Beautiful Musician

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  “Lucky for me, my parents were junk dealers. Of course it’s not considered junk anymore. Either way, I learned the ropes early.”

  I had never met my grandparents. They’d been gone before I was born. I’d seen pictures of them, though, and found their unconventional endeavors fascinating. “And now I’m learning it from you.”

  “The store will be yours someday.”

  “Let’s not talk about that.” I didn’t want to think about losing my aunt. I’d lost too much already.

  “Then let’s talk about your young man.”

  I gulped a quick blast of the air-conditioned air. “He isn’t my young man.”

  “I can tell by the way you talk about him that you like him. Plus, it’s nice that he understands the disease. What you told me about his relationship with Jack is touching. He’d be a good catch for you.”

  I thought so, too, except for my confusion over the warrior stuff. Either way, I’d spent nearly every waking moment bundled in the memory of him, wishing and hoping. “There was definitely some chemistry between us. But that doesn’t mean we’ll start dating.”

  “I’ll bet you will.” Carol folded her hands in front of her, obviously trying not to fidget. “How much longer before we get there?”

  “We only have twenty minutes to go.”

  We arrived in twenty-five. The gallery was located downtown in a renovated warehouse. I wondered if Duncan’s loft was nearby and what it was like. I wondered all sorts of things about him. Would he ever remember who he was? Had he ever been in a committed relationship? Would he take my virginity if I offered it to him?

  “Ready?” Carol asked.

  I snapped out of my dangerous musings. “Yes, of course.” I steadied my pulse, preparing to learn more about Duncan, to see his artwork, to try to understand who and what he was.

  We opened the door and crossed the threshold. The massive three-story gallery presented an eclectic décor: rough woods, chipped iron, and painted concrete, combined with classic elegance, like crystal chandeliers shimmering from museum-height ceilings. Narrow stairwells with twisted banisters led to the top floors. I noticed a gated elevator, too.

  But mostly what I saw were scores of urban-vogue people milling in and out of arched coves, corner nooks, and glass-paned rooms, where I assumed Duncan’s art was being displayed.

  “Look at this place,” Carol said. “And what a turnout.”

  I nodded. It was quite a show, offering a spectacular reception with a glamorous buffet and portable bar, where more guests gathered.

  “Where should we start?” Carol asked.

  “I don’t know.” I was just trying to take it in.

  My aunt gazed in the direction of the bar. “I think I’d like to get a soda. Do you want one?”

  “Sure.” I didn’t see Duncan, but he was obviously here somewhere, socializing and making connections. I gestured to a room off to my left. “I’ll just go in there and wait for you.” I didn’t want to stand out in the open. I was weird that way. I was weird in a lot of ways.

  Carol replied, “We can try the buffet later, after we see Duncan’s work and after you introduce me to him.”

  “I’ll have to find him first.”

  “He’ll probably find you.”

  “I hope so.” I watched her walk away. I was glad that we’d dressed appropriately for the occasion. Our vintage garb blended right in. In fact, a short-haired brunette in a rhinestone dress stopped Carol and motioned to her suit. Apparently the shimmery girl recognized early Chanel when she saw it. Soon a conversation between the two was underway, with Carol opening her tidy little handbag for a business card.

  I ducked into the room, letting my aunt bask in the glory. Our sodas were probably going to take a while.

  I glanced around the room and noticed the walls were blank, except for one, but I couldn’t tell what was being displayed because a small group of people blocked my view. I held back and waited. After they moved on, I stepped forward.

  Holy mother.

  It was the nude of Duncan. He stood in the middle of a dusty road, his arms stretched in a sacrificial pose, his leanly muscled body glimmering in the moonlight. The lower half of him was shadowed, the mystery of his nakedness even more compelling.

  He’d depicted himself in what appeared to be war paint, half of his face covered in red and the other half in white, with a black line down the center. His long, loose hair blew in the wind, and his head was slightly bowed, his eyes as fierce as the clouds brewing in the sky.

  His unknown identity was that of a warrior.

  I locked my knees to keep them from buckling. In the background was the misty image of a black stallion, fading into the night, big and powerful, much like the horse I’d created for him.

  Was Room 105 real? Did Abby and Jack know something that the rest of us—the supposedly sane ones—didn’t know?

  Was Duncan the man who was going to save Abby’s people? I couldn’t stop staring at his war-painted face, at his bared flesh, at his primal beauty.

  Footsteps sounded and I drew a sharp breath.

  The intruder entered the room and walked forward, then stood directly behind me.

  I sensed it was Duncan. I couldn’t explain why, just that I could feel his tall, dark presence.

  He’d found me, here, of all places, immersed in the warrior he’d painted. The intimacy between us was evident: his naked image, my unsteady heartbeat.

  Because I was too nervous to turn around, I stayed where I was, my gaze fixed on his portrait. His eyes, the ones in the artwork, were locked onto mine.

  “Vanessa.” His voice traveled along my neck and down my spine, my backless dress leaving me exposed.

  “Duncan,” I shakily replied, still staring at the warrior.

  He put his hands on my shoulders, touching me for the very first time. I nearly pitched forward, shockwaves dancing through my blood and streaming through my pores.

  “I included that picture for you,” he said. “I wanted you to see it.”

  “It’s beautiful.” So damned beautiful. “I could look at it forever.”

  He moved closer, brushing up against me. “There’s no such thing as forever. Someday all of us are going to be gone.”

  The shockwaves turned to a chill. If Room 105 was real, if he was the warrior I’d created, then he was going to die within sight of a year. I turned, finally summoning the strength to face him.

  He looked different from the portrait. His hair was smoothed into a ponytail and he was wearing jeans, a white shirt, and black jacket. But it was his expression that struck me the most. It was warm and ever so gentle.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” he said.

  “So am I.” Giving in to the temptation to touch him, I reached up to skim his jaw, praying that I could change what I’d done all those years ago.

  And keep him alive.

  ***

  BEAUTIFUL MUSICIAN is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental. The Publisher does not assume responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright @2013 Sheree Whitefeather

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Design: Hot Damn Designs