Page 64 of There Are No Saints

She brought her boyfriend Paul along, and his roommate Logan. Logan is a tattoo artist—in fact, he did the quote on my ribs.

“Who’s that?” Cole snaps, following my gaze.

“My roommate Joanna.”

“I know that,” he says testily. “I meant the other two.”

Before I can respond, we’re interrupted by Sonia bringing over another round of brokers and curators who want to talk to Cole, and by extension, to me as well.

At the beginning of the evening, I noticed a strange tension in Cole—separate from his anger at me. He was scanning the room. Looking for someone.

But that person never materialized.

And as the night wears on, as the time passes that anyone important would have come, I see him relax.

I can read Cole. When he wants me to . . . and also when he doesn’t.

He doesn’t want me to know he was watching. Which instantly makes it the most intriguing aspect of the evening.

Who the fuck is he waiting for?

The accolades pour down on my shoulders. Not because of Cole or his influence. I saw it for myself before he ever arrived—the work is GOOD.

The feeling of achievement, of true divine creation, eclipses everything else that happens that night, and all thatwillhappen in the next few days. Profiles, posts, re-posts, and an online viral spread of the painting are all coming. I see that laid out before me.

But in this moment, I don’t care.

The only thing I think is this:

I fucking did it.

I made art.

* * *

In the elationat the end of the night, I turn to Cole. I’m glowing with happiness. It illuminates everything around me, giving every single person their own private interior glow. Making them beautiful to me.

In that moment I think of all the criticism Cole gave me. All the advice. I think of the studio space itself, which I only have because of him.

And I look at his face. That beautiful fucking face.

I feel grateful to him, genuinely grateful.

Below that . . . the deeper, darker emotion that always lurks beneath the surface. It’s been there from the moment I laid eyes on him, even in my most extreme and awful circumstance. When I viewed him as the angel of death.

I wanted death.

I wanted HIM.

Every moment of our kiss is seared in my brain. His taste, his scent, those full, strong lips, and the teeth beneath . . .

The flavor of my own blood in my mouth.

I want more.

I drag him into the empty offices next to the gallery. My mouth is all over him, my hands too. I shove him up against a desk and I drop to my knees before him, opening the buckle of his belt.

At that moment, someone across the room clears their throat.

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