“Ouch!” I exclaimed.
Elsie didn’t bother to respond as she grabbed for her graded paper.
“Hey, you know, Elsie really wants one of those art internships,” said a voice next to me. I continued to rub my elbow as I turned to look at who was talking. It was Elsie’s jock boy toy, whom I recognized as Scott—another freshman who lived in my dorm. I didn’t know much about him, except that he had some kind of wrestling scholarship. I studied his face to see what he was trying to accomplish by telling me any of this, but he was all business and no emotion.
“And your point is . . . ?” I didn’t mean to sound so harsh, but, considering I had unwittingly found myself on his girlfriend’s shit list, I wasn’t interested in playing nice.
He raked a burly hand through his short, dark hair (somewhat nervously, I thought) but remained impervious. “All’s I’m trying to say is that she really wants it and she’s been working hard since spring.”
“She’s at one of the best schools in the country. I would surely hope so.” I felt like I was talking to Ryan Lochte or something.
Scott looked at me blankly. He was surprisingly quiet for a jock. Finally, he muttered something.
“What?” I asked, despite myself.
“Just . . . be . . . careful,” he said, a little louder, his eyes widening somewhat for effect.
Before he could explain himself, Elsie called his name (or, rather, whined). She shot a venomous look at me. He quickly joined her, not bothering to pick up his own paper, which made me suspect he wasn’t even in the class, and they left together. For some reason I couldn’t put my finger on, Scott’s taciturn little warning bugged me. A lot. I wondered what tricks Elsie had up her sleeve.
Chapter Two
“Are you sure about this?” I asked, as Kendra and I made our way across the street. I’d heard some pretty dodgy things about the area we were in, after all. Keen as I was on exploring New York City and all it had to offer, the hard stares of the tattooed guys lining the blocks, scrutinizing us from head to toe, made me shudder. I’d read a lot about what can happen to fresh-faced college coeds who get lured in by the thrill of the big city: drugs, danger, violent encounters with shadowy men hardened by life on the streets. Thinking about that stuff from a safe distance was all good and fine, but now I could smell the whiff of liquor on the hot breaths of the street punks. It hit me in places on my body I wished to God I’d thought to cover before I’d headed out of the dorm that morning.
“Annie, don’t be such a square!” Kendra pinched me playfully as she tugged me along behind her. I almost laughed. Kendra had announced on the day I’d met her that she was bringing back the term “square,” which I’d always considered part of my mother’s generation. As Kendra had explained, “What’s old always becomes new again, and I’m trying to stay ahead of the game on this one.”
It had been about three weeks since Scott had warned me that Elsie meant business. Unfortunately, that was also the day that I got my first grade from Professor Claremont: a dripping, scarlet C plus.
At office hours after class, I’d told her, “I just don’t understand. I thought the paper wasn’t supposed to be academic, just a response to the question of what kind of art we love and why. How could I possibly get a C plus for that? I mean . . . art is my entire life.” I had felt feel tears welling in my throat as I spoke.
She’d looked at me carefully. “Annie, it’s clear that you have immense talent and drive. But if you want to enter the art world and be successful, you need to have a much broader perspective than van Gogh and the impressionists.” That had just about confined me to the library for days, but Kendra had finally convinced me to come out of hiding and peruse the streets, rather than just my textbooks, for inspiration. I was reluctant, but if it meant improving my track record, I was up for anything.
“If you wanna do research for any internships you’re applying for, you’ll have to learn more about the local scene. I mean, hello!” She paused for a moment, her eyes drifting heavenward, dreamily. “You know, Annie, I’ve always wanted to hook up with an artist, but I never seem to meet talented guys—just ones with pretty faces and dreams of becoming rock stars, even though they can’t carry a tune. Keeping a straight face while watching them geek out on air guitar is getting to be kind of old. I think it’s time to meet a man of substance, don’t you?”
“I guess so—” Before I could finish my sentence, Kendra squeezed my arm really hard.
“Ouch! What the hell is wrong with you?” I said, wrenching my arm out of her grasp.
Oblivious to my outburst, Kendra stared and pointed ahead. “O . . . M . . . G . . . Annie, it’s him!”
“Who?” I looked in the direction she was pointing. A boxy-looking warehouse marked where the Meatpacking District began. Amid its massive gray buildings and quaint cobblestone streets, I felt as if I were watching the streetscapes of yesterday collide headfirst with the present. I had no idea why people found this area of town so appealing. Sure, the jazz wafting out of some unseen corridor was kind of nice, but the surrounding area—littered with garbage and the kinds of people my mother usually referred to as “bad elements”—left a lot to be desired. God forbid I ever became one of those bridge-and-tunnel weekend visitors who frequented trendy bars in questionable areas of town and made crappy places like these more fashionable than they deserved to be.
“It’s him, Annie! Chase Adams!” Kendra practically squealed in my ear.
“Chase who?” I glared and rubbed the still-sore spot above my elbow as I followed her gaze. And then . . . my heart began to thud like crazy at what I saw.
“Chase Adams. One of New York magazine’s Thirty Hottest New Yorkers Under Thirty!”
I would’ve recognized him anywhere, but I’d never thought I’d actually see him again. The boy Kendra was pointing at was arguably one of the most gorgeous people I’d ever laid eyes on. And, as it so happened, he was the same guy I’d seen sauntering outside on Stuyvesant Street just weeks before. Down to the washboard abs, I might add.
Surrounded by a haze of cigarette smoke, he looked almost like an angel encircled by a halo. Although he was squatting on the ground with a bunch of aerosol cans, his concentration completely on the piece he was creating, I could tell by the way his jeans hugged his legs and his wifebeater accentuated his rippling muscles that he was built like a Greek god. He pushed a lock of dark hair out of his face and puffed on his cigarette some more, before he turned and looked in our direction.
“Annie, he sees us!” Kendra gleefully sang out. I wanted to hit her, I was so embarrassed. From the way the boy glared at us, I didn’t know if he could tell we were talking about him, but the disdain in his eyes definitely made it loud and clear: we were not wanted.
“Let’s go, Kendra; he doesn’t look happy to see us . . .” I said, and turned around, ready to sprint out of there before I could sink into the ground. I became painfully aware of what I was wearing: an NYU hoodie and long, black yoga pants. My hair was pulled back in a ponytail—I hadn’t washed it in a couple days, since I’d been so busy with schoolwork. I wasn’t wearing any makeup, so I was sure I looked plain and pasty. Great. This was the perfect day to come face-to-face with the most beautiful boy I was likely to ever lock eyes with. I silently swore at myself. So much for kismet.
“Are you kidding? Chase is, like, the most famous street artist around here. I’m sure he’s used to people coming by and checking out his work,” Kendra hissed. “These guys get off on all the gawkers. Besides, we’re two hot college girls. How can he not want to talk to us?” Kendra combed her fingers through her long, flowy black hair. “Come on, let’s go.”
“You want to talk to him? Why?” I cringed when I heard my voice, strained just below a whine. My heart started to beat harder and harder. Stupid, he’s just some boy, I told myself. Why should I care what he thinks of me?
“You don’t understand, Annie. This guy is the most up-and-coming street artist in the city! I should show you t
he New York magazine profile from a few weeks ago. He was a complete asshole in the interview, talking down to the guy and making it seem like nobody knows anything about art anymore. But if you knew some of the stories I’ve heard about his life, you’d probably understand why he’s such a dick.” A heartfelt look came over Kendra’s face.
“What do you mean? What stories have you heard?” I was suddenly curious.
“They say he had a troubled childhood,” Kendra responded excitedly, happy to share any gossip, substantiated or not. “I hear he killed his stepdad with his bare hands when he was, like, fourteen or something. Apparently the last straw was when his brother died of a drug overdose.” Kendra’s eyes widened, and I knew she was going to say something she found even more scandalous, but suddenly we heard something that stopped us both in our tracks.
“Hey, you!”
It was him.
Both Kendra and I whipped our heads around. Jesus Christ—he was standing now, and he was every bit as perfect as I had imagined he would be. Now that he was looking at us head-on, I could see that while his hair was jet black, his eyes were a striking bottle green, framed by long, dark lashes. His cheekbones were high, and his lips were full and soft-looking. He was probably just a little older than I was, around twenty or so. His skin was tanned, and he had just a bit of a five o’clock shadow. He looked like he could be a model.
Kendra and I were so struck by the fact that Chase was actually addressing us that neither of us could talk for a while.
“Who, us?” Kendra finally offered.
Chase gave a grin that would have been captivating if it wasn’t so filled with disdain. I didn’t know if I was scared or turned on.
“No, not you. NYU Goldilocks over there,” he said, turning his gaze squarely on me, then looking me up and down. I couldn’t tell if it was out of desire, curiosity, or contempt, but it made my entire body feel like it was being pricked by hot needles. My knees were mush.
“Uh, what do you want?” I said in a shaky voice, immediately regretting the stupidity of my question.
Chase cocked his head to one side and took the cigarette between two fingers. “Come over here. I wanna talk to you,” he said.
“What are you waiting for? He wants to talk to you! Go!” Kendra whispered heatedly and gave me a push that practically sent me hurtling into Chase’s arms.
I could barely look him in the eye; he was even more overwhelmingly gorgeous this close. He smelled like a combination of cigarettes, cologne, and sweat—a heady mixture that made me feel weak and light-headed.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Annie. Annie Green,” I offered. He didn’t introduce himself in return—just kept staring at me with those sea-green eyes, which made me lose sight of everything around me . . . Kendra, the street punks, the hustle and bustle of urban activity, all of it. For the time being, there was just him and me.
“Well, Annie Green, whaddaya make of my stuff?”
“I . . . I beg your pardon?”
“My stuff. My little work of art,” he intoned, like I couldn’t understand English.
I looked down, and what I saw made me blush furiously. Somehow, the five or six aerosol cans at Chase’s disposal had created something I didn’t know could possibly exist in this medium. A sultry-looking blond woman gazed back up at me from the patch of concrete. Her mouth was open in a suggestive red pout, and she was sprawled out on her side, propped up on an elbow. Her creamy skin seemed to invite touches. And . . . she was stark naked.
“It-it’s beautiful. It’s almost like a photograph,” I said, still avoiding eye contact. “But if this is a civic project, are . . . are you sure they’re okay with you drawing a naked woman?”
Chase looked almost taken aback by what I guess he thought was my boldness. Weren’t expecting that, eh? I thought, feeling momentarily victorious.
“What do you know about street art, kid?” he said, resuming his hardness and straightening up. I noted that he loomed over me. I was only five foot six and 120 pounds, and he cleared me by at least half a foot. I didn’t want to think of what a guy like Chase might do if he was angry or offended.
“N-nothing, really,” I quickly said. “Well, I mean, I’m taking this art class that’s about local art, guerrilla art, movements that started right here, in fact. And we’ve discussed zoning and urban beautification a bit, and I . . .” I trailed off awkwardly, aware I was talking too much. And the way Chase was staring at me, so intently, I thought I might become a blubbering mess if I didn’t stop now.
“You’re learning about local art at the university, huh, Goldilocks?” He snorted with disgust and lit another cigarette while glaring at me. “Typical. Where are you from, anyway? Nebraska or something?”
“Um, Ohio,” I replied faintly, although I thought he’d posed it as a rhetorical question.
“What the hell do you know about art? What the suits at your institution teach you, right? Well, they’re all gallery flunkies—every single one of ’em. Green with jealousy over the ones with real talent. And where are we? Not in the classroom, that’s for sure. We’re busting our asses, making this shit so people on tour buses and little girls from the middle of Ohio can come by, check us out, marvel at how civilized punk-asses like us can actually be.” He angrily blew out smoke, abruptly picked up one of his cans of spray paint, and unloosed it on his own creation.
I gasped and jumped back. “Why . . . why did you do that?” I asked, as I gazed down at the gorgeous woman, who was now covered in angry splashes of purple spray paint.
Chase smirked and stepped toward me. I winced as he grabbed my arm and got right in my face.
“Why? ’Cause I don’t give a shit! This scene is fucking terrible—full of starfuckers and washups who think they might make a name for themselves trying to turn the hood into a pretty place for preppy bitches like you two,” he spat out.
That was when Kendra came to the rescue.
“Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with you? Let go of her!” she belted out, holding nothing back. At that point, the throngs of people around us began to murmur and cluster together, a mixture of concern and morbid curiosity etched into their faces.
Chase shrugged and dug another cigarette out from his back pocket. As he lit it, his lower lip curled into a smirk. “Whatever. I didn’t mean anything by it. Just wanted to see how much she knew—and cared—about art,” he said, his eyes on me the whole time.
I didn’t really know what to say. But I was pissed. And damn tired of my authenticity coming under fire, whether from Professor Claremont or from punks like Chase. “You may not think I have street cred, but I have class and manners—and that is definitely more than I can say for you,” I said, my voice strained with anger and my fists balled.
Chase’s eyes narrowed just a little bit, and it looked like he was going to say something else, but he simply shrugged and crouched back down over his arsenal of spray-paint cans.
“How disappointing. But I figured he’d be an asshole,” Kendra said as we walked away. “I’d bang him anyway. Did you get a look at that ass?”
We were just a few feet away when I heard Chase’s voice.
“Hey, Goldilocks!”
I turned around and saw that he was standing. He wasn’t smiling, but the look on his face had softened somewhat. His eyes were as intense as ever. He paused for a second before saying, “If you ever want a real education, you know where to find me.” Then he went back to his business, acting like I’d never been there to begin with.
My heart did little somersaults as Kendra and I walked back to the train station. I was confused by what I was feeling, though. Chase had been such a dick to me, so why was he making me react like a girl who’d just been asked to prom by the most popular guy in school? It wasn’t like me. I wasn’t hard-core about my feminism, but I’d read enough Gloria Steinem to be well aware of the pitfalls of getting all tongue-tied over a bad boy. Besides, I was sure Chase was just messing with me, which simultaneous
ly excited and disturbed me.
“What the hell was that about? Do you think he’s into you, Annie?” Kendra said, excited.
“I have no idea, but I’m heading back to the library,” I snapped.
Kendra sighed. “Annie, I was just trying to help.”
I instantly felt bad. “Oh, Kendra, I know you were. It’s just . . . if that’s what the contemporary-art world is like, maybe I’m kidding myself.”
“No way! Chase is just an upstart with a pretty face. You heard him. He doesn’t even give a shit about what he’s doing. You’re the real deal. You can spot a fake from a mile away. Don’t let him make you feel bad.”
For someone I’d initially thought to be an airhead, Kendra really had a knack for lifting my spirits. She was a good friend. I smiled and slung my arm through hers. “You’re right, Kendra. But before I head back to the library, there’s one thing we need to do.”
“What’s that?”
“Get some Pinkberry. I’m PMS’ing, and I could definitely use a sugar fix right about now.”
Kendra laughed. “Totally. I was thinking the same thing.”
The prospect of fro-yo with my bestie sounded sweet, but the encounter with Chase had left a bitter taste in my mouth. There was something about him, about how he made me feel, that was really unsettling and foreign to me. As we got onto our train, the image of Chase hunkered over his ruined graffiti art, getting smaller and smaller as we got farther and farther away, was seared into my memory. For better or worse, Chase Adams had left an impression that was more gouache than watercolor—unlikely to fade anytime soon.
Chapter Three
Despite the fact that I’d been satiated by Pinkberry and almost a full day at the library, followed by an early-evening nap (a girl’s gotta get her beauty sleep, after all), none of that appeared to be what the doctor ordered. I found it was hard to get to sleep that night. I kept tossing and turning, and at some point I even had dreams about Chase. He was a large, flying angel who looked like he was straight out of a Marc Chagall painting—except instead of being romantic and whimsical, he was sneering and sinister. The Chase angel chased me down through flat, sweeping midwestern plains and dark alleyways and grottoes that looked like they were straight out of a Renaissance-era painting.
So Damn Beautiful (A New Adult Romance) Page 2
