“Let’s get out of here. I’ll call us a cab,” I said.
Harrison seemed to sense our presence and turned away from the pandemonium to look at me. Our eyes met, and I forced myself to meet his gaze without blinking. A complex mixture of emotions bled into his anger: regret, humiliation, and the unmistakable acknowledgment of his own failure. I almost felt sorry for him, and a pang of conscience pierced my heart. But after the way he’d reacted, I wasn’t going to be extending olive branches anytime soon.
Good-bye, Harrison Waters, I said silently.
Kyle waved cheerfully at us as we backed away from all the mayhem. I offered a small smile and nod. I felt a little strange leaving a group of minors to contend with Harrison and his friends, but as Kyle went ballistic on Harrison’s windshield, I trusted they’d be okay.
As we made our way toward East Twenty-Third Street, curiosity got the best of me. “Chase, how did Kyle know you were in trouble?”
Chase shrugged and gave me a mysterious smile. “We have a psychic brotherly connection.”
“For real?”
“At least in part. To be honest, I had a feeling Harrison and his stooges might be looking for one last hurrah. Kyle and his crew skate along the East River some nights, so I figured I’d give him a heads-up and let him know something might go down. So he was on the lookout.”
“How could you possibly have known that would happen?”
Chase shrugged. “I know guys like Harrison. They’re not as nice as they make you believe they are.”
I felt somewhat shamefaced as I threw my arms around Chase.
“Ouch.” He winced.
“Oh my God, I’m sorry! Does it hurt?”
He laughed. “It’s nothing some painkillers and a stiff drink can’t cure.”
I gave him a tender kiss on his lips, being sure not to graze his cuts or bruises. “I’m sorry, Chase. This is all my fault.”
“You can’t help it, babe. You’re a heartbreaker.”
I rolled my eyes. “I guess it takes one to know one, huh?” I looked at him. “I promise to stay out of trouble if you do.”
He slung one arm around my hip, hailing a cab with the other. “Trust me, Goldilocks, at my core I’m a lover, not a fighter.”
I looked up at my gorgeous boyfriend, who seemed amazingly untarnished by the wounds and discolorations on his face. I felt like I was seeing him for the first time. While I was accustomed to being at least a little bowled over by his devastating good looks, I now knew that his beauty went so much deeper. I felt like I was gazing into the depths of his soul, and what I saw was tender, good, and infinitely regenerative.
“I know you are, Chase. Believe me, I know.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Wednesday had rolled back around, and after the drama of the past few days, I was reluctant to be in a room with Elsie. After what had happened with Chase and Harrison, the long-standing rivalry between us had come to a head. I wasn’t sure how Elsie and I would manage to be in the same space together.
“Okay, everything’s looking good on the art front,” Claudia said, as she clacked away at her keyboard. “Hayden, Shawn, and Elsie, all of your artists have contacted me to install their pieces. As we all know, the official opening for the show is in the sculpture garden, preceding the gallery opening, this Saturday night.” She paused and looked at me. “Do I have to remind you once again, Annie, that you’re treading on thin ice by following your own set of rules and not conforming to any of Quentin’s guidelines on how to work effectively with a saleable artist?”
I winced at the word “saleable” and the way this curatorship had descended from taking a visionary idea and running with it into selling the works we were commissioning for a pretty penny. But, given Chase’s story about Quentin Pierce, I wasn’t surprised. The old Quentin no longer existed; he’d given way to the behemoth of greed and meaningless pageantry. I bit my lower lip.
“Like I said, Chase is something of an outlier, and that’s what’s going to make this piece so special,” I intoned.
Claudia rubbed her temples and closed her eyes. “But you’re aware that by allowing Chase to install his work right before the show, Quentin won’t be able to officially give it his okay, right? This could be a big problem for all of us, Annie. If it doesn’t gel with the overall aesthetic, and if Chase gives us something that’s a mediocre piece of shit, heads will roll. I’m not kidding.”
Elsie made a sound of exasperation. “I can’t believe we’re doing this, Claudia,” she whined. “Chase Adams has shown himself to be volatile and unstable.” She glared at me. “I have some sources who’ve confirmed that he was taken into custody by the police just days after being commissioned. Are we sure of his ability to follow through on this? He could make all of us look stupid. And, to be honest, I just don’t have much faith in his delivering a bona fide work of art.” She looked at me, a rancorous smile on her lips. “After all, word has it he isn’t very good at finishing what he starts.”
I rolled my eyes. If that was a potshot at Chase’s sexual prowess, Elsie wasn’t doing a very good job of undercutting me. “That’s a lie and you know it, Elsie. Chase has completed over eight hundred murals in the last two years alone. He has the kind of excellence and follow-through that are rare for most artists who are echelons above him.”
Elsie persisted, however. “Be that as it may, we can’t afford to let Chase’s stereotypical artistic temper sabotage our chances of a successful show. That’s why, Claudia, I have a backup plan for the public-art component. My friend Ashley Riker used to be a designer for Giant Robot, and she has this awesome project where she’s creating subversive, life-size Disney princesses where they’re, like, you know, in addiction-recovery programs or heading up guerrilla warfare. I think she’d be an amazing addition to the show, especially considering that female representation in this art form is sadly lacking.”
I rolled my eyes. I knew female representation was lacking, but I also knew there were better female artists out there than Elsie's friend. Luckily, I didn’t have to say anything, because Claudia quickly put Elsie in her place. “That sounds . . . interesting, but I’ve never heard of Ashley Riker, and part of the task here is to present world-class artists who’ve already garnered a certain level of renown. Besides, the Disney-princess thing sounds a little too formulaic, Elsie. This isn’t Little League anymore. There are plenty of people making a name for themselves as artists, but what sets them apart?” She sighed and looked at me. “As much as I am averse to your artist’s methods, Annie, he is going to be one of the elements that is going to make Saturday a historic occasion. Besides, Quentin isn’t down with changing the lineup this late in the game.”
Elsie leaned forward, her eyes shooting sparks. “Are you sure, Claudia? I mean, can’t you ask him right now?”
Claudia gave her a miserly smile. “I’m already ahead of you, dear.” She glanced down at her laptop. “Oh, Quentin says he knows Ashley personally.” She winced. “He also says that if you think that’s life-changing art, you’re perfectly correct—if your tastes tend toward the ignorant, ugly, and lurid, and if your idea of subversion is copperplate handwriting.”
Hayden, Shawn, and I all collectively recoiled.
“Ouch,” Shawn exclaimed.
“I think copperplate handwriting is elegant, personally,” Hayden whispered to me.
I almost felt bad for Elsie, who suddenly looked pale and feeble. The meeting was dismissed after thirty more minutes of organizational details for Saturday (food and drink donations, a proper sound system, and media management). As people milled out of the room, I did the unthinkable—I approached Elsie.
“Listen, I know on some level you care about what the show is going to be like,” I said. She shoved her iPad into her purse and turned her back to me, but I continued. “But I just want to let you know that Chase’s piece is going to be great. And it’s going to make all of us look like kick-ass curators.”
She turned to me, her lips
pursed into a straight line. “I couldn’t care less, Blondie. You’ve essentially taken the one thing, the one thing, that matters to me and made me look like a laughingstock. So whether Saturday is good or bad, I don’t really give a shit. If you want to take credit for the whole thing, go ahead. I’m not stopping you.”
I frowned. Seeing Elsie in a state of utter defeat was almost disconcerting to me. I had actually been hoping for more of a fight.
“Listen, it wasn’t my intention to take anything away from you,” I insisted, following her out of the room. “I’ve always told you that there’s enough room for both of us in this game. You made me an enemy even though I never saw you that way.”
She turned at me and snapped, and I could see tears falling down her face. “You may think my life is all caviar and champagne, Blondie, but you don’t know the first thing about me. I was raised to believe the only thing that mattered was art: collecting it, knowing the people who made it, being the person who could recognize something special, something rare, before anybody else even noticed it.” She took a deep breath and swiped her tears away with her sleeve. “Being the best has been my whole life. And it might sound stupid to you, but you have no fucking idea how much was riding on this curatorship for me, how much was at stake. But now you’ve succeeded at making a complete and utter fool of me, in front of my peers and in front of Quentin. So do me a favor and don’t pretend to have some kind of heart of gold. You won, I lost, and tomorrow’s another day—so please spare me the fake compassion, because I’d rather wallow than be subjected to anyone’s pity.” She pushed past me to the elevator.
What had just happened? Had Elsie seriously turned this around to make me look like the villain here? I shook my head and laughed in disbelief. The cantankerous witch I’d come to know and hate really was just a spoiled little girl at heart. I almost felt relieved to see that side of her, especially since I didn’t want to believe anyone could be that mean and hateful 24-7.
All the same, I wished Elsie knew she didn’t have to view me as competition anymore. I’d always been certain the art world was the place I belonged, but the scales were swiftly tilting toward “no.” I knew I was just as competent as Elsie—there was no doubt in my mind about that. However, I was disillusioned by all the petty backbiting and backstabbing I’d experienced in the past few weeks. Somehow, despite the dreams I’d nursed over the past several years, I didn’t feel like I was meant for the galleries or any kind of conventional institution. Admiring Picasso from afar was one thing; having to deal with the politics of the art scene was another entirely.
It felt strange to have the one great passion of my life erased, seemingly overnight. I would have thought it would be saddening for me, but I felt energized and alive as I made my way to the subway. As I thought of Chase, a little smile played over my lips.
Where I felt the dying embers of my old ambitions, I could sense the embryo of something newer and more exciting than I’d ever dreamed of growing, rapidly and steadfastly, in their place.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chase had a surprise for me the following night, when he texted me to meet him at Hunts Point in the Bronx, close to the freight-train yard. As I looked around at the hulking cars, most of which were covered with graffiti, I felt a chill of excitement and trepidation. I squeezed his hand tightly.
“What exactly are we doing here?” I asked in a nervous stage whisper.
He smiled and kissed my cheek. “It’s about as desolate as a graveyard here, Goldilocks—no need to talk like the baby’s sleeping.”
I frowned. “Gee, that description makes me feel so much better.”
I was wearing dark clothes, just as Chase had instructed. Apparently, the train yard was in the roughest part of town. It was a place where splotches of graffiti easily intersected with what appeared to be bloodstains on the cement. As ever, Chase laughed at my reticence. Given how decrepit and creepy the yard was, I was surprised to see that he’d brought a bottle of champagne in tow.
“Seems awfully romantic for . . . where are we, exactly?” I said.
“The Hunts Point freight yard,” he responded. “I’ve buddied up with the yard crew in the past, so I know which trains are leaving where and when. This is a crew-change point, so it’s easiest to hop a train right here.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? Hop a train?” I was almost ready to turn back, especially after my near-death experience in the subway tunnel a few weeks ago.
“Relax, Annie—it’s not dangerous.”
I scoffed. “I don’t see how tagging a moving freight train isn’t dangerous. How do you do it in the first place? Are you hanging upside down from the roof or something?”
“Nah, that’s some superhero shit,” he laughed. “Nobody does it while the trains are moving. They do it in layups like these, which are stationary and quiet and fairly easy to hit. I used to do them in broad daylight back in the day. Subway hits, though? That’s a military operation.”
“Now you tell me! So, why was that my first little sojourn with you, then?” I asked, crossing my arms.
He grinned, revealing his dimples. I couldn’t be angry when I saw those dimples. “I wanted to see if you could hang.”
I drew him closer and kissed him, softly and slowly. The heat of the kiss seemed to make the air around us shimmer momentarily. “How did I do?”
“You were superb, better than I expected,” he said, slapping me on the ass. I gave out a little yelp as he pulled me along and pointed out some of the trains around me, which were bursting with colorful slogans, some of which felt a little retro.
“Some of this dates back to the ’80s,” Chase confirmed. “That was when emcees, breakboys, and graffiti writers were popping up. Everyone wanted to get their paint on some steel and be seen all over the place, but there weren’t a ton of urban transportation systems outside New York City, so freight trains became an obvious target. They’re not like the subways. You can see there’s practically no security out here. You have a shitload of famous freight writers putting up stuff that can be seen across the country, like Cavs and Zephyr.”
“It’s like a graffiti gallery,” I noted, getting used to the bleakness of the place, even beginning to see it as quiet and meditative.
Chase smiled nostalgically. “This is where I first started to write. Then I’d hop the trains and take ’em to different places. You just gotta make sure it’s flat enough on the floor, because that gives you more room to write. And sometimes there are even ladders to assist you.”
I shook my head. “I don’t get how people do it.”
He looked at me and gave me a wily smile. “You will.”
Before I could protest, he grabbed me and boosted me up onto a nearby freight car. Our side was completely open. Nonetheless, the car was dark, musty, and halfway filled with cartons of unmarked cargo. I laughed at Chase. “I don’t see the point of hopping a train if we aren’t going anywhere.”
“According to my calculations, that won’t be true for long!”
I heard a slow rumble, and the train gave a little lurch, shuttling me back onto the cold ground of the car. “Ouch!” I screamed. My heart began to pound as the train staggered to life, making the car jerk and sway ever so slightly. Chase jumped nimbly onto the car with me, and within moments, we were hurtling down the tracks. I edged back into the car so my back was against a solid surface. A vertiginous feeling took hold within me.
“You said we wouldn’t be moving!”
“I said we wouldn’t be tagging while moving.”
“This is crazy!” I said, half angry and half exhilarated.
“Relax, babe. The subway operation was kind of a fool’s mission, but this is just for fun. This is just for us.” He gave me a disarming smile and uncorked the bottle of champagne, which bubbled over. He raised it and took a giant gulp before handing it over to me. “To you and me, Annie.”
But it was hard to appreciate the romantic gesture. “We must be going, like, sixty miles an hou
r!”
He shook his head. “Nah, we wouldn’t be able to see anything except a blur if that was the case. Come look.” He got down on his belly and crawled over to the open edge of the car. The sight of it made my stomach roll uncomfortably, but I got down and scooted over next to him, ensuring that my legs were wedged between a pair of cartons behind me and that I had a steady foothold in case the train came to a screeching halt.
What I saw when I looked up from the rushing tracks beneath me took my breath away. We rode out of the freight yard and past walls and walls of illuminated murals, full of bubbly tags and abstract mixed-media collages splashed across the walls of enormous industrial buildings. As I silently took in the roughness of the urban landscape, covered over by this almost ethereal phantasmagoria of images, I could feel the cold wind snaking tangles through my hair. Ragtag crews of graffiti artists were out and about, while homeless people assembled around flaming garbage cans to stay warm. The sight was both weird and wondrous.
Chase whooped and hollered as the train raced on. “Isn’t this fucking amazing?” he yelled, his words catching on the breeze.
I could only nod. Trails of water were starting to trickle out of my eyes, not just because of the intense exhilaration I was feeling but also because of the arctic gale that was sweeping into the car. Chase looked at me and grinned. “This is what you get when you fall off the straight and narrow, Goldilocks. Stick with me and I’ll take you places.”
I finally found the courage to scoot a little closer to the edge of the car and soon found myself whooping and hollering along with Chase. Quentin Pierce’s show was to be unveiled in just a couple days, but I knew from the wild feeling in my heart and the rivulets of tears falling freely down my face that this was where the real art lived.
So Damn Beautiful (A New Adult Romance) Page 28
