So Damn Beautiful (A New Adult Romance) (16 page)

“Elsie, you remember Annie?” Harrison asked,
looking at me with a warmth in his eyes that managed to thaw out
the cold feeling I had inside with Elsie there.

Elsie didn’t look at me. “Hey, Harrison, do
you think you can hook a girl up with one of those cups of iced
coffee?” The table was about three feet away, but Harrison was a
gentleman, so he went for it, leaving the two of us alone
together.

“So, I have a bone to pick with you,
Blondie,” Elsie said when Harrison was out of earshot, a controlled
rictus on her face.

I sighed and rolled my eyes. Now that I was
Harrison’s girlfriend, I was sure I’d be encountering Elsie more
often, and I definitely wanted to attempt to be the bigger person,
even if my first impulse upon seeing her was usually to rip her
head off like she was a Barbie doll.

“First of all, why are you here?”

I rolled my eyes. “In case you didn’t notice,
Harrison and I are involved.” Piece of cake.

She crossed her arms. “Seriously? You know
Harrison goes through girlfriends faster than a box of Kleenex,
right?”

I frowned. I was pretty sure she was just
trying to upset me. “Was there something you wanted in
particular?”

“Yes, actually.” She paused. “I want to know
exactly how you got Chase Adams to do a piece for Quentin
Pierce.”

I swallowed hard. I still hadn’t figured out
a way to fix my snafu about Chase’s having agreed to be
commissioned for the project. I wasn’t worried about Elsie’s
intimidation tactics, but I was worried she was mean enough to
uncover the truth on her own if that meant getting me kicked off
the committee.

“I . . . I don’t know. Like I said at the
meeting, he admires Quentin and he wants to participate. I don’t
see why it should matter to you.” I added a hint of steely
authority to my voice and mimicked Elsie’s posture.

She smiled sardonically. “See, I don’t buy
that. I heard through the grapevine that our humble artist has some
kind of vendetta against Quentin, so I strongly suspect there’s
some foul play involved here, if you know what I mean.”

“That’s ridiculous—Chase told me he has high
regard for Quentin.” At least that part was true—if we were talking
about Quentin’s early oeuvre, that is.

Elsie went on like I hadn’t spoken. “On top
of that, I was at the mural section in the Meatpacking District—the
one where Chase and his street-artist friends hang out like
clockwork. He wasn’t there, but when I asked all the other guys if
they remembered some ditzy blonde hunting Chase down, they had no
memory of you. Weird, huh? I mean, I’m assuming you didn’t drag
yourself out to the Bronx to tag with him.”

My heart started to race. So now Elsie was
beginning her own investigation? It was just a matter of time
before she found Chase and stumbled upon the truth: that I’d been
lying to save my ass. I didn’t want to continue to play her game,
however, so I coolly excused myself by saying, “As usual, never a
dull moment with Elsie. I’m going to find Harrison now.”

As I walked away, Elsie didn’t trail after
me, but I could hear her words ring out behind me: “I swear, Annie
Green, I’m getting to the bottom of this.”

Harrison wasn’t at the iced-coffee table, but
Kendra was, looking somewhat bored. When she saw me, she shrugged
and said, “I guess Yannis wanted to check out Harrison’s boat and
get a play-by-play of what happened, since he isn’t that familiar
with rowing. Harrison said he’d be back in a minute. But damn,
girl! I saw that giant hug. What’s going on with you two?”

I reached for a cup of iced coffee and a
straw. As I peeled the straw out of its paper, I casually said,
“Oh, nothing . . . just that he asked me to be his girlfriend.”

Kendra widened her eyes and lifted a hand for
a high five. “Way to go, Annie!” She paused before coming in for
the landing. “Wait a sec. You did say yes, right? Or do I have to
shake some sense into you?”

“Don’t worry. I said yes.”

She hugged me. “I’m so happy for you. You
know what this means, right? Double dates!”

“For sure! You know what else it means?
Having to put up with the queen of mean!” I nodded in Elsie’s
direction. She’d managed to surround herself with a small fleet of
hunky crew guys and was flirting up a storm, seemingly oblivious to
the fact that she’d just delivered an ominous speech to me.

Kendra snorted. “Never mind that bitch! She
can’t ruin things for you—Harrison’s way too into you. Yeah, you
might have to put up with some bullshit at the family dinner table,
but who knows? Maybe you’ll be braiding each other’s hair and
confessing secrets to each other like sisters somewhere down the
line!”

I shook my head miserably. “I don’t think
so,” I mumbled, but then smiled and tried to change the subject.
When Harrison and Yannis came back, Harrison flung his arm around
me and gave me a little squeeze.

“You doing okay?” he asked. “I know Elsie can
be a handful sometimes.”

I smiled, trying my best to ignore her
presence behind me. “It’s all good.”

He kissed me on the forehead. “She’s a tough
nut to crack, but I swear she’ll love you when she gets to know
you.”

I didn’t want to tell him that I highly
doubted it. I felt terrible. The happy occasion was being ruined,
once again, by the specter of my damn Quentin Pierce project . . .
and that damn Chase, whom I seemed to be inexplicably dependent on.
Whatever my gripes were against getting in touch with him, I knew I
had to—before it was too late.

I
did the thing I’d been dreading most. It was Monday morning, and I
had to find Chase before the next committee meeting. I took my
chances and headed to the permission wall in the Meatpacking
District, hoping I might run into someone who’d be able to tell me
about Chase’s whereabouts. Granted, I hadn’t met too many people
who might be willing to give me any leads, but I was better
prepared this time, with some choice words and pepper spray.

Time to toughen up, Annie
, I told
myself. I had to be a warrior this time around if I was going to
make my request land effectively. Luckily, I didn’t have to look
for too long. Chase was actually there, talking to a couple other
street artists. I’d expected his gorgeousness to get old over time,
but no such luck. As he leaned against the brick wall, I admired
his toned biceps, which were hugged by a thin, dark sweater. I
walked nervously up to him, at which point he turned to look at me.
He quickly straightened up, which took me aback a little bit.

Chase Adams was surprised to see me.

He muttered something to the other guys, who
looked me over with a bit of interest and then sauntered off,
presumably back to their own work.

“Well, well, well, Goldilocks,” he said,
smiling broadly so that I could see his dimples. “Back again so
soon? Didn’t think I’d see the day. How’s your boyfriend
doing?”

I was confused at first, but then it struck
me that Harrison actually
was
my boyfriend now. It felt
weird to call him that, but, seeing as it wasn’t really the point
of the conversation I wanted to have with Chase, all I said was,
“He’s fine.”

Chase raised an eyebrow. “I was wondering how
much he got out of that movie in the park. You sure he can even
read? The Wordsworth reference seemed to elude him.” He swept his
hand over his head, as if to indicate Harrison’s cluelessness.

I gritted my teeth, forcing myself not to let
Chase’s teasing thwart me. He seemed to notice my irritation, so he
backed off.

“Look, Goldilocks, I really didn’t mean to
make your date unpleasant. I was just trying to tell you that I was
sorry about my friends fucking with you. They really didn’t mean to
get you all worked up—they’re just assholes is all.” He grinned.
“So, whaddaya say? We cool?” He offered his hand to me affably for
a peacemaking fist bump.

“Apology accepted,” I responded, figuring out
how to choose my next words. “And . . . also, I kind of need
something from you.”

He was all ears. “Oh yeah?”

I took a deep breath and blurted it all out.
What did I have to lose? “Listen, the reason I’m here is that I was
selected to be one of Quentin Pierce’s student curators for his
upcoming show. I know we didn’t exactly get off on the right foot,
but I do respect your work and I wanted to know if you’d like to be
a part of the exhibit. We’re commissioning four New York–based
artists to create original pieces that capture the spirit of the
city and that’ll change the way we think about contemporary art. I
know you’re probably not interested, but I just wanted to say it’s
a great opportunity to share your work with the kind of people
who—”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll do it.”

I was astonished. Before I could even go into
my carefully scripted list of reasons about why this would benefit
Chase’s art, he had already said yes! He took a cigarette out of
his back pocket and lit it with a match.

“Um, seriously? I thought I’d have to
blackmail you or something.”

“I don’t take well to threats, Goldilocks,
but I’m definitely open to bribes.” He beamed at me playfully. I
felt a blush rise to my face.

“I’m grateful you’re saying yes, Chase, but .
. . are you sure? I mean, I want to make sure you realize what a
huge commitment this is,” I said, afraid he was messing with my
head again.

Chase shrugged. “I’d already heard about the
show, and I’d been expecting you guys to come up here any day now
to court me and get me on board.” He stared penetratingly into my
eyes, which made my cheeks turn a deeper scarlet. “I didn’t know it
would be you, Goldilocks, but I’m glad it is.” He puffed on his
cigarette some more. “And yeah, I know what the commitment is, and
I’m down. But you do owe me.”

I frowned. “And what exactly do you want from
me?”

He smiled mysteriously, the cigarette hanging
from his lip. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

I didn’t entirely want to imagine what he had
in mind.

“We should set up some time to do the
paperwork. There’s a significant stipend coming your way, and I
want to be sure you’re apprised of all the parameters.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “Parameters
shmarameters! You’ll have to take a rain check, Goldilocks, ’cause
I’m pretty swamped right now. And tonight’s no good either, ’cause
I’m writing with my boys.”

“Oh, uh, you’re a writer?”

He gave me a sardonic look. “Graffiti
writing? Tagging?”

“Oh!” I felt stupid, but I didn’t quite
understand. “But isn’t that what you do . . . like, during the
day?”

He scoffed at my ignorance. “Nah,
this
is what I do during the day.” He gestured behind him at the
gorgeous mural I’d seen him working on the last time I had been
there. “This is the legal shit that makes you money. But tonight
I’m bombing. Since you don’t know what that is, I’ll break it down
for you: in this world, the bombers are the ones who do mostly
tags—that’s like the artist’s signature, but highly stylized—and
throw-ups . . . you know, the stuff most people call ‘vandalism.’”
He made giant air quotes around that last word. “Money isn’t the
goal, but fame is. That’s achieved through sheer quantity, style,
and the danger level of the spots they choose. You become a man of
interest when you’re good and your tag shows up often. But this
stuff?” He pointed at his mural. “It’s what you call piecing. It’s
the ‘nice’ graffiti, the kind the public is readily willing to
acknowledge as art. With bombing, some people shun it and others
embrace it—but that’s where you get the biggest rush as an
artist.”

“And it’s illegal?”

Chase nodded. “Unless the NYPD’s changed
their rules, which I highly doubt. Basically, the city became a
maze of surveillance cameras after 9/11, and places like
subways—where artists have traditionally gone to throw up their
tags—were considered targets for terrorists. That meant there was a
shitload of video evidence of faces to be used in court, and beyond
that, people with cell phones were able to call the cops
immediately. This put a cramp in our methods, but if you look
around, you can see that graff is everywhere, despite the
obstacles.”

I frowned. “I just don’t understand why you’d
want to risk getting caught, though,” I said carefully, not wanting
to offend him. “People know your work, and they respect it. So why
risk that reputation?”

He stubbed out his cigarette on the wall.
“I’ve never wanted conventional fame—I already told you that. I’ve
always been more interested in the contact high of making stuff in
places I wasn’t supposed to be. Besides, that’s how I intend to see
the world. There’s this whole network of underground taggers who
travel to different cities. Sometimes that happens when they’re
invited to an art festival or gallery show, but once they’re there?
Well, you know.” He grinned.

“So . . . do people know that’s what you
do?”

He grunted. “No fucking way! There’s the
Chase Adams everyone knows, and then there’s the guy who does
these.”

He pulled out a can of spray paint and looked
around before letting loose with it on a patch of empty wall. What
I saw stupefied me. Unlike the majestic pieces I’d seen him create,
this was both more sparse and more sinister. A complex diagram of
crescent moons was interlaced with a spurt of bubbly text that I
barely recognized to be the letters “L” and “B.” This was way more
aligned with what I thought of as being “graffiti,” in the most
pejorative sense, but it was strangely elegant, like a piece of
cuneiform.

“What do the letters stand for?” I asked.

“‘LunaBomber.’ That’s my tagging name,” he
said. “But don’t tell anybody that, or I might have to kill
you.”

I smiled back uneasily, although I couldn’t
tell if he was serious or not. “What you do in your off time is
your own business, Chase. I’m here purely to discuss the Quentin
Pierce project. Do you have an email address or phone number I can
reach you at to set up an appointment?”