I Love My Hope (Nicole's Erotic Romance) (4 page)

“Great. I
assume this is a cell?”

“It is.”

“Great,
I’ll text you the address. See you soon.”

“Yes. See
you soon!” We hang up. I run into my bedroom, throw the phone on the bed, and
attack the problem that is finding the perfect outfit in less than fifteen
minutes.

Rapidly
sifting through my closet, I whisper, “It’s happening, Momma!” and in my mind,
I see her smiling down on me, so proud.

Nineteen Minutes Later

They say
when you’re on the right
track,
doors fly open to help
you out. I am so ready for this opportunity and I am going to make this Mr.
Fleming guy fall in love with my work so hard that he will beg me to use his
gallery!

Coming
off the subway at 4
^th
street, I strut past Third Rail Coffee. My
eyes flit to the sign and I consider going in, but decide to grab some on my
way home, instead. I don’t want to walk into the gallery holding coffee. What
if he has a no-liquids rule around the art? I am doing nothing, and I mean
nothing,
to jeopardize my first
impression.

 
“Nicole!”

I whip
around, my hair flying. “Jess!” We hug and kiss each other’s cheeks, both
cheeks, like Jessica does whenever we run into each other by accident. I wonder
if I will ever tell her how much I hate doing this. “What are you doing in
Greenwich?”

She holds
up her cup. “I stopped for coffee since I woke up early.”

My eyes
nearly fall out of my head. “
You
woke
up early?
To go to work?
Did The Bitch quit… or drop
dead?”

Laughing,
she says, “No,” and then quickly gets guilty. “Best not to say that, though.”

I shrug
because I hate The Bitch.

“Karma?”

“Right.”

I nod and
we begin walking to the train stop together because I have to know why the
sparkle is back in her eyes! I’m inspecting her closely as she explains, “No, I
felt like getting ahead of the game. You know…
show up
. Get some work done. Impress The Bitch. No big deal.”

Does she
really think I can’t see how full of shit she is?

“Who is
he?”

“It’s James.”

Say what? “The gay guy?”

She shakes her head. “Turns out he’s not gay.”

Puh
-lease.
“No one is that handsome and
not
gay.”

Without missing a beat, Jess rattles off, “Brad Pitt. George Clooney.
Matt
Bomer
.”

Both my hands fly up. “You win!”

We arrive at the subway stairs and when she smiles a naughty smile
and says, “I can’t wait to tell you how I know he’s not gay,” I want to jump up
and down and shout to the world,
she’s
back!

“Tell me now! Don’t you dare pull a ‘Jess’ on me!”

She scoots down the stairs raising her coffee like it’s a sword
she’ll fight me with. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she sings.

“Jess! You will not drop that juicy little morsel, and then walk
away!”

“Come with me to work and I’ll tell you.” She’s standing on the staircase
as people pass her quickly, narrowly avoiding getting trampled. She looks so
fun and happy that I want to cry. Frankly, if I weren’t going to meet this
dealer, I would jump on the train and love on every detail she has to share.

“I can’t. I have a meeting with a dealer. Jerk.”

“He’s a jerk?” she asks, pretending innocence.

“
You’re
a jerk! And I love
you. Let’s get together tonight. HEY!” That last part I said to some dick-wad
who rams into me as he hurries for the train.

Jessica glares at him. When he rushes past her, she yells after him, “I
should’ve tripped you!” then turns to me and says, “Sounds good. I’ll call
Amber.”

“Wonderful. See you tonight!” We blow kisses to each other and I
stroll off feeling like happiness is in the air again, for both of us.

JF Gallery is a block up on the right and I stop and stand outside
it, breathing the excitement into every cell of my being. Why has it taken me
so long to get here? What have I been doing with all this time? I don’t even
want to think about the five years I spent in college trying to find a
‘practical’ profession, coming out with no degrees to my name…just a lot of
useless information toppled over by hangovers. After that I searched sculpture,
graphic design, and cartooning for my passion, but it wasn’t until I picked up
a paintbrush that I found
home.

I take a deep breath, reach out, open the door, and walk in, my heels
clicking news of my arrival on immaculate white tile.

“Mr. Fleming?”

Silence. There are no sounds of life, no papers rustling, no
footsteps… nothing. He must have stepped out, so I take the opportunity to look
at the space, standing in the center of the large, open, angular, white room.
Floor-to-ceiling windows face the street, adding a great deal of sunlight to
the recessed tungsten lighting. The walls are clear of scuffmarks or flaws of
any kind. The current exhibit is of classy, clean, bright, modern art. Cement
stairs framed by
two glass
railings lead to the
second-floor loft, which is half the size of the gallery. In the back of the
first floor is a partition that blocks my vision from what I’m guessing is a
back room? I can’t be sure.

“Hello?” My voice bounces against the walls, and I subconsciously
cross my arms at the echo. Did he go somewhere? Just as I step toward the partition
I hear a backdoor opening on the other side of it. I smooth down my hair, and
wait.

“Let me know how it goes,” a voice says, and instantly the hairs go
up on my neck and my breath catches in my throat.

I recognize Jack Fleming’s voice from our phone call as he answers,
“I can see by the look on your face, and your haste in leaving, that something
is going on here, Michael. Did you have an affair with this woman?”

I stand very still, holding my breath, my heart breaking, knowing now
that it was Michael who referred me.

“Jack, don’t be a dick,” he says.

Does he think I’m charity? How can I escape? These heels would betray
my trying to sneak out of here. I’m stuck.

My fingernails press into my palms as I hear Mr. Fleming say, “No
secrets. This is my gallery. I need to know if I’m walking into drama.”

Michael sighs. “There has been no affair. You know me better than
that.”

My stomach lurches. Of course there’s been no affair! He would never.
But what he
would
do is kiss me, hold
me and break my fucking heart until I want to claw his eyes out!

 
“Did you send her my way because you
wanted to get your hands up her skirt?”

I feel so
pathetic standing here, so disappointed.
Run!
Run Nicole!

 
“Jack. I wouldn’t waste your time. Or
mine. Her work is incredible. That’s the only reason.”

 
“We’ll see, won’t we?” Jack’s tone
suggests more than a hint of skepticism. “You sure you don’t want to stay?”

I feel
like I’m going to throw up right here on this pristine white tile floor.

He pauses
and in that pause the world waits with me. Am I about to see Michael face to
face? I look over my shoulder at the door, at how close it is, at how easily it
would be to sprint away to safety.
Mema’s
voice
sounds in my ears:
Child, make them
respect you.

Michael
finally answers, but his voice is so quiet I have to strain to hear it. “No. I
have somewhere I have to be. Tell me how it goes.”

 
“I will. I’m guessing you don’t want me
to tell her you referred her,” Jack says, with a sense of humor.

The next
sound I hear is the back door closing. Michael must have just nodded? Why do I
care? Only one set of footsteps walks toward me as around the partition comes
the type of man you’d expect to own a gallery in New York; sophisticated,
intelligent eyes, salt and pepper hair, elegant black clothes. He carries a
cardboard tray of three paper coffee-cups all bearing the stamp: Third Rail
Coffee. I must have walked right by them, and maybe even twice. Maybe Jess
ordered her coffee with Michael in line behind her. Never having met him, maybe
she smiled at him, because he’s so beautiful. The thought makes me ill.

Jack
Fleming pauses in surprise, but recovers quickly. “Nicole Henry, I presume.” He
pulls a coffee cup from the tray and says, “Black with cinnamon, yes?”
 
Michael
must have told him how I take my coffee.
Had I not heard him here, even
this coffee would have made me still think Jess was the referral, or even Amber
since they know me so well. I wouldn’t imagine that Michael had retained such
nuances about me.

Shields
up, I take it. “Mr. Fleming, it’s so nice to meet you.” He puts the tray down
with one cup left in it. I tear my eyes from it as Jack Fleming takes a sip
from his own cup. His head jerks back as he yells, “Ouch! Fuck, that’s hot!
Ouch
ouch
ouch
.” Then he
turns to me, licking his lips, and says, “So… you heard us discussing you?”

His frankness
throws me, but only momentarily. “I did. But it didn’t bother me.”

“Didn’t
it?” He inspects me. He’s the type who sees no value in sugarcoating a
conversation with banalities.

I say smoothly,
my head held high with grace. “Not at all. I also won’t hold it against you
that you asked if he’s trying to fuck me. This is your business and you’ve
worked hard for your excellent reputation.”

Jack’s
eyes light up and he lets out a loud guffaw. He wags a finger at me. “I like
you.” While blowing on his coffee to cool it, he turns towards the stairs, and
says, “Come.”

I follow
him up and find his desk sitting in the middle of the floor. Filling the wall behind
him like touching dominoes are stacked pieces from past shows waiting to be
picked up by lucky buyers, or unlucky artists who did not sell. I expected the
partition downstairs to be hiding an office, but this is a much brighter, open
space to work. I sit down in the chair he motions me to. He sits above me on
the corner of the desk, and looks at me through narrowed, amused eyes.

“Why
didn’t you bring me some of your work? Or do you have miniatures hidden in that
little bag of yours?”

I blink
and reach for my phone, wishing I’d known how this was done before I showed up
here looking like an amateur. “I took pictures of them on my phone.”

“Let me
see.” As he takes it from me, he mumbles, “Technology…I hate it.” Glasses get
pulled from his shirt pocket and he wipes the screen on his pants to remove
smudges as if he’s done it a million times and hated it every single time.
Satisfied the screen is clean, he holds the phone away from him until his vision
settles on a pleasing focal distance. His frown behind the reading glasses,
combined with the way his chin is raised, makes me imagine him as a scientist
inspecting a fossil.

“Hmmm…Interesting.”

I cross
my legs and force myself to look elsewhere like I am unafraid, when really I’m
terrified. The sound of his finger flicking through my photo album is punctuated
by an occasional break for a sip of coffee and an “Mmm.” When he is done, he
hands the phone to me.

My smile
is long gone.

“Ms.
Henry, have you had your work displayed before? I’m not familiar with your
name.”

He hates
my work. I knew it. Every muscle in me is tense.

“No. I’ve
not had the nerve until now.”

He stands
and walks around to sit opposite me on the other side of his desk, leaning back
in the high-backed black chair before he says, “What’s changed?”

I answer
simply, “Me.”

His
eyebrows go up and he thinks on this. “I see. Well, your work has a distinctive
edge I’ve not seen before. It’s not a copy of anyone else, but there is
something in it that reminds me of
Basquiat
and even
Picasso at times.”

I say
nothing, shocked.

“Michael
told me…” He pauses languidly to drink another sip of his coffee. “Mmm.” He
looks out toward the sunlight pouring in through the windows and picks up again
with, “Michael told me… that you’re going to be a huge hit and that if I didn’t
meet with you, I’m an idiot.” He waits and watches my face. “I think he’s
right. Breathe, please.”

I suck in
enough room air to make the walls cave in. Jack laughs and opens up a drawer to
pull out a contract and set it in front of me.

“Oh my
God,” I whisper, looking at it.

He smiles
and reaches to hand me a pen, enjoying every second of watching my expression.

“Jack,
I’m going to need a little time. I want to put the canvases in shadow boxes and
finding the right ones is…”

I stop
speaking as he raises his hand into the air.