by Mira Gibson
BROOKLYN FLAME
(A Bridge & Tunnel Romance)
Mira Gibson
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Author Biography
Chapter One
Having jogged up the grimy subway steps and walked briskly from Bedford Avenue, cutting across on one of her favorite streets, N. 5th, her high heeled boots stomping the concrete, her scarf wavering behind her thanks to the strong gusts of wind blowing in off the East River, Greer Langley made her way down Wythe Avenue and realized she had been living here for exactly four years.
Williamsburg, Brooklyn.
A neighborhood where historical architecture intersected with neon signs, noisy bars, and the homeless, perched in front of every boutique to shake their tin cups for pocket change that few would give, Williamsburg felt more like home than rural New Hampshire, where she had grown up and often missed.
Narrowing her gaze to assess oncoming pedestrians - a bickering couple she pegged to be around her age, in their late twenties, each looking engrossed in their opposing argument and completely harmless because of it - and then glancing quickly over her shoulder, she slowed and zipped up her jacket, a weathered bomber with a fur collar.
It was mid-October and the wind carried a wet chill - threats of rain on the darkening horizon, which happened to be an atmosphere she enjoyed. After slipping a pair of black, fingerless gloves on her hands, she started off again, hurrying so she wouldn’t be late.
It wasn’t that Williamsburg was her home, per se. Technically, she lived out in Bushwick, a far worse neighborhood when it came to gentrification induced crime. And it wasn’t that she was on the verge of being late, though the two-stop subway ride had taken longer than she had anticipated. Greer didn’t have time for anything these days, not even checking out the local art opening she’d promised her friends she would attend. Any time away from her art studio was time wasted in her opinion. She had been working on a sculpture that would make or break her career, wrestling with clay on a daily basis, finally feeling some semblance of control over its shape, as the long, night hours ticked onward. She hadn’t reached the gallery yet, and was already eager to get back to work.
As she came upon the intersection of Wythe and Metropolitan Avenue, the broad sign for The Haven came into view. Tonight’s opening would feature burgeoning local artists who worked in the mediums of photography, oil painting, and sculpture. It was the sculpture aspect that had compelled her to cave, when earlier that week her friend Jennifer Okimoto began twisting her arm to attend. How would Greer know the competition if she didn’t turn up and see for herself? It had been a good point that Greer couldn’t argue against. Jennifer was a good friend in that way, making her do things she rarely would have otherwise, but on the whole would improve her in the end.
She startled badly, jolting and slowing her stride when she heard a man’s voice behind her call out, “Hey!”
Cautiously, she turned and made a point not to meet his gaze directly, but quickly noticed the scarf in his hand.
“Is this yours? You dropped it a block back.”
Unwilling to do him the courtesy of being friendly in her response, Brooklyn had made her hard like that, cynical and untrusting, she snapped her eyes up, gaining only a sense of him - dark, cowlick hair poking out from a skull cap, crisp and wide jawline darkened with a light dusting of stubble, his pale yet full lips, his cool green eyes that seemed to let out far too much light, pupils dilating like a cat eager to pounce. Again, she fixed her gaze on her scarf.
“Yeah, thanks,” she barked, certain to deliver a harsh edge with her tone so he wouldn’t make the mistake of thinking she was friendly, as she snatched the scarf out of his hand when he got close enough.
Without giving him a second look, she rushed down the block, ducked into the gallery and was instantly met with a wall of people, bright lights, and billowing voices.
As she angled her gaze through the bodies, scanning the room for Jennifer and their friend Tasha Buckley, who made up the third leg of their artist’s triangle, the image of the guy slowly burned out of her thoughts - his bomber jacket that had been so like hers made her wonder if perhaps she’d bought a man’s garment, his black jeans had hugged his legs with the right amount of give, not too tight or too loose, and the timbre of his voice was smooth, deep, and would have been strangely familiar, except that she figured it was the clone of an actor she’d once seen on TV, a silly teen drama years prior.
She tried not to admit to herself it was nice of him to pick up her scarf from the sidewalk, call out to her, and return it, instead of walking over it like a piece of trash like anyone else in this city might have done.
Gradually, the wall of people in front of her thinned out, as they crept deeper into the gallery, giving Greer a sense of the art on the walls and the opportunity to spot her friends, as well as revealing the refreshment table at one side of the room where both red and white wine was being served in little plastic cups.
Engrossed in a conversation with Jennifer and a few men Greer didn’t recognize, Tasha happened to glance over her shoulder at just the right moment to catch Greer’s arrival and she smiled, jutting her chin up in acknowledgement.
Tasha was more than a bit rough around the edges. As a black girl, who had been raised in Harlem and had spent most of her upbringing fending for herself, Tasha had intimated Greer with every exchange after they first met at Cooper Union almost eight years ago, but with time the two realized that as different as their pasts had been, they couldn’t be more alike. Tasha had been a photography major and to this day, not only did she uphold her craft, but made a living at it. Back in school, Greer had learned that Tasha was her people when she discovered the rough and tumble girl was quiet and mean by default, until you proved your true colors. As soon as Greer had demonstrated the same attitude, Tasha welcomed her into the fold, and the two became fast friends and thicker than thieves.
At the time, Greer hadn’t understood why Tasha had welcomed Jennifer to her metaphorical table, but as she got to know Jenn, she realized the sharp-witted Asian was as tough as they come. Korean-style, Jennifer liked to say.
Without these girls, Greer would have been swallowed up in the concrete jungle, but as fierce and loyal as they were, no one could help Greer put right the ugly tangle of what had happened to her three nights ago. No one.
And her leather hobo bag was all the heavier because of it.
She pulled the bag from her left shoulder and slung it over her right, as she weaved her way through the crowd towards the refreshment table. One of the gallery interns was shifting nervously behind it, thrilled or scared to be in the company of so many young artists, she couldn't decide.
His voice cracked, as he asked if she’d like red or white.
“Both,” she said, pitching a dark joke and revealing her love of booze as if it might loosen him up. He didn’t even get it, but widened his eyes in a way that told her he was worried about getting in trouble. “Red is fine,” she said quickly before he pissed his pants. “You’re an artist.”
He lifted his brows, meeting her gaze and forgetting the wine he was pouring. “I am?”
“Aren’t you? What’s your medium?”
“Paste
ls.” He righted the bottle before the glass overflowed and Greer shot him a crooked smile, pleased at his generous pour.
“Keep it up,” she told him. “There’s no reason you can’t make a living at it one day. Most everyone in this room does.”
After taking the glass from him, she winked encouragingly and started for her friends who had migrated to a large canvas of black and gray swirls that reminded Greer of teenaged depression. She didn't have to glance over her shoulder to know the intern was smiling to himself.
Scowling at the canvas then rolling her eyes in Greer’s direction, Jennifer said, “I’m getting, out of inspiration, out of ideas, desperate to paint anything. Tell me I’m not the only one.”
“Damn,” said Greer. “Glad you’re not on the jury.”
“They’re not all juried,” Tasha pointed out then shifted her response to Jennifer. “But I get why you think this sucks. It’s lazy. It doesn't draw you in. No one in this room spent more than two seconds looking at it.”
Jennifer narrowed her gaze, studying the canvas and leaning in close to examine each brush stroke. Her long, black hair fell over her shoulder so she flicked it back, shifting her weight in a way that accentuated her petite stature, her white linen blouse inching up her waist and revealing the row of bullets that made up her leather belt.
If Jennifer was overly critical of painters it was because she was one. A painter couldn’t simply enjoy a painting without dissecting it first. Greer felt the same way whenever she looked at a sculpture and she would bet Tasha had the same reaction to the photos she studied. It came with the territory, and if the three of them were close friends for any reason it was because they didn't work in the same medium.
“So how’s that hunk of clay coming?” Asked Tasha since Jennifer was clearly lost in the throes of her assessment. “Emphasis on the hunk or are you still struggling?”
“Struggling like a drowning man who can’t reach the surface of a lake,” she said dryly, glancing down at the full cup of red wine in her hand. She downed the whole glass, wasting no time to get her mind off how horribly her piece was coming along.
“That bad, huh?”
“I don’t know why I thought I could do it without a model.”
Tasha scraped her teeth over her lower lip and drew in a deep breath that told Greer she was also at a loss for recommending a fit guy with the right dimensions.
Greer had been working on a sculpture that was supposed to be a man lying on his back, his hand tucked under the back of his head, his body burning with desire only a woman could tame. All of Greer's sculptures oozed with a sensual quality, giving them the power to draw the viewer in. In past exhibits, she’d actually seen people absentmindedly step nearer and nearer her pieces until they couldn’t get any closer without the gallery attendant urging them back. But the fact of the matter was that her muse, an old boyfriend, who she should’ve given far more credit, hadn’t been in her life for a year. And because of it, her work had greatly suffered. At times she feared she was losing her edge, her gift, the knack for bringing clay to life. And considering what was at stake, there was no worse time to be faltering.
Changing the subject, Greer asked, “How’s your project coming?”
But Tasha wasn’t having it. She stepped towards Jennifer and said, “You know a ton of models, right?”
Jennifer screwed her face up as though she had been staring at the sun too long. “I fucking hate this thing. Let’s migrate.”
As they did, working their slow way to the next piece, which happened to be a photograph of an angry looking four year old holding an assault rifle, a cigarette dripping out of his mouth, and a happy-go-lucky caption beneath: Are we there yet? Tasha thwacked Jennifer’s arm, asking, “Do you?”
“Yeah, yeah, huh?” She was still trying to snap out of the insult she felt having stared at the black swirls too long. “Who needs a model?”
“Greer does. Wake up, girl.” Tasha pushed air through her teeth, which had become her signature I can’t even gesture. “Clock’s ticking.”
“I thought you were finishing up,” said Jennifer, finally meeting Greer’s gaze. “You only have a few weeks.”
“I know,” she said impatiently. Every second that passed, Greer was extremely aware the Phoenix Juried Art Competition was edging closer and closer. All three of them had entered, all three of them would have pieces in the show, and all three of them were painfully conscious that this competition, one which came only once a year and was a son of a bitch to actually get into, would either make or break their careers. “Do you know anyone?”
“I can make some calls. I can’t guarantee I’ll find you someone who looks like Brandon, though.”
“Whoever you can find,” said Greer, sighing because no one on God’s green earth looked like Brandon. He was some kind of God, and she resented him for it. He had no equal. “I just need someone to look at. My lines are all off. Right now my figure has short, little T-Rex arms and a small ding-a-ling.”
“Really?” asked Tasha, quirking a brow. “You couldn’t even get the ding-a-ling right?”
“It’s been a while,” said Greer dryly.
“I mean slap some clay on that shit,” she said laughing. “Beef the sausage up.”
“The sausage won’t beef...” she said a bit too loudly. An older gentleman who looked less like an artist and more like a buyer, shot her a far too interested smirk, and Greer grimaced. “Let’s move the party.”
Meandering further, they stepped up to a sculpture of a woman bathing, but Greer couldn’t handle it. Looking at any piece of art that had been sculpted with confidence only intimidated her and exacerbated her creative block.
Tasha’s gaze had locked on something or someone through the crowd, but Greer hadn’t thought a thing of it until she mentioned, “Homeboy might want your shit.”
“What?”
“That guy,” said Tasha. “He’s been staring at you.”
“Or the art,” said Greer without bothering to spy who her friend was referring to.
“Doubtful. He’s got some heat seeking missile’s shooting out of them cold green eyes.”
Angling her gaze as discreetly as possible, Greer peered through the crowd and spotted the guy from the street artfully diverting his eyes as soon as she caught him.
“How long has it been since you had a little D?” Asked Tasha, brows lifting.
“A little D? Never,” said Greer, getting cheeky. “Now, a big D is a different story.”
“Shut up,” said Jennifer. “You haven’t had a big D since Brandon and you know that was ages ago.”
“Salt on my wounds, Jennifer,” she said, none too pleased to be reminded.
Greer stole another peek in the guy’s direction and even though he had disappeared, she still voiced her take on who and what he was all about.
“You might think he looks good,” she began. “But I bet you he’s everything wrong with this city.”
“How’s that?” Tasha challenged.
Drawing in a deep breath, Greer got creative. “He’s lived here a year, maybe two, on his parents money. He doesn’t have a dime, doesn’t have a real job. He thinks he’s an artist, probably uses the term hipster because he thinks it’s cool. His name is something boring as hell like Chris or Matt or Jeff and he comes from an oil family in Texas or he’s the heir to a mustard empire-”
“Mustard?” Tasha asked as though she was offended on Greer's behalf such a poser had dared glimpse their way.
“Or some shit,” she went on. “He thinks he can blend. He thinks no one will notice his outfit costs more than my rent, like he’s one of these chumps who pays two hundred extra for the holes in his jeans. And worst of all, he’s bad in bed.”
“Hang him,” said Jennifer with a crooked smile.
“Yeah, selfish in bed because he’s too pretty and never had to work for it.” In conclusion, Greer grabbed Tasha’s white wine, knocked it back, and said, “Fucking waste of space.”
&nbs
p; Tasha eyed her empty glass when Greer slapped it in her hand, and said, “So tell us how you really feel.”
Snorting a quick laugh, Greer summed it up. “How I really feel is not drunk.”
But when she excused herself, she didn’t make a beeline for the refreshment table. Rather she veered through the crowd until she found the rear exit door.
She stole a sly glance over her shoulder to make sure her friends weren’t following after, as a few guys reeking of cigarette smoke barreled into the gallery. She caught the door and stepped out into the chilly night, breathing a sigh of relief to be alone.
That sculpture had been on point. She hated to be just another bitter artist, but riding the low of her creative block and seeing a real piece of art made her feel like a flailing failure. But that wasn’t what had her rattled.
It was her neighborhood that had her bones quaking. She had never feared it before three nights ago. But when a man had stepped out of the shadows and grabbed her, sending her heart punching up her throat, her instincts reeling, and her reflexes freezing in the worst way possible, she’d instantly lost her blissful sense of safety that her block in Bushwick was even close to crime free.
Stepping away from the door and beyond the glare of the overhead light that was hanging just above the pitched awning above her head, she put her hand on her bag, grasping for the reason it was so heavy.
She shouldn’t have bought it, she thought, as she reached inside the floppy leather, feeling her way through an ad hoc mess of belongings until she reached the gun at the bottom of her bag.
Who knew where this thing had been? Who it might have killed? What kind of record the police had on it? She had been scared and impulsive when she ventured into Spanish Harlem for it. She hadn’t asked any questions. She’d barely mumbled a word only slapped a wad of cash into a thug’s palm, snatched the gun, and rushed to the subway, terrified she might be caught.
She didn’t want to have to use it, not at any time and not for any reason, but deep down, as Greer pulled it from her bag and stared, she knew she would.
