Chapter 3
FRAME THREE
AN ARTIST LOOKING OUT A WINDOW
I’ve always hated openings, but never in my life has one made me more uncomfortable than this one.
It wasn’t the curator’s speech about how brave I must have been to risk my life taking the photograph that earned me this exhibition.
Nor was it the fake smiles of the board members nodding along to his nonsense as if they hadn’t come just for the free champagne and the chance to appear important in a press photo.
No, it was the silent click of a camera that followed me everywhere.
Posing in front of the floor-to-ceiling print of my photograph—the one of a barn slowly being torn apart by a tornado—so everyone could see the man behind the frame? Click.
Stalling at the buffet while clinging to a stale soda so I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone? Click.
Sneaking off to the restroom, because the hallway leading to it was deserted and had a window where I could stare at the sobering rain pattering against the glass? Click.
Any normal person probably wouldn’t have noticed.
The sound was way too faint, easily drowned in all the chatter, clinking of glasses, and the rain pouring so hard against the gallery’s roof that you’d expect it to collapse any second now.
To me, the soft click was like an alarm that would have even jolted me awake from a coma—and I’ve had enough of it.
I might have been forced to show my face, so the donors could see who they were giving their money to.
But the fact that the photographer who had shadowed me all day was the same guy who made me his toy just last night made me want to run away and hide.
As another click followed, I darted my head around, staring directly into his lens.
The man holding the camera, hiding his own face behind the black piece of equipment, had his black button-down shirt sleeves rolled up, as if this were actually hard work.
He stood so close to the sliding door leading back to the gallery that anyone who opened it to find the restroom would have bumped right into him.
His gray suit pants fit him nicely but couldn’t hide the fact that the fabric was cheap, something off the rack that just happened to be made for his exact stature.
Another click echoed through the empty hallway as if mocking me.
He lowered his camera, revealing the grin that had been on his face since we first met yesterday.
“What are you doing, Theo?” I asked, my voice hoarse as if I had given the opening speech myself.
“My job,” he replied, the corners of his mouth pulling down playfully to make his expression even more smug.
I nodded toward the door behind him that led into the gallery. “Your job’s in there.”
“Looks like you got me.”
Theo did a good job taking my portrait and satisfying me last night, no doubt.
For some reason, though, today he seemed to have made it his life’s goal to follow me everywhere.
He took pictures of me at the opening, during the setup of the exhibition this morning, and even at lunch with the team.
Why would someone as talented as Theo waste his gifts on such a menial gig?
“Sorry, I just couldn’t resist such a poetic opportunity,” he said, nodding toward the window behind me.
“An old fart like me isn’t what anyone would call poetic.”
“Depends on who’s looking, I guess.” He turned the camera around and showed me the small screen on the back.
The picture was good: rain against the window and me staring into it, as if I were thinking about where to take the next photo that people might call brave.
It was the perfect reflection of the artist in me.
It was fragile and sad in a way that I could’ve truly admired if I weren’t the subject of it—and if he wouldn’t behave as if we hadn’t done the dirtiest things together yesterday.
Theo’s eyes were fixed on me, waiting for the judgment of tonight’s star, as if my word was the law.
“Do you want me to delete it?” he asked, his finger hovering over the trash can button.
“If I did that, I could never look at myself in the mirror again,” I replied.
All art deserved to exist, no matter whether I loved it or not.
My eyes hovered on the image of myself on that small screen for a second longer before moving up and meeting Theo’s gaze.
His shoulders hunched a little, and a strand of hair on his forehead reached hard for his eyes. “Well, keep up the good work.”
“I will.” He nodded as if he took my words as an order, his fingers tightening their grip on his camera. He leaned in a little closer, bringing his mouth too dangerously close to my ear. “Although I have to admit that nothing I shot today will ever beat what I saw yesterday.”
My dick twitched at the tingle of his breath on my ear.
And then nothing. He didn’t make any move to take this further—just stepped behind me, leaned against the wall, and stared at his camera.
I wished I could have asked him if he wanted to sneak away together and do it again, or if he wanted to come over tonight once the official part was over. But I couldn’t get the words out.
Instead, my feet dragged me back down the hallway to the gallery.
I put my hand on the metal door handle and, waiting for another click to reach my ear, peeked over my shoulder.
As expected, the camera had found its way in front of Theo’s face, his left hand adjusting the lens, and his right finger already on the trigger.
I smiled as much as possible, trying to give him the picture he should have taken all along: the boring, bad one I was expecting; the one for the newsletter.
If he had taken it, it would have been easier to dislike him. But the click never came.
As the opening had come to a close, I retreated toward the pub I owned downtown, Hops it pays the bills.”