by Shannon West
“Absolutely,” I said, grinning. He stepped in, bringing with him the smell of pepperoni, cheese and tomato sauce—some of my favorite scents. He followed me back to the living room and I settled happily next to him on the sofa. He cracked open a couple of beers and I snagged a huge, greasy slice of pizza.
“Your attorney was less than pleased to see me here this morning.”
I smiled around a big bite. “Andrea Jones is really nice once you get to know her. She’s helped me out a lot. I’d probably still be in jail if it weren’t for her.”
“Mm…”
“You can ask me your questions now if you want to. I know I promised you this morning, so go ahead.”
Connor finished his slice of pizza and took a sip of his beer. He gave me a speculative gaze. “Are you sure? Do you feel up to it?”
“Sure, I’m fine. I painted all afternoon, as a matter of fact.”
“What are you working on?”
“A piece by Degas—do you know him?”
Connor shook his head. “I’ve heard the name, but that’s about it.”
“He was French—sort of an impressionist, but very early. He painted dancers mostly, though this isn’t one of those pieces. Those would have been easier, in a way, because of all the bright colors. Their patterns are usually easier to pick out. This one is proving to be kind of challenging.”
“You know a lot about art.”
“Not really,” I said with a shrug. “My agent brings me what the clients want and some prints to work from. I usually look the artist up online too, along with the painting.”
“You make any money off these reproductions?”
“A little. They don’t sell for all that much. Of course, what’s a couple of hundred dollars compared to what the painting would actually cost, even if it could be purchased and wasn’t hanging in some museum or collection somewhere? And my copies are just as good. Better sometimes.”
Connor choked on a sip of beer. Once he stopped coughing, he wiped his eyes and smiled at me, shaking his head. “Not modest, are you?”
I didn’t understand, but sensed that I probably should, so I just shrugged. After a few more minutes of companionable silence, while I finished my third slice of pizza, Connor Todd leaned back and pulled out a small notebook, like I saw his partner, Jim Allen, writing in.
“How long have you done these reproductions, Gavin?”
“Since I was in high school—maybe six or seven years now.”
“Is that how you met Miguel Santiago?”
“Not exactly. I was nineteen when I was first introduced to him, but it was only a casual meeting. My grandfather was still alive then, and he was with my grandfather’s friend, Steven Oswald, one day when he came to give me an assignment. I didn’t really talk to him until two years later. I went to a party at his house with Steven Oswald. That’s how…that’s when it started.”
Hard hands pulling me down on top of him, impaling me on his shaft and laughing as I tried to pull away—“you’re not going anywhere until I say you can, beautiful boy. Not until I finish with you…”
“You had an affair with him?”
“We lived together. I kept my house, of course, and used it for my studio, but I spent most nights at his condo, unless he needed me to work late. Then we’d stay here.”
“I understand you copied art from his gallery from the artists who exhibited there. Then he sold the originals and put the copies in their places. Some of them were quite valuable.”
“Yes.”
Connor leaned forward and looked at me intently. “You told the judge you didn’t understand that what you did for Miguel was wrong. Is that really true, Gavin?”
“That’s not precisely what I said to the judge. But after we talked, he said I misperceived reality.”
Connor Todd blew out a long breath. “What the hell does that mean, Gavin? Did you or did you not know that what you were doing was against the law?”
“Oh, yes, I knew that.” I wiped my hands on the napkin and held out the box to Connor Todd. “Do you want this last slice of pizza? If you don’t I might save it for my lunch tomorrow—it was really good.”
Connor Todd simply stared at me like I was some alien life form. I really hated that look. I blushed and slumped down in my seat. “What is it? What did I say?”
“Did you just admit your guilt to me?” Connor Todd stood up and started pacing back and forth in my living room. He was glaring at me and running his hand through his hair. “Damn it, Gavin, I told you once before that I can’t be your friend! You can’t share confidences with me and expect me to…You can’t just…I’ll have to talk to the police and tell them what you said—you know that, right?”
“You can, but the judge already knows all about it. I told him the same thing.”
He stopped pacing in mid-stride and stared at me open-mouthed. “What?”
“I told the judge. I don’t lie about things. When he asked me, I told him exactly what I told you.”
“That you knew painting those pictures for Miguel was against the law and yet you did it anyway?”
“Yes.”
“And the judge let you go?”
“Yes.”
Connor Todd threw himself down in the chair and shook his head. “You’re going to have to explain, Gavin, because I’m lost here.”
I sat back and considered how I might explain this to Connor Todd. It seemed so obvious to me, but for some reason the neurotypicals found it difficult to conceive. “Have you ever seen my paintings? I mean, really looked at them?”
He shook his head slowly. “One of them. It was…remarkable. I’ve seen photographs of the other frauds, too.”
I got up and nodded toward my studio in the back. “Come with me and I’ll show you what I’m working on now.”
He followed me back to my studio and I turned on the light. The Degas was turned toward the window from earlier in the afternoon when I was trying to capture the remaining light, so I turned the easel toward Connor Todd and stepped back. The warm shades of brown and gray glowed in the harsh glare of the overhead light. The painting was a depiction of a woman and man at the center and right of the painting. The man, wearing a hat, looks to the right, off the canvas, while the woman, dressed formally and also wearing a hat, stares downward. They both looked a bit shabby and both seem vacant as they stared off into space. A glass filled with the pale green absinthe sits in front of the woman.
“This painting was universally panned when it was first exhibited—literally booed off the easel by critics, who disliked its subject matter and thought it was uncouth and depicted two drunkards. It was only later that it was recognized as a great work of art.” I turned toward Connor Todd. “But none of that matters to me—I don’t get context, you see, and I don’t care what the paintings represent. I only see the patterns of the colors, and I find them beautiful.”
He shifted his gaze from the painting back toward me. “Okay. So…?”
“So instead of concentrating on getting the vacant stare just right or depicting ‘an air of desolation’ like the descriptions say online, I’m not constrained by any of those concerns. I concentrate only on the patterns and shading of the colors. It makes my copies come out as perfect replicas of the originals. Perfect copies—exactly the same as the original artist’s.”
He stared at me intently, really seeming to be trying to understand my point. “You have to help me here, Gavin. I’m still not getting it.”
I huffed out an impatient breath. “It’s the same painting in every regard. Put them side by side and even Degas himself couldn’t tell the difference—so why is one of them worth so much money and the other worth very little? It’s completely illogical. They’re the same thing.”
He raised his eyebrows at me. “Gavin, it may seem that way, but what Santiago was doing by substituting the paintings was fraud. If this painting you’re working on were offered for sale as artwork by Degas,
and sold for a lot of money, as you say, then that’s dishonest. It’s misrepresentation.”
I made a little sound of impatience. “Is that what determines the worth of a work of art? The name of the artist? No! It’s the work itself—the shapes, textures and colors. That’s where its beauty and value should come from. Someone should fall in love with it and want it for their home so they can look at it every day and appreciate it.”
“That’s just naïve. People buy paintings for all kinds of reasons besides appreciation of the art—as investments, for example.”
“If they buy this painting of mine, they have exactly what they bargained for—a beautiful painting of two people sitting in a café in Paris. Miguel understood that! He agreed with me, and we gave people what they wanted. That’s all.”
“Miguel agreed, huh? And what did Miguel do with the originals?”
“I suppose he sold them like you said—but does it matter? No one would be able to tell the difference between them unless you tested the age of the canvas. With a newer painting, you couldn’t even do that. You see, no one was cheated—not really. The buyer got what he wanted.”
“No, he didn’t—It’s not real, Gavin!”
“But it is real! If I can reproduce a thing so perfectly that no one can tell the difference, then it creates its own reality. Is one identical twin any less real than the other?” I pulled the beer bottle from his hand and held it up next to mine. “Which is the real and which is the fake? They’re identical, Connor! Because one was made a little earlier in time than the other one doesn’t make it less real. There is no real one!”
He shook his head in exasperation. “You’re looking at this all wrong, Gavin. Look, suppose you had a chance to buy—I don’t know—the Mona Lisa. You have the money, you pick up the painting and then you discover the painting is a fraud—It’s a copy by one of his apprentices or something. How would you feel?”
“How do you know for sure the Mona Lisa wasn’t painted by one of da Vinci’s apprentices? Would it make any difference? Would it suddenly be worthless, after being revered as a great work of art over the centuries?”
“Damn it, Gavin, that’s stupid. What’s the matter with you? Are you crazy?” he said and immediately seemed to realize what he’d said and who he’d said it to. “I didn’t mean that to come out like that, Gavin. Not like it sounded.”
But it was too late. The words were there between us like the broken glass, sharp and hurtful. They had cut to the bone. I shrugged, trying not to show how much I cared.
“Then you agree with the judge. He said I misperceived reality and found me not guilty because of it. No mens rea—no guilty mind.” I looked up at him. “Just crazy.” I handed him back his beer bottle and turned to go back to the living room.
He caught my arm and pulled me back around. “Damn it! Listen to me. Santiago took advantage of you! He knew it was wrong, but he manipulated you anyway, Gavin. Don’t you see?”
Suddenly, I was really worn out and aching all over. I tried to smile. “I see. You’re saying that because you think I’m not—right in the head—he was able to fool me into helping him. Into doing those paintings for him. I know—that’s what my lawyer thinks too. And my psychiatrist. Luckily the judge agreed with them and that’s why I’m not in prison. Or dead in a prison cell like Miguel.” Gently, I disengaged his hand from my arm. “I’m pretty tired now, Connor. I have to ask you to excuse me.”
He looked as if he wanted to argue with me, but in the end, he nodded and closed up his notebook, shoving it back in his pocket. He pulled out a card and pressed it in my hand. “Call me if you think of anything…if you need anything. I still have some questions for you, if you’ll talk to me again.”
“Yes, all right. Maybe tomorrow.” I slipped the card in my pocket and walked with him to the door. He looked back down at me, hesitating a little, but I guess there really wasn’t anything left to say. He nodded once more and closed the door behind him.
Chapter Three
The house was quiet as I got ready for bed—almost too quiet, like it was listening again, or waiting for something. I could hear it even over the grunts and loud breathing on the DVD I was watching, another porn classic from Miguel’s stash. He’d brought a bunch of them over one night when he was staying at my house while I finished some paintings, working long into the night to get them finished in time for an already scheduled exhibition. He’d told me he had buyers who were most anxious to get their hands on the paintings—a collection of oils by a relatively new artist from southern California.
Usually, I could use the porn to jack off and relieve the stress and tension I was feeling, but not tonight. I kept remembering that morning in the shower when Connor Todd held me against him, his hard cock rubbing against my crease, while his soft lips pressed against mine. I couldn’t get him out of my mind. That, combined with my bruises and the ache in my shoulders from painting all day, had me feeling like I was tied up in knots.
Deciding to get a bath to help me relax, I went into the adjoining bathroom and filled the tub with steaming water, as hot as I could stand it. I planned to soak away the aches and pains along with some of the bad feelings churning around inside me if I could. I poured in some herbal bath salts and inhaled the fragrant steam coming off the water as I stripped off my clothes.
I popped open one of the beers Connor Todd left on the coffee table in my living room and went to soak in the tub while I drank it. Lying back in the water, I relaxed and let it seep into my aching muscles, trying to clear my mind. Much later, I dragged my pleasantly limp, relaxed body from the tub and pulled back the covers on the bed. I stretched out on my back, and maybe it was from watching the porn Miguel left behind, or maybe it was from talking about him earlier in the evening, but his image sprang up unbidden in my mind.
That’s how I always thought of him—Miguel—just the one name like some movie or TV stars went by. Larger than life, magnetic and appealing. So dominant and so vivid he only ever needed the one name. I could close my eyes and still clearly see his tawny, olive skin, his glossy black hair and those soft pink lips. He’d seduced me easily that first night at the party in his honor. I’d never met anyone more charming, more charismatic. It was Miguel’s birthday and Steven Oswald had convinced me to go to the party with him.
“You never get out anymore since your grandfather passed away, Gavin, and I know he wouldn’t want you to sit around and brood over him.”
“I’m not brooding over him. I just don’t like big crowds of people.”
“Miguel specifically asked me to bring you, Gavin. I think he really likes you, and he could help you make contacts. He’s having the party at his gallery and all the right people will be there. It could help your career immensely.”
I snorted. “What career? I copy paintings, Steven Oswald—it’s just a hobby. An avocation, like my grandfather wanted me to have. You’ve kept me busy these last few weeks since his death and I appreciate it, but I don’t really need the money. Between my parents’ estate and what my grandfather left me, I’m really fine. I don’t have to work at all.”
“I know,” he said, his kind eyes searching my face. “But you enjoy working, don’t you? It’s been a good distraction for you since your granddad’s passing. You know he asked me to look after you for him, once he’d gone. He was afraid you’d spend too much time alone here in the house and not go out and cultivate friendships, find some real happiness.”
I smiled at him. “You sound just like him. I’m fine—really!”
“Humor me, then. Go with me to Miguel’s party and have a good time.”
So I let myself be talked into going and that was the beginning. Miguel came up to me the minute we walked into the room. He was charming, kind and very attentive all evening, hardly leaving my side. It was exciting to be with him, but as it grew later and the crowd got thinner, I looked for Steven Oswald to take me home. It was then Miguel pulled me close and murmured in my ear.
<
br /> “I told him I’d see you safely home, Gavin. I hope that’s all right with you.”
“Oh, but…you can’t leave your party just yet, can you?”
He looked around him and lifted one shoulder elegantly. “Maybe just a few more minutes. Can you wait that long? Let’s sit over here by the window, shall we, and have another glass of champagne.”
We had another glass or two and when Miguel was called away by one of his friends, he made his apologies and said he’d be right back to take me home. The champagne and the unaccustomed late hour had made me sleepy, so I put my head back on the sofa to wait for him.
It must have been hours later that I awoke to find myself alone in the huge, now-empty gallery, the other partygoers having gone home. I stood up, swaying a little from too much champagne and Miguel came up behind me, taking my arm. “My apologies, dear, but I was called away to deal with a minor emergency outside, and when I returned you were sleeping. You looked so peaceful I was trying to decide whether to wake you up or let you rest.”
I put a shaky hand to my head. “I really need to get home.” I stood up, intending to head for the door. “I can get a cab if you’re not ready to leave yet.”
“Are you sure?” He came up beside me and slid one hand down to my lower back, causing me to shiver. “Wouldn’t you like to stay until morning?” Sexual need curled tightly through my belly. It had been too long since I’d visited the hotel bar, and this man’s sexy brown skin and his graze brushing against my back made me hard almost at once. Still, a warning bell in the back of my head was telling me to go while I still could. I pulled away from his embrace and took a step toward the door when I was seized and thrown roughly on my back on the sofa.
I remember struggling, but the champagne and shock slowed my reactions. Miguel was bigger than I was, too. He flipped me over to my stomach with ease, and soon he had my hands twisted up painfully behind me, my wrists held in a bruising grip. His hot breath danced across the side of my face, and I could smell the warm scent of his skin—a clean smell like the ocean, under laid with the slightly sour tang of sweat. I could feel the hard press of his cock on my ass.
