Page 11 of Deliverance

There’s a part of me—the true artist—that despises my pragmatic acceptance-seeking, money-hungry brain because, at its heart, art isn’t about income or fame. Art is about feelings. Art is about inner beauty. Art is about self-expression. But Tina’s right. In a world ruled by capitalism, even art has its price, and I’ve learned to ignore the inner voice that calls me a sell-out from time to time. I’ve learned that opportunities are easy to miss if you’re not trying hard enough. And every potential client is an opportunity.

Including Zander Shaw.

Last night after the event, I couldn’t resist and stalked his Instagram. He posts a lot and he posts everything—from his keto lunches to his sweaty GoPro screenshots from his kayaking adventures.

I’m definitely intrigued.

“He’s hot.” Santiago finally passes down his verdict, returning my phone.

I shrug it off. My interest isn’t physical. It never was. The body is just a shield. The mind is what really matters.

“Oh, come on. Just accept it. Dude’s got it going on. How old is he?”

“I’m not sure.” Age is a useless number.

Santiago pulls out his own phone and taps something quickly, his brows creasing. “Thirty-seven? He doesn’t look it.”

“How’s that important?” I laugh.

“I don’t know, babe. Seems like these guys have been around for a while.”

“I believe they got signed really early on.” I sift through the annals of my mind, looking for information that’s been tucked away in its darkest corners. The Deviant’s music wasn’t played in my parents’ house out loud. Ever. I made that mistake once right after the release of the band’s sophomore album and female moans accompanying the vocals on the title track got me grounded. My mother wasn’t a prude by any means, but I was a teenager, and in her eyes, listening to implied sex on tape wasn’t what a nice girl would do.

Their albums came and went, and eventually, some were forgotten, but last night, Zander Shaw reminded me of the things I’d failed to carry with me throughout the years.

It was nice.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it yesterday.” Santiago puts his phone away.

“It’s all good. Did you have fun at the taping?”

“Hell, yes.” His face lights up and he dives into a passionate monologue about his adventures on the set of the newest dance show. He auditioned for the pilot months ago and had almost forgotten about it when the call came.

“Just make sure not to accidentally schedule anything for the evening of my exhibition,” I warn him when he’s done with his recap.

“Don’t worry, babe. I got the entire day blocked out on my calendar. You’ll knock ’em dead.”

I hope he’s right. Tina loved all three pieces from my newest collection, but I held off on showing her the rest. What are the chances she’ll hate them?

Although it’s not her job to like what I do.

Her job is to sell.

And she’s damn good at it.

We part ways as soon as the lunch madness settles down. Santiago is off to another audition and I head to the gallery.

It’s a short walk, every second of it filled with cosmopolitan frenzy. The noise, the colors, the accents—all part of one massive living and breathing being known as the City of Angels.

But I don’t let the name fool me. Most people who come here don’t ever make it, and the ones who do oftentimes lose it all if they aren’t careful with how they use the power that fame and fortune grants them.

Cash Webster was the perfect example. He burned so fast, he didn’t even have a chance to shine a little light. What’s left of him besides memories is a secret legacy in the form of a dozen canvases.

My heart leaps into my throat when the gallery finally comes into view a few minutes later. There’s a huge poster above the marquee with my name and the date of the exhibition. They must have put it up last night after the fundraiser, and I feel ridiculously emotional and undeserving despite the fact that earning this spot and the attention that comes with it wasn’t easy.

My mother always told me hard work would pay off. She was right. But deep down, I’m still terrified of Rhys.

What if he’s waiting for the right moment to hit when and where it hurts the most?

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