Page 31 of Edge of Ruin
It was fun. Ideas for designs flowed easily.
My art school buddy Rafael had persuaded me to try selling some of them in his booth at the open-air market down on Sixth Avenue, and I had sold several, to my utter surprise, and Rafael’s triumphant glee. The profit had almost paid my rent that month.
Brian had been disdainful of my “craftsy little hobby,” and resentful of the time it took from the work he demanded from me. But I had kept quietly on with my sideline. And after things exploded with Brian, the jewelry gave me something to fall back on. It wasn’t exactly what I’d dreamed of, but it was creative, and it paid for my gas, my car insurance, my food. And it wasn’t waitressing or bartending. Not that there was anything wrong with waitressing or bartending, but I was sick to death of them.
I’d been trying to use some of these long, silent days to churn out some more work, but I’d had no luck. I’d chalked it up to exhaustion, worry, and a blazing case of lust. And Haupt, and John the Fiend, of course. There was always that zesty little pinch of mortal dread to liven things up.
I hoped it wasn’t artist’s block. I’d experienced a very bad period of that, starting a while after I had signed the contract with Brian’s gallery.
Working with Brian had been awesome, at first. He had sold a whole bunch of my pieces, the wilder, angrier ones. Money started coming in, and that had been oh, so sweet. I had quit my cocktail-waitressing job and just basked in the thrill of being the hot new thing on the art scene. I spent a lot of the money I had made on clothes, all vetted by Brian, of course.
Then I started experimenting with another style, and things changed. Brian didn’t like the new pieces. He demanded that I make more of the old series that sold so well.
“But I’m bored with them,” I protested. “That cycle is done. I’m into a new vibe now. They’re so angry and negative, and I’m not as pissed off now as I was a year ago.”
“I don’t care,” Brian said. “They sell, babe. The new ones aren’t right for our catalog, and they’re not right for our clients. I need more pieces like Scream and Howling Skeleton. You’re making your name. Ride the market trend.”
I had chosen my words carefully, already afraid of making him angry. “But that’s the thing, Brian. Inspiration doesn’t depend on market trends. It?—”
Slam. Brian’s hand slapped down into his desk. “Don’t even start with it,” he rapped out. “I’m already bored.”
I had jumped back, and an ebony goddess figurine on the desk had teetered and almost fallen upon her substantial behind. Brian stared at me, his cool gaze menacing. “Don’t be an idiot, Viv,” he said. “Fulfil your contractual obligations to me. Or else.”
I was shocked by his ugly tone. “But ... but I just?—”
“You signed that contract. Don’t forget that. Your future as an artist depends on it.”
My mouth worked helplessly as Brian leaned back in his chair and leafed casually through a big glossy catalog of Wilder Gallery artwork.
“But … but what do you mean by that?” I finally forced out.
His smile did not reach his eyes. “We discussed this, remember? Before you signed. You agreed not to play the diva. Not to jerk me around with high-minded bullshit.”
“Yes, but I didn’t mean that I would be a?—”
“I need more pieces like the old series. End of discussion.” He slapped the catalog shut. “Oh, and another thing. Our date tonight. I can’t make it. Something’s come up. Since you now have the evening free, I suggest you get to work. I have clients asking for your work, and I mean to satisfy them.”
He got up and stood in front of his desk, hands twitching in the pockets of his tailored suit. He sighed and tilted my face up to his. His cold, hard lips brushed mine.
I flinched from his touch.
Brian sighed, rolling his eyes. “Don’t be that way, Viv. I know you’re upset, but it’ll have to wait,” he said, sounding bored. “I’m busy today. Get busy, okay? Chop chop.”
I had done as I was told. Tried to, anyway. I had trotted to my studio like a good girl. I had tried to make pieces that would please him. It made me cringe to think of how hard I had tried to satisfy his demands. How pointless all my efforts had been in the end.
Because it hadn’t worked. I had run dry immediately. I cranked out a few things, but they were obviously bad, flat, boring. My output ground to a total halt.
Brian had been furious. Convinced that I was doing it on purpose just to spite him. And that was when the sex with him had started to go from tense and problematic to outright scary. Brian used sex to punish. It was subtle, but I felt it.
The only thing I had still been able to work on during that period was the jewelry. It was the one thing that Brian had never tried to control, so I just went with it. I threw myself into it, heart and soul. I had to, since Brian burned all my bridges out of spite.
I cast a covert sideways glance at Jack, walking silently beside me, trying not to envision how he looked naked, and soaking wet. How he tasted. The solidity of his shoulders when I sank my fingernails into them.
Brian might have derailed my artistic career. He might have given me a whole, tedious closetful of stupid sexual complexes. But he also had never driven me out of my freaking mind with breath-stealing, toe-curling lust.
The tractor steadily chugged on until the van came into view. Dwayne and Jack attached the chain, and I got in the van and started the engine.
They pulled and pulled. The van shuddered and strained. Dwayne whooped in triumph when it rolled out of the deep ruts.
