Page 49 of Edge of Ruin
I ignored that and went on. “Lucia was determined to make me respectable. She wanted me to study something that would make me good money, turn me into a pillar of the community. She loved art, but she liked classics. She didn’t understand wild experimental art. We had a hell of a time fighting it out.”
“And you won?” He twirled a lock of my hair around his finger.
“No, not at first. I compromised. I agreed to study graphic design. I tried, I really did, but I was miserable, and my grades sucked, and I ended up losing my scholarship. Lucia was furious with me.”
“And? What did you do then?”
I shrugged. “I mostly waitressed and tended bar. I was a bike messenger for a while. I saved enough to reenroll in art school, one semester at a time. I survived on art show openings for a couple of years.”
He looked puzzled. “How’s that?”
“You know those wine-and-cheese receptions at art galleries when a new exhibit opens? You can find one every night in New York, if you inform yourself. Cheese, crackers, grapes, strawberries, mini-quiches, puff pastries. If you’re too broke to buy groceries, they’re great. You can choff a day’s worth of calories all in one go.”
He stirred uncomfortably. “You were that desperate?”
“Oh, it wasn’t so bad,” I assured him. “I saw a lot of art. It did me good. And then I met this gallery owner, Brian. I signed a contract with him. And he started to sell some of my stuff. My brief artistic golden age.”
He lifted his head. “Brian? He’s the filthy fuckhead ex, isn’t he?”
I went utterly still on top of him. “Ah ... what if he is?”
“Brian Wilder, right? Wilder Galleries, in Soho?”
I was shocked. “How in the holy hell do you know that?”
“It’s the age of information,” he said innocently. “Shouldn’t be hard to find out where the prick lives.”
“You wouldn’t!” I felt panicked, as if that poisonous toxic waste from my past could reach out and somehow contaminate this delicate, shining thing I had discovered with Jack. “Don’t you dare! Leave him alone! Promise me!”
He stroked my back. “Shhh. Don’t worry about it.”
I hissed at him, anything but reassured. “If you mess with Brian, I’ll take you apart! I will deconstruct you and sell you for scrap!”
He pressed my ass, pulsing his cock inside me. Reminding me he was the man, no doubt. Hah. “I hear you,” he soothed. “So, back to your story. The fuckhead started selling your work, and then? What kind of work was it?”
“Well, I met him during my barbed-wire and broken-beer-bottle period.”
His eyes widened. “Your what?”
“I was rebellious at the time,” I explained. “I felt very put upon because of my tragic childhood. I was mad at my birth mother for going to jail and killing herself. I was mad at Lucia for trying to control me, et cetera, et cetera. And I was drinking way, way too much espresso. I put all of that wild mojo into my work.”
“I see.” His voice was guarded.
“Anyway, Brian discovered me, you might say,” I went on. “Decided to clean me up. Make me marketable.”
“And you got involved with him?” He cupped my breast in his hands.
“Yes,” I said, my voice catching breathlessly. “It was a disaster. On every level, not just a personal one.”
“What happened?” He began to rock his pelvis up against me, pressing his pubic bone against my clit in a slow, circular movement.
I pushed against his chest until I was upright, glaring sternly down at him. “Don’t distract me,” I lectured. “This is hard stuff to talk about. You’re cheating!”
His hips surged, making me undulate helplessly on top of him. “Sorry,” he murmured. “You’re just so sexy. I forgot myself. And then?”
“What happened was that he turned out to be an art vampire, in addition to being an evil fuckhead. All he wanted was to make me into his money-grubbing zombie slave.”
“I see,” he said.
