Fearless (3 page)

I shook my head, and continued to eat my bagel. But I soon became aware that he was trying to catch my eye. I could see it in my peripheral vision. So, I looked up again.

Then it struck me. I had seen him before. Many times before, in fact. It never occurred to me that this guy seemed to be everywhere I went, for whatever reason. It just registered when I took a good look at his face.

I smiled, for he was staring at me. His stare was penetrating and cold, and it made me feel uncomfortable. He raised his cup of coffee to his lips and continued to stare.

Finally, he held out his hand for me to shake. “Blake,” he said. “Blake Nottingham.”

“Dalilah,” I said, although I had the feeling that he already knew my name. Just a hunch, but I was rarely wrong about such things. “Dalilah Gallagher.”

“Dalilah. So, what brings you to this bench in the middle of the day?”

I shrugged. “Don’t really have a place to go, I guess. Except home. But that’s just too depressing. What about you?”

He smiled a little. “I’m the boss. I set my own hours.” It was then that he gave me one of his cards.
Blake Nottingham, CEO, Nottingham Industries
, the card read
.
I recognized the name of the company, for it was a large software developer, with its world headquarters in Lower Manhattan.

Eh, so he’s a big wig. So what? So is my dad.
But there was something in those eyes of his that were very much not like my father’s. My dad’s eyes were kind, humorous. Full of life and warmth. He never took himself all that seriously, and he had some serious passion for my mother, even after all these years. They kind of grossed me out when I lived there, because I knew that, unlike most of my friend’s parents, mine did It. A lot.

But this guy….he looked demanding. Cruel, even.

I shifted uncomfortably in my bench, and brought my bagel to my lips again. I looked over, and he was still staring at me. Lustfully. That is the only way that I could explain it. He looked like he wanted my lips to be someplace else, other than on that bagel.

Finally, I finished my bagel and looked over my shoulder and saw a bus approaching. “Well, it’s really good to meet you, Blake,” I said, gesturing to the bus. “But I have to go.”

“But you said that you didn’t have anywhere to go,” Blake said, his eyes now registering hurt. “I was hoping to get to know you better.”

Stalker.
“Well,” I said. “Sorry to disappoint. I’ll uh, see you later.” And the funny thing was, I knew that I was right about that.

Somehow I was going to run into
him again. He wanted something from me, that was clear.

And I had a pretty good feeling on what that was.

Chapter Three

Luke

“Oh, mother fucker, not again.” I had just arrived home, after putting in a double-shift at O’Leary’s, which was the dive bar that was directly below my Brooklyn apartment. And, of course, I came home to find out that I had been robbed. Again. It was the third time in as many months.

Goddammit.
I knew that I shouldn’t have splurged and bought that big-screen television. I knew it when I bought it.
Luke
I had said to myself.
Now you know that you’re only going to have this TV for a month at the most. So, don’t get too attached.
Yeah, I didn’t much want to get attached to it, but yet I did. I somehow imagined that this might be the year when I actually could have something halfway decent. But, no. This wasn’t my year after all.

Thank god I bought the damned thing hot. Otherwise, I’d have to really hunt the bastards down and somehow get them on the subway platform and push them off. I rubbed my hands together gleefully at the thought, then felt badly for thinking this. These stupid thieves were probably trying to survive, just like me.

I didn’t even bother to call the cops. What could they do? This shit was never recovered. It would end up in some pawn shop, and I would see it there when I would bring in some things that would serve as collateral for a loan, and then get pissed when I realized that I would have to buy my own shit back.

Same as the other two times I got shit stolen. The most frustrating thing in the world is to see my stuff on the wall of some pawn shop, and know that there was no way I could get it unless I paid for it again.

Ridiculous. Ridi-fucking-culous.

Grrrrr….there were days, like today, when I questioned my sanity
for blindly following my dreams to this city. Those dreams were increasingly meeting a dead end. Which wasn’t fucking fair. I was goddamned talented. I knew that I was. Yet I couldn’t get a showing if I whored myself to do it. And, trust me, there were times when I thought about doing just that. Hell, I would even do gay-for-pay if it meant that I could get just one showing in this town.

But no. I had to make do with my measly tips at the bar, combined with the small sales that I would realize whenever I could get a booth at one of the local art fairs. I could never sell my paintings for much, of course, because I didn’t have the name. But everybody always oohed and aahed over them, so I must have been doing something right.

Even my website was generating few hits. I was just about ready to call it quits and proclaim myself an abject failure. Go home to Portland, Maine and be a fisherman. It was good enough for my old man, so it really should be good enough for me.

Frustrated, I laid down on my couch, and stared at my guitar. I picked up a Rubik’s Cube that was on the coffee table, and twisted it, as I dreamed up some lyrics. My canvas was in the middle of the room, mocking me. I flipped it off, and continued to work the cube until I solved it. Which never took me very long. I had long since mastered that thing.

Then I brought out a bong, put some pot into the slide, lit it, sucked on it, and laid back down. I felt my blood pressure diffusing as I laid on my couch and looked at the ceiling. After a few more hits, I picked up my guitar and my sheet, where I was writing down notes for one of the many songs that I had jumbled in my head, waiting to be transcribed onto the paper. I strummed a few notes, and then wrote them down on the sheet. The musical part always came easily to me. The lyrics, not so much, but I was always working on it.

I took a few more hits, and, satisfied with the amount of work that I had put into my song-writing, I got up and sat down in front of my canvas. In a few minutes, I was picturing a girl that I had seen that day on the bus. She was a pretty girl, very pretty,
with red hair and gorgeous sensuous lips. She had a contemptuous look on her beautiful face, like she wasn’t having a good day. Like she perpetually wasn’t having a good day. But there was something in her beautiful green eyes that made me look a second time, and then a third time. I found myself studying her from the time that she got on, until the time that she got off, which was about a half-hour later. I had looked out the window and saw her wandering into a bar in Uptown, and, if it weren’t for the fact that I had to get to a meeting, where I hoped to get some commissioned work, I would have gotten off and followed.

But, it was just as well, as I had to be at my bartending job that evening anyhow. It wouldn’t be good to lose my only steady source of income, which might have happened if I didn’t show up for my shift. Something told me that missing a shift because I wanted to follow a pretty girl into a bar probably wouldn’t go over so well with my own bosses.

And, of course, the Uptown meeting went nowhere, as the meetings with these rich bastards often do. They loved my work. They would be in touch. Yeah, right. In touch. Whatever.

I sketched the girl’s face with my pencil lightly, and then brought out my colored pencils and rapidly filled the rest of it in. In a half-hour, I had a good likeness of her face. I sat back and smiled, and felt the melting of the rest of the stress that I had felt when I came home and saw that my apartment was robbed.

It was really a masterpiece, I thought, so I decided to add it to my portfolio. I had yet another meeting the next day with yet another rich bastard, and maybe this sketch would help me get the job.

Chapter
Four

I woke up with a start and glanced at my clock. I had fallen asleep on the couch the previous night, still dressed in my jeans and t-shirt. I had just a few too many hits, to be perfectly honest, which would be why I had forgotten to set my alarm.

Oh, fuck. I had forgotten to set my alarm! I frantically looked at the clock, and saw that it read 7 AM. 7 AM. My meeting with Nottingham Industries was set for 8. One hour. One hour to somehow make it from my Brooklyn apartment to the headquarters for Nottingham Industries in lower Manhattan.

I rushed off the couch, and looked in the mirror. My hair was pretty much askew and I had a definite 5 o’clock shadow. But it couldn’t be helped. I had no time to shower or change or anything else. I had to get the bus, and then get the subway, and then somehow, someway, make it to the Nottingham headquarters. All in under an hour.

So, I picked up my portfolio, dashed out the door, and then literally ran after the bus, as it was pulling off the stop right when I got on the street. I frantically ran it down, and it pulled over for me, thank god. That was unusual. Bus drivers don’t usually do that. But this one did, so I would forever think of this bus driver, one James Mancini, according to his name tag, as being my savior. Forget Jesus. When had Jesus ever stopped a bus for me between stops?

My heart racing, I swiped my card. “Thanks so much,” I said.

“Not a problem,” said the bus driver, although I knew differently. It really was a problem for the bus to come to a stop right in the middle of the street.

I took my seat and put on my ear buds. I tried not to silently curse my own stupidity and lack of organization, but my mind kept returning to these very themes. Sometimes I amazed even myself with my endless capacity for self-destruction. I really needed to take this opportunity more seriously, along with any other opportunities
that might crop up. After all, it could mean that I could eat something other than Kraft Macaroni and Cheese that month.

I guess
ed that I really didn’t take it seriously because it probably would go nowhere. It was exceedingly difficult to get commissioned work. Almost as difficult as it was to get a decent showing. I was starting to realize one thing – and that was that the image of the starving artist wasn’t as romantic and glamorous as it is portrayed to be. It really sucked donkey balls to be absolutely honest.

I finally got to the subway station, and hurriedly bought my pass and got on. I arrived at the Nottingham Headquarters with very little time to spare, but at least I wasn’t late. I looked like crap, and I hadn’t showered or shaved, but I was there. I suppose that was all that mattered.

I took the elevator to the 75
th
Floor of the gleaming building. I arrived at the suite and announced my name to the bored-looking receptionist. She nodded her head and got on her phone and indicated that I should take a seat. Which I did.

I inhaled deeply, and took in the
unmistakable smell of jasmine. I supposed that this was meant to be relaxing. If so, it wasn’t working, because I was just as anxious as ever.

Of course, they kept me waiting. Cooling my jets on their white leather couch. Rich bastards were all the same, really. They were just sooo important, too important to ever try to actually be on time.
But god forbid you were even a few minutes late. God forbid. They held all the power, and they knew it.

Finally, after I kicked myself repeatedly for busting my ass to be there right on time, and thinking th
at I should have taken a few minutes to comb my hair and shower after all, the receptionist addressed me.

“Mr. Roberts,” she said. “Mr. Nottingham will see you now.”

I glanced at my watch. 8:45. Bastard was 45 minutes late. Well, okay, just as well. Let’s get this over with.

The receptionist lady, who was wearing a too-tight pencil skirt and red cardigan sweater, combined with fuck-me pumps, led the way to the enormous conference room. At the end of the table was the rich bastard in question. Black slicked hair, cold blue eyes, im
peccably dressed. I supposed that he was one of those guys who had his shoes shined to a glass-like sheen every morning. He had a personal tailor, no doubt, and he probably never, ever left the house without making sure that every hair was in place.

I self-consciously touched my
own hair, wanting it to lay down a little bit. I reached my hand over to the guy in an effort to shake his hand, but he literally waved me away.

Well, this meeting is starting off swimmingly.
I sat down, and he gestured to me to give him my portfolio. I passed it to him, and he opened it up without a word.

I silently watched him flipping through the portfolio, his expression inscrutable. I could only assume that he was feeling somewhat less-than-impressed. To say the very least.
I tapped my fingers on the table and stared out the window. Cursed what seemed to be yet another trip into the city for nothing. I could have just stayed home and strummed my guitar and finished the song that I was writing. Or got caught up on some badly-needed sleep. Or gotten baked, although I was really trying to cut back on that aspect of my life at least a little bit, as I didn’t want to become a wake and baker like some of my buddies.

He rapidly went through most of my paintings and sketches, boredom evident in his eyes. But, then, he stopped. And stared. I cocked my head, trying to see what masterpiece had caught his eye, but I couldn’t see what it was. All that I knew was that he suddenly had stopped flipping rapidly through the pages and had settled upon something. His expression had changed from one of insouciance and ennui to one of actually be
ing interested.

Finally, he shut the book and looked at me. “Mr. Roberts,” he said,
“I would like to commission a project for me.”

I looked at him, startled. I wondered if I
had heard him correctly. I tried to hide my inner excitement at this sudden change of fate. “Tell me about the project that you’re interested in.”

He pointed to the page that he was apparently staring at earlier
, and motioned me to look at the painting to which he was referring. “This girl,” he said. “You captured her beautifully. Her very essence. Her sensuality. Her vulnerability. Her radiance. I want you to paint her nude. I’ll pay you $10,000 to do so.”

Whoa. Whoa. Whoa.
$10,000? Was I hearing him correctly? And just because I happened to sketch the beautiful red-head on the bus? I pretended to be cool about it, though, even though my insides were doing cartwheels. So, I shrugged my shoulders. “That’s a little bit below my going rate.” That was bullshit, of course. My going rate was pretty much whatever they would be willing to pay me. This guy could tell me that he would pay me $50 to paint her, and I would have taken that job. I was kinda a whore that way.

He shut the book. “Okay, then, Mr. Roberts, I’ll find somebody else to complete this project.”

Oops. I overplayed my hand in my utter excitement, which was caused by my finally getting a bite. “Well, I’ll make the exception for you, of course.”

He raised an eyebrow and stared at me. Just….stared. He put one of his fingers up to his cheek and continued to stare at me. I had to admit that I was feeling pretty intimidated right about then, but I managed to stare at him right back. No way did I want him to see what was really going on underneath the surface.
Please, oh please, let me do this project. I was a dumb-ass for trying to shake you down for more, but, come on, you seemed so anxious to get this project up off the ground, so I just thought that you would pay any amount. God knows you can afford it.

I realized that I was holding my breath, and that he was still wordlessly staring at me. Finally, he pushed the book over to me. “Okay. My secretary will send over a contract. You can start tomorrow.”

I felt like pumping my fist in the air.
Oh my god. I’m going to make more money off of this one project than I made all last year on my art. I might even be able to quit the bar, although that was unlikely. One project does not a career make.
I had to remind myself of this.

“Cool,” I sai
d. “Are you going to contact the subject, or should I?”

“I will,” he said. “I’ll send her over to your art studio in the morning. You do have an art studio?”

I nodded my head. Of course I did. Such as it was. It really was an abandoned warehouse where I believe that I had obtained squatting rights. I really never used it, though, as I couldn’t ever afford to actually hire models to paint. Until now, that is. Really, I should have taken some of that $10,000 and invested in a better studio to paint this woman, but there wasn’t time to do all that before the project would have begun. And, it didn’t seem that any of that money would be provided to me in advance. I didn’t ask, but I would imagine that to be the case. So, she was just going to have to meet me in the abandoned warehouse. Thank god I was able to actually supply a generator so that there was some kind of electricity flowing through.

He was staring at me again. Really, he was a fucking weirdo, the way that he was staring all the time. But I soon realized that he wanted information, and that staring was his way of conveying this. Lucky me, I caught on quickly.

“Oh, you want the address to my studio, don’t you?” I asked him.

“Yes. Please supply this.”

“Okay,” I said, feeling foolishly underprepared. “Could you get your secretary in here to write it down? I forgot to bring a pen and paper.”

He sighed, and pushed his finger on the button of the phone. “Amelia, could you please come in here. And bring a pen and paper.”

He hung up and stared at me some more. This time, I didn’t try to stare back. I was sick and tired of him intimidating me in such a way.

Amelia appeared at the door, pen and paper in hand. Blake said nothing to her, but, rather, communicated with a silent gesture in my direction. She understood, for she approached me and gave me the materials that she had brought in. “Here, Mr. Roberts,” she said.

“Thanks,” I said, and then scribbled the address on there. She gave him the piece of paper, and he nodded.

“
I will send Ms. Gallagher this address with instructions to meet you tomorrow morning at 8,” he said.

“Cool,” I said.

“Do not be late,” he warned me. “She’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

“Okay,” I said, rising from my chair. “Well, peace out. I guess I’ll be seeing Ms. Gallagher tomorrow. By the way, what is her first name?”

He narrowed his eyes at me. “Dalilah. I have to confess that I’m surprised that you don’t know this.”

“Well, I mean, I don’t know her. I just happened to be behind her on the bus yesterday. She stuck out in my mind.”

He blinked his eyes and said nothing.

“Okay, well, then, I guess that I’ll be going
,” I said. “Uh, thanks for this opportunity.”

He nodded and said nothing. And then he put his head down and started writing something. Something that I would imagine was completely unrelated to what we had just spoken about. I shrugged my shoulders and went out the door.

I couldn’t stop smiling, though, as I got the elevator and rode it down to the ground floor. I couldn’t believe my good fortune in getting this commission. It was crazy how much I couldn’t believe that I had lucked into this job.

I couldn’t wait to get started.