Work of Art ~ the Collection (64 page)

By the time we end our call, I’m beaming. I’m starting from a position of respect, unlike my last project where I had to convince Dylan it wasn’t the world’s biggest mistake to hire me. I don’t have to defend myself at every turn.

Besides the boost to my confidence, I also find Andrea Altman fascinating. Her entire career has been based on explorations of women and their perceived place in society. She’s one of a small group of women who’ve achieved major museum status with their multimedia work. I hope I get to meet her face to face.

The next few weeks are a whirlwind. I labor feverishly on the Altman story, and Max throws himself into his latest work. I’ve never seen him so energized and focused. He’s titled it:
Repurposing the Intangible.
It’s the manifestation of the thrift store paintings project that incorporates the abandoned paintings.

I delight in hearing him talk about it, since I was personally involved. That day we scoured thrift stores together was a precursor to our future love affair.

I invite Max over Wednesday night. It was a crazy day at the gallery, and by the time I get off work and grocery shop, I’m too tired to cook. He’s sweet about it and takes me to El Coyote, one his old haunts, for enchiladas and margaritas. Then he brings me home and tucks me into bed.

The next morning, as I head out the door, he reminds me to come to the art show on Saturday at the fine art magnet high school where he’s been working with the students. He’s excited to introduce me to the kids and show me their work, so I’m more than happy to come along.

Saturday, he shows up at my place in black jeans and a fitted black T-shirt. He hasn’t shaved, so he really has that rough-edged look going.

Damn.
I give him a crooked smile with a raised brow.

“What?” he asks.

“You’re so incredibly distracting. Who’ll look at the art when you look like that?”

“Oh please.” He rolls his eyes playfully and then points at me. “And what about you, Ms. Jacobs? As much as I love the fit of your jeans, do you really need to advertise that great ass?”

I look behind me as if I’m checking out my backside and wink.

“You’re going to provoke all those young men with their raging hormones.” He steps behind me, pulls me against him and slides his hands up to my breasts.

“I’m going to have to beat them off with a big stick,” he growls.

“You’re going to have to beat
me
off with a big stick if you don’t stop rubbing against me. In another minute I’m pulling off my tight-ass jeans and we’re missing the show.”

He raises his hands and steps back. “Okay, okay. Let’s go.”

When we walk into a large schoolroom that’s been converted into a makeshift gallery, all eyes turn toward us. A young man with tattoos running up his neck and a baseball cap angled to the side saunters over to us. He can’t be more than seventeen, but he has the attitude of someone twice his age.

“Grand Master M!” He gives Max a fist bump and then looks me over.

Master Max?
I think, amused. I’ll make sure I use that later.

The young man sucks in his cheeks and purses his lips as he studies me. “Is this your woman?”

“Yes, Tulio, this is
my woman,
Ava. Ava, this is Tulio.”

“Hey.” I nod, figuring this is as formal as we’ll get.

“Oh, she’s fine, Master M, very fine. You better put a ring on it.”

Max fights back a smile. “Thanks, man, I’ll keep that in mind. Now, why don’t you show us your work? I’m sure Ava will be fascinated.”

“Put a ring on it,” I whisper as we follow Tulio. “Is that like being branded?”

“In a way,” Max says. “Marking what’s yours is a theme around here.”

“How romantic,” I say, with not a small amount of sarcasm in my voice.

“Oh, angel, believe me, when I ask to put a ring on you, it’ll be very romantic.”

I blush furiously, and I try to focus on the paintings Tulio points to. He’s a modern day Diego Rivera with colorful paintings of the people from his neighborhood—working, talking, and living their lives.

“He’s good,” I say to Max.

He nods with a smile on his face. “If he keeps this up, I’m sure I can get him a scholarship to a really good art school. Plus, he has the confidence and drive, and that’s half the battle.”

Some of the kids are gathered around a table with homemade cookies and half-empty two-liter bottles of Coke and Sprite. No wine and cheese platters at this event, but perhaps some of them will be part of a prestigious opening one day.

I take a broader look at the room with dirty walls and battered tables, and my heart swells as I realize the pride with which all of the art is hung. I’ve been to countless museums, gallery shows, and art events, and I’ve never felt this level of effort and creative energy captured in the work covering these four walls. There are no fancy frames, and not all the work is great, but there’s hope in every line and brushstroke.

Everyone anticipates Max’s reaction to the art.

Max approaches an African-American kid who’s standing next to a woman.

“Hi, Maurice. Is this your mom?” he asks politely.

Maurice nods shyly.

He turns to Maurice’s mom. “I’m the guest teacher, Max Caswell.”

“You’re the famous painter Maurice keeps talking about,” she says with cautious eyes. “You’ve made a big impression on him.”

Max smiles at Maurice and nods. “And he’s made a big impression on me. He’s very talented, Mrs. Johnston.”

“Yeah, but will he be able to get a real job with this drawing stuff?”

“I can’t promise that, but he has a real gift, and I think he should give it a shot.”

Maurice lights up like the Times Square Ball at midnight on New Year’s Eve. God, I’d bet on this kid with his fantastical paintings of flying elephants, baroque tree houses, and mythical animals perched in trees. His imagination appears to know no bounds, and his execution’s flawless.

I study his painting just to my right and then smile warmly. “Where do you get your ideas and inspiration, Maurice? Your work is so imaginative.”

“Thank you,” he says quietly, looking down. “I’ve always seen these dreamlike scenes in my head, and I’ve done a million sketches for myself. But when Max showed me this artist—Daniel Merriman—and his work, I felt it was okay to do this stuff and still be taken seriously.”

I squeeze Max’s hand as Maurice slowly looks up with admiration in his eyes.

A provocative girl, who I decide to name Lolita, approaches us. She ignores me and flirts shamelessly with Max, but his extensive experience with flirty women keeps her at arm’s length without too much of a fuss.

As much as I hate to admit it, her documentary photographs of quinceañeras show both the sensuality and wonder of the rite of passage pageantry for Latin-American girls. Lolita has managed to be both photographer and protagonist in her work.

Max takes the time to introduce me to each student and show me his or her art. A tall, plain, red-headed girl taps him on the arm and points to a large canvas. He smiles as he approaches it and runs his hand over the right side of the painting. “Wow, Sadie. Did you do this after we talked?”

She nods, nervously waiting for his reaction.

“I love it. It’s so much stronger now, don’t you think?”

Pure joy moves across her face.

He takes my arm and pulls me closer. “Ava, this is Sadie, my abstract girl. What do you think?”

I take my time and study her painting, so my answer doesn’t come off as flippant. Her use of color and layering is reminiscent of Max. She’s obviously been influenced by his work, but there’s real talent there. With time, she’ll hopefully find her own voice.

“I like it very much, Sadie. Creating compelling abstract art is more difficult than people realize. You’ve got real talent.”

She smiles, looking so hopeful.

Our final stop is with Raphael, the teacher who brought Max into this program known for nurturing the most talented young artists from all over L.A. He shakes my hand warmly and speaks of what Max has given to the kids. The time he’s spent there has had a profound effect on them.

Max has the power to give hope with only a handful of words to kids who’ve never known it. I’m proud of him, humbled to see his magic at work, and I fall fiercely in love all over again.

Back in my apartment, we silently walk hand in hand to the bedroom. With only the moonlight to guide us, we slowly undress each other, stroking and kissing tenderly.

I feel a subtle shift in my heart. Max acting as a mentor paints a new range of vibrant colors in my heart that unfurls through me. We’re the passion of color and light rendered in strokes of paint and surrounded by an elaborately carved frame that barely contains us.

Is it possible to keep falling deeper into love—to want someone so much that it edges your every breath and echoes in every heartbeat?

He lowers me onto the bed and stands over me. Gazing with dark eyes, he lightly runs his fingertips up my inner thighs until I slowly part my legs. Once I’m completely open, I reach for him as he joins me on the bed, his tongue replacing his fingertips.

He tastes and teases me slowly, but I need him inside of me. Is he going to make me ask for what I want? I get an idea of what it must be like to be bound and touched everywhere except deep in my dark place where I need it most.

“Please,” I beg.

He rises up on his knees between my legs. As he tears open the condom foil, my fire flares from my explosive desire and his arousal, but mostly from the simple act of him touching himself as he rolls the condom on. He watches me squirm.

“I want you so much, Ava. Are you ready?” His eyes are stormy, as if he’s about to devour me.

“Yes,” I whisper, as I arch my back and spread open further, holding on to my last thread of control.

Right before I resort to groveling, he sinks all the way into me with one fluid stroke, and the tight fullness is glorious.

I wrap my legs around him as he builds a rhythm. Every thrust is a declaration . . . a surrender, a step forward and back. I score my nails down his back, then dig into his ass so that he takes me deeper. We moan as we tangle up together. His torso bows and his mouth meets my breast—teasing my nipples as I beg for more . . . and he gives and gives.

God, I love this man.

His skin is hot, his expression fierce. Our eyes meet and I glimpse his soul and the depth of his passion.

“Ava,” he whispers with reverence and so much love.

I start to fall away from the real world.

Our kingdom extends beyond this room, far past the moat that surrounds our bed. I am his queen, splayed out on the royal bed as he fucks me soft, loves me hard, and turns me inside out.

His devotion undoes me as we face the bright light, gathering stars in my hair as his fingers caress me . . . the wind at our feet, pushing us along.

Our climax is a crash in reverse, all the broken pieces falling together.

He is mine, he is mine . . . I am his.

Chapter Twenty-One / This is the Hunger

They sicken of the calm who know the storm.

~ Dorothy Parker

“I’
ve heard you’re a special guest at the party ArtOneWorld is throwing for the launch of their new network,” Dylan says on the phone, after going over the travel details for Barcelona.

“I don’t know about special guest, but I think it’s cool they invited me. I’ve been hearing good things about their cable channel. I love that it’s all about art, right?”

“Yes, it’s fantastic for all of us. It creates all kinds of opportunities. They want you to attend this party. Max is invited as well, but you may not want to go together.”

I feel a shiver of nerves run up my back. “Why not?”

“Weren’t you guys supposed to be low-key about your relationship in the interview so they wouldn’t ask questions? I heard you weren’t low-key at all.”

“No, we weren’t low-key. They kept pushing me to tease him and make it fun. Maybe I shouldn’t have let it get so flirty, since we wanted the focus to be on the art.”

“Don’t get me wrong, Ava. I know they loved the footage. It positions Max in an interesting way. But attending a party is something else.”

“Yes, it is. Why can’t we just be real at the party?”

“Look, I’ll be honest . . . if you’re trying to establish yourself and have people take you seriously as a professional, I think it’ll look better if you guys aren’t openly involved on the heels of
Unspoken Truths
and all the time you spent together.”

“So, now we have to pretend? He kissed me in front of everyone at Art Santa Fe. I think the cat’s already out of the bag.”

“But the ArtOneWorld team is a different group, and they’re watching you very closely right now. You won’t have to be low-key forever. But certainly through Barcelona.”

“Ugh! That’ll be torture . . . to be in Barcelona together and not be together.”

“Well, for the record Max is furious that I even suggested this. He doesn’t know I’m talking to you about it, because he wants the world to know he’s in love. But it’s not his reputation at stake, it’s yours, and he doesn’t seem to get that.”

I’m quiet as I ponder what he’s told me. “All right, let me talk to Max first and then Adam—one hurdle at a time.”

“Okay. I’m sorry I’m making things difficult.”

“It’s all right. You have my best interests at heart.”

I’m nervous to discuss Friday’s logistics with Max, and as predicted, he’s furious about the idea of going to the party separately.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and pounds his fist on the table. “I want everyone to know I’m with you . . . and you’re with me.”

“I know, but Dylan has a point. This is a crucial moment in my career. Between my screw up with Jonathan—who I was working for—and falling in love with you, I don’t look professional. It’s like I’m the harlot of art publishing, one or two steps above art slut.”

“I’m going to kill that asshole. I told Dylan not to talk to you about this. But did he listen?”

“Max, do you want me to be successful?”

“Of course.”

“Then you need to help me with this. It’s only for a couple of months, a few public events.”