21. Logan
LOGAN
I’m not even out of the car before I see the first camera flash outside Fractal Gallery.
“They tailed us here,” I tell the driver, glancing back to see two paparazzi cars driving quickly behind us, popping on their hazard lights, and darting out of their cars with cameras in hand.
“Running up the fucking sidewalk like rats,” the driver says in his thick Eastern European accent.
“It’s fine,” I tell him. “I can’t avoid it sometimes.”
Fractal Gallery is on a busy street down in the Lower East Side, framed by tall trees and surrounded by bars, clubs, and restaurants. The moment the first camera flashes, groups of people stop and turn their heads, wondering which celebrity they’re about to see.
Guilt pools in my stomach.
I didn’t want to make this about me.
I’m here to see Chase shine in his first gallery showing, and I want to get into the building before too much pandemonium happens outside.
“I’m just going to go for it,” I tell my driver. “I’ll see you later this evening.”
“Good luck. You need my help cracking skulls, you have my number,” he tells me.
I step out onto the street and the camera flashes multiply. Faces in the crowd of the sidewalk all turn on a swivel, looking over to see the source of the commotion.
“Big D!” I hear someone say.
“Damien! Over here!”
It’s common for people to actually just call me Damien, knowing me from the show, and I’m never sure if it’s because they don’t know my real name or if they just don’t care.
I smile and wave to the cameras, and as a couple of people bring out their own phone cameras to take selfies without asking, I quickly turn my head to smile for them, too.
“What brings you out here tonight, Mr. Stone?” one of the paparazzi shouts.
“Art showing.”
“What do you think about those new Caitlyn Grener pictures, Logan?” another one shouts, and that one I pretend I don’t hear.
Taking the few steps across the sidewalk toward Fractal Gallery ends up taking a solid three minutes, because I’m unable to say no when people put their cameras up for selfies.
I wave to the little crowd that formed as I push open the door to the gallery, stepping inside.
Luckily, once I’m in there, no one can follow.
I texted Chase last night verifying that he added me to the list, and he confirmed. The opening night is for selected guests, then the rest of the public is open to attend for the rest of the two weeks afterward.
And from the moment I’m inside, it’s clear that this isn’t any normal gallery.
Instead of the normal bright, white, austere walls, every wall in here is black.
There’s ambient music playing on the speaker system, and the whole place smells delicious, like some sort of warm spice.
The art on the walls is highlighted by targeted spotlights, but the rest of the space is dimly lit, like we’re in some sort of swanky jazz lounge.
Everyone in here seems to be covered in tattoos. The artists and guests are all mingling, and the space is almost completely full, packed with people who are young and beautiful and painfully cooler than I am.
I’m in a tailored slate grey suit with a lavender tie, and suddenly I feel overdressed.
“Hello,” I say at the front desk. “I should be on the list? Logan Stone.”
The woman at the front is wearing black lipstick and has her hair up in two buns at either side of her head. She’s heavily tattooed as well, which I have a full view of through her see-through mesh black long-sleeve.
“Last name Stone, you said?” she asks, thumbing through the list on her iPad.
A surge of delight fills me as I realize she doesn’t know who I am.
Fuck, this place would have intimidated me a while ago, but now I’m convinced I’m in heaven.
“Yes. Logan. One of the artists said he added me to the list late last night. Chase Cameron?”
“Oh! You’re with Chase,” she says, brightening. “He told me he invited someone. Head on inside.”
I head deeper into the space. There are four different rooms within the gallery, each of them showcasing multiple different artists. There’s a bar and cafe at the back where people are crowded around, having drinks and finger foods and talking about artists I don’t have a clue about.
A couple of people do double takes as I walk by, and I’m certain even in this crowd, there are people who watch Yard Line. But there’s no big mob that forms around me.
I find Chase near the back corner of the furthest room.
His photographs are hung up on the wall behind him, and there’s a group of people congregated around him, some of them looking at his art and others looking at him as he talks.
He looks every bit like an artist.
He’s wearing black, like a lot of the people in here, but his shirt is unbuttoned at the top as usual, showcasing his necklaces. His sleeves are rolled up, and as he uses his hands to gesture while talking, I watch the muscles in his forearms move.
The image of yesterday flashes through my mind.
Chase, above me, with two of his fingers pressing deep into me and coaxing me to come. He always has this air of power when he’s with me, but now I see it more than ever, as he commands whatever story he’s telling everyone around him.
He’s magnetic.
He’s so alive in ways that I didn’t even know were accessible to me until I met him.
I just hang back in the dim room, watching him for a while so that I don’t interrupt his conversation. He takes a sip from a drink in a fancy glass which I recognize as his new favorite ginger ale with strawberry and lime.
Finally, he spots me as the group around him moves toward the next artist’s work.
His eyes go wide, just for a moment, when he sees me.
I work my way through the crowd toward his art and he wraps an arm around me to give me a casual hug.
It’s a type of touch I’m not used to, from Chase. I’m so accustomed to his needy, constant touches when we’re in private, where he’ll start running his thumb over my waist and not take it away for an hour.
But being with him here, he greets me like I’m just a colleague.
“You actually came,” he says.
“You knew I was coming.”
He’s peering at me like I’m some impossible creature. “Yeah. But still. I can’t believe you showed up.”
“This place is incredible. Your photos look great on the wall, too.”
“Thanks. I sold one already.”
My eyes widen. “You’re kidding.”
“A man who lives in Brooklyn came over and said he’s been going to one of the shops I photographed for years.”
My heart feels a little too big for my chest. “Chase, I’m proud of you.”
He shrugs it off like it’s nothing. “I took some pictures around the city. It’s not like they’re the Mona Lisa.”
“No. You’re extremely talented, and it’s okay to admit that.”
He runs his hand through his hair. “Thank you.”
Chase mentioned that his father hated his art. With me, Chase always seems so self-assured, but in one quick flash of his gaze, I feel like I can see the history of a lifetime behind his eyes.
Chase has spent his whole life being told that his art wasn’t a talent worth sharing. I can see it in the way he shrugs everything off, downplaying the beautiful things he makes. He likes his own work quite a lot, but he doesn’t expect anyone else to like it.
He looks all around the room and I can tell how nervous he is, which is a very new thing for me to see.
Whether he admits it out loud or not, this is a big deal for him.
I scan the room, making sure I don’t currently have anyone gawking at me who recognizes me from TV.
And then I take a step closer to Chase, putting my hand on the small of his back. I rub slow circles there as both of us face toward the crowd.
I don’t say anything, because I have no clue if any words would actually help Chase relax right now. But I know he’s responding to my touch. I feel the tenseness in his back start to melt as I touch him, grounding him back in his body.
Finally, he speaks.
“If this happened to me over a year ago, I would have been so trashed on liquor or pills right now I wouldn’t even be able to remember it,” he murmurs. “Or I’d be stepping outside every ten minutes to chain smoke, because I’d feel like I needed a break or an outlet. But now it’s just… me.”
“And me,” I tell him quietly. “I’m here.”
He exhales and I feel his hand come over to my hip, giving me a squeeze. “I cannot fucking believe you’re here. Thank you, Logan. It means more than you could possibly be aware of.”
“Wow. Are these taken with a Holga?” a young woman asks, coming up to look at Chase’s photos.
“Not a Holga, but another medium format camera,” Chase explains, his face lighting up. “I used a Mamiya TLR.”
“I’ve read about those. How do you get it to have that contrast?”
“It’s all done in the darkroom.”
I let my hand slide away from Chase as he gets caught in a conversation with her, all about photography techniques.
I slip off into the crowd, making the rounds and looking at the rest of the art on display.
Everyone took photos of ‘Old New York,’ but it’s shocking to see how different everyone’s end result was.
Some artists went to Coney Island. Others photographed only the interiors of old buildings.
One man only took shots of abandoned buildings, and another, only of crumbling sidewalks.
I loop around, making my way to the bar at the back. It turns out they’re also serving fresh-pressed juices, which are my current favorite and something even my nutritionist approves of, so I get something they call a “pineapple mango greenie” and sip slowly, sitting at the bar.
“Holy fuck,” I hear from behind me a handful of minutes later, and when I turn on my swivel chair, Chase sits down next to me, looking shellshocked.
“Everything okay?”
“Somebody came and bought all of them. All of them. The rest of the photos are spoken for.”
“Another ginger with strawberry?” the bartender asks Chase.
“Yes. Absolutely.”
I can’t help but smile as I watch Chase toy with a coaster on the bar, then grab a napkin and start ripping it up.
“You look like you just got horrible news, when in reality you just sold your fucking art, Chase. That’s amazing.”