Chapter 26
FLOW - SIX MONTHS LATER
Ablush Chicago sunset is burning down over the industrial buildings in this trendy part of town.
I haven’t seen Rig in a suit before, but seeing him in it tonight makes me wonder what size it is, because it fits him like a glove.
My eyes drift over his shoulders and arms as he runs a finger under his collar.
“How do people work wearing this shit?” he says as his eyes narrow on me. “You nervous?”
I was until he said that, and so I grin, looking at all the naked pictures of him on the walls of the gallery. “I would have thought you’re the one who should be nervous.” I wave my hand around.
I’ve done drawings and paintings of him fighting now, close-ups of his battered and taped hands, a fist in a face.
They have a raw power that I really like.
There are a lot of pictures of his ass, which, it has to be said, I do have a bit of an obsession with painting.
My favorite is one of him with his hand on his cock.
You can’t see anything; his hand is cupped over his junk, but it’s very suggestive, and the painting is big, too.
It’s currently occupying the wall at the end of the gallery.
The lady who often staffs the front desk here fanned herself when she saw it, then slapped a three-thousand-dollar price tag on it.
No one will buy it for that much. Luciano, the owner of this place, insisted that it should be the cover picture for the show’s brochure.
Rig smiles. “Don’t have a problem with people seeing my body, babe. The art’s okay, but let’s face it, the real star of the show here is me.”
I punch him in the arm, and he grabs my ass and pulls me in for a kiss.
“Don’t mess up my clothes!”
“You look better a bit messed up, babe. But you always look great.”
I can’t believe I look that good in his old T-shirts I sleep in, but they don’t stay on long, if I’m honest. The gallery staff is buzzing around, putting out canapés and champagne flutes.
There’s a rap at the door, and I turn to see Jake and Marge, Agnes, and June lined up outside the tall glass windows, smiling and waving.
“Jesus Christ,” Rig says as he heads over to let them in.
“Where’s Marni?” Jake asks, looking at me. And my eyes drift over him. He’s always asking after her: I’ve got my suspicions that he’s had a thing for Marni for a while.
“Coming with Konstantin.”
If Jake’s interested, he’s got his work cut out.
Konstantin doesn’t allow her out of his sight these days.
Possessive as hell might just cover it. But she seems happy enough.
Konstantin makes decent money working for a crime syndicate, and she’s always wanted a guy who could keep her in a style to which she was unaccustomed, even though I worry about how much danger she’s in.
“Jesus Christ, is this show all pictures of you?” Jake says, and Rig laughs. “This is like TMI,” he adds, putting his hand over his eyes.
“Not all of them. I’ve done quite a few guys from the rigs,” I say, pointing to the series of drawings of riggers on the far side of the gallery.
“I’ll head over there, then,” Jake says with a wink.
Luciano appears from the back, his smile wide enough to light the room. “How’s my star couple?” he says, with a clap of his hands.
Rig rolls his eyes.
Luciano strides up to me and pulls me into a hug. “This is going to be stellar! I have had so much preshow interest, Carlotta, after I emailed it to the gallery list. I sent THE PICTURE …”
Luciano has taken to calling it this ever since he saw it. “Of Rig’s junk?” I say, raising my eyebrows.
“Yes, yes,” he says impatiently. “I also sent it to a few friends in the queer community. You know the size …”
Rig leans in. “Of my junk or the size of the painting?”
Luciano waves him away. “Of the painting, of course. It makes such a statement. At the end of a hallway, over a bed …” Mischief lights up his face.
I suspect Luciano is well entrenched in the scene in Chicago.
We got the gig at this gallery through Angelo.
Luciano is his cousin. Though I still don’t know how we did that, Angelo has been so disgruntled about Marni and Konstantin that he’s stopped telling us about the fights back home.
Konstantin had a sit-down with Angelo and said if he wasn’t prepared to leave his wife, he needed to back off from Marni.
Angelo didn’t take it well. Luckily, people are still happy to let Rig know because they’re trying to persuade him to fight again.
“And a friend of mine called me and said he had a queer couple from the finance industry in New York who are very interested in THE PICTURE.” His eyes gleam as he leans in like he’s sharing state secrets.
“They’ve put a ten-thousand-dollar deposit on it, and I had to give them first refusal if someone makes a better offer. ”
What the fuck? “Ten thousand dollars?” I say, my legs wobbly all of a sudden.
Somebody is prepared to pay that much money for a painting of mine?
That’s all my debt, or less than that now because I’ve paid a bit of it off.
But I could clear the whole thing and have some left over from just one sale? Christ, I need to sit down.
Rig leans in and plants a kiss on my cheek. “Told you they were impressive, babe,” he says.
Luciano purses his lips. “They are flying in tonight.” He points a finger at Rig. “And you will behave because I have invited all the local media, and at least half of them have accepted.”
“Someone wants to pay ten thousand dollars for a picture of Rig’s junk?” I say.
“She’ll draw fifty pictures if people are going to pay ten grand for them,” Rig says. “No, scratch that, they can see the real thing for ten grand.”
I can’t believe it. For a painting of mine? My dad wouldn’t be rolling in his grave; he’d be dancing on top of it. “Let’s just see how tonight goes, okay. Let’s not get carried away,” I say.
But Luciano just laughs. “It is fun to be excited, no? That’s how I persuade everyone to part with their money.
” His gaze skips over Rig like he’s measuring him for display in the gallery.
“I’m sure you would have plenty of takers for seeing your ‘junk,’ as you call it.
” He pats my arm. “Enjoy it when you make a sale, Carlotta. They will not all sell like that one. It is a special painting.”
A loud rap lands on the window, and there’s Marni and, oh my God, half the mafia of Chicago. I’ve never seen so many guys with thick necks, tattoos, and bald heads gathered in one place before, except perhaps that fight up here. They’re like a herd of walruses.
Luciano’s smile gets even wider as he heads over to let everyone in, and as they barrel through the door, Konstantin leans into him.
“I brought along some people who have money and could buy, favor to Rig.” His eyes sweep down Luciano’s immaculate shirt and chinos.
“It is up to you to sell to them.” His eyes rise to Rig, who’s standing right behind me, and Rig frowns at him, but Konstantin grins at him and jerks his chin.
“I have been tasked with getting you back in the ring. You will eventually give in as a favor to me.”
Rig shakes his head, sighing.
More and more people arrive. Angelo appears with his wife and spends most of the evening staring longingly at Marni. At one point, I spot them in the corridor by the bathroom, arguing, Angelo leaning into her like he wants to inhale her.
I sip my way through a glass of champagne, which settles me down, and I get a satisfying little buzz from seeing all the people and having the show happen at all.
Luciano introduces me to the couple from New York who reek of money.
They tell me how much they like my huge painting, and how they’ve got the perfect place in their apartment for it.
How it’s a sexy picture, but they can see the love, too.
They ask me long and involved questions about my art, my training, and Rig.
Then they invite me to New York, say they want us both to stay with them, and give me a card for a gallery owner who’s a friend of theirs who will put on a show in New York for me.
I laugh because it’s ridiculous, and I want to tell them I’m just a nobody, but of course I can’t do that.
I take another glass of champagne, for all the right reasons this time, because I’m happy, and because I can look across the room at Rig talking to people and admire his broad shoulders and enormous hands in real life.
By late evening, there are stickers on at least three-quarters of the paintings and very advanced interest in the rest of them, or so Luciano tells me.
He’s given up selling and working the room, cranked the music up, and people are dancing.
Konstantin makes a few calls, and more crates of champagne appear like magic, and I’m just standing in a little alcove at the back of the gallery watching it all like I’ve wandered into someone else’s life for the night when Rig appears at my side, leaning in to kiss my neck.
“How ’bout we escape?” he rumbles.
“Sure. Should I call a cab?” We’re booked into a motel on the outskirts of Chicago for the night.
“We can go in the truck. Not been drinking.” He slides a hand over my ass. “Looking forward to a nice big bed.” He trails his lips down my throat.
I don’t like to drink so much now. I used to drink to forget, but now I want to remember. This time with Rig feels like something precious. These days, I wake up with the light seeping around the curtains, and I want to paint and draw.
“Thank you for getting me out of the mess I was in,” I say.
“What?” He frowns at me. “Babe, I didn’t get you out of anything.” He sweeps his arm out. “This is all you.”
“You bought me pencils and paints and set me up on the rig and gave me something to draw and …”