Chapter 2
Daniel
Him: Congratulations. I’m proud of you.
Even though Mystery Guy’s text comes days after I told him my news, it spikes my heartbeat through the roof all the same.
I contemplate what my reply should be as the scenery on the way to the gallery blurs past me.
It’s Thursday, so I’m meeting Cassandra and the other artists today, and while now is not the best time to get worked up, I can’t just ignore his message.
It’s rude. Plus… I’ve kind of missed our chats.
Me: Thank you! I’m so excited. And thanks again for giving me that nudge. I don’t think I’d have signed up for the competition otherwise. I still can’t believe I was chosen!
The bus halts at a traffic light. Two more stops and it’s mine.
Him: I told you, didn’t I?
A surge of heat races down to my stomach. I bite on my lip, debating internally what to say next.
Me: You are right. I shouldn’t have doubted you. How can I make it up to you?
Holding my breath, I await his response. Every second that passes makes my heart beat quicker and my palms sweat more. Shit, I shouldn’t have said that, right? Was it too much?
Him: We’ve agreed faces are off-limits for now, but other parts aren’t.
I swallow hard, my insides twisting and squirming and driving more desire to my core.
Shit, what do I do? We’ve mostly been talking, but it would be a lie to say that I haven’t been imagining our conversations going in different directions.
He’s flirted with me before, but never so blatantly.
If I want to take this strange arrangement further, now is my chance…
but I also have never done this before. What if…
I dunno, what if I send him a dick pic and he doesn’t like how my cock looks? What the fuck do I do then?
Him: Did this make you nervous? Good. I bet you look delectable when you’re embarrassed.
I fan myself, pulling on my bottom lip. Oh my god. This escalated quickly. But I won’t back down, I’m not a coward.
Me: You wish! Sending you a dick pic is no big deal, FYI.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Why did I send this? I should shut this down, not encourage it! I’m on the way to the gallery, for fuck’s sake.
Him: Good. I expect it tonight. Treat it as my reward for forcing you to get out of your comfort zone and put yourself out there.
Well, shit. What the fuck do I do now? This is so awkward. But even as embarrassment and second thoughts swirl inside me, part of me hums in anticipation. I love the way Mystery Guy can be a bit bossy. He knows what he wants, and right this moment, I suspect it might be me.
Giddiness fills my chest. Don’t get ahead of yourself, Daniel! It’s no good to have a crush on someone who might ghost you after he sees your dick.
True. But I can’t help it. There is just something so intriguing about this man. And partially thanks to him, I’ll be painting a mural in a famous gallery. It’s no surprise I’m excited to get to know him better then, is it?
With a couple of deep breaths, I flush away the inappropriate thoughts that flood my head as the bus comes to a stop.
I’ve arrived, so it’s time to focus. I’ll figure out what to do about the dick pic later.
Now I need my head in the game, so I don’t make an idiot out of myself during the introductions.
The gallery is even more elegant than it looks in the photos online, a two-floor space housed within a modern building with a tessellated facade and a neatly kept front garden.
White walls and near-black hardwood intertwine in a contrast of colors, while arrangements of couches and chairs in beige and gray make up the relaxation corners scattered around the interior.
Standing tables wrapped around metal poles with leaves-like protrusions accommodate mood lights, under which tablets with the gallery’s catalogue can be browsed.
“Hello everyone, and welcome to Salinger Gallery,” the gallery manager, Cassandra, pipes up as I enter, leading me and the other three waiting at the entrance to a cordoned off area in front of a protruding section of wall.
“Congratulations again. It’s a pleasure to meet all four of you.
” She smiles and it reaches her hazel eyes, the color just a notch lighter than her lavish curls.
At a wave of her hand, a stern-looking man and a woman with freckles dotted across her cheeks join her, introducing themselves as her two assistants.
I let my attention stray away from them though, more interested in the printout of what will be going up on the wall.
It depicts four lavishly dressed men and women speaking to an audience from atop a stage.
“Mary, Collin, these are Nicky, Jesse, Steven and Daniel,” Cassandra briefly states when I tune back in. “That will be the East, West, Central and second floor Central, respectively.”
It takes me a moment to figure out what she means, that the directions refer to the walls each one of us is to paint.
I crane my neck so I can see more of the mezzanine where I’ll be painting, a stairwell on each side of the central mural space leading up to it.
If I stand up on my toes, I can just about spy the cordon poles designating my workspace.
Dismissing her two assistants, Cassandra moves us along to the next mural-bearing wall, across from this one. The sketch there depicts a desert scenery bleeding into a city skyline in the distance. Like the first one, the sign next to it also reads ambition, but the name of the artist is different.
“As specified in the competition, you will have a month to finish your pieces, so that gives you plenty of time, even if you can only allocate an hour or two a day. You will be generously compensated upon completion, and all necessary art supplies will be provided to you. If you wish to use your own, you are free to do that as well, but we will require an itemized receipt of what you used so we can reimburse material costs.”
In other words, it will be less of a hassle to use what they provide instead of my own stuff.
I don’t really mind, and I’m sure the supplies will be high quality, so I’m happy to do that.
Jesse, the ginger-headed man with tattoos down both his arms, seems to be of the same opinion, though the blond, Steven, and the supermodel-looking girl, Nicky, launch a barrage of questions Cassandra’s way.
She answers each one calmly, smiling as they explain why it’s so important that they use a specific brush or brand of paint.
I can understand it partially, what with it being part of their own brand, but I’ve never been overly fussy about what supplies I use as long as their quality is good.
After we swing by the first floor central wall—this mural meant to be a take on the global climate issue—we go up the balustraded staircase and stop in front of where my mural will come to life.
Just like with the rest, an A3 printout of my sketch hangs from the rope between the two metal poles sectioning off the space.
The other artists spare a glance, though they look otherwise unimpressed, each one evidently favoring their own interpretation of the theme ‘Ambition’.
I liked them all, but I also think that my own vision is the best, even if, arguably, it’s probably the most controversial take.
It was kind of risky going with it, but I am so glad that I did.
As Cassandra wraps up the explanation about the logistics, she leads us around to the back, where a door with an ID scanner designates the start of the Gallery’s offices and conference rooms space.
“Mr. Salinger and Mr. Temari were kind enough to clear up their schedules so they could personally congratulate you as well,” Cassandra preps us, her excited tone twisting my stomach.
I didn’t expect that I’d get to meet the owners of the gallery.
I’ve heard of Adam Temari—I think he has a fashion line—and Derek Salinger is often in the news because his tech company is always ahead of the curve in everything.
As with most anything celebrity-related, however, I don’t really care enough to know the specifics.
Between my two part-time jobs at the shipping center and the supermarket where I check stock and handle inventory, I don’t have much free time to spare on anything other than doing what I truly love.
And music goes way better with painting than listening to the news. I tried.
“Oh, shit!” Nicky squeaks, excited. “Adam and Derek are really here?” At the gallery manager’s nod, she clasps her hands. “Do you think they’ll be willing to give us autographs? I’m, like, Adam’s biggest fan ever! I love all his lines!”
Oops, I guess he has more than one fashion line then. Silly me—it makes sense if the guy is so famous.
Cassandra smiles as she stops us in front of a door that has her name on a plaque. “I’m sure they won’t mind, but maybe ask them next time? They are both on a tight schedule today as they are leaving for a business trip.”
“It’s really nice of them to stop by despite that,” I comment, because I can imagine how big of a nightmare it probably is for people in such positions to spare us a bit of their time.
This time, Cassandra’s expression is a little tight, but she still smiles as she hums in agreement. She knocks softly once her eyes have traveled over each one of us, announces herself, and opens the door.
Just like the minimalistic style of the gallery itself, her office comprises an open space with a desk, a sitting area and massive windows that let a lot of light in.
Two people are standing by the glass and my eyes choose to settle on the gorgeous man with bold red lipstick, wavy black hair and a dark green suit.
He’s holding an electronic cigar, and I can catch the whiff of caramel wafting in the air.
“Derek,” he says a little impatiently, nudging the broad-shouldered man in the dark blue suit who has his back to us.