And then the next five.
I plaster a false smile on my face and step back from the counter slightly, hoping to send Ms. Alton on her way before my client shows.
I hear the bell for the front door ring and inwardly groan. No such luck.
“So how can I help you?”
“I’m wondering if you have more where this came from?” She taps the magazine. “Maybe canvases? Something you’d be willing to show?”
“She does.” I whip my head around and Dave’s in the doorway, his dark eyes intense, focused on me. Like he’s so hungry he could devour me. The look sends shivers straight to my—stop it, Willa.
“Can I see?” Patricia’s eyes light with avarice.
“No. Hang on a sec. Dave, no way are those canvases ready to show. Not a chance.” I’m shaking my head and backpedaling so hard I’m making myself dizzy.
“Surely some of it you’d be willing to sell.” Her voice is resolute, emphasis on the word sell. It’s not a question.
I feel cornered, and I try to send Dave a telepathic SOS. “Maybe?”
Dave strides to my side of the of the counter, his posture strong and protective, and I feel his warmth in the not-accidental brush of his elbow against mine. I left him sleeping in my apartment this morning without a note or a word, confusion churning in my gut after a chaste night lying beside him.
Maybe he doesn’t think of me like that. Maybe he doesn’t want that from me. My heart deflated a little with how much of me was left wanting, and I feel an unreasonable lurch of happiness to see him at my shop again.
Patricia snaps my attention back to her with a tiny sharp click of her tongue. “Willa, they’re calling you the Lady Banksy. Two of my clients called me this morning and asked me to buy your pieces. So you’d better figure out whether you’re in or you’re out, because otherwise the world’s going to do that for you.” She drops her voice. “And I promise you, they’ll move on.”
Dave moves Atlantic Arts from beneath Patricia’s fingertips, closing the magazine and taking control of the conversation. “If you’re interested in Willa’s pieces, someone else will be interested too. No need to hard-sell her.”
Patricia’s lips thin. “That wasn’t my intention. I just have to know if she’s really serious before I go out on a limb to make this happen.”
“What, exactly?”
“We’ve got a cancellation next month. At the gallery where I’m a partner. I think you could be the right pick to roll out to the world in September.”
My mouth drops open. “That’s not even three weeks away!”
“Which is why I want to see what you have that’s salable.” She pulls her phone out of her bag. “Immediately.”
Dave tells Patricia to wait a moment, grabs my elbow, and hustles me back to Righteous Ink’s break room. “This could be your big break,” he whispers.
“You think I don’t get that?”
“Then why are you stalling?”
“The big break is the magazine. That’s something no one can take away from me now. If a gallery hangs my paintings, there will be critics. I might not even sell anything”—my voice rises to a squeak—“and I could be a flop before I really start.”
Dave’s dark eyes crinkle at the corners and he places firm hands on my knotted shoulders. His fingers sink into the muscles on either side of my neck, his expression softening, his voice gentle. “Willa, you’ve already started.”
I draw a shaky breath. “But this is a whole different level.”
“Exactly.” His hand cups my cheek and I still, feeling a thrum of energy between us. “Listen to me. I’ve been there. It’s scary to take that big leap, to put your art out there and hope someone wants it. You’re flying without a net now, girl.”
I raise my eyes from a safe spot on his chest to his face, and his expression nearly takes my breath away. He believes in me. In my art. After years of no one believing in me, after not believing in anything but what I could touch and keep and take to the bank, he’s asking me to believe.
“I can’t—”
“Can’t what? Can’t make art? We both know that’s bullshit. What can’t you do? Because right now I’m positive you can do anything.” Now both hands cup my face and he pulls me close, his lips reaching for mine. I hold my breath and let my eyelids close.
Softness. Sweetness. Hardness. Want. This is our real first kiss, our do-over instead of the crazy cover-up in the alleyway, and I savor it the way I savor really good food when I’m hungry.
I’m starving. For his lips and his tongue and his touch. His tongue traces the seam of my lips and I open, I pull him closer to me and beg with my mouth, beg to be devoured, to lose myself in need.
But Dave pulls back too soon. His lips form a gentle smile and he steps back, tilting his head toward the break room door to remind me of who’s waiting.
My chest heaves in the space between us. Breathe, Willa. Just breathe.
“Do it, girl. Take a risk.”
I know he means the art, but in my mind, the risk of wanting him is entwined with the risk of putting my art out there in a gallery. I have no business liking this guy, this rock star from another world, this man who’s so fresh off the relationship train that his head’s still spinning in rebound-land.
It’s a risk. Everything.
I clear my throat, straighten my shoulders and walk back to the front counter where Patricia’s long, elegantly tapered nails are tapping on the counter as she scrolls through something on her phone.
“When do you want to see my pieces?”
“Now.”
“Right now?” I squeak. Sadie’s overdue and I can’t blow her off.
“Now or never.” Patricia’s voice is hard.
“Bullshit,” Dave counters. “Set up an appointment just like the rest of Willa’s clients. When do you have free, Willa?”
I glance at the appointment book. There’s a gap from two to four and I tell them so.
“I’m not sure two will be the best time…” Patricia starts.
“Then or never.” Dave throws her words back at her. “You seem awfully motivated, and Willa isn’t. So either you rearrange your schedule, or we can always chat with some other gallery owners.”
Shit! Dave’s pushing her buttons and Patricia’s spine straightens. They’re doing some business bullshit dance and while I’ve always stuck up for myself, I’m kind of loving the turf war. She finally agrees, I give her directions to my place, and tell her to wait on the sidewalk.
“Why there?”
“Because I don’t have a buzzer that works.”
“Can’t I just call you?”
“Nope.” I don’t want to waste my minutes talking to the stick insect.
“Do you have a pro-forma contract?” Dave asks. She nods, so he scribbles something on a blank piece of my drawing pad, rips off the paper and gives it to Patricia. “Make sure you get that emailed over by noon so we can run it by Willa’s lawyer.”
Patricia gives Righteous Ink one last sweeping glance and then turns to leave. “We’ll see you at two.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“What. Was. That.” I stomp to the back of Righteous Ink.
“An opportunity?” Dave’s voice carries a whiff of guilt so I know he can’t play dumb for long.
“How about the part about my lawyer? Are you suddenly licensed to practice law and feel like working for free? Because I don’t have the money to pay a lawyer—or, for that matter, to pay rent if I don’t keep this job.”
I blink back tears as I glance at the clock. Sadie’s a no-show, which means I’ll be cutting another hundred bucks from my budget this month.
Dave moves toward me and I shrink back, willing myself not to lose my shit entirely in front of him. “I’ll get you a lawyer,” he says quietly.
“No.”
“It won’t cost you anything.”
I snort. “I’m not interested in handouts.”
“It’s not like that.”
&nbs
p; That sends a new wave of fury through me. “Then what is it like? Isn’t it just like you paying for something that should be my responsibility?”
“I want to take care of this for you. Let me.” He grabs my hand before I can retreat further and pulls me to him.
“I said no.” This time no comes out breathy and soft, and I curse myself for my crumbling resolve. No one has taken care of me in years, and I’m not about to let some guy I just met start.
Dave bites his lip, and that little action distracts me, drags my brain from this fight to my body where heat pulses between us. Memory of the bone-melting kiss in the break room hits me hard.
“Would you take a loan, then?”
“Huh?” I’m still stuck on the fullness of his lip, the sharpness of his teeth.
“I’ve got a friend. A lawyer. He won’t be free, but I work with him enough on band stuff that he’ll review your contract and it won’t cost a ton. And if you make money from the art show, you can pay it back.”
“I can’t borrow money from you.” I try to keep the edge in my voice, but I feel my body softening against him. The air in the shop is too hot, too thick, too heavy with want.
“Wrong answer.” Dave’s jaw tightens. “Or at least, wrong reason. I’m not offering you charity. I’m telling you that this is the smart move, and I think you already know that, otherwise you wouldn’t have gotten this far.”
I look away from his gaze, confronted by this hard-bitten rationality. It’s the same logic that normally governs me, so why is making the smart choice so hard?
Because feelings make bad decisions.
Dave strokes my chin, the tenderness in his voice returning. “Do it for me, OK? Let me help you because I’ve been fucking up so badly lately that I’d like to do at least one thing right this week. And this is the right thing. Please.”
The honesty in his plea is my undoing, like I’m hearing a confession. No matter how often I’ve promised myself I won’t rely on anyone again, Dave’s honest need to help is what starts to thaw the icy wall between me and the world.
Maybe I could do this. Maybe I could let him into this little corner of my life, let him help me. It wouldn’t mean I have to rely on him for everything.
I give him the tiniest nod and he pulls me closer, wrapping me in the kind of certainty I’ve never had. Maybe it’s enough.
***
I lead Patricia, some guy named Matthew, and Dave up my stairs to my apartment. With them behind me, I see my hallway in a new, dingy light.
This place is a dump. But it’s mine. I pay the rent every month. I earn it.
I try to ignore Patricia’s curling lip and the way Matthew makes a big show of being careful not to touch the stairs’ handrails. I unlock my door and lead them inside.
“This is your … creative space?” Patricia makes a slow turn to survey the room.
I stuff down a defensive barb and instead go to the canvases, flipping through the stacks and turning my favorites toward them. While my street art is usually based on disposable cardboard and spray paint, these are intricately layered stencils cut from translucent plastic, applied with acrylics and a bunch of different brushes, sponges and daubers.
My most successful pieces actually start with recycled plastic binder pages, and the paint is applied with a wadded sheet. But they don’t need to know that. What they see is street scenes: vibrantly colored urban buildings, angles exaggerated like Dr. Seuss towers, and textured paint applications that suggest decay.
“It’s so … now,” Matthew offers.
“Totally commercial,” Patricia agrees. “This palette—it’s primary enough to pop, but there’s sophistication too.”
It feels like bugs skittering over my skin, listening to them talk about my art as if it were a thing, a commodity, a substitute for cash or check. I keep flipping canvases around to face them and Dave stands back by the door, arms crossed, his eyes never leaving me.
Patricia starts pointing and counting. “Twenty or thirty. We need at least that many. We’ll divide up the collection by themes, seed a couple from each theme, then swap in more from the themes that sell best.”
Matthew’s frantically taking notes and I realize that none of what Patricia’s saying is for my benefit. He pockets the notepad and pulls out his phone, snapping shots of each canvas.
“We’re going to need titles and dates, an artist’s statement and bio, and I’ll work up a pricing sheet,” Patricia says.
Holy crap this is moving fast.
“Willa’s attorney will email you a redlined contract tomorrow,” Dave says. While I inked my way through two clients earlier, Dave was on the phone in the break room with his lawyer.
“It’s standard,” Patricia says.
“And now that you’ve seen these, you know Willa’s extraordinary.” Dave tilts his chin toward the canvases. “You’ll have your contract by the end of the week if the pricing and revised terms are satisfactory.”
“We can’t wait that long to list the show.”
“Then don’t wait too long to get back on the redlines,” Dave counters.
Patricia sniffs and beckons Matthew with a crooked finger. “We’ll be in touch.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I close the door, lock it, and lean against it.
I sink down to a squat, knowing I could just melt in a puddle right here.
Or, I could freak out. “I can’t believe … I can’t believe you just …”
“I didn’t just anything. You did that, girl. You took their breath away.”
Dave grasps my hand and pulls me up to standing, then drops my arm around his shoulders. “Do you even know how fucking talented you are?”
No. Yes. I don’t know. “Maybe?”
Dave mutters something under his breath and his chest hardens. He walks me two steps back to the door until my back is flat against it, and his chest is pressed against mine. His dark, coffee-brown eyes search mine. “You don’t know.”
“I know I love painting.”
“You don’t know how good you are.”
“When am I going to figure it out? When I put it out at Patricia’s gallery show and get my ass handed to me by some critic who couldn’t paint a room in his own house?”
“No.” Dave frowns. “You’ll never figure it out if you listen to the critics.”
“Then who’s going to tell me? Because until Violet and Stella came along, I didn’t think anyone but some Twitter followers gave enough of a shit about my art that it even mattered.”
Dave growls and his face is inches from mine. “We both know that’s a lie. Your art has always mattered.”
“To who?”
“To you. It lights up your face, even just turning those canvases around. I can see your fingers itching to paint something right now. Don’t even pretend it doesn’t matter. It’s like breathing for you.”
“But if I put it out there—”
“Then you take whatever comes. Don’t chicken out just because you’re afraid of what might happen. Aren’t you excited about the what could happen?” Dave’s intensity has me fully off balance. “Maybe you won’t sell much, but maybe you will. Would being comfortable for a change be so fucking uncomfortable for you?”
I draw a sharp breath. “Yes! You live in a bubble. You’ve got friends and resources and credit cards to fix whatever problems come your way. I’ve got nothing and nobody. I can’t bank on some dream to come true, because in my experience, it doesn’t.”
Dave tips his forehead to rest on mine. “You’ve got me.”
Those words are like a vice grip around my throat. “You can’t promise that.”
“I can and I will. Whatever happens, I’ll stand with you.”
I shake my head and push away from his chest. “It’s different for me.”
“How? What’s different? My old man did road construction. My mom was a waitress. I know how thin the line is between making it and getting a final notice from the landlord. Even though you’ve had
it harder than I ever did, don’t think I don’t get what it means to struggle, or to dream.”
I cover my face with my hands, breaking with those final words. He’s right, and it’s like a punch to the gut that he gets me like this.
There were times when I lived on ramen so I could buy brushes. Times when I’d go hungry so I could paint. I always managed to find food. But nobody sets up a makeshift service van under a rail bridge to hand art supplies to street kids. Nobody.
He’s hitting too close to home, and as I struggle to get away, he presses against me more firmly, pinning me against the door with the weight of his body.
Finally, I drop my hands, and our eyes lock.
“I know what this means to you, Willa. I see it in Jayce and Gavin, and maybe even Tyler. They can’t not create. Jayce can’t listen to a song and not want to add harmony line or an unexpected chord. Gavin can’t hear a phrase that interests him and not want to weave it into a song.”
There’s pain in his eyes as he says that, and I realize what he didn’t just say. “What about you?”
Dave’s expression slams closed. “We’re not talking about me.” He releases me from the door and I practically fall down to that puddle, but instead I follow him to the couch. He sits, pulls his phone out of his pocket, and starts messing with it.
I swipe it from his grasp. “Why shouldn’t we talk about you?” His lack of response sends prickles of anger down my spine. He’s OK with taking apart my deep dark fears, but not his own?
I toss the phone on a chair but it bounces off and hits the floor with a loud thunk. I cringe at the noise but he still won’t look at me.
“Tell me why that’s not you. Why doesn’t creating thrum in your veins the way it does for your bandmates?”
Dave shakes his head, his expression sullen. I’m still standing over him as he sits on my couch, and I feel like I’m interrogating him. I try another way.
“Do I have to drag it out of you?” I drop to my knees, press my palms on the couch on either side of his legs, and tilt my head so my face is just below his. “Do I have to bribe you?”
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