Chapter 5 Daniel
Daniel
Since I know the way to the staff room, and there’s nobody here, I allow myself to text Molly a picture of my mural while I walk.
Molly: Holy shit!!!! It turned out amazing! *chef’s kiss* Picasso will be so jealous, he be turning in his grave!
I laugh and shake my head.
Me: You are exaggerating. But I like it, too.
And because I’m still feeling a little giddy from the praise I got earlier, I add:
Me: One of the other artists said it was his second favorite after his own.
Molly: Please don’t tell me it’s Steven. From what you told me, that guy sounded like a spoiled brat.
I huff another amused laugh.
Me: No, it was Je—
I ram into someone and the phone slips from my fingers, hitting the floor with an unmistakable thud.
The impact with the hard body sends me backwards as my balance wavers.
Using the wall for leverage, I manage to remain upright even if I stumble to do so.
Heart banging against my ribcage, I look up at the person I just bumped into and open my mouth to apologize, my words dying in my throat as I realize who it is.
Derek Salinger’s look of surprise slides off his face as our eyes meet, his eyebrows knitting together just slightly. “Sorry, I wasn’t looking,” he says, one hand smoothing out the crease I caused on his slate gray suit jacket. “Are you okay?”
I blank out and just gawk at him, realizing his eyes are not exactly blue, but rather, a dark mix between blue and hazel with flecks of gold generously sprinkled all over.
The stubble I remember from the first and only day I saw him in person is now gone, and he looks ready to pose on the cover of a bad boy magazine, just like Adam did back then.
While I continue to stare at him, he picks up my phone and lets out a tiny scoff.
His gaze then returns firmly to me. Suddenly, it’s hard to breathe.
I feel tingles all over my skin. My fingers itch as images and ideas swirl inside my head.
Fuck, I know what this is. Shit, shit, shit.
This sensation only happens whenever I find something—or clearly, someone—that will end up on my canvas regardless of whether I want that to happen or not.
God, this is bad. How the hell do I even ask a famous billionaire to pose for me?
He’d think I’m crazy. Worst-case scenario, I can use one of his million photos online, I suppose.
Crossing his arms over his broad chest, Derek tilts his head to one side and studies me curiously. “I guess you weren’t looking either,” he states, indicating the two phones he’s holding.
Ugh, how embarrassing. “I was texting my friend…” I find my voice after a few more moments of awkward silence, the quality of it choppier than I’d intended.
His eyes narrow further as he hands me my phone, but he doesn’t move otherwise, his gaze inquisitorial as he scans me from head to toe.
Again. What’s up with this guy? Or do I have something on my face, my clothes?
I give myself a quick check and find nothing out of order.
When I peek back at him, he’s still looking, his eyebrows bunched together and his lips pressed in a tight line.
It’s like he’s trying to crack me open so he can see all my secrets, and while it’s a little titillating, it’s also making me way too self-conscious.
I mean, I’m just a normal guy, not some prized specimen in a museum.
Doing my best, I try not to waver under his scrutiny, but it’s a little hard, considering he’s technically my boss.
Fear touches me with its icy fingers—shit, did he find something wrong with my painting?
Is that why he’s acting this way? Is he here to scold me and tell me my mural sucks and that I need to redo it?
The suspense is too much for my heart, so to alleviate some of it, my mouth decides to open of its own accord. “Were you texting too, then?” I ask the obvious like the biggest idiot.
The sternness on his face falters for a millisecond as amusement flickers in his pretty eyes. Objectively pretty. He schools his expression into blank neutrality almost immediately though, so I start to wonder if maybe I imagined it.
No, I know that I didn’t. If it were anyone else but me, I’m sure he would’ve fooled them, but I have a knack for noticing details, so I didn’t miss the way the corners of his mouth quivered from him suppressing a smile or a laugh.
I don’t bother to hide my own smirk. Gotcha, Mr. Stuck-Up. I don’t know if it was my stupid question or how I made an idiot of myself, but it proved he’s not so emotionless as he seems keen on presenting himself to be.
Not that it’s any of my business. It also doesn’t make this any less awkward. Part of it is running into your billionaire boss, but the other is that I really need to be going and he’s kind of blocking my way.
“I just sealed a five-billion-dollar deal,” he informs me, leaning his shoulder against the wall. “It’s with a company Salinger Tech has been trying to get for three years.”
I blink at him. Wow, that’s a lot of money and he’s being awfully nonchalant about it. Fucking billionaires. Still, I give him a bright smile because good for him, I guess. “That’s really impressive. Good job.” Or wait, should I congratulate him? “Congratulations,” I add for good measure.
If Molly was here, she’d probably punch him.
She hates people at the top with passion, and I understand her.
They are the evilest scum on Earth, with very few exceptions like the bosses of that pharma company doing research on paralysis.
But I’m not one for violence, physical or verbal, and besides, it’s probably a bad idea to aggravate the man paying me before he’s actually paid me. I do need the money.
Derek’s half-snort is just as unexpected as the smile he killed earlier.
It stuns me, making me forget what I was even doing here.
It’s just that the contrast between his genuine reactions and the persona he’s so obviously maintaining right now is very intriguing, hinting that there might be a lot more to him than what he’s shown everybody.
He’s playing a role, clearly, even if he has the world at the tips of his fingers already.
Why? Doesn’t he have all that he wants? Isn’t that what being rich means?
Once you have enough money, you can be whoever you want and do whatever you feel like.
My phone alarm goes off before my brain can spiral into deeper speculation. Oh shit, I really need to run now or I won’t make it to work!
“Uh, sorry again,” I tell him, silencing the alarm and tucking the phone in my pocket. “It was nice chatting, but I need to go or I’ll be late for work.”
I toss him another quick smile and brush past him, only to halt when his hand gets hold of my arm. It’s a firm, ‘stop right there, I’m not done with you’ hold, and honest-to-god, it makes my cock twitch in the most inappropriate way.
“I think you are already late if you are arriving now,” he points out, tone smug. “And you’re also headed the wrong way. The gallery hall is in the other direction.”
I give him a puzzled look, arching one of my eyebrows. He mirrors my action and then does it again when I cock my head to the left as I try to figure out what he’s on about.
“Oh!” Shit, did he not recognize me? I’m not the most impressionable person, true, but surely he’d remember the artists who won his competition.
“Oh, what?”
His lack of reaction confirms that he’s really mistaking me for one of his staff.
Considering how disinterested he seemed when we were introduced, how out of it, I don’t hold it against him.
I mean, he was probably doing some other five-billion-dollar deal then, so it explains why he didn’t really pay attention.
“I, uh… I’m not staff. I’m one of the artists.” His face scrunches as his brain finally catches up. Sweet, this is my chance. “And it was amazing chatting with you, Mr. Salinger, but I really have to go to my part-time job, so could you, like, let me pass, please?”
He steps to the side and motions me with his hand, fighting off a smile. “Be my guest, Mr. Artist. I apologize for the misunderstanding.”
Oh, so he does have a sense of humor. I don’t know why he’s exuding such unapproachability, but he’s not just ice on the inside.
“Thanks! And good luck with your next five-billion-dollar deal. You got this!”
I leave him with that in the hallway and hurry to find Cassandra, so I can tell her I’m leaving. She’s sad to hear that I won’t stay longer, but assures me the money will be wired by the end of the week.
“Good job again, Daniel. It was lovely working with you, and I just love how your mural turned out. You are really talented. If you need a reference in the future, I’ll be happy to provide one.”
She gives my shoulder a squeeze and hands me her business card, then she’s on her way to greet more guests.
Cameras flash in every direction as I look around the gallery one last time, and throngs of people meander around me, making me feel like I’m in the middle of a whirlpool.
It’s head-spinning, which tells me I’ve reached my limit of socializing for the day.
I’m really not good with loud and crowded places, and I did contemplate not coming to the opening, but I am glad that I did and I got to see my mural all finished.
People seemed intrigued by it too, if the few I saw standing in front of it were any indication, and that’s the best reward an artist can hope for.
With a bubbly feeling in my chest, I leave the glamorous event behind and join the hundreds of strangers on the street outside.
I’m so glad that with the help of my Mystery Guy I went out of my comfort zone and submitted my idea to the competition.
And I can’t wait to show him my piece now that it’s done.
I open my phone and drop the picture I snapped into our chat, smiling like a kid that’s done a good deed.
His work has kept him busy lately and I don’t expect an immediate reply, so I put my phone back in my pocket.
By the time I finish work, he might have seen my message.
Smiling, I join the line of people boarding the bus at the stop on the corner. Time will fly and I will be done with my shift in the blink of an eye, I just know it because I can’t wait to see what Mystery Guy says. And most of all, I hope that he likes my mural.