Found at the Library (3 page)

Books. Hundreds of them cascaded in the windows, held there by invisible props, but they’d been violated. Mutilated. Torn pages littered the window display, and Mac’s gut clenched at the awfulness of it. Who would do that? Even for the sake of art. Suddenly, Mac didn’t care about avoiding Stig. Now he wanted to find him and rail at him for having this kind of exhibit in his gallery. How could the mutilation of books be celebrated like this? It was a travesty.

She shook her head at him and tugged on his arm. “No,” she said, her firm voice, telling him she wouldn’t listen to his arguments tonight. “You’re going to go in there and really look at this art before you make that snap judgment I can already see in your eyes. Give it a chance, Mac. I’m telling you, if there was ever a guy who could celebrate the beauty of books by changing them into art, this guy can.”

“Em, you know how I feel about this crap.” They’d had this discussion when she started carrying a purse made out of a book a few years ago. It had been horrifying. Someone had gutted a book and just used the cover.

As he looked at the remnants of book pages filling the window, the same sort of sick feeling roiled up in his gut. That people could defile books in such a way that negated all the blood, sweat, and tears the author put into the interior of it offended him in the worst way. It felt as if someone reached into his chest and randomly began pulling out organs.

“Okay, I’ll make a deal with you,” Emily said. “Let’s go inside. If you feel this same way after really looking at the exhibit, I will do all of your Christmas shopping for you. You won’t have to look at a website or the inside of a store for the next month.”

He shook his head. “You’re insane, but you know how much I hate the stores this time of the year, and I definitely don’t have the time, so you have a deal. I won’t pass up on a sure thing.” He took a deep breath and steeled himself. “Let’s get this over with.”

Mac suppressed a shudder, avoided looking again at the carnage in the windows, and strode straight to the door, pulling it open for Emily. The Minton Gallery was a very upscale boutique gallery that utilized walls of black and white for showcasing the art. But the exposed ductwork and crown molding was all painted vibrant, glossy lipstick red. The hints of that minimalistic décor spread out here even in the foyer. They left their coats at the coat check area. A waiter immediately accosted them and offered them champagne flutes or the option to hit the open bar, also conveniently placed in the foyer. Mac chose the bar. It would be a long night, and he needed a stronger fortification than champagne could provide.

While Mac waited for the bartender to pour his Scotch, he glanced around. The only sign of the exhibit at this point was a large banner that read...

Typecast.

Art Celebrating Words by T. Garrett
.

The entire appearance of the sign was minimalistic. Only words, no graphics. Much more sedate and refined in style compared to the flamboyance that Stig usually employed. No lipstick red on the sign.

The bartender handed him his drink, and Mac dropped his tip into the jar.

“Shall we?” Emily asked.

“If we must,” Mac muttered.

“Attitude,” Emily hissed under her breath and then pasted a smile on her face as she pulled him toward the entrance of the main gallery.

They strode through the curtains that covered the arched entrance and entered a darkened room. This was a highly unusual atmosphere for Stig to employ. Although filled to capacity, hardly any noise rose from the crowd. Somewhere in a darkened corner, a lone saxophone player played soft, melodic jazz.

Pedestals throughout the darkened room featured spotlighted art pieces under glass. Emily pulled him to the first one. The book lay open across the bottom of the display, but coming out of it were sculptures that rose high above it, like the book had taken life. The artistic scene looked historical—like from the middle 1800’s—and featured a woman on a tree swing surrounded by her suitors. Every single bit of it was carved and formed using the pages of the book. Mac looked at the plaque, which said,
Gone with the Wind
by Margaret Mitchell, $2500
.

He circled the piece. The detail and craftsmanship were amazing. Each figure even had a face with discernable features. And then it began to move. The swing actually worked. And to think that everything in this piece was carved out of the center pages of that book was astounding. He looked at Emily, his mouth hanging open.

She gave him a superior smile. “I know. I told you. Come on. There’s so much more to see.”

The exhibit was amazing and so incredible that suddenly the hushed, reverent air in the exhibit hall made sense. The art pieces were as varied as the books they were created from. Some pieces featured standing books, in some the art rose out of the books, sometimes the carving went into the book, which created a 3D cave effect. And there was everything from fiction to non-fiction to reference books used to create the pieces.

As Mac examined each piece closely, he realized every single sculpture expressed a visual exploration of the content of the book. An old-styled book about manners had a table rising out of it with perfect place settings. An old medical text had a 3D skeleton carved within the midst of its standing pages. The viewer could circle the book and see the skeleton with its bones covered in the written text from every angle. It was incredible. A thesaurus had a floating alphabet coming out of it like a reverse mobile and it was virtually impossible to see how the letters remained aloft above the text.

Even more remarkable, the pieces were prompting discussions about the books, and the way the artist had interpreted the stories. The gallery patrons were debating the highs and lows of the tales and going even deeper into the subtexts than the art had.

But the piece that blew him away was one carved from one of his books. Before he looked at the plaque, Mac knew this was his book because he recognized the scene. How could the artist see it exactly as Mac saw it in his head? This particular piece stood open, and the Magira Star System had been carved and drawn into the depths of the pages. It had about twenty layers to it and deep in the middle a faint blue light source lit the entire piece. Coming out of that center was the starship
Mystique
from his latest release,
The Creation of Society
.

Emily  approached with a gasp. “Is that...?”

He nodded and swallowed hard, overcome by seeing his creation in visual form. It was a bit overwhelming and so utterly beautiful. The artist had caught the silence and tranquility of space travel in this single scene. It took Mac’s breath away.

Emily circled the piece, and her mouth hung open. “Wow, is this how you see it in your head?”

“Almost exactly,” he said with a bit of reverent awe. “How did he do that? I wouldn’t even be able to sit down and make it look exactly right, but this artist did. It’s amazing. I have to have it.”

All the other pieces in the exhibit had discreet prices placed under the nameplate. But on this one, the price was missing. Mac’s stomach sank. If it had already sold, he would be devastated. “I have to find Stig and find out why this piece doesn’t have a price. Have you seen him?”

Mac had ducked the gallery owner all night, not wanting to do the inane chitchat thing they both found incredibly uncomfortable. But now he had a mission, even if he had to deal with his difficult ex to achieve it.

“The last time I saw him, he was headed into the foyer with some rich dude on his arm. They were probably headed to the bar.”

Yeah, that sounded about right. And Stig wouldn’t appreciate it if Mac interrupted either seduction or a sale, depending on what angle Stig was working at the current moment. Maybe the artist...

“Do you have any idea who T. Garrett is?” he asked Emily. “Have you seen anyone who looks like they could be the artist?”

She shook her head. “With the way the gallery is set up, it’s great to showcase the art, but it seriously sucks to try to see who’s here.”

Okay, so Stig it was. He’d just have to deal with the man. As Mac walked through the gallery, he watched the body language of the patrons to see if he could find the artist, but for the life of him, he didn’t see anyone who might be the mystery talent.

He did locate Stig in the foyer at the bar.
Christ on a crutch
. From the way Stig leaned into the guy, he was interrupting seduction not a sale. Could this get any more awkward?

He watched the two men for a moment. Stig looked model gorgeous with blond hair styled to perfection. At six feet tall, he had the perfect physique. He worked out regularly to maintain that level of fitness. Under his black custom suit, Stig had a set of six pack abs that would make any man or woman drool to touch. But for all of Stig’s outward tranquility and perfection, he had some deep scars. Scars that unfortunately, Mac hadn’t helped any. When it came to relationships, Stig needed to be the center of his partner’s world. Mac hadn’t been able to offer him that and knew that hurt him. So, he’d broken it off.

Stig had never understood he’d always have to share Mac with his characters.

Mac took note of the other man as he laughed. Emily’s assessment had been correct. He had the overall look of a bad boy, but with that six-figure watch on his wrist and his custom motorcycle boots, this guy had money. He also wasn’t a pushover and didn’t appear to be so sure about what Stig offered. To Stig’s light, this guy was dark. Mac could even see a tattoo or two peeking around the collar of his shirt. Definitely not the type of guy Stig normally went for, especially not in a work setting. Interesting.

Finally, the other guy flung a hand out to the side in anger, shook his head at Stig, and strode out of the gallery. Stig’s head dropped to his chest and Mac sidled up to his side.

“That didn’t look like it went so well,” Mac murmured.

Stig’s head swung up, and he threw his hands up in the air. “Of course, of course, this is the way my life works. You just had to be the one to see that. Fuck, could this night get any worse?”

Stig was a lot of things, but a drama queen usually wasn’t one of them.

“Hey, is everything okay?” Mac asked.

“No, it’s not,” Stig said curtly. “But that’s none of your business anymore, so tell me why you’re harassing me in my own gallery. You can’t even stand book themed art, so why are you here?” Stig ran his fingers through his hair and muttered, “I really should check the guest lists more carefully for these things rather than trusting Lola to handle it all.”

“Emily brought me and didn’t tell me what I was in for with the exhibit, but I’m pleasantly surprised. Although I think I should be offended by your attitude about me being here.”

Stig chuckled, but the sound held no trace of humor. “Yeah, like your ego ever takes a dent. I know you better than that, but I don’t have the energy or time to deal with you tonight. So tell me, what do you want?” And just like that, Stig shut down. He’d been showing much more emotion than normal, but now he put the shutters back up on his mental well-being. That was probably better. A vulnerable Stig made Mac want to reach out, and neither one of them needed that complication in their lives.

“I want to buy a piece.” Mac’s heartbeat sped up. He needed that piece of art.

Stig smirked at him. “Ah, you saw your book, didn’t you? Unfortunately, the artist has decided that piece isn’t for sale.”

“What? Why? I’m willing to pay for it, Stig. Whatever the cost.”

Shaking his head, Stig said, “I wish I could wring you dry over this one, but I’m fairly certain he won’t sell.”

“Where is he? Let me convince him.”

“He had a family emergency and couldn’t make it tonight.”

Shock and horror spun through Mac. Did this artist not realize what it meant to be featured in a Minton Gallery opening? “It’s opening night for a show, here, featuring entirely his art. How can he shove that kind of recognition aside?”

A sad expression flitted across Stig’s face, before he covered it. “Not everyone is as devoted to their careers as you are, Mac. Some put their loved ones first. I know it’s novel, but that’s the way the world works for most people.”

And with that barb, Stig walked away.

Son of a bitch.

Time for tact number two. He needed to locate Lola, Stig’s assistant, and find out the artist’s full name. Maybe he could even manage a phone number or address.

Chapter Three

People question “why” during difficult times. Maybe Karma isn’t a bitch. Maybe she’s just giving the opportunity for someone else to shine when they lift you out of the dark.

-Observations from Tommy

Tommy unlocked the door to his studio with his ass dragging. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so completely exhausted. But that didn’t matter. Ryder needed him. He was simply here to take a shower and grab some fresh clothes and food. He only had a forty-five minute window while they ran some tests, so he didn’t have time for the catnap he so desperately needed.

As he walked in, the studio phone rang, but he ignored it. He couldn’t think about work or his first real big break last night that he’d completely missed out on. That wasn’t important now.

Shower, feed Ampersand, and then food for him. That was all he had time for. He bound up the steps that led to his loft apartment and turned on the water in his bathroom. Ten minutes later, he almost felt human again. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he glanced in the mirror, and his bloodshot eyes stared back at him. He should probably shave, but maybe the dark stubble would detract from the dark circles under his eyes. Besides, he simply didn’t have time to do any more.

“Hello, is anyone here?”

Tommy stilled. Someone had come into the studio. Shit, did he leave the door unlocked? “Sorry, mate, we’re closed for the day,” he yelled back. “You’ll have to come back another time.”

The door down below shut as the customer left. He hated to turn someone away, especially right before Christmas, but he couldn’t do anything about it today. Maybe in a couple of days he would have time to hire someone to open the shop.