Chapter 10 #2
“You and me both. Because babyyy… the way I was so ready to tell him to take his hot breath and thirsty Luxe Ladies offers, and exit stage left—”
“He’s still trying to cast you?” Priscilla frowns. “I thought they were already scheduled to announce the new season’s lineup next week.”
“Same.” I shrug, reaching to my nightstand for my water. I remove the cap and take a long drink before I continue. “Someone must be getting the boot, because he was steady asking me all these questions about my relationship with Warner and Sherry, pandering for the drama.”
“Always.” Priscilla grabs her water too, which makes me happy. We can’t have her heartbroken and dehydrated.
I exhale, exhausted from rehashing the creepy interaction. “Zeek was fishing about Sherry’s paintings, wanting to know if we’d been close back in Zion & Zara. Just tacky, wheeling and dealing in my gallery.”
“Unrefined and uncouth.” Priscilla sips her water, still listening as she tosses back her covers and walks over to open up her blinds, and it feels like a win.
Goodbye, hermit. Hello, sunny.
“Do you know this arrogant man had the nerve to actually fix his lips to ask me to sign an NDA about him asking me to join the cast? Like, what?”
“Ooh, no he didn’t.”
“Yes he did, indeed, girl,” I intone. “To which I’m like, absolutely the hell not.”
“Okay, so how’d you—”
“Escape and find myself in the bathroom with the Tin Man?” I skip straight to the good part.
“So, Jada Banks had walked up, real hush-hush, whispering in Zeek’s ear, and I took the opening—beelined for the restroom under the stairs, ducked inside, locked the door, and just breathed because I was in the clear, right? ”
“Yeah.”
“Wrong.” I laugh. “By the time I tried to leave, Warner was on the other side, closing me back inside with him—”
“And his thick thighs, all that booty. Just smelling all good,” she editorializes, loving every second of this.
“He did smell good,” I admit. “But yes, all of him.”
Priscilla’s mouth is a full-circle O.
“I didn’t know what to think. The two of us in that tight space, breathing heavy, only inches between us…”
“Whit.” She swoons, just hopeless. “That’s romance-movie stuff.”
“And horror-movie stuff,” I counter. “I guess we’ll learn which one soon enough.
But as much as I wanted to relieve him of every last thread of that impeccably tailored Italian suit and lick him from head to toe for a night, I don’t know this man from Adam.
And this was my place of business,” I say, even though my body clocked every inch of his smooth, dark skin, broad shoulders, those full, kissable lips.
The way his soft fabric draped appetizingly over that hard body built for fun.
“But also, my girl’s only human…”
We both laugh.
“Well, that goes without saying.” I pop my invisible collar. “I curate art for a living, so you know I’ve got a vivid imagination.”
“And used it, hopefully,” Priscilla adds.
“Sis, you know money-clip men are not my thing. But let’s just say he was breathless after I convinced him to call the Artery today about meeting to discuss exhibiting Sherry’s collection…”
Priscilla erupts with excited shrieks, snapping her fingers. “Okay, diva!”
“Yup, so everything was feeling copacetic,” I preface, sadly about to burst her hopeful bubble. “Until he sprinted out that restroom.”
Leaving me all hot and bothered.
“Now, the headlines are headlining,” she concludes.
“And Gertrude and Phyllis are up in arms over me sullying the Graves family name, like they haven’t spent the last five decades tag-teaming its descent.
Outlook on my chesticles and vagine? Not good.
” I glance at the time in the top-left corner of the screen.
“It’s almost three, Clive still hasn’t heard from Warner, and now that Scene and Heard It All vlog is live with the stupid comment I made about him when I thought he was a no-show, so the opinions are flying—”
“And the sparks?”
“Quickly fizzled when he dipped out the gallery,” I say, still chastising myself for thinking we’d shared a moment. “But if you like it, I love it.”
I, in fact, hate everything about it.
Is it a coincidence that the Restroom Rendezvous is doing wonders to keep Echelon Technologies’ new RealSpace Engine update in the headlines? I think not.
“Listen, the way I see it, the universe is in balance,” Priscilla says. Cue the sunshine in three, two, one… “The chemistry was off the charts, and you’ve got an appointment with him, right?”
“Supposedly,” I mutter.
“Okay, so we don’t know if he’ll select the Artery for the private exhibition, but it’s being considered. This could lift up your gallery and ArteryBeat.”
“I just wish the spotlight wasn’t linked to some fabricated scandal.” Or that man.
Priscilla purses her lips. “No one wants their name in the same headline with the words ‘Restroom Rendezvous.’ But…”
“But?”
She deepens her stare. “The press are talking, mentioning the nonprofit, your gallery, linking you to Sherry’s collection. And you get to see him again. Everything’s working out for the best, right?”
I didn’t realize how much I needed reassurance.
“Thank you,” I say.
“One sec…” Priscilla is up and moving about her bedroom, tears dried, rifling through snacks. But then she stops in front of the screen, hair still socket-shocked, squinting as she bends into the frame. “Wait, have you checked your lab results?”
“They haven’t returned my call yet.”
Priscilla twists her lips. “I know, but did you check the app? They usually upload the results and set follow-up appointments to discuss them with you, in case you’ve got questions.”
“Oh.” I didn’t think of that.
“Log in. There should be a list of records, vaccine history, previous visits, prescriptions. Look for lab results.”
Scrolling slowly, I scan each heading.
“Ooh, it’s here. She wants to see me again Monday, March first… and there’s a link dated for last week’s appointment.”
“What’s it say?” she asks.
Shallow breaths, heart thudding, I click on it and scan the page until my eyes hit a complete curveball.
Jagged and sharp against my throat, I say, “Abnormal.”
“Oh, well it’s probably fine.” She’s super nonchalant. “That doesn’t necessarily mean anything dire. Which one? The pap or the mammogram?”
Icy fear chills my blood as I cup my precious boobs. “Both.”
My mind spirals into a kaleidoscope of depressing fractals.
This is it, I think. I’m headed to departures, and I’ve got nothing to show for this lifetime.
A beautiful gallery that was just getting started.
A nonprofit partnership set to pave the way for young, underprivileged Black artists.
A six-bedroom, chateau-style, multi-generational home with a spacious living room and two stone fireplaces that I paid way too much for. But that’s really it.
Emotion thickens in my throat.
I never got to meet Prince or Michael. No monuments erected in my likeness. I don’t even know if I’m capable of real love because I was raised by narcissists who only ever neglected me and used money to manipulate me, so I’m basically a hardened, heartless shrew who has a beef with wealthy folks.
“Dammit, I thought I had time.”
I drop my phone, chest tight, skin on fire, my whole world flashing before my eyes as I slow-motion fall back onto my bed into darkness. Vaguely, I hear Priscilla’s faraway voice saying my name, talking. But I only catch a handful of words.
Emergency.
Abnormal.
Warner.
Definitely horror-movie stuff.