Accidental Love

by Ryan, Emma

  “Oh, you know Alex.” Ash waved her hand. “He’s upstairs, slaving away. He’s on a big new kick; he’ll be happy to see you’ve swung in! You haven’t been around in a while.”

  That wasn’t a lie. I hadn’t been… staying away intentionally. At least that’s what I would tell anyone, if they decided to ask about it. I had been waiting for a great piece to come along to bring over. I loved the room Walker had set up for me, but at times I missed actually painting in this studio, missed the camaraderie of being around other artists. Not that my new husband had insisted on me being a stay-at-home wife, I just hadn’t wanted to miss any of this time with him. It felt precious. Limited.

  Gripping Walker’s hand, I tugged him with me.

  “We’ll catch you later, Ash,” I said. “Good seeing you!”

  Ash gave me a wave, and she and Aven went back to their game of ping-pong. I decided to take Walker up the stairs, letting him see each floor. I introduced him to some of the artists that were out and about.

  Some were very curious about Walker and his very obvious non-art person aura. Others were utterly unfazed and didn’t even say hello, too engrossed in a sketch to look up. It didn’t bother me either way; I knew the atmosphere of a collective of artists. Some were wild and outgoing. Some chose to remain closed off from others and keep to themselves for the most part.

  By the time we got to the top floor, Walker was well acquainted with the light history of the studio, from the fact that Alex and I had pooled our savings to afford a lot of the equipment and furniture that had made its way into the building over the last few years, to how one year, in a fit of artistic abandon, we’d painted the entire middle floor black and flung black light paint all over the walls, only using the glow of that in the dark to draw by for a month.

  “Wow.” He chuckled. “I can see where the stereotype of eccentric artists comes from.”

  I punched his arm lightly. “I’m not eccentric! We… were just going through a particular artistic phase, you could say.”

  “Whatever you say, Picasso.”

  On the top floor, much like the second through fourth, long hallways connected several large rooms. Some had had their walls knocked down to open up the space even more. A few had no doors. It was an eclectic building, made more so by our modifications. The room at the very end of the hall was exclusively Alex’s. At one point in time, when I hadn’t spent most of my painting time holed up in Walker’s huge house, Alex and I had shared that room together.

  The door, as usual, was wide open; my best friend always said he had nothing to hide. He was inside, with no shirt on and a pair of white pants.

  He certainly was brave.

  Alex specialized in erotic art. But it wasn’t porn. Alex first and foremost was an artist, not a flesh peddler. It could be seen in the elegant male bodies that populated his canvases, twined in embraces so intimate they’d make even the most sexual person blush, but so loving, the expressions so real and tender, that it would pull at your heart until it burst.

  I had always admired Alex for going with real subjects. I loved my fantasy too much to try to go cold turkey and just draw regular people. Give me a pair of pointy ears and a set of wings any day.

  “Hey, Alex,” I called. He looked over his shoulder, a paintbrush in one hand and his phone in the other; his reference was a selfie seemingly sent by one of his ‘boyfriends.’ He grinned at us, setting his brush into a cloudy glass jar of water.

  “Well, well, well, do I finally get to meet the man behind all the sordid stories?” he asked, eyeing Walker before he sauntered up to me, pulling me into a tight hug. “It’s good to see you back in the studio,” he whispered. When he pulled away, he looked up to Walker once more, almost sizing him up.

  Walker smiled, holding out his hand. “I’m Walker Pri—”

  “Oh, I know who you are.” He waved his hand, and pulled Walker into a hug, too. “You’re not too good to hug an artist, I assume? You sure are fine though.”

  I laughed at the expression on Walker’s face—bemused, somewhat confused, but certainly not offended. Good. Maybe the two most important men in my life could be friends—

  Wait. Two most important men?

  I wasn’t given enough time to get lost in that thought before Alex poked my nose.

  “So what brings you around? Good news? Bad news? No news?”

  “Walker wanted to see the studio,” I explained.

  “And more of her art,” the man in question added. “I finally got to see a peek of what she’s been working on at the house and wanted more.”

  Alex laughed. “Curious, huh? I’m surprised that she didn’t point out some of her pieces that are still up in the gallery as you came in.”

  Walker looked down at me, his brow raised. I looked away with a blush.

  “You know, she didn’t always used to be this shy,” Alex said, wiggling his brows Walker’s way. “I think it says a lot that she’s coming out here with you.”

  14

  Walker

  The studio Macks brought me too was, in a word, interesting. Five levels of pure, eclectic, creative fire. I’d been to art galleries and showings before. I’d known eccentric artists, reclusive artists, hack artists. I had never, in all my years, experienced artists as purely authentic as the ones I was introduced to at her art collective.

  First there was the pair of twins—Ash and Aven. Judging by their pieces Mackenzie pointed out to me, they worked almost exclusively in neon, but none of it was garish. There was a character and a heart in them. Then there was a graffiti artist named Mave, who liked to color her hair with her medium of choice and also somehow managed to create stunningly realistic portraits. Many of her pieces were up on the third floor gallery as high-resolution photographs.

  And then there was Alex. Alex, who was easily one of the brightest characters I had ever met—in personality and in wit. It would be easy to write him off as a flamboyant guy with all flash and no substance, but everything from the way he maneuvered conversation to his art told me there was so much more to him than first met the eye.

  I could see why Mackenzie was friends with him. I could see how a guy like him would bring out the best in her and her art.

  He sized me up as we met and were introduced. Like he was trying to discern the kind of man I was. I guessed whatever he found was something he liked, because he hugged me like an old friend and talked to me like we’d known each other for years. I felt surprisingly at ease in a world that, aside from an appreciative perspective, I really wasn’t a part of. I was reminded why Mackenzie loved art so much, and it pained me to think that she was being held back by her shyness and lack of self-confidence when it came to her own work.

  I think it says a lot that she’s coming out here with you.

  A smile tugged at my lips in response to Alex’s words. “I hope so.”

  I pulled away from Mackenzie, going up to one of her friend’s paintings. It was the least erotic of the ones that were on display, but there was something sensual even in the display. The two subjects, male, sat looking at each other. One was seated on the floor and the other in a chair, his arm reached out, tilting the other’s head up to look at him. There was something intense yet tender about the whole thing.

  Something clicked in my mind as I gazed at the painting.

  In all the art I’d seen here, and Mackenzie’s pieces too, what made it all so amazing was the deft, intricate hand that had been used to create it all. Nothing I’d seen felt like it was trying to shoehorn in meaning—something that usually came with a double dose of pretentiousness in the high-class art world. I thought about the sculptures and the art pieces that I had in my own apartment, pieces I’d only bought because it was the thing that rich people did. We populated our homes with pretty possessions that imitated depth… but they were really just scraps of paper or lumps of hardened, painted clay or carved stone.

  Everything in this collective felt the exact opposite.

  It came from the he
art.

  “Do you do gallery showings here?” I questioned, moving on to another one of Alex’s pieces.

  “Hmm? Sometimes.” He nodded. “Usually we just let people roam through twice a month. Why?”

  “I like what I see here. You’re all incredibly talented. I’m surprised I haven’t heard more buzz around this place, but I think there should be.”

  Alex laughed. “We’re not looking to go like, mainstream or whatever. We don’t want to end up like those art galleries that think black dots on paper are art, y’know? Or that an exhibit of literal piles of shit has some deeper meaning than that the ‘artist’ decided they needed to unload their baggage onto the world via anal excrement.”

  I looked back to him, smiling at his over-the-top example.

  “Yeah, I definitely don’t want that, either. I think everything in here needs to be seen—but especially by people who could benefit from seeing real art.”

  He cocked his head, his words teasing but not aggressive. “And what would you know about real art? Aren’t you in the tech field?”

  Heh. I was right. He was quick as a whip and smart, too.

  “I know enough to know this is good shit,” I shot back. “I know enough to know no one in here is getting the recognition they deserve. And I know enough people—people who talk art, who create buzz—to bring people on board who could help you make some serious waves in the art world.”

  Alex perked up at that, cocking an eyebrow.

  “Okay, you got me. Tell me more.”

  * * *

  By the time we were done at the studio, I’d arranged with Alex to come back again at the end of the week with a full gallery showcase planned for the beginning of next month. We wanted to keep it generally open to the public—a single, one dollar admission fee for everyone, and free admission for the homeless or underprivileged. We’d work on the honor system.

  The whole time, Mackenzie hung back, silent but observant. When we left the building, she stopped me with a hand on my arm, looking up at me.

  “Why’d you do that?”

  She didn’t seem angry—more just puzzled, as though the thought of me taking an interest in her, her people, her passions, was something strange. A smile quirked my lips, and I put my hands on her shoulders.

  “Because I see how hard you and everyone else in that studio works. Your art is incredible. It breaks my heart to think people are missing out on it, and if I can do one thing to help change that, I want to.”

  She was still quiet. Still puzzling. Still trying to work out exactly what was going on and what it would mean.

  “What are you getting out of it, though?” she asked softly. “What’s this going to do for you?”

  I shrugged. “Your happiness. Your friends’ happiness. You having your art out there in the world where it belongs, instead of hidden in a room in my house or in unmarked places where people don’t even see your name on the pieces you do have displayed.”

  She continued to stare at me, her gorgeous green eyes filling with an emotion that made my chest warm. A smile spread across her face, and goddamn if it wasn’t the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen in my life.

  Suddenly, without warning, she tugged me down to kiss her, her mouth soft and insistent against mine.

  “You’re something else, Walker Prince.”

  I didn’t need to see her smile. I could feel it against my lips.

  15

  Mackenzie

  The night of the gallery showing seemed to rush up on me like a runaway train.

  In the days leading up to it, I spent all my free time working on new pieces. I barely slept and probably wouldn’t have stopped to eat or drink if it weren’t for the fact that Walker delivered sustenance at regular intervals.

  I felt a new sense of creativity flow through me, lighting me up from inside. It was even more intense than when I’d first moved into the house with Walker. I was trying out new styles, new subjects, new techniques. I was mixing mediums and experimenting with realistic, lifelike paintings. I would have dabbled in sculpture if there’d been enough time, but I put that on the back burner for the time being.

  Walker was… incredible. He handled all the planning with Alex. Normally, Alex and I would split the organizational duties, but Walker refused to let me worry about any of it. He said he wanted me to take the time to focus on my art.

  Every time I remembered those words and thought about the look in his eyes as he spoke them, my heart thudded a little harder in my chest.

  It wasn’t just the time Walker gave me to work. It wasn’t just the effort he put into organizing the show. It was his belief in me that inspired me the most.

  I felt like I was on fire, unable to stop creating.

  Throwing caution to the wind, I strayed away from my usual go-to fantasy pieces. I loved them, and they would always be my niche. But it would be expected, if not by the general public—most of whom didn’t know my work at all yet—then by my fellow artists at the studio. And I wanted to surprise them. To show them another side of me.

  So I did pieces that were more realistic. I painted Alex. I painted the twins. I walked up and down New York City’s streets, drawing inspiration from everything I saw. My collection was a vignette of New York, its people—rich, poor, man, woman—with just the hint of something more lying under the surface. The fantasy and mystery were much more subtle than in my usual pieces—a peek into the magic of NYC.

  I even painted a portrait of Walker, although I wasn’t sure I’d have the guts to show that one.

  I had snapped a picture of him looking out over the city line one evening when he’d come home. He’d been bathed in moonlight filtering over his suit, but there was a certain air of melancholy in the gaze he leveled out the window. I poured the most of myself into that piece, spending hours trying to get the mood right, to capture Walker’s expression perfectly, to lay out the contrast between light and darkness.

  As I painted, I found myself drawn into his expression, trying to guess at his thoughts. He didn’t even know I’d taken the picture—he certainly wasn’t posing. But his face was so compelling, so stunningly beautiful. And what was making him sad? Where did that touch of melancholy come from?

  And why did I feel such a strong draw to know everything about this man? To crawl inside his soul?

  If this was just a friend arrangement, why was my heart so tangled up?

  * * *

  I walked through the gallery, dolled up for the first time in years in a little red cocktail dress—which Walker had ordered special for me—paired with a pair of strappy gold heels. My champagne glass nearly shook in my hand as I gazed around me, a look of pure amazement crossing my face.

  That was the busiest and most packed the gallery had been in years.

  People from all walks of life filled the space. Some were obviously rich, interested in adding niche and offbeat art to their collections. Others were average, every-day people off the street who’d just popped in out of curiosity.

  Children, parents, couples. They milled around the gallery, traveled up and down the stairs, re-visited pieces. Walker had even arranged for catering, something Alex and I had never been able to afford at our previous showings. I couldn’t help smiling as I watch the crowd enjoy wine and gourmet finger foods while they oohed and aahed over impressive art.

  And… it was impressive.

  Ash and Aven had put together a wall-length piece on the middle gallery level for neon graffiti art depicting nude bodies—something new for them, even if in their usual style. Alex had his usual, though he went for bold color choices that he usually avoided. Everyone in the studio, from the newest members to the ones who’d been founding members of the collective, had really stepped it up. It showed.

  “Well, well, there you are. I was wondering if you were off hiding somewhere on purpose.”

  Walker came behind me, wrapping his arms around me. His chin rested on my head.

  I smiled. “I just wanted to take it all
in. I don’t know how you did all of this, but it’s… holy shit, Walker. I can’t believe any of this is real, is truly happening, but I’m so happy it is.”

  “You know, people are talking about your pieces. A lot. Especially one featuring a certain handsome businessman in his home—”

  I grimaced. I’d barely worked up the courage to show that piece. It felt so personal, so intimate, I almost hadn’t wanted to share it with the world. I’d felt a little jealous of anyone getting to see that side of Walker except me.

  But then I’d reminded myself I didn’t have a right to him like that. As easy as it was to lose sight of that fact when I was so swept up in everything, Walker Prince wasn’t mine.

  “I almost didn’t bring that piece,” I admitted. “Do you mind?”

  “Hardly.” He leaned down, pressing a kiss to my hair.

  Then he pulled away from me and turned me around to face him. He was dressed impeccably in a deep charcoal suit. The crimson red of my dress and the shade of his suit went well together, I thought impulsively. Kind of like we did…

  I smiled up at him, ignoring the stupid butterflies going nuts in my stomach.

  Be cool, Mackenzie.

  “According to Alex, the studio has gotten a lot of donations,” he continued. “Donations and offers to buy up pieces. A lot of them from the richer folks, but so far, no one is selling. There’s a lot to be said about how much demand there is for the things the rich can’t take for themselves.” His grin widened. “But several have been approached about commissions. Including several inquires about a few of your pieces, and you, yourself. I wanted to talk to you before giving your information out, though.”

  My head swam. So much was happening all at once. I had dreamed of this moment, and for so long, it’d seemed like just that. A dream. A fantasy that a starry-eyed little girl would entertain, but not a full-grown woman.