Page 22 of Edge of Ruin
“I’m hanging up,” I announced. “I’m too pissed to talk anymore, but I love you. Later, bye.” I hung up, my face hot. The mention of Brian’s name made me squirm with anger and shame, after six long years.
I was twenty-one when I met Brian Wilder at my student art show. It was during my rebellious period. Wilder was a suave gallery director out scouting for hot new talent. His gallery was affiliated with an art museum specializing in works by emerging artists.
He expressed an interest in my work. Soon after, he expressed an interest in me personally. He was handsome, intelligent. I’d been dazzled, flattered. At first.
Everyone had been so thrilled for me when Brian offered me a contract with his gallery. I remembered the fateful day so clearly. We were sitting in a coffee bar on Bleecker Street. I drank espresso. Brian was sipping a decaf soy latte.
“So? What do you think?” Brian asked, flicking an errant lock of hair out of my eyes.
“I-I don’t know,” I stammered. “I’m not sure yet what it entails, exactly.”
“Let me explain,” Brian said, in a patronizing voice. “I see huge potential in your work. Energy, anger, power. But it lacks discipline. Which I can help provide.”
“Um.” I sipped my espresso, pondering that unwelcome feedback.
“The lack of discipline is a general problem,” Brian observed. His eyes flicked down, checking me out. “That skirt and boots you’re wearing, for instance.” His thin lips twitched. “You have to polish up your image, if you’re going to run with me.”
I tugged down my purple velvet miniskirt to cover another couple of inches of thigh, wishing I hadn’t worn torn-up fishnet stockings. I stared down at my thigh-high lace-up black leather boots, feeling ashamed of my fashion choices, my freckled thighs, the air that I breathed. But he was offering to display my work. Everything had a price. Right?
Brian flicked another lock of my hair back and looked me up and down. “We’ll start with a haircut and a new wardrobe.”
“I can dress myself,” I said.
“Well, if this is the result...” His voice trailed off. His eyes took on a weird, hot glow as he chucked me under the chin. “I’ve never been intimate with your type before.”
I wrenched my chin away from his pinching fingers. “What do you mean, my ‘type’?” I demanded, irritated. “What type?”
“You know. The chaotic bad girl with the big innocent eyes. The lost waif. You’re like a creature out of a Japanese anime film. All eyes, with that wild mop of hair. It’s stimulating.” He tilted my chin up again. “So, about the contract. What do you say?”
It was an incredible opportunity. Any of my struggling artist friends would have cheerfully killed for it. But my jaw ached with tension, and my stomach clenched.
I had pulled my face away from his fingers and gulped the rest of my bitter coffee, wondering why I wasn’t happier.
“If you sign the contract, it will be with the understanding that you’ll accept me as an artistic mentor,” Brian said. “And I will expect you to produce. No excuses. I can make you successful, Viv. That’s what you want, isn’t it?” Brian turned the full force of his cool, assessing gray eyes on me.
My doubts felt vague and foolish and childish. Destiny called. I had to say yes to it.
So I’d done it. I’d signed the contract. I had agreed to let Brian groom me into an artistic sensation. It had been the stupidest move of my life. So far.
I stared at the luxuriant spider plants that hung in Jack Kendrick’s kitchen, thinking about the way one’s worst mistakes tended to repeat themselves again and again. They dressed themselves in different outfits, but the basic content was always the same.
Here was another man who saw just a type when he looked at me. Another man who made me feel inadequate and embarrassed simply for being what I intrinsically was, in the marrow of my bones.
Except that this time, it was worse. Maybe because my desire to gain Jack Kendrick’s good opinion was irrationally strong, and my chances of getting it so small. For fuck’s sake, I couldn’t even make fat stacks of cash for him with my art to make up for my many personality flaws. I had at least that going for me with Brian.
It was so strange, how I’d considered Brian to be very handsome, in his cold, austere way. But compared to Jack Kendrick, Brian seemed dried up and stringy. Maybe it was that empty, no-calorie crap he ate. But Kendrick, whew. A girl could just sink her teeth into that one. I would never wear that guy out. I would never use him up.
But there was absolutely no excuse for making the same mistake twice.
I grabbed a handful of cookies and marched out of the kitchen, munching them defiantly. Compensating was the only way to go. Grit my teeth. Resist the impulse.
Celibacy hadn’t killed me yet.
Chapter Nine
Tap, tap, tap on the office door. Interrupted again, Brian Wilder whipped the herbal face pack off his face and waved away the masseuse doing his feet.
“What the fuck is it this time?” he rapped out.
