Masterpiece (4 page)

Fleur looks back at me. “If you change your mind about tomorrow –”
They disappear
into the crowd.

The music is loud and Jessie’s saying something.

“What?” I
lean closer. She smells strongly of cheap perfume and
I can’t help it: I pull back.

What the fuck is u
p with me?

Usually by now I’d be banging her behind the first closed door I could find
. Or maybe rolling around with this chick plus a couple of her friends in one of the upstairs
bedrooms. Tonight it’s all I can
do not to storm back to my house and wallow in my own dissatisfaction at the realization that she’s not the one.
Where is she?
Where’s the girl of my fucking dreams
?
I never used to worry about shit like that, but things have started to change lately. Since the accident. All of a sudden I want more. And I’m starting to think she’s never going to turn up.

“Is it true what they say about you?” she breathes.

“Depends on what you’ve heard.”
I’m starting to feel extremely bored.

She reaches up to whisper in my
ear. “
You’re a legend, Max. And I’m not just talking about rodeo. I’m sure you know what I mean.”

Sure I do. I’ve had my share of women
.
I guess I’ve earned myself some kind of reputation as a hot, thorough fuck.
The only problem was, once they get a taste of me, they’re never happy with a one-night stand. They always come back for more. It’s why I’ve been forced to become more aloof and distant than ever: because they became fucking
voracious if you let them.
Hysterical, even. I’d once had a girl camp out on my doorstep for two days when I wouldn’t let her in, pleading, whining and generally making a pathetic spectacle of herself. Crazy bitch.
So I mak
e sure to put them in their place.
Make sure they kno
w I was up for a good time, on
my
terms.

The groupie is
getting bolder. “
“Let’s go someplace more private,” she whispers. “I want to make you feel real good, Max Cash.”
Her fingers play
my belt buckle.
It’s not something I’ve ever done in this kind of situation before, but I take a step back, until her hand eases away.
I don’t know why I don’t take her upstairs. Or to my own cabin, which is up a track behind the main house. A wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am that involves no emotion and no commitment beyond my own relief.

But I can’t do it.

I can’t fucking do it.

“Sorry,” I say. “I’m not interested.”

The chick is undeterred. “You’ll change your mind, Max. Y
ou’ll see.
If you could just take me upstairs
, you’ll see. I could make
you feel
so good
.
”
Her fingers touch my arm again and have this raging urge to brush them off. Roughly. But I keep my cool
.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
This girl is not the one
, is all I can think about.

“You don’t know how long I’ve watched you and wished you would choose me, Max.
I’ve had the biggest crush on you, like,
forever
.
I mean,
everybody
does, right?
You’re
so
gorgeous
. And the way you rode that
bull
, oh my
god
.
Tell me what you want me to do, Max. I’ll do whatever you want
. Oh
my god, I can’t believe I’m talking to
Max Cash
.”

These girls. Don’t they have any self-respect? Don’t they know what they sound like, every time?

“Maybe another time.”

“Really? When?”
Her eyes are wide with excitement. She licks
her lips and lowers her voice. “
God, Max, I want to
taste
you so much.
You’re so damn
perfect
.”

I don’t answer. I do
n’t need to.

I’ve already made my decision.

You fucking pussy
, my starved libido rages at me
.
Just go with it. Pretend she’s the love of your goddamn life for twenty minutes. Pretend this means something more.

No.

“
Please
, Max. You won’t regret it.
I
promise
you won’t.”

Her pleas are starting to irritating the shit out of
me.
“
Listen.
There’s somewhere else I need to be.”

“But—”

What’s her name again? “You’re a nice girl, Jessie. But I’m incredibly … not interested in going anywhere with you.”

I know I’m being an asshole. But I can’t quite bring myself to care.

She looks hurt. But she’s still not taking the fucking hint.
“But
Max, I’ll do whatever you want.
Anything.
I’m –”

“
I gotta go.
Goodnight, Jessie.”
I walk away without so much as a backwards glance. She calls my name but I ignore this, and everything else.
I wish I didn’t feel so damn lonely.

I slip out the back door and into the night. I walk down the path that leads to my
cabin. It’
s a small, two-story wrangler’s cottage, built for the hired help my father once needed, before his five sons were old enough to become useful on the ranch.
I
only recently moved into it, after the accident. As part of my recovery, as I became stronger again, I’d cleaned it up, moved my belongings into it, along with a few pieces of furniture, and made it my own.
My
four older brothers hadn’t protested. They all recognized that I need
ed my own space, as part of my healing process.
That’s what Beau called it: my ‘healing
process’. Whatever. But it wa
s true: my need for privacy was a new development. After the fall, my brothers were so glad I was alive they would have pretty much allowed me anything. We’d already lost our parents in a gruesome car crash ten ye
ars ago. They were
just thankful I’d survived.
For a few days after I
’d been gored and stomped on by that bull, the doctors weren’t sure if I was going to make it
.
My brothers were told I’d never ride in a rodeo
again.
Somehow, I’d proved them wrong.

Today, I showed them all that I was back
on top. Right where I belong
.

The night is clear, and warm. A billion stars are out, splashed across the sky like a smattering of white paint on a black canvas.

Yellow light from a lamp I left on illuminates the windows as I approach
the small log cabin. I
like the look of it, with all its lonely, rough-hewn appeal. I open the door and run up the stairs.

I can’t wait to get started.

Chapter Four

The Bozeman Airport is small and practically empty compared to JFK
.
Outside the glass walls, bright, cloudless skies shine over green
hills.
Wow.
I can see why it’s called
Big Sky country.
The whole world looks like one giant horizon, framed by an enormous dome of blue sky.

I make my way to the Rent-a-Wreck rental car desk to pick up my car. My eyes rove
the airport population discreetly for – yes – cowboys.

I’m still buzzing from that damn dream.

I look around, checking out everyone who hadn’t just disembarked from my flight (I’d
already checked them out).
But I can’t see anyone that might fit the cowboy description. Not even close.
These people look
like … regular people.

Where are all
the cowboy hats? The
sexy leather chaps? Those pointy things they wear strapped to their boots to make their horses run faster?

Once I get my car keys, I put my carry-on in the back seat of the piece-of-shit car and fire up the outdated GPS. The exhibition starts at seven and it’s already 6:42
, so I need to get going. Carefully,
in an attempt not to re-create the fender bender that’s still fresh in my mind whenever I drive (as infrequently as possible), I drive out of the airport parking lot and make my way east.

The landscape is vast.
Desolate-looking
but beautiful, too.
When you’re used to the sky-tall concrete jungle, something about Montana makes
you feel free and completely unconfined.
This
is
exactly what I needed, I decide. A break from life. An uninhibited adventure in the Wild West.

Bozeman isn’t far and before I know it I’m driving into the town.

It’s cute and rustic, like something straight out of a Clint Eastwood movie. Squat brick buildings line the
wide main street.
People are walking around looking – again – like regular people.
What’s up with that?,
I’m thinking. I might as well be in freaking upstate New York.

But then I see the sign for the Blackbird
Gallery and pull up in front of it. It only takes me four tries to par
allel-park my car. It’s the size of a tin can and looks ridiculous wedged between two fuck-yeah pick-up trucks, but whatever.

I sling my faux leopardskin Balenciaga bag (seventy percent off at Macy’s, thank you very much) over my shoulder and walk into the gallery.

Inside, the gallery’s crowded, bustling with hip-looking people. Still no cowboy hats but there are a few people wearing cowboy boots, so that’s at least something. And there’s a Western vibe to the place that I’m starting to dig
. I’m in Montana!
And I’m feeling every ounce of my fresh-air high.

Music’s playing and the noise of lively conversation fills
the space.

Fleur Jensen’s paintings are big and bold and look awesome against the white walls. Their colorful landscape scenes jump out like 3D images.

I’m greeted by a thirty-something woman with large round
glasses. “Welcome to the Fl
eur Jensen exhibition,” she says
. “I’m
Amanda Riggs, gallery owner and curator.”

“I’m Elle Parker, from New York. We spoke on the phone yesterday.”
      
“Oh, yes, I remember. You’ve come to try to lure Fleur to the big city,” she smiles. “You might need to get in line. There are at least three other
New York scouts here. And one from L.A., one from London, and two from Chicago.
”

I smile back, accepting a brochure from Amanda and a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. There’s no need to discuss my plan with any of my competitors, including Amanda. I’ll save the sales pitch
for Fleur herself.

“You’ve don
e a fabulous job with the display,” I say. I don’t bother mentioning she could easily be selling these paintings for twice the price.

“Thank you,” she says. “Fleur’s over there if you’d like to meet her. She’s the one in blue.”

I take my time looking
at each painting. It’ll be a while before I ge
t anywhere near Fleur
. She’s surrounded by fans, and I need a little more time to perfect my pitch. I have to make
absolutely sure she understands why I’m the only offer she should seriously consider.

I recognize a few other people in the room: Alistair Johnson, a New York talent scout, and Roxanne Gage, who’s head curator at another Soho gallery.

Fleur’s boyfriend is standing next to her, leaning against a wall, watching her possessively. Like he’s not sure he likes all these people getting so close to her. Every now and then she’ll give him a little kiss on the mouth, as though to placate him. They’re obviously not only in love but in lust. His eyes smolder every time she touches him.

The guy is seriously hot
.
And don’t go thinking I have designs on him because I don’t; he’s clearly taken. I will admit I’m a little fascinated. He’s by far the closest thing I’ve
seen to a cowboy so far. He has dark brown hair and is
tall and built – seriously built, not just work-out-during-lunch-break type built – with a deep tan, like he spends most of his time outside doing hard, dirty, physical work.

Jesus.

My dream floods back into my head.

Fleur i
s gorgeous.
Her press photos don’t do her justice, another thing I plan on fixing. She has long, white-blond hair that hangs to her waist. She’s wearing a sky-blue dress that hugs every curve. No wonder the rugged boyfriend is all smitten and broody.

I drink another glass of champagne, then I take my chance once the crowd begins to clear out.

“Fleur, I’m Elle Parker.
I’m a huge fan of your work.
I’m opening a gallery in New York City that’s going to be the hottest in town. I’d love for you to exhibit with me in October.”

Fleur smiles and her boyfri
end steps closer. I watch as
his arm slides around her waist. “You and every other New Yorker, sweetheart.”
His comment is aggressive
, and snide. And sexy as hell. I decide I’m just as big a fan of the boyfriend as I am of Fleur herself.