Work of Art ~ the Collection (33 page)

“Is that not in a good way?” Brian asks.

“I’m just not sure yet.”

“So, what’s the latest with Max?”

“We had a big blow out. It was really awful. I doubt we’ll ever be friends again.”

“Well, there’s your passion.” The honesty of his words cuts right to the bone.

“Yes, there’s the passion, but at what price? As it is, the more I learn about Max, the more messed up he seems. So the smart thing would be to exercise my escape clause. The book’s done, we aren’t speaking, so we can just part ways.”

“But?”

“The man’s in my head all the time. I’m pulled to him. It just doesn’t make sense. What a damn mess, Brian. How am I going to resolve this?”

“How did you leave things?”

“He stormed out, and we haven’t spoken since.”

“What if you talked to Max? You could tell him how you feel and why you think the argument happened.”

How horrifying.
I look up at the ceiling, trying to imagine having that conversation. Just the thought of it makes my insides flip-flop.

“What was your fight about anyway?”

“He wanted to fuck me in the studio and not in a romantic way.” I grimace.

“That really sounds hot too. Sorry. . . . Where were you?” he asks, his eyes aglow.

“I was printing when it started. Watching me print his art turned him on, and Sean was in the back burning screens. Next thing you know, we’re up against the wall in the hallway, and he’s all over me.”

Brian’s eyes narrow. “Mmm. . . . Steamy. I know how attracted you are to him. Did you let him take you? Man, I would’ve.”

“No, I pushed him off because I was worried about Sean walking in on us, and I didn’t want to do it in the storage room or somewhere skanky like the bathroom. He got really mad, and now he thinks I gave him mixed messages. The whole thing happened so fast. I was shocked and confused, and I didn’t know what it meant.”

“Things certainly have moved along since our last discussion, you little hottie, you.”

“I don’t think I qualify as a hottie, Brian. All I can think about right now is that Max and I are no longer friends. On the one hand, I’m furious, and on the other . . . I miss him.”

Brian gives me a long look as he pushes his plate away. “You know, Ava, some people expect love to be handed to them like a gift, love in a box . . . all tied up with big red bow. But it rarely happens like that. Sometimes it’s rough and gritty, and you have to fight your way to it.”

I link arms with Brian on the way back to the gallery. It feels good to lean into his strong, solid body. The Santa Ana winds have started to pick up, making my hair whip around my face, and I have to hold my skirt down so I don’t put on a show for the passing traffic. Meanwhile, Brian’s laughing and teasing me as only he can do.

Back at the gallery, Sean’s returned from the dentist and is just heading to the studio, so I join him.

“Hey, while you were at lunch, the freak came looking for you.”

“Max was here?” I ask, surprised.

“Yeah, and he looked like hell. I’m surprised he had the balls to show up here after his bizarre behavior the other night.”

My heart pounds. “What did he say?”

“Not much, just that he
had
to talk to you. He wouldn’t take no for an answer when I said not to wait. He looked frantic. I told him I didn’t know where you were, and I hadn’t seen you since your date with Jonathan last night.”

Date? That’s really helpful,
I think angrily. “Anything else you’d care to share?”

“Oh, yeah, I also asked him why it mattered, since you’d told me you never wanted to see him again.” Sean looks quite pleased with himself.

“Why in the fuck would you tell him that, Sean? I didn’t say I
never
wanted to see him again . . . I said I didn’t
think
we would see each other again.”

“What’s the difference? The fucker’s long gone now.” He smiles darkly.

“There’s a big difference, Einstein.”

“Well, I still think I did you a favor. You deserve better. I don’t care how important his art is or what the fuck everyone sees in him. He stormed out of here like someone had stolen his car, his girl, and his best friend all in one day. What a dramatic ass . . . good riddance.”

Now I’m overcome with curiosity about what Max wanted to say. That he finally had the guts to come here to talk with me weighs heavily on my mind.

As we finish the work in the gallery, Brian asks what I’m doing this evening, and I confide that, if I summon the courage, I may head to Malibu to take Max the transcript for his book. While I’m out there, if he feels like talking, we will. If not, at least I’ll know that I returned the effort. I still don’t want to be with him, but I may find the closure I’m craving.

He gives me a hug and wishes me luck.

Just before six, I get in my car. The Santa Ana winds are really howling and palm fronds from the towering palm trees dotting the streets litter the ground. Swirls of dust and city grit dance around my car, shimmering from the backlit effect of the late-afternoon sun. I sit for a moment, wondering what to do.

Do I go home and watch TV, or do I get on the freeway? I rest the palm of my hand on Max’s folder—his story sitting on my passenger seat—and I close my eyes. One choice is easy, the other risky, but ultimately, isn’t it worse never to know what could’ve happened? The invisible rope winds around my waist and begins the pull toward Malibu.

The drive’s a slow blur because I’m compelled to relive the scene at the studio in my mind over and over. The what-ifs start. What if I hadn’t stopped him? The pictures are so raw and vivid in my mind that my entire body is aroused and on fire. A part of me desperately wishes we’d had sex that night. To feel him inside me would’ve been intoxicating, perhaps satiating the desire that’s simmered in me since the day I met him.

The sun blazes low as it slowly inches toward the horizon, and I lower my car’s visor and squint to see the road more clearly. I picture the look on his face while things were still good that night in the studio . . . in his eyes a look of lust and wanting, desperate wanting. He wasn’t holding back. He was ready to physically give me everything.

Damn.
Why didn’t I let go and give into my passion? We’d become so close lately. Finally being physical would’ve added another shade to our relationship.

But if we had fucked, would I have joined his collection of art sluts to be tossed aside? That would’ve been much worse and the idea is darkly crushing. My anger boils up again, deflating my useless what-if fantasies.

I’m so deep in thought, I almost miss Max’s driveway off Pacific Coast Highway. My hands are shaking as I punch in the security code to the gate, and the memories of my last visit haunt me. Yet the MOMA crisis that brought me here the last time ended happily, so maybe it’s a good omen for tonight.

When I get to the bottom of the road, I stop in the driveway. There’s a rental car parked behind Max’s Porsche. A surge of panic shoots through me. It hadn’t occurred to me he’d have company. The desire to turn around and head home has weighed on me the entire drive over. Now, I just want to get this over with. I’ll give him the book and leave. It’s still early evening, so I figure the worst is I’ll interrupt a dinner.

As I walk along his garden path, I notice the front door is wide open. I look in, but don’t see any sign of Max. I do notice an open bottle of tequila on the side table along with an abandoned shot glass on its side. There’s a sweater on the floor just beyond the table.

This type of foreshadowing is heavy-handed and irritating in stories I’ve read and movies I’ve watched. In those cases, I turn the channel quickly or close the book and push it onto my nightstand. But tonight seems ripe for a train wreck, and I’m troubled enough to not be willing to turn away.

I take cautious steps into the foyer. What hits me first are the sounds. The moaning and indecipherable words slam into me, rendering me breathless.

‘Oh no . . . anything but this, Max,’
my mind wails. I clutch the folder tighter to my chest and try to contain my exploding heart.

I continue forward until I’ve entered the main room. A tableau from a European porn film unfolds before me. The French doors are wide open with the ocean crashing just beyond. The sun, sharing its last rays of the day, skims over the scene, casting sharp outlines of light and darkening shadows.

The girl is blonde, the palest of yellows, which is striking against her tanned skin. I marvel at the way she’s folded over the table, her ample breasts pressed almost flat while her head is arched back. Words fall out of her mouth, and in my stupor she could be speaking Swahili or Albanian for all I know. The fact that her skirt is pushed up over her hips and her panties are missing is not surprising, but expected.

The first thing I notice about him are his hands. One has her peroxide mane wrapped around it, and he’s pulling hard, as evidenced by how far her head is jerked back. The other hand is halfway between her hip and her ass, and the shadows indicate that his fingers are digging into the flesh.

My gaze travels up to his face and I gasp quietly.

He’s ugly. I didn’t think it was possible, but his beautiful features are twisted with hate and anger as he looks down on his golden goddess.

His jeans are pushed down low on his hips and the gathering of fabric around his knees is a symphony of folds and shadows. I’m angry that he doesn’t wear a shirt, as if the thin layer would provide a shield of armor in case the whore pressed up against him.

I’m stunned to finally hear his voice. “Fucking say it, Sheila. What in the hell do you want from me?” I can hear the tequila in the slur of his words.

“I want
you
, Max! Fuck me hard. I need it so bad!”

He lets go of her and starts to undo his belt buckle, but he pauses.

“What are you waiting for, Max? Fuck me already!” the blonde goddess yells.

Okay, I’m done here. Yes, completely done.
I’m shocked and numb. I really understand the potential benefit of the depressive shutdown thing right now. But that would not be good. I need my legs moving to get me out of here immediately.

I’m in the shadows, so I take a silent step just far enough forward to deposit the folder on the table. I’m not even sure it’s a good idea to leave the book now. I just know I can’t have it in my possession another motherfucking second.

I step back and turn to my prize, the front door, my gateway out of this hell that’s burning me more with each second’s passing.

A fierce wind slams one of the French doors hard into the wall and I automatically turn toward the sound. The curtains whip up. For a moment, they are white flags suspended over the room.

Goddamn the Santa Ana winds.

And in the final act of my humiliation, the folder peels open in a horrific slow motion, and the pages take flight, dozens of slender white birds furiously soaring all over the room. Several of the pages fly up against me and wrap around my waist and legs, and I reach down to tenderly peel them off and set them free.

The ugly face now turns toward me, and the expression morphs to a deeper shade of fury. His displeasure that I’m an audience to his tawdry show is quite evident. I quickly calculate that timing-wise I’m at an advantage being mere steps from the door, where he’s on the far side of the room and has the blonde one to deal with. She doesn’t look like she’s in the mood to share, so any attempt he makes to move toward me could be greatly compromised.

And I can tell from the look on his face that he’ll be coming after me. Of this I’m eerily certain . . . so I must plan accordingly. I must think clearly, even though I’m fairly convinced that I’m losing all semblance of sanity as each moment passes.

I exercise my timing advantage as I bolt for the door, turning back only once to show him both the disgust and devastation shadowed in my eyes. And despite his alcohol-induced stupor, I hope he understands; one more unspoken truth shared between us.

Chapter Twenty-Two / All that Matters

When you trip over love, it is easy to get up. But when you fall in love, it is impossible to stand again.

~Albert Einstein

W
hen another blast of the Santa Ana wind pushes me out the front door, some pages of the book follow me into the garden. One page careens into the koi pond, and it sickens me to see my efforts become fish food. My ridiculous miscalculation, where I bend down and retrieve the soggy page, gives Max just enough time to reach the front door before I’ve completed my exit. I’ve underestimated how fast he can move when properly motivated.

“AVA!” His howl tears through me. His jeans ride higher up on his waist now. His expression’s wild and frantic.

For a moment, I look at him. The limp wet sheet of paper caught in my fingers is steadily dripping water on my shoes. I let it go, hearing the faint slap as it hits the terracotta tile of the walkway. My bearings recovered, I bolt for the garden gate.

He charges after me, catches my wrist and, just before I make it through the gate, he pulls me back inside. My heart pounds and I refuse to look at him.

“Ava!” His voice is commanding, but as soon as he’s spoken it seems he has nothing to say beyond my name. He grips my wrist so tightly that my hand starts to go numb. I look at my car and will it to come to me. I’d really like to do a Batman move and fling myself inside my supercharged car and blast out of this fucked-up situation.

I can hear his ragged breath as he waits. God only knows why he’s waiting or what he expects me to do.

“Why did you come, Ava? Why did you come?” His tone is desperate and sounds remarkably sober.

“Because I wanted to talk to you,” I reply, still turned away. My voice sounds lifeless.

“What did you want to say?” he asks frantically.

“It doesn’t matter anymore and don’t worry, I won’t be coming back.”
You bastard.

“Don’t say it doesn’t matter!” he yells.

His fierceness scares me and I curl up inside.

“It’s all that matters.” His voice cracks with emotion like it’s a revelation.