Page 91 of Sweet Animosity

If I no longer painted for myself, and only painted the works of the long dead, would I even still be considered an artist? A human? Or would I become no better than the very AI robots our culture was fighting against?

Distracted by my morbid thoughts, I set about recreating the dammar resin varnish. To speed up the process, I crushed the resin crystals before pouring the turpentine over them.

As I worked, my vision blurred slightly as a pounding pressure increased inside my head. When I shook my head to clear it, a wave of vertigo made my stomach flip.

Breathing heavily, I gripped the edge of my worktable as I fought off the sensation of spiraling dizziness.

Turpentine vapors.

In horror, I looked over at the problematic window and realized it had once again shut, this time without my noticing.

As jagged darkness ripped at my vision, I lunged for the closed bedroom door, but didn’t make it.

Crumpling to the floor, I struggled to rise onto my knees as my chest tightened. I strained to pull oxygen into my lungs, but it was like sucking mashed potatoes through a straw.

It wasn’t just the fresh turpentine vapors. My entire studio was filled with dry pigments, casein paints, solvents, and chemicals like ammonium hydroxide, mineral spirits, and formaldehyde.

All used to create my forgeries.

All potentially deadly if their vapors were inhaled in a closed environment for too long.

I crawled toward the door and stretched out my arm.

My hand grasped the doorknob.

Then everything went black.

CHAPTER 32

VAR

As the helicopter prepared to land on the rooftop of the Four Monks, I checked Vivian’s phone, which I had unabashedly cloned several days earlier.

While not the least bit surprised to learn she was not, in fact, waiting for me naked in my bed, I was annoyed to see a message from some guy named Bob saying he met her last night and wanted to take her out for a movie.

A movie? What was this, the nineties?

I would just have to add Bob to the growing list of items that needed to be dealt with regarding Vivian.

Mac gestured between me and my phone. “Looking up church dates?”

I smirked. “Very funny.”

“You’re not serious about marrying this woman, are you?”

With my head turned, I stared through the window at the looming Chicago skyline. I actually hated the city. I preferred to spend my time on the small horse farm I owned in Southern Illinois. It was where I could breathe.

I had never thought about sharing that sanctuary with another woman.

Until Vivian.

Not that I thought she would like it.

It amused me to imagine her horror when I insisted on flat-heeled boots because of the uneven terrain. Or how her cute nose would wrinkle at the smell of earth and manure. In my mind, I liked to picture the fun I would have teaching her to ride a horse, despite her more than likely strong objections.

I also liked to imagine sharing a glass of wine in front of an outdoor fire. Being under the covers with her in my cabin with its massive skylight where we could stare up at the stars before falling asleep. I’d even thought about what room I’d convert into an art studio so she could capture the gorgeous sunsets that burned like fire over the hills in the distant valley.

The whole thing played across my mind like some cheesy fucking rom-com movie, and I didn’t give a damn. I wanted it to become a reality.

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