonight? I was someone beautiful.”
“You’re always someone beautiful.” Echo lurched her knee and knocked into the coffee table, nearly upsetting the glasses of wine. “Casey, that’s messed up. It’s like, exploitative. I don’t think you should go back. I mean, how long until you’re tied down and being used by anyone and everyone there? Right? How do you know these people are even safe? And I’m not just talking STDs. I mean—mental sanity. If they’re rich, they can get away with stuff, you know.” Her voice was strident.
“These are not slave traders. And I used to do swimsuit modeling back in college for the R. Blue catalogue. Remember?” Casey challenged. “I mean, some of the suits I used to wear were almost as revealing as that G-string. And the poses I did were way more provocative.”
“You were paid to do that, and you had a contract, and it was a business deal. Nobody was making you do anything. Oh, and you didn’t do it nude. I rest my point.”
“Well, nobody made me do anything here, either.” Casey took a breath. “It’s just a thing that they require of new members. I could have walked out.”
“It’s mental coercion, then. You wanted to stay, and they made you strip to do it.”
“Well, okay, but isn’t there an initiation for any place you go? I never wanted to take the SATs, but I had to, to get into college. I didn’t want to sit there and ass-kiss my boss to get the gallery job, but I did it. This was actually easier than either of those experiences.”
“I just think you’re on a slippery slope. When you start trading in your sexuality for entrée into an exclusive world, it gets dicier. It just sounds… weird.”
“I know how it sounds,” Casey agreed. “There’s no way to describe it that will make it sound legit, I get that. I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t really want to. Believe me.”
“I’m not a fan,” Echo announced, shuddering. “Did they force you to take drugs?” She leaned in and peered at Casey’s eyes, touching her arm. “Are your pupils dilated? How’s your heart rate?”
“I’m fine.” Casey pushed Echo’s hand back. “I’m not on anything. Look, it was a BDSM club. People walk around naked in front of everyone—that’s normal there, so it wasn’t like they asked me to do something they weren’t. They have sex in front of everyone. They spank each other. They do other things. It’s like that for everyone. But new members, apparently, strip once to prove they’re—um—sincere.” Her voice trailed off.
“And how did that work out for you… and Sofia?” Echo challenged. “How would she like to know that you used her name to prance around with these kinky people in a sex club? Is that even legal?”
Casey bit her lip. “I don’t know what to do about that. I hate the idea of pretending to be someone else, and I feel horrible about it. Like I’m betraying her trust. I want to go back, but now they all think I’m her. At first, it was sort of a joke, an adventure. But while I was there, people were nice to me. Glad to meet me.”
“Of course they were.” Echo rolled her eyes. “Fresh meat at the supermarket. I bet they were de-fucking-lighted to meet you. I mean, it’s an exclusive sex club, right?”
“It’s BDSM.”
“What’s the dif? I mean, if people have sex there, even if they do other stuff, obviously they’re going to want to do the sexing and the stuffing with you, the hot new girl.”
“I was the hot new girl.” Casey twirled her glass of wine, unable to resist a small smile at the remembrance of being admired.
“Yes, and that’s great and all.” Echo ran a hand through her long purple hair once and then again. “Look. I’m not sure how to say what I want to say. I… like attention too. If it happens that I’m the pretty one in the bar one night, I soak it up, Case. The looks, the glances. The smiles. The offers of drinks. The casual conversation that doesn’t need to happen but starts out of nowhere, at the bar, at the door, anywhere, like sugar spawning out of air.” She paused to think. “And it’s nice to be wanted. It’s just that maybe this club is maybe too aggressive a way of getting that attention.”
Casey frowned. “The people aren’t aggressive, though. They’re polite.”
“I worry that they’ll politely try to brainwash you into being their communal sex slave or something. Politely convince you that you’re so pretty and sparkly that you need to let them all use you up like a box of tissues.”
“
I’m not that dumb.” Casey put her glass down hard.
“You’re not dumb at all,” Echo said. “But the things you mentioned. The art, the champagne, the money. Don’t let the ambience go to your head. If they were all fucking in a garage and playing cowboy rap and drinking moonshine, and his name was Bubba, would you still want to call this Hunter dude ‘Sir’ and stand naked in front of them all?”
Casey laughed, then shuddered, thinking of standing barefoot on a greasy garage floor, looking at an old pitchfork and a rusted lawnmower while someone yelled, “Yee haw, bend over and show me that ass, honey!”
“No.” She shook her head. “I wouldn’t.”
“So.”
“So, nothing. I admit that part of the appeal is the luxury and exclusivity of the whole thing. But these are intelligent, successful people—they work hard and respect hard work of others. And that respect carries through to what they do there. I can feel the vibe.”
Echo just sighed and shook her head, and for a minute the two of them sat with their wine. “So you went. You liked it. Now what?”
Casey traced the rim of the glass with her index finger. “I want to go back.”
“You got away with being Sofia once. A second time is pushing it. Do you seriously think nobody will figure it out?”
“I think it will be okay. I mean, Sofia was totally not interested, and her friend Kelsie is going to be in Florida for the next few weeks. So there’s no chance anyone would call me out, you know? Sofia is new. Nobody there except Kelsie knows her. Me.”
“I can’t be sure, but this sounds like the kind of thing that will end in disaster.” Echo refilled their wine glasses. “And Peter, if he could get out of his box, would agree.”
* * *
“Casey. Is MMX Bailey still on the schedule in two weeks?”
Casey swung one bright red pump, letting it dangle off her toes. Her expensive leather shoes were one luxury she allowed herself, and swinging them felt good, her own version of biting nails or twisting her hair. She picked a piece of lint and smoothed down her black miniskirt. “Yes. He said he’ll arrive at 4:07 on Thursday p.m. exactly, and that he’d like us to have two cups of black coffee, one full, the other empty.” She squared the edges on a pile of gallery order sheets.
“How can it be a cup of black coffee if it’s empty?” Blake twirled in his chair.
“I don’t know. I acted all cool, like I prepare empty cups of black coffee for enigmatic art collectors on a regular basis. I’m pretty sure it’s a Zen thing. You know, the story about filling the cup until it overflows to show someone they need to empty themselves out of preconceptions, before they can fill themselves up with knowledge.”
“Or maybe it’s a pretentious asshole who wants to confuse us thing,” Blake suggested. “Or an I-took-too-much-acid-in-my-youth kind of thing.”
Casey tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Neither would be out of the ordinary in our world, unfortunately. But MMX is too young for acid. I don’t know, what were people taking twenty years ago?”
“So when are you going to display your art here?” Blake rolled his chair to bumper car hers and pointed to the wall.
“Uh, never?” Casey rolled her chair back, then Flintstoned her feet to get enough momentum to hit Blake’s chair and sent him spinning. “The one time Monica looked at my work, she said, Huh. And then she never mentioned it again. So probably no time soon.” Casey looked at a blank space on the cream wall, a spot beneath a small art-light. She still had a small spot of hurt in her heart from the rejection.
Blake circled his chair into motion blur, then stopped to talk. “Monica has ADD, Casey, and not just the regular kind. She’s got, like, super-maximum ADD to the point where it should be called ADDDDDDHD. She probably forgot what you were saying while you said it. Come on, you know she’s like a squirrel in a shiny nut shop most days with her orders and questions.”
Casey hid a snort behind her palm. “She calls it multitasking. But she knows her art, you have to admit it. And God, if she heard us we’d be so fired.”
“No. Because I’d go, ‘Monica! Look over there! Hot fireman and an éclair, and they want to buy a painting!’ and she’d get all lit and scream and we’d be cool. And then Barry and me could do the YMCA dance together naked and she wouldn’t even notice. Or salsa. You know we’re taking salsa class for our wedding, right?”
“Yes. You told me eleven times this morning alone. I think you’re the one with ADD.”
“Maybe Monica aerosolized it into a virus and spread it to me. Do you think I can sue her for damages?”
“Oh, you bet. That would go real far. Maybe even to the supreme court.” Casey gave him a look, and then they both started laughing, and found it hard to stop when their boss entered a minute later, all clicking heels and trailing perfume and expertly applied makeup that turned her fifty-something face into an ageless-something masterpiece. Blake wheeled his chair away from Casey’s to end up behind his own ultra-modern white desktop.
“Casey! Please tell me we’re ready for the visit with Dr. Buzon. Do you have to sit like that with your shoe hanging off like a scab? It’s so unprofessional that it could be in the dictionary. Blake. Do you not recall that I asked you never to wear the plaid tie again? Mr. Ellison hates plaid and he’s coming today at two to pick up his Tauba Auerbach, and I do not want to offend him. And when I say hate, I mean he claims to have a visceral panic-attack reaction to plaid because of a bad experience once with a Scotsman. Oh, and I’d like a cup of rosemary orange tea in the medium white mug, Casey, not the large one like you used yesterday. Blake, is that fingerprint smudges on the Cindy Sherman plaque? How can I make it more clear that we must be impeccable?” Her words followed her into the office.
Casey got up and went into the small kitchenette to prepare the tea, and Blake came in to rifle through the cupboard for the bottle of cleanser that was reserved for silver-colored plaques. His face was somber. “Case? Do you ever think it’s wrong that we both have PhDs in art and we’re here being servants to a space alien who’s rich and successful for no reason I can humanly comprehend?” His usual joking tone was replaced with something bitter.
“Yeah. Every day.” Casey poured the water and stuck the mug into the microwave, thinking again about that spot on the wall and the painting she had at home in her room, the one she’d finished just last week. “And if I think about it too much, it makes me want to cry, so I try not to, Blake.”
“But maybe that’s a mistake.” Blake’s voice was still serious. “Maybe we need to think about it more, not less. Because if we just keep forgetting and forgetting, and going on like this, someday we’ll be like… Mayor P.”
Casey shuddered. “Don’t say that. Look. We’re just in our twenties, Blake. This is how we have to start. Everyone goes through it. We apprentice and kiss ass to a smug, arrogant, idiotic gallery owner while continuing to try to make our own name. And someday we’ll make it big. Or own our own gallery. It takes time and patience.”
Blake tugged a fresh white cloth out of a plastic bag. “I’m not even joking. We’ll each have our own shopping cart with a broken wheel, and we’ll collect old backpacks and gym shoes from the trash, and we’ll beg for quarters at the el stop. And if we’re lucky, someone will give us their leftover fries or Molly.”
“Neither of us will ever take Molly, not even if we get homeless. Because we,” and she waved her hand around the gallery in a grand gesture, “can get high off of art. Speaking of the mayor, did he come around today yet?” Casey dunked in the expensive gourmet teabag and set a timer. “I brought in some of the mini carrots he likes and a sandwich. He’s looking so thin lately.”
“No. And given Murphy’s Law, he’ll show up right when Monica’s Mr. Whatever does, and he’ll be wearing plaid.”
‘What does that even mean, to have a bad experience with a Scotsman?”
“I dunno.” Blake’s eyes lit up. “But I have a few guesses.”
“Oh, me too! Let me go fir
st.” Casey flung her hand out with a laugh and slopped the tea over the edge of the cup. “Ouch! Ow. Okay. One time he saw a handsome Scotsman in a kilt—”
“No fair! I was going to use a kilt.”
“So he sees this guy in a kilt, but he’s sort of blind, so he thinks it’s a girl in a skirt. And he goes up to her and says, ‘hello, can I buy you a drink?’ And the guy says yes, and then he—”
“He reaches under the kilt,” continued Blake with a giggle, “and screams out in terror when he realizes this is not a lassie, but in fact a rather well-endowed lad.”
“And that was enough to scare him off plaid forever? And he can still afford fine art? Life’s not fair.” Casey removed the teabag and tossed it into the trash basket.
“Well, now we seriously have to find out. Someone needs to unobtrusively slip it into the conversation. Whoever is closest to the real explanation gets a drink from the loser.”
“Yeah.” They stood side by side at the counter, silent, until Casey spoke. “I think I’ll ask her again. About my paintings. If I set up time and bring them in, maybe she’ll give me a chance. I mean, I’m not asking for the world. Just space to display one or two of them. During my PhD I displayed in several local galleries and got good reviews. And I’ve gotten better since then. I sell small things in my Etsy store all the time.”
“Your work is something special,” Blake told her. “No, I’m not just saying that, Casey. You have a talent. Your use of color and texture is mesmerizing.” He made googly eyes and waved his hands, but his smile was genuine. “You just need an audience. I believe that.”
Casey shrugged, a small smile appearing and disappearing. “Well, I like it. But it’s my own version of modern art, you know? Not a Picasso.” She considered, seeing her own work instead of the printed out, laminated sign on the wall that read: “Casey and Blake! Break is twenty minutes exactly. Please remember.”
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