Ruin Me

by Jamie Brenner

  By the time the sun started to set, we snuck off to the women’s locker room in the main clubhouse. I felt giddy and excited as he took my hand and led me to a discreet row of lockers and wooden benches near the back.

  After an afternoon of champagne, and feeling Brandt’s eyes following me from across the lawn as I made small talk with the other guests, and then finally the last hour we spent engaging in witty banter—him touching my hand and brushing against my shoulder—all I wanted was to feel his hands on my bare skin.

  Brandt didn’t seem nervous. The way he kissed and stroked me, you would never have known there was a party outside.

  He kissed me lightly, breathing into my neck as his thumb brushed my nipple gently under my bra. A warmth spread through me as a soft moan escaped.

  But even in the moment, I was worried he would try to have sex with me. I’d never had a one-night (or, in this case, one-afternoon) stand and I wasn’t ready to start now.

  But he didn’t. Instead, he left me wanting more.

  When we finally reunited in New York City three weeks later, I slept with him. And we’ve been together ever since.

  *** ***

  Brandt lives in a brand-new, ultramodern glass high-rise building in the shadow of the High Line, near where my mother plans to open a new gallery. That’s why she insisted I start learning the business this summer. With two spaces, she’s got a lot more on her plate. And when I graduate in the spring, she wants me to “hit the ground running.”

  The High Line is a public park built on a long-abandoned elevated rail line. It used to be a freight rail line that carried meat to the butchers in the neighborhood and agricultural stuff to all the factories and warehouses running along the West Side. They were going to tear it down in the late 1990s, but a bunch of people organized to save it. And so instead of demolition, it was turned into a gorgeous park that stretches for almost two miles from Gansevoort Streeet to West Thirty-fourth.

  Brandt’s apartment has panoramic views of the Hudson River and the West Village, and is minutes away from the Alexander McQueen store, the Apple store, and a smattering of velvet-rope clubs and restaurants.

  Fifteen years ago, the space was an empty lot surrounded by butcher shops and streets populated mostly by transvestite hookers. You couldn’t give away an apartment in the area. Now, the only reason Brandt can afford it is because he sold some stuff at a group show last fall and my mom is advancing him money.

  Brandt comes from a wealthy family. His father is a huge Wall Street guy. But Mr. Penn doesn’t approve of Brandt’s “creative” career, and won’t bankroll it. I think he’s waiting for Brandt to fail, come to his senses, and apply to business school.

  But my mother is happy to support her artists on their way up. It puts them in the position of owing her all the more when they finally make it. It also builds loyalty. This is one of my mother’s many examples of her favorite adage, “it takes money to make money.”

  Inside, Brandt’s furniture is mostly black, the throw rugs white. The only color comes from his paintings on the walls.

  I kick off my shoes and throw my bag on his couch.

  “I’ll be right back,” I say, heading to the bathroom.

  His mirrored medicine cabinet is perfectly organized. I find the Band-Aids easily, but don’t see any Neosporin, so I just bandage up the cut on my foot and hope for the best.

  When I pad out to the living room, Brandt has put on some music and is waiting for me on the couch with two glasses of red wine. I take one and smile at him. Every time I look at him, he still takes my breath away.

  “Cheers,” I say. “Next time, the night will be all yours.”

  He leans over and kisses me. “I’m thinking the night is all mine right now.”

  “We should go to the party. My mother would want us to make an appearance.”

  “That thing will be going ‘til four,” he says, playfully tugging at my dress. “Better take this off so you don’t get it messed up.”

  I want to tell him about the GoST sighting, but he’s looking at me with that heavy-lidded gaze, thick with desire. Soon he’ll be the guy everyone wants a piece of. Maybe he is already. But in this moment, all he wants is me.

  But I can’t help it. The excitement of what I saw is still bubbling inside of me. I need to tell someone, and Brandt will understand the significance.

  “Can I tell you something crazy?” I ask.

  He looks at me, surprised.

  “Um, okay,” he says, humoring me while stroking my leg distractedly.

  “I left the party for a few minutes to get some fresh air. I walked on Houston and I saw this guy spray-painting a building. It was GoST.”

  He knows immediately whom I’m talking about.

  “How do you know it was GoST?”

  “He tagged the painting. It was him, no question.” Of course, I leave out the part about me following him through the streets of SoHo, the police in hot pursuit.

  Brandt shrugs. “I don’t know why you’re so interested in graffiti.”

  That’s a lie. He’s interested, too. GoST’s paintings are interesting to anyone who even remotely cares about art. But that’s the competitor in Brandt, and I can’t fault him for it.

  “It’s not graffiti.” I frown. “He’s a street artist.”

  “Okay, call it whatever you want. I just think since you have, you know, access to the best art in the world, you don’t have to be so impressed with people who can only get attention by defacing public property.”

  “Ouch! The male ego … hear it roar,” I tease, pushing his shoulder a bit. But I know Brandt is sensitive because he takes my opinion seriously. He doesn’t just show me his works in progress, he truly wants my input. “It was interesting. But whatever.” I sigh.

  “I’ll show you interesting.” He grins wickedly as he stands up, pulling me to my feet. He kisses me, and I lean into him. He circles around to my back, unzipping my dress, easing it to the floor.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he says. Beauty is important to him. It’s not a compliment he gives casually. He traces his fingers down my spine as I shiver in the air-conditioned air, my nipples hard inside my strapless bra. He unhooks the bra and it drops to my feet. His hands reach around, cupping my breasts, his fingers skimming over my nipples. One hand slides down, resting on my waist, where he applies slight pressure signaling me to turn to him.

  I face him and he kisses me. The first flutters of excitement course through me. His hands move to my ass, slipping underneath my underwear, pulling me closer. I feel how hard he is and smile.

  “Lulu,” he moans as I slowly unzip his pants. He practically pulsates under my fingers. He quickly sheds his clothes and tugs off my underwear. When our bodies are pressed together, completely naked, he starts stroking between my legs.

  We move to the bedroom. I perch on the edge of his bed and he stands in front of me so I can take him into my mouth.

  “Baby,” he moans.

  It’s my cue. I stretch out onto my back, and he kisses my breasts as he enters me. It feels good to have him inside, and when he thrusts in and out with slowly building speed, I gasp.

  “Jesus, Lu,” he says. Our bodies move together with practiced ease. But then the initial hum of pleasure dissipates. And in this moment, when we are closest together, I feel the furthest apart; as Brandt tremors with his orgasm, crying out my name and shuddering deep inside of me, I feel nothing.

  It is my shame and constant secret: When it comes to sex, I never feel anything.

  Chapter Four

  Inez Elliot ignored the car waiting outside to take her to the party. She ignored it so long, it left without her.

  Then she ignored the texts from her friends: Where the fuck r u? and We can’t get in w/out u bee-atch!

  Yes, the press was there and yes, Dustin McBride expected her to show and yes, she had a Stella McCartney top and white jeans in the back to change into. But she couldn’t leave without talking to Anna.

  An
na, however, was too busy with a phone call. Who could she be talking to at midnight? God knows she didn’t have a personal life.

  But then again, Anna was full of surprises these days.

  The cleaning crew maneuvered around her. Inez pulled a chair into the corner and sat under one of Dustin’s smaller works. The paintings on display tonight were his lesser pieces. The best of the bunch Anna had already placed with her top collectors, such as Nina Saroyin. Mrs. Saroyin, widow of a hedge fund billionaire, was one of her wealthiest but most insecure collectors. Once Anna had given Inez the go-ahead to start making calls, Mrs. Saroyin was first on the list.

  “Anna says you need this for your collection.”

  “I’ll take it,” Mrs. Saroyin had said. Not, “What does it look like?” Not, “How much?” Just: “I’ll take it.”

  Half of her calls about Dustin’s series Life is Full of Unbearable Beauty and Shocking Disappointments went similarly. And when she reported the good news to Anna, the reply was:

  “In a month, Lulu will be here. I want you showing her how it’s done.”

  What!?

  Inez should have known this day was coming. Of course Anna would want her daughter working at the gallery. And when Anna told her that Lulu would be “helping out” for the summer, she’d accepted it. It would be useful, actually. She needed an intern.

  As gallery director for the past three years, Inez always welcomed another set of hands. And yes, she was the director. Anna was the brand, Anna was the creative director. But as far as the day to day? That was Inez. It was the two of them against the art world: Anna, the name brand, the flawless tastemaker. And Inez, the fresh set of eyes, the girl with street cred.

  Until now.

  Inez told herself to put it in perspective. Lulu could not replace her. As far as she could see, Lulu Sterling was Anna’s daughter in name only. Lulu’d never shown any interest in working at the gallery. And at the end of the summer, she would be back at NYU. She still had a full year to make herself indispensable to Anna. And with the new flagship gallery opening next fall, there was plenty of room for both of them. Of course—who would maintain this old place? Lulu, while Anna and Inez moved to the bigger space. It made perfect sense.

  “What are you still doing here?” Anna said, startling her.

  “I wanted to touch base before I left for the party.”

  “It’s late, Inez,” Anna said with uncharacteristic weariness. “We can talk in the morning.” She ran her hand through her chic, short dark hair. A year ago, Inez would have taken that as a dismissal. But she’d learned to push through moments like these. That is how she had managed to become not just another employee, but one of the rarest things in Anna Sterling’s universe: a confidante.

  Inez stood up from her chair and gestured for Anna to sit. With a sigh, Anna folded herself into the seat. Inez stood behind her, and slowly began rubbing her shoulders.

  She remembered the first time she had touched Anna. She felt an electric shock. If she’d ever felt such searing, raw attraction to someone, she couldn’t remember it. It surprised her, because Anna really wasn’t her type. She was much older. And she was so cold, so patrician. Nothing like the hot little Latina Inez had had waiting at home for her in Greenpoint at the time. And while the cute hipster honeys came and went, that burning feeling for Anna Sterling grew stronger by the year. And it—coupled with her ambition—fueled her obsession with the Sterling Gallery.

  “Tonight was a major success,” Inez said.

  “It was fine. It wasn’t Max.”

  Yes, Max Kyle’s defection to Larry Gagosian had hurt. And with some of Anna’s other mega-name artists negotiating Anna’s commission down from fifty percent to ten—or less—she needed a summer and fall of hits. But they’d get them.

  “We don’t need Max,” Inez said, with conviction. “What we need is for Dustin to keep this momentum. And for Brandt to happen.”

  Anna nodded. The months leading up to the opening will be Anna’s busiest time—trying to get big collectors behind him. Seeing if Manhattan’s major modern art museum, MoMA, shows interest. Nurturing him along with the tough love of Anna’s infamous studio visits. And now, the new gallery to plan on top of it.

  “I was just on the phone with Beijing,” Anna said, her back still to Inez.

  “Are they interested in Dustin?”

  Anna turned slowly. “I need an international presence, Inez. I’m tired of sharing my artists with foreign galleries. I need to be over there. And I need new blood,” she said, as if Inez had argued with her.

  “Aren’t you spreading yourself a little thin?” Inez asked.

  Anna turned to look at her. “You’re a smart girl, Inez. And the answer is yes—this might be risky. But inertia is more dangerous than any risk.”

  Anna reached in the pocket of her slacks and pulled out her cigarettes. Wordlessly, she headed toward the front door of the gallery. She never smoked near the art, obviously.

  Inez followed.

  She hadn’t been outside in hours, and the fresh air was an unwelcome shock to her system.

  Anna crossed her arms as she smoked, leaning against the front door of the gallery. At forty-eight years old, she was still strikingly beautiful. For all of Inez’s trying, being next to Anna always made her feel very outer-borough, far from the brass ring.

  “I’ll need you in Asia when I open the gallery,” Anna said, exhaling.

  “Of course I’ll go with you,” Inez said, her heart pounding. She’d been waiting for an invitation to join Anna on one of her many trips around the world. And while Anna would probably never cross the line with her, if there was any circumstance under which her barriers might drop, it would be on an exotic trip to China.

  “I mean, I’ll need you to stay there. To run the gallery.”

  Inez froze. “But … who will run the new gallery here?”

  “Lulu, of course.”

  It was like a slap in the face.

  It took a few seconds for the professional ramifications to really sink in. This was the thanks she got for five years of complete and absolute devotion?

  “Don’t worry. I’ll set you up in a fine apartment. It will be a smooth transition,” Anna said, focusing her catlike, hazel eyes on her.

  Set her up? More like ship her off. Think, think …

  The only way she’d get a comparable position in New York, with a brand name gallery, would be if she brought an artist along with her.

  She looked at her phone. One in the morning. Maybe there was still time to catch Brandt at the after-party.

  “I should get to the party,” she said, trying to sound casual. Anna nodded absently, staring off into the street, oblivious to the storm raging right next to her.

  “Yes. Please do make an appearance,” she smiled. “I know I can always count on you, Inez.”

  Chapter Five

  When I reach my apartment building, a five-story brownstone, my body wilts as if every cell knows I’m home.

  The front door has a heavy external wrought-iron gate, and for a minute my key sticks. But I push through. Inside, the temperature is about ten degrees higher. It’s an old building, and the air in lobby has been baking all day.

  I trudge up the four flights to the two-bedroom I share with Niffer. The entire place is dark. Maybe she’s asleep, but I doubt it. I can’t remember the last time she came home before me.

  There’s no sign of her. She leaves next week, and I miss her already.

  I flop onto my bed

  I hoist open my window a few inches, unzip my dress, and change into a well-worn Vince tank top. I log onto my laptop and do a quick Twitter and Instagram search for GoST. The Snow White painting has already been posted several times.

  “Fuck,” I say. I feel like the outfielder that missed the fly ball during the World Series. How could I not get that shot?

  I’ve been posting street art on Tumblr and Instagram for a few years. It started as a fascination with old graffiti around the cit
y. I started noticing it when I was in middle school. Then I started spending time on the High Line. The thing that struck me the most was the amazing views you could get of old graffiti on long-standing tenement buildings. It’s weird that art galleries are starting to spring up now, and that soon my mother’s gallery will be among them. To me, the neighborhood has always been about those hidden pockets of lawless street art.

  I hear the front door click open. We always try to be quiet when we come home late, but the heavy brass lock is older than we are, and makes an obnoxious sound no matter how slowly we turn it.

  “Hey,” I call out.

  She doesn’t answer me, but I hear the sound of her combat boots on the hardwood floor.

  Seconds later she is perched in my doorway, all five foot nine inches of her. Her dirty blond hair is piled on top of her head, a few loose tendrils clinging to her neck in perspiration. She’s wearing a floral sundress and a short-cropped leather jacket.

  “Aren’t you dying of heat in that outfit?” I say.

  “God yes,” she replies, flopping on my bed.

  For two and a half years, I thought Niffer was her real name—until I saw her passport. Turns out her real name is Jennifer but in her class of twelve girls at the Main Line Philadelphia private school she attended from K–12, there were three Jennifers. Instead of being “Jen,” she chose to go by “Niffer.” If I had known that from the beginning, it would have given me a bit of a heads-up about her personality.

  “How was the show? Sorry I didn’t make it,” she said, picking what remained of black nail polish off of her thumb. The paint flaked onto my sheets like a tiny evil snowflake.

  “I didn’t really expect you to show. But I’m not letting you off the hook when it is Brandt’s opening.”

  “If I am in the country, I will most certainly be at the opening.”

  “You’ll be back. It’s not until September.”

  “You don’t know! I could fall in love and get married and just live there happily ever after.”