Chapter 8 Derek #2
I tear myself away from the mural and slip into the hallway, feeling the muscles of my face relax a notch as I round the corner where the intersection is.
This is where I ran into Daniel, my lovely little artist. He was funny in an adorably awkward way.
Refreshing. Shit, I can’t believe it’s actually him.
That this whole thing happened and I am finally meeting the guy I’ve been chatting with for a while.
Yes, I encouraged him to enter the competition, because I just knew it as soon as I saw that single work of his that he’s the real deal, but he won his spot all by himself.
And now he’s here to wreck my life.
I smirk, unable to hold it in. Is this fate? Was he sent to take me down from my throne? Fuck, I’m so ready.
I open the door and enter Cassandra’s office.
Both she and Daniel stand from the couch.
His eyes take me in slowly as if he is mapping feature after feature so he can recall them from his imagination.
It’s titillating. There are many photos of me online that he could use as a reference, but clearly that won’t do.
He’s fascinated by me, but a tinge of apprehension lives in his gaze, like he has his guard up.
It stirs my blood until it’s thrumming in my ears.
My cock jerks, suddenly very interested.
If I thought the buzz I was feeling for the past week was intrusive, it has nothing on the one that racks through me as our gazes clash, the brown in his a rusty hue.
“Uh, hi, Mr. Salinger,” he huffs out in surprise. “Why are you here?”
Those eyes are perfect on him, objectively and subjectively.
His sun-touched skin tone sets off the red pigment that makes the eye color so interesting.
His brown hair is cut in a neat temple-fade, opening his face even further.
It’s a nice face, with a straight button nose and naturally full lips.
I don’t know how I didn’t notice any of this during the initial meeting with the artists, but then again, I was in the middle of a giant deal and I was trying to avoid getting obsessed over the fact that one of those artists is the guy I have been sexting.
And yet, you got there in the end anyway.
I let out a rueful smile, but only for a second. I wouldn’t want to ruin my stern and authoritative image just yet.
“You two have met each other?” Cassandra jumps in, guiding my attention away from my artist.
“Briefly. I mistook Mr. Marcello for one of your staff when we bumped into each other on the day of the gallery’s opening.
” I wave it off with a hand, the details irrelevant, and turn back to the man in question.
“You are the one who painted the mural on the second floor?” I ask, even if that’s a dumb question with a very obvious answer or else Daniel Marcello wouldn’t be here.
Still, I need him to confirm it verbally.
“I—Yes, Mr. Salinger.” His eyebrows knit together.
Is he nervous? Does he think I’m here to scold him? That I didn’t like his mural? I stifle the impulse to reach out and touch him. God, I want to eat him up and make him whimper in pleasure.
Daniel likes his mural. He’s proud of it and he was super excited to show it to me.
That didn’t surprise me. Artists, or at least the ones that stick to doing art, are self-centered, selfish, often narcissistic, even if I’m not getting that vibe from him or his works.
Maybe he’s better at hiding it, or maybe I’ve found an outlier, someone who’s not driven by fame or praise.
It’s something else, something deeper, rawer, more exquisite.
Something that I must figure out if I want to get rid of this obsession with him that has come over me.
I tilt my chin toward the couch, inviting them to sit back down as I flop into the luxurious armchair across from them. The tips of my fingers tingle as I lace them together in my lap. “I’m interested in knowing what inspired your interpretation of ‘Ambition’.”
I expected Daniel to falter, but he doesn’t seem to mind the question.
In fact, those beautiful eyes brighten even more, and his posture relaxes.
“It’s just how it feels to me. It’s… I think there are many ways you can depict it, but most of them show only the bright side of it.
The good, the happy, the end result. But there is also a lot of hard work involved, or sacrifices you sometimes have to make. That’s what I wanted to show.”
Cassandra nods along as Daniel explains his choice of colors, my mind immediately drawing parallels to his other works.
The one with the demon stands out the most, the idea there most likely similar, though I guess it’s a supposition of evil versus good or maybe a way to show that looks can be deceiving and it’s the soul that ultimately matters.
Else, why would there be flowers growing under the creature’s claws?
It’s deep, truly. I tend to scoff at this kind of thing, though this time around that’s not the case. Is it because I feel seen? Because someone has finally realized I am a sad, lonely, pitiful man with rot beneath the impeccable exterior?
Daniel’s eyes are even more alive when he concludes his explanation, a small smile teasing at his lips.
They aren’t as plump as Adam’s and neither does stark red lipstick decorate them, but they suit Daniel’s gentle features.
With the right light and angle, I think he would make a good live-drawing model, draped over this exact couch naked as late afternoon sun filters in through the massive window and illuminates one side of his face.
An annoying itch starts in my right wrist, but I ignore it, instead resuming the conversation.
“I had a look at your other works,” I say, not ceasing my observation of him.
It’s a matter of I can’t more so than I won’t.
A worry line appears on his forehead as he anticipates my next words.
“You have a very impressive, unique style.”
I’m not one to praise because few things ever leave an impression on me.
The custom-tailored suits I wear, the food I eat, the cars I drive, the penthouse I live in and the four other residences I seldom travel to, all of those are inconsequential.
A commodity, a sign of wealth, a way to let others know how much greater than them I am.
How much more ambitious, even if part of the reason for that is the head start I got in life due to my parents’ foresight to get rich.
That’s not to say I had it all handed to me on a silver platter—on the contrary.
They taught me what they knew, they molded me and made sure I had what it takes to make it where they couldn’t dream to get—from a company worth a few hundred thousand to an empire worth billions.
So, praising Daniel Marcello’s art is a big fucking deal because I tend to hold others up to the same standard I set for myself.
Daniel glances at Cassandra, a question on his mind clearly, though he doesn’t state it. I can guess what it is—after all, I did instruct Cassandra to keep things vague and not mention me, even if I am not sure why exactly.
As a pause settles between us, Daniel starts bouncing his leg. He’s nervous, I can feel it. It pours off him in waves that I soak up like soil that hasn’t seen rain in ages.
“I, uh…” he says finally, losing this standoff I’ve decided is currently happening between us. “I think that no matter how dark the subject of a painting might be, hope is always there in some shape or form, just like how we can find it in the world around us.”
Arousal floods me. He’s na?ve. In that way that riles me up, that makes me want to prove just how wrong this kind of thinking is.
I want to taint him, to show him how shitty the world is once it decides to devour you, that there are some things that are so black no amount of light can ever touch them.
That’s what I am. A thing that cannot be fixed, a man who’s too far gone to be saved.
Or so I thought until I saw Daniel’s mural. It ignited something in me, awakened my soul and now that my routine has been disrupted, I don’t know what to do with myself other than see where this leads me.
I cross my arms and lean forward. “You really think that?”
It’s a rhetorical question. He does, or he wouldn’t be here. His art wouldn’t talk to me the way it does, it wouldn’t touch these raw places inside me.
“I do.” His leg stops bouncing, but the nervousness moves to his twiddling fingers.
“I think it is always around us, Mr. Salinger. Even if we are not aware of it because it’s something simple we take for granted.
” He offers me a smile then and in it I see sadness that clenches around my heart even though it doesn’t linger in his expression.
“Like the sunny weather today when the forecast was for rain. Or”—he takes his phone out, slender fingers tapping out the password too fast for me to see—“I saw this in the morning.”
It’s a photo of a crow I think, holding a keychain with a star in its beak.
It sits on a disfigured metal railing that’s been knocked down by some car when it decided the space provided by the parking lot wasn’t enough to accommodate its backside.
Daniel has angled the shot in such a way that behind the railing and the crow you can see the green stretch of some unknown park and the verdant blue of the early morning sky.
The composition is great, a lot better than some of the photographs in the gallery out front that such-and-such’s rich kid took without even an ounce of thought expended on their end.
People still buy those works, so I’m not worried about us selling them, but it’s because of who took it rather than the actual photo.
It’s made-up prestige as opposed to quality, kind of like how it is with luxury brands that overcharge you for no reason.