Page 7 of Yield to Me

“Do you doubt your work, Miss Glass?”

The last words were slow, calculated, as if knowing they would get to me. I wasn’t ashamed. I was—what? Afraid of putting myself out there? Of the director disregarding my merit as quickly as I had been introduced? Of Owen’s reaction when he saw what I had been working on? If Owen had sway over the Director’s opinion?

Owen stepped closer. I could feel his breath on my ear. “Don’t lie to me again, Miss Glass. I don’t play with liars.”

I wrinkled my nose. Was he threatening me? And play? What the hell did that mean? Were we playing here? I shook my head slightly and pulled out my phone. I clicked through to a piece in progress, one I had done recently.

“It’s a rush job,” I said. That was a lie, again, and from the way he raised his eyebrow, he knew it too. I didn’t have rush jobs. I made sure every piece I did was done with care. He must’ve known you couldn’t rush a wire sculpture.

The sculpture was of two hands tied with rope. One hand had a limp wrist, the other was in such a tight fist, you could almost see the fingers going through the palm. It was a sculpture of balance; one part of the subject had finally given up, eased into a life of nothingness, and yet the other hadn’t resigned itself yet, was squeezing tight with all of its power. I had made it when I was feeling particularly trapped, like I’d never be able to prove Grayson wrong.

Owen studied the picture, his eyes carefully tracing the curves of the hands. I looked down, seeing his hand holding the phone, the sleeve of his jacket exposing his wrist, lightly peppered with dark, masculine hair. I followed the sleeve up to his neck; the dark stubble on his cheeks and chin made my bottom lip quiver slightly.

He handed the phone back to me. I took it, looking up at him hesitantly, waiting for some kind of remark. Yes, you are, indeed, as great as Bourgeois! Or even: I guess there’s another Riley Glass who sculpts… But he didn’t say anything; he took a black business card from his wallet and offered it. When I reached to take it, Owen held my hand, stroking the top with his thumb. The touch coursed through my body like an electric shock, and from the way he grinned, I knew he felt it too.

“That’s for a club I own on Howard Street.” He paused, nodding at the card. He let go of my hand. “You should come by sometime.”

Surrender in red writing. s&m dungeon and nightclub. Invitation only.

“Dungeon?” I put the card into my clutch, shaking my head while I zipped it close. Of course he owned a nightclub, like every other clichéd rich businessman. I wasn’t going to go to his nightclub, and certainly not his dungeon, whatever that was supposed to be. “You’re not even going to say anything about my art?”

“You want my approval,” he said. He paused, and the smirk on his face seemed to hint at the desperation he must have known I was feeling. “But it isn’t what you need, now, is it?” He watched me carefully, and I glanced around, looking for an escape. His gaze made me self-conscious, like I couldn’t blink without him knowing exactly how nervous he made me. The power he thought he had over me—no, knew he had, was frightening. He didn’t have to ask anything. He knew. He could see right through me, and he didn’t look away.

“I want to help you, Riley,” he said calmly. His voice was suddenly lighter, gentler. I could feel my shoulders relax. Maybe he wasn’t so bad, I thought. If I took his actions at face value, it was intended to be a nice gesture, introducing me to Stevens, especially if what he said was true, that Stevens avoided incoming students like me. Still, his intentions, no matter how innocent, didn’t change the fact that they went against my convictions. Fuck the gallery owner and screw the buyer; that’s the only way to sell your art, Grayson’s words echoed through my head. That’s how your mother sold her only piece. Give up before you make the same mistake too.

I wasn’t going to let anyone, including Owen Lowell, stand in my way.

“I don’t need your pity,” I said, punctuating each word with force. “I don’t need anyone’s handouts. But thanks anyway.” Anger swelled up in my upper body, making my blood pulse. I exhaled, then smiled. “It was so nice to see you again, Mister Lowell,” I said, my voice heavy with sarcasm.

“You as well, Miss Glass,” he said as I walked away. I joined Michael, who immediately let go of his grip on the curly blond’s waist once he saw me approach. I could feel Owen watching me, seeing Michael’s arm wrap around my back, and I don’t know why, but I snuggled in closer to Michael—not because I wanted him, but because I wanted Owen to see me flirting with him. To be jealous, even though he had no reason to be. I laughed harder, smiled brighter, pursed my lips at anyone who was looking, to make sure Owen knew who he was messing with. For a brief second, I thought about how he had noticed me before we had met, and I wondered if he’d know that I was acting out this time.

“How do you know him?” Michael asked again, whispering in my ear. I repeated that he came to the cafe once; that was all. “He’s one of the biggest donors for the Foundation.” Michael glanced around to see if anyone was listening. “Keeps the program afloat.”

I shrugged. It was another reason not to trust anything Owen said. After all, he was just another rich guy who thought it was his superior duty to help needy artists like myself, especially if it came with sexual perks. Michael was okay with those perks; I was not. But it was true that Owen took care of aspiring artists when we were considered increasingly less valuable to society. That was more endearing than anything else. I wondered how much he donated to the Foundation and felt mild appreciation for him, even if he was an arrogant jerk. I wondered why he cared about the arts at all. According to my research, he didn’t seem like the artistic type.

As Michael took his exit, I took that as my signal to leave too. I fixed my makeup in the bathroom one last time. As I walked to the door, I looked around, but I didn’t see Owen anywhere. I sighed quietly and took Michael’s arm and squeezed my clutch. I wondered if his business card had his phone number too. I had to find out why he cared so much about the Foundation.

Right?

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