Page 15 of Paint Me Love
The rest of my morning is slow, my absentmindedness hitting peak levels even for my standards. My newfound interest is disruptive to my usual efficiency, but I’m still mostly managing. Besides, I’m sure I’ll be back to normal the moment I’ve satisfied my curiosity about Daniel. It’s a little sad perhaps, but it is inevitable—once the mystery is solved and I’ve moved on from that soul-enlightening experience, this hum will die and with it dying, the world will settle back into its dullness.
Lunch goes well and preliminary agreements are made. Iliya is eager to work with Salinger Tech so he can have his systems upgraded. Or replaced. Or was it hacking someone else’s systems? It escapes me, but my VP was there, so I’m sure he can remind me when we present this to the Board. Iliya did ask after Adam, which confirms they’d fucked in the past and that he is interested in a repeat he’s not going to get. I suppose I could maybe help with that, but I’m not sure it’s worth it for me to meddle. Adam gets really pissy whenever I ‘overstep’. Even if it’s for a good cause, like charming this German out of even more of his money. I might be reckless and manipulative, but I know when to abdicate any potentially wasted efforts.
Oh, well. Maybe next time.
After one more meeting, which is online this time and more of a catch-up with a partner than a deal-settler, I head over to the gallery. I shake my leg the entire drive there, tapping my fingers on my thigh because it seems one nervous tic is not quite enough today. The edge I’m feeling mounts further as I enter the pretentious interior of the building and one of Cassandra’s assistants greets me.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Salinger,” the woman with freckles says, a beaming smile lighting up her face as if I’m thereincarnation of Jesus Christ in person. “Cassandra and Mr. Marcello are waiting for you in the office.”
I thank the woman and exert all my willpower to ignore Daniel’s mural as I climb the stairs, but my efforts are in vain. I just can’t help it as my eyes automatically veer to it. I halt myself mid-stride and just look at the mural, shivers crawling all over me as if this is the first time I am seeing it. It’s the third, because I was here on Sunday when the gallery was closed, sitting on a foldable plastic chair in front of the mural at seven a.m. while my coffee went cold.
Really, I don’t understand it, but I can’t fight it either, the way it speaks to me. It’s an infringement upon my inner balance, an invasion of my senses that shouldn’t be possible and yet is.
I tear myself away from the mural and slip into the hallway, feeling the muscles of my face relax a notch as I round the corner where the intersection is. This is where I ran into Daniel, my lovely little artist. He was funny in an adorably awkward way. Refreshing.Shit, I can’t believe it’s actually him.That this whole thing happened and I am finally meeting the guy I’ve been chatting with for a while. Yes, I encouraged him to enter the competition, because I just knew it as soon as I saw that single work of his that he’s the real deal, but he won his spot all by himself.
And now he’s here to wreck my life.
I smirk, unable to hold it in. Is this fate? Was he sent to take me down from my throne? Fuck, I’m so ready.
I open the door and enter Cassandra’s office. Both she and Daniel stand from the couch. His eyes take me in slowly as if he is mapping feature after feature so he can recall them from his imagination. It’s titillating. There are many photos of me online that he could use as a reference, but clearly that won’t do. He’s fascinated by me, but a tinge of apprehension lives in his gaze, like he has his guard up. It stirs my blood until it’s thrumming inmy ears. My cock jerks, suddenly very interested. If I thought the buzz I was feeling for the past week was intrusive, it has nothing on the one that racks through me as our gazes clash, the brown in his a rusty hue.
“Uh, hi, Mr. Salinger,” he huffs out in surprise. “Why are you here?”
Those eyes are perfect on him, objectively and subjectively. His sun-touched skin tone sets off the red pigment that makes the eye color so interesting. His brown hair is cut in a neat temple-fade, opening his face even further. It’s a nice face, with a straight button nose and naturally full lips. I don’t know how I didn’t notice any of this during the initial meeting with the artists, but then again, I was in the middle of a giant deal and I was trying to avoid getting obsessed over the fact that one of those artists is the guy I have been sexting.
And yet, you got there in the end anyway.
I let out a rueful smile, but only for a second. I wouldn’t want to ruin my stern and authoritative image just yet.
“You two have met each other?” Cassandra jumps in, guiding my attention away from my artist.
“Briefly. I mistook Mr. Marcello for one of your staff when we bumped into each other on the day of the gallery’s opening.” I wave it off with a hand, the details irrelevant, and turn back to the man in question. “You are the one who painted the mural on the second floor?” I ask, even if that’s a dumb question with a very obvious answer or else Daniel Marcello wouldn’t be here.
Still, I need him to confirm it verbally.
“I—Yes, Mr. Salinger.” His eyebrows knit together.
Is he nervous? Does he think I’m here to scold him? That I didn’t like his mural? I stifle the impulse to reach out and touch him. God, I want to eat him up and make him whimper in pleasure.
Daniel likes his mural. He’s proud of it and he was super excited to show it to me. That didn’t surprise me. Artists, or at least the ones that stick to doing art, are self-centered, selfish, often narcissistic, even if I’m not getting that vibe from him or his works. Maybe he’s better at hiding it, or maybe I’ve found an outlier, someone who’s not driven by fame or praise. It’s something else, something deeper, rawer, more exquisite. Something that I must figure out if I want to get rid of this obsession with him that has come over me.
I tilt my chin toward the couch, inviting them to sit back down as I flop into the luxurious armchair across from them. The tips of my fingers tingle as I lace them together in my lap. “I’m interested in knowing what inspired your interpretation of ‘Ambition’.”
I expected Daniel to falter, but he doesn’t seem to mind the question. In fact, those beautiful eyes brighten even more, and his posture relaxes. “It’s just how it feels to me. It’s… I think there are many ways you can depict it, but most of them show only the bright side of it. The good, the happy, the end result. But there is also a lot of hard work involved, or sacrifices you sometimes have to make. That’s what I wanted to show.”
Cassandra nods along as Daniel explains his choice of colors, my mind immediately drawing parallels to his other works. The one with the demon stands out the most, the idea there most likely similar, though I guess it’s a supposition of evil versus good or maybe a way to show that looks can be deceiving and it’s the soul that ultimately matters. Else, why would there be flowers growing under the creature’s claws?
It’s deep, truly. I tend to scoff at this kind of thing, though this time around that’s not the case. Is it because I feel seen? Because someone has finally realized I am a sad, lonely, pitiful man with rot beneath the impeccable exterior?
Daniel’s eyes are even more alive when he concludes his explanation, a small smile teasing at his lips. They aren’t as plump as Adam’s and neither does stark red lipstick decorate them, but they suit Daniel’s gentle features. With the right light and angle, I think he would make a good live-drawing model, draped over this exact couch naked as late afternoon sun filters in through the massive window and illuminates one side of his face.
An annoying itch starts in my right wrist, but I ignore it, instead resuming the conversation. “I had a look at your other works,” I say, not ceasing my observation of him. It’s a matter of I can’t more so than I won’t. A worry line appears on his forehead as he anticipates my next words. “You have a very impressive, unique style.”
I’m not one to praise because few things ever leave an impression on me. The custom-tailored suits I wear, the food I eat, the cars I drive, the penthouse I live in and the four other residences I seldom travel to, all of those are inconsequential. A commodity, a sign of wealth, a way to let others know how much greater than them I am. How much more ambitious, even if part of the reason for that is the head start I got in life due to my parents’ foresight to get rich. That’s not to say I had it all handed to me on a silver platter—on the contrary. They taught me what they knew, they molded me and made sure I had what it takes to make it where they couldn’t dream to get—from a company worth a few hundred thousand to an empire worth billions.
So, praising Daniel Marcello’s art is a big fucking deal because I tend to hold others up to the same standard I set for myself.
Daniel glances at Cassandra, a question on his mind clearly, though he doesn’t state it. I can guess what it is—after all, I did instruct Cassandra to keep things vague and not mention me, even if I am not sure why exactly.
