Normally, I’d run for the hills with this agenda, but Riley’s delighted . . . and maybe I do need to loosen up. So I nod with only a moderate amount of dread.
Riley then launches into a blow-by-blow description of a doomed blind date she went on while I was away, and we laugh hysterically while sharing a serving of green tea ice cream.
When we finally stand to leave, I sway.
Riley admonishes, “I knew you shouldn’t have had that second sake. You look like you’re going to fall over. You know you always have weird dreams when you drink sake.”
“I’m just really tired,” I whine, waving my arms.
As we tumble out the restaurant door and head back to the apartment, a wall of exhaustion hits me. My bed’s never looked so good.
I’m not sure if it was indeed the sake or the emotional unloading, but Max takes center stage in my dream that night, and not in a PG kind of way.
It’s dark, so dark, and I slowly crawl on the floor through the gallery. The rooms are deserted. I’m so low to the ground that even when I look up, I can’t see the paintings clearly. I move to the back and see someone leaning against the wall but I can’t tell who it is, and I’m very nervous.
As I get closer I realize it’s Max. He hums but I can’t distinguish the tune. I crawl closer until I’m under him and my fingers inch up his legs. He doesn’t acknowledge me at all, just keeps humming. Even though I have a sense I’m dreaming, I can really feel the texture of his jeans.
My hands keep moving up, pressing on his thighs and feeling every tense muscle. Finally, I get to his crotch and my fingers press everywhere, but I can’t find his cock. I panic, not understanding what has happened to it, but then he reaches down and strokes my face with one hand while unzipping his fly with the other. He pulls his cock out and it’s substantial . . . how could I have missed it? He lifts my chin and watches as I take him in my hand and rub him against my wet lips.
Suddenly, instead of the darkness, we’re in a painting . . . something like a Jackson Pollock with paint splattered everywhere, and my mouth is moving over him as we float through the abstract landscape. I feel lost in his heat, the scent and feel of him. His humming gets louder and he starts thrusting. I’m jolted awake just as I feel his cum hit the back of my throat.
I pant, tangled up in my sheets, as I come down from the dream and slowly grasp that I’m in my bed alone. The dream comes back to me in pieces, my stomach churns as I realize that I’m the art slut in the dream. I swallow the bile edging up my throat. Even the idea of lowering myself to that level is enough reason to never see him again. It’s four in the morning, and I curl in a ball and don’t sleep another wink until my alarm goes off at six.
Wednesday afternoon Adam calls me in from the studio. I sit down in his office and he shares that Alistair has asked him if he’s comfortable with me taking on a writing project for him.
I explain to Adam that Jonathan and I met at Max’s show and he offered to review my work and look at samples.
“I thought he was just being polite. So I’m confused why he’s wants to hire me for a project when he hasn’t seen my work yet.”
Although I need to find out what’s going on, I’m happy to see Adam not only doesn’t mind, but also encourages me to do the work. As long as I do it on my own time, I have his blessing.
He pulls off the Post-it, hands me Jonathan’s number and tells me to use his office to call him. After he leaves for a meeting, I dial the number.
“Is Mr. Alistair available?” I ask his assistant, “Ava Jacobs calling.”
There’s a short pause.
“Ava!”
“Hi Jonathan.”
“I’ve had a good chat with Adam. Since we’re colleagues, I felt compelled to speak to him before talking to you, and I’m happy to report he was encouraging about the idea of you working on a project for me.”
“Yes, he just told me. I’m so glad.”
“Well, let’s meet to discuss it. Are you free for drinks tomorrow evening?”
“Absolutely!”
“Meet me at the bar at the Chateau Marmont at six-thirty. Give them my name when you arrive.”
“I’ll be there. Thank you, Jonathan.”
After I hang up, I clap my hands together excitedly. My first professional writing job for a real client who isn’t Adam! Nothing against Adam, but it’s like working for my dad. I happily float through the afternoon.
The following evening, I dodge a pack of paparazzi as I pull up to the valet at the Chateau Marmont. It must suck to be a celebrity, I think as the pack of animals with cameras strapped around their necks pace just beyond the entrance to the driveway.
I’m glad I put extra effort into my appearance. I have a silver silk shirt tucked into gray wool slacks. My hair’s down and smoothed back, and I’m even wearing high-heeled sandals. I certainly look more sophisticated and elegant than I feel inside.
Jonathan greets me at the entrance to the bar.
Moments after we’re seated, his cell phone rings, and he looks at the screen then back at me apologetically.
“I’m sorry, Ava. May I take this briefly?”
I nod, and he scoots his chair back from the table and turns away.
“Yes,” he says quietly into the receiver.
“Yes, she’s here . . . No, we haven’t discussed it yet, we just got here.” He sounds frustrated. “Yes, you’ve made that abundantly clear.”
I realize I shouldn’t be listening. I turn away and focus on the almost-empty bar, but it’s early for this crowd. In the corner I notice a striking young couple huddled together. They’re laughing, and he kisses her gently. It’s like they’re in their own bubble, and I feel a pang for that all-consuming love.
Jonathan pulls his chair forward. “I’ll call you later, but right now I’m turning my phone off,” he states firmly. As he shuts his phone down, he looks up and smiles.
“Now where were we?”
We go through the pleasantries of discussing the exposition, and he tells me some of his plans for an upcoming issue of Art+trA. We order martinis and, after they arrive, he brings up the project.
“So, Ava, do you remember our conversation at Max’s opening in New York when I mentioned a plan for a coffee-table book about his work?”
“Yes.” I feel apprehensive about where this is going.
“Well, after stalling, the project has been given the green light again, and Taylor and Tiden Press wants it out in time to correspond with Max’s big show in Barcelona in early fall. The scans of the art were completed a while ago, and most of the layout is done, but the copy still needs to be written,” he says with a smile. “And that’s where you come in.”
“Me? How would I be involved?” I’m confused, knowing this is a huge project.
He tilts his chin up and levels his penetrating gaze on me. “We want you to write it.”
I fight to keep my mouth from falling open. He can’t be serious. I struggle to get my bearings as a flush moves up my neck. “Don’t get me wrong Mr. Alistair—”
“Oh, please call me Jonathan,” he interrupts.
“Well, Jonathan, I’d love more than anything to work with you and write for Art+trA, or any other publication you see fit. But write the copy for a coffee-table book? That seems rather ambitious.”
My mind’s reeling. Part of me is getting excited, even though I know I shouldn’t be. “I mean, you must understand—this is a huge opportunity. It’d be a dream come true.”
He leans forward with his elbow on the table and rests his chin in his hand. The intensity of his look is unnerving.
“Can I ask one question?” I ask.
He raises his eyebrows and nods.
“Why me?”
“I have to be honest. I have my reservations as well. This is a big undertaking, and it’s an important job; you were requested by the artist.”
“Max.” I take a sharp breath.
“Let me correct myself . . . He didn’t request you—h
e insisted. He said it was the only way he would let the book be published.”
“Why on earth would he do that?” I ask, baffled.
“That’s exactly what I’d like to know. I hope you don’t mind, but I have to ask . . . Are you intimately involved with Max?”
“No! We barely know each other.”
Jonathan looks relieved, and I wonder if the look in his eyes could be about something other than Max. He leans back in his chair.
“That’s good. I’m sure you can understand why. Max’s very volatile, and what if you had a personal conflict in the middle of the project?”
“No worries there,” I assure him.
“Good. I will say Max has always had a particular point of view about this book that makes his recommendation of you relevant and, possibly, very strategic. He knows a large portion of his collector-base is younger people, newer to the art market. Consequently, he wants his book to have a young, fresh point of view. As you must know, so many of the art books are written by longtime academics, who tend to pontificate to sound impressive.”
I smile broadly. “Well, that’s encouraging to hear. I’ll definitely be young and fresh.”
He nods. “I don’t want you to worry. I’ll make myself completely available as you work, and I’ll assign you to a top-notch editor to help as well. It’s of my utmost interest that you succeed spectacularly.”
I study him for a moment and wonder how he really feels about this. I’m sure Adam spoke highly of me and Max may have his demands, but Jonathan must see something in me to go along and give me a career-defining opportunity. I’m so grateful and I feel a swell of affection. His eyes soften under my gaze.
“Thank you, Jonathan. I’m really honored and I won’t let you down.”
He smiles warmly. “Wonderful. Let’s proceed then.” He pulls out a card and hands it to me. “Here’s the number for Max’s agent, Dylan. You can call him about arranging a meeting to discuss the project. You should do this as soon as possible. I’m sure you realize the hardest part of this project will be managing the artist. And that’s not easy with Max, not in any regard.”
I nod, knowing he’s absolutely right.
“Meanwhile our lawyer will contact you in the morning with an agreement. And my assistant will set up a time to for you to come by the office and go over technical issues, layouts, word count, fact-checking, etc.”
This is all happening so fast. I’m teetering between euphoria and terror.
Jonathan signs the receipt and slips his wallet back in his jacket.
“If this goes well, Ava, this will open all kinds of opportunities for you.”
He places his hand over mine and I’m immediately curious. What type of opportunity is he referring to?
We get up just as the bar is filling up and head out to the valet. Right before my car pulls up, he steps closer and runs his fingertips along my arm.
“You know, Ava, I really think you’re something special. I’m looking forward to getting to know you better.” He gives me an intense look before kissing me lightly on each cheek.
“Thank you for the drink, Jonathan, and thank you for the opportunity.” I smile, but I’m overwhelmed. Jonathan Alistair sees something special in me.
He’s at the top of the art world hierarchy, and he’s handsome and charming to boot. I also feel a thrill because it’s feeling like some of his interest in me has nothing to do with publishing.
The next day, I step outside the studio three times with my phone before I finally get the nerve to call Max. Jonathan asked me to contact Dylan, but I need to get a sense of what’s going on with Max before we meet. The only way to accomplish that is to talk to him directly.
He picks up the after two rings. “Hey, Ava. What’s up?” I swear I can hear the smile in his voice.
Smooth, I think. Let’s all pretend his demands haven’t changed the course of my career.
“Hey, Max. I met with Jonathan last night and he asked me if I would write the copy for your art book. That’s a pretty amazing offer for an inexperienced writer,” I say, trying to sound as casual as possible.
“You haven’t changed your mind, have you? Jonathan said you were a little nervous about it.” He’s the one sounding nervous now.
“No, I’m excited about it, and of course flattered, but I can’t imagine why you think I’m the right person for this? I’m sure there are hundreds of writers in the art world far more qualified than me.”
“But they won’t be you, Ava. Remember all the things I said at tea, how I have a feeling about you . . . that we were destined to meet and help each other? And remember how I wanted us to work together? I haven’t stopped thinking about that and then the book issue came up again. It was all so clear. This is our chance!”
I have to steel myself because the sheer joy in his voice, the conviction destiny has pushed us together is seductive in the most dangerous way.
Remember the dream, remember the dream, I chant to myself. The image of me on my knees in the darkened gallery is sobering. I try another tack.
“But Max, what if I screw it up? What if it sucks? I’m not even a published writer. You don’t want to be embarrassed.”
“Ava, I’d never let that happen. Surely you know how important this project is. I wouldn’t want either of us to look bad.”
“But—”
“Look, don’t make up your mind now. Let’s meet and talk about it. At least get your feet wet. Then if it isn’t working, we’ll move on.”
“You promise? You promise if it’s going badly and I suck, you’ll let me walk away?”
“I promise,” he says solemnly.
Somewhere inside, I don’t completely believe he’ll let me walk away that easily, especially if he knows my heart’s holding me there.
We agree to meet for lunch at his home on Sunday, and he’ll have Dylan join us. He assures me he’ll talk to Dylan to update him on everything. I take down his landline number at his house and the address on Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu.
I’m a bit uncomfortable with the idea of two against one, and I ask if I can bring my roommate, Riley. I mention she’s a designer and always has an interesting viewpoint.
He agrees and I find comfort in the idea. Riley can try to get a read on Max. Clearly, I’ve lost my objectivity with this man, and Riley will protect me if I’m stumbling down a murky road with no sense of how to get home again.
Chapter Six / Follow the Yellow Brick Road
If you ask me what I came to do in this world, I, an artist, will answer you: I am here to live out loud
~Émile Zola
Bright and early Saturday morning, Riley wakes me up, excited about the day ahead. After coffee and bagels, we head to the salon for our pedicures. Riley gets polka dots painted on top of her polish, but I go for a solid burgundy. My pale white feet have never looked so exotic.
We hang out in the salon while our toenails dry, since Riley refuses to be seen in public, wearing flip-flops and little rubber strips between her toes. When it’s finally safe, we put our sandals on and we head out to do a little window-shopping before going to lingerie nirvana. Agent Provocateur’s presentation is minimal in a darker, kinkier and way more expensive way than Victoria’s Secret. Once I’ve adjusted to the shock of hundred dollar panties, I’m able to appreciate the intricate detailing in the gorgeous lingerie. Riley convinces me that the real fun is trying things on. So we pick out a number of outfits and head to the dressing rooms.
I strip down to my plain panties, and I take the first bra off the hanger. It’s an intricate design of satin with lace insets. When I put it on, it pushes my breasts up and out, making my cleavage look even fuller than it already is. I hold up the matching panties over my cotton ones as I look in the mirror. The lavender color is beautiful against my fair skin.
I wonder what a man would think of me in this outfit. It looks like something sophisticated Jonathan would appreciate.
I take a sharp breath, surprised I thought of
Jonathan in such a provocative way, and remind myself where I am.
“Hey Riley, what’s the point of spending so much money on lingerie? Anything that looks this good is going to instantly come off, if you know what I mean,” I say over the dressing room wall.
“That isn’t the point. The goal today is to get you to feel sexy and beautiful. When you wear the good stuff like this, you feel different. I swear it’s true. And once you realize what a goddess you are, the men will naturally follow.”
“Oh, okay.” As I turn in the mirror and admire how the lavender lace accentuates the swell of my breasts, I admit I’m feeling pretty damn sexy.
Next I try on the black lace ensemble with the tiny, hot pink bows. It’s so out of character for me that I giggle. This outfit has a garter belt, and I imagine how wicked I would look with black stockings and shoes with spike heels. The bra for this outfit is cut so low my nipples peek over the tops of the cups.
Max would appreciate this outfit. My breath hitches. Surely it would inspire him.
I close my eyes and imagine the feel of his hands all over me. Would he pull me against his hard body with a groan, slowly unhook the bra and slide the panties down? Suddenly investing in expensive lingerie makes perfect fiscal sense.
I’ve saved the virginal outfit for last. I fasten the top hook on the corset and look at my reflection. My skin’s almost as light as the white satin. The overall effect is ethereal. I imagine I’m stretched out over fine linens on a canopy bed and surrounded by sheer white curtains with my hair fanned across the pillow.
I gaze at an imaginary bare-chested Max standing by the bed with a fierce look in his eyes as he unzips his jeans. I’m going to need a cold shower after this shopping trip.
“I’ll meet you at the register,” Riley says, as she leaves the dressing room, and I snap back to reality. There’s no way I’m getting this white outfit—it’s too wedding night-ish. I decide on the lavender bra and panties as I get dressed again.
A wave of buyer’s remorse hits me as soon as I’ve signed the credit card slip. I’ve no business spending this kind of money on underwear, but I try to rationalize it by remembering the bonus Adam gave me from the art show. Besides, I’m usually careful with my money.
Work of Art ~ the Collection Page 6
