The Inspiration (4 page)

As soon as my sexual feelings kick into gear, that damn Max pops into my head, and no matter how hard I squeeze my thighs together in protest, I can’t get the image to leave. I remember the hot look on his face when I defended him against Dylan. It was more than simple attraction. It was as if our meeting was transformative and we were about to share a secret that would change our destiny.

I close my eyes, slide my hands up my inner thighs and picture him—long and lean, with formfitting black jeans over his strong thighs.

Oh, and his shoulders, his arms…
I sigh.
He must work out…a lot.
I imagine those strong arms and shoulders holding me, and I slip my hand under the fishnets to relieve the pressure where I’m aroused.

As my hand moves back and forth and my breathing gets heavy, my phantom Max pulls me against his body, and looks at me with those burning blue-gray eyes.

“Ava,” he whispers, brushing his full lips against my hair, close to my ear. “Dance with me.” And as we slowly move together to the exotic music, I feel my arousal pulsing through my body.

My desire becomes more intense with each movement. He cups my ass, pulling me even closer, and his hardness presses against me.

My hand’s working fast now as my climax builds. I desperately want him to kiss me, to feel his tongue slide against mine before he takes me. I look up, my lips parted.

What the hell?
…

Music blasts from my cell phone and interrupts my delicious fantasy. It’s a text, so I grab the phone with my free hand, the other still working under my tights.

My right hand speeds up again while my left clutches the cell phone. He’s not just in my head now; his words are in my hand. I can feel the electrical pulse between us, knowing the phone is still in his hand while he’s thinking of me.
Oh my God!
I touch the screen and read the tiny words across the screen.

And with that I throw my head back into the pillow. He’s on me, and in me, and it’s so damn good I surge to a fierce climax, waves of fire flaming over my body and bright lights flashing through my head.

The new light of morning illuminates my room as I slowly wake and try to figure out where I am and why my head’s throbbing. I shiver. I’m on top of the covers and spread eagle across the bed with one hand still wedged down the front of my tights. My left hand is stiff, and as I uncurl my fingers, my phone drops to the bed.

Wow, I really was loaded last night.
I glance at the glowing red numbers of the clock on my nightstand. It’s just before six o’clock.

I stumble out of bed, peel off the tights and tank top, and slide into my PJs. After brushing my teeth and gulping down a tall glass of water and two aspirins, I crawl into bed to get in a few more hours sleep. I hope I feel human when I wake up.

The next time I open my eyes, my room is much brighter. After room service coffee and toast, I decide to disregard my hangover and enjoy my free time this morning with a museum visit. Adam said I don’t need to be at the exposition until one this afternoon. I put extra care into my appearance to make up for the out-of-control feeling last night, and as I approach the Guggenheim Museum in my tailored navy coat, high-heeled leather boots and sleek hair, I feel quite the New Yorker.

The current exhibit,
Paris and the Avant-Garde: Modern Masters from the Guggenheim Collection
, is right up my alley. I take the elevator to the top and start the corkscrew descent that defines Frank Lloyd Wright’s unique design for the museum. The exhibit is heady stuff: Chagall, Gris, Picasso, Braque and, my favorite, Joan Miró. I’m delighted with Miró’s
Carnival of Harlequin.
The whimsical shapes create a surrealist party, and I get lost in that little world. I take my time in front of each painting, savoring the experience of seeing the works of art I’ve studied in books come to life in front of me.

The feeling reminds me of the time my mom brought me to New York when I was in high school. She fell short in many ways, but she did try to share her love of music and art. She was always checking art books out of the library and teaching me about artists from different periods. Shortly after my dad died, she took some of the insurance money and we went to New York for a week. Every day we visited a different museum. The Guggenheim was in the middle of the trip and, after seeing the exhibit, we ate a fancy lunch in the restaurant on the lower level. That was a defining trip for me and certainly affected my decision to study art history.

I reach the bottom of the Guggenheim spiral with just enough time to catch a cab to the hall. Adam is already busy getting ready for the day and gives me a warm smile. I debate whether to ask him about his conversation with Max last night, but decide with a steely resolve to push him out of my mind. With only two more days left of the show, I won’t be likely to see Max again for a long time.

We’re busy with clients all afternoon and, right when it’s time to wrap up, Jess and company breeze in.

“I thought we’d go by Zadi’s event first, and then stop by Max’s show.” Adam gages my reaction, but my face reveals nothing. This had been part of the planned trip, and I’ve prepared myself.

“Am I okay in this?” I ask Jess, since my attire last night required substantial revision. She glances at my sleeveless knit sheath, which stops mid-thigh above my boots. A long pendant made from various antique Venetian beads knotted along a silk cord hangs around my neck.

Jess tips her head and smiles. “Only a figure like yours could pull off that dress. It’s like a second skin. Is it cashmere? It looks so soft.”

I nod and put on my coat, relieved to know I won’t have Laura working me over tonight.

Zadi’s show,
House of Shadows,
is at the International Center of Photography on 43rd Street, and it’s already crowded by the time we arrive. Her large black and white photographs, still lifes, and interiors from abandoned insane asylums are positively haunting. I appreciate the emotion they evoke, but I certainly wouldn’t want one of the prints hanging in my house.

I wander through the show, saying hello to some of my business acquaintances. There’s a burst of laughter and loud voices at the front of the gallery. It looks like Jess has run into a few old friends from Pratt. She waves me over and introduces me to the impossibly hip group. Joe, who’s heavily tattooed and pierced, commands everyone’s attention.

“Hey Jess, Ba-roque Beat is set up in Times Square. Let’s check them out.” He turns toward me and smiles. “It’s just too damn quiet in here.”

“What’s Ba-roque Beat?” I ask him.

“They’re a group of performance artists led by our friend Alessandro, who also went to school with us. He’s a performance artist and street performer.”

I nod, realizing Jess has painted him several times in her current series. I’m happy to be included with the group, and we head to Times Square on foot, laughing and joking the entire way.

As we near the open area of Times Square at 6th and 42nd, I hear a thunderous pounding. We join the large crowd around a group of men sitting in a row with varied sizes of plastic tubs in front of them. They’re beating the tubs in synchronization with large wooden sticks. In front of them is a man in a black body-stocking making the strangest shapes with his body.

Joe taps my shoulder and nods to the man in the body stocking. “Alessandro.”

There are four other performers dancing around Alessandro to the tribal beat. It’s electrifying.

Jess is already dancing and Laura laughs and joins her. Soon we’re all dancing and howling, a misfit tribe on the primitive savannah of Manhattan.

Just when I think I can’t dance another step, Alessandro’s group finishes the song and two of his dancers move through the crowd with tubs to procure donations. Jess tosses in a twenty.

“Let’s get over to ArteHaus before the booze is gone,” Joe says.

“SoHo, corner of Greene and Broome,” he barks at the cab driver as we pile inside.

As we head to Max’s show, I give Jess a nervous look.

“Don’t worry, babe. I won’t let him anywhere near you,” she says, assuring me.

When we step inside ArteHaus, I squint to adjust to the dramatic lighting. It’s dark other than the brilliant spotlights focused on Max’s large-scale paintings. The floor’s vibrating with the throbbing bass of loud music. We move to the bar where the featured drink is a Flaming Dragon: a mix of herbal liquor and Bacardi rum that’s set on fire to heat up the liquor before drinking.

“So hot going down and then you’re on fire.” Joe grins as he passes me one and downs his shot. My face flushes as the combination of flavors burns through me.

Joe pulls me over to a painting. “Fucking Max. I hate him.”

The towering canvas is an intricate layering of paint, scratches, words and imagery that pull together cohesively. It’s chaotic and your eyes can’t stop moving from one area to the next. I finally settle my gaze on a small flat screen meticulously built into the canvas. It plays a series of serene images—the ocean, a grass field, a cerulean sky with puffy clouds. The jarring appearance of a documentary photograph of a man with a gun pointed at his head and his mouth twisted in terror stuns me. I inhale sharply and the image reverts back to a field of trees.

“Joe, how you doing, man?” I turn to see Max knock knuckles with Joe, followed by a raised handshake and slap on the back. I can’t keep up with the moves that cool guys to do in greeting.

“You ass. I hate you. This shit is too damn good.” He nods up to the painting.

Max grins. “Well, from you, that’s a high compliment.”

“You bet your ass, Romeo,” Joe says laughing. “By the way, let me introduce you to the enchanting Ava Jacobs.”

My cheeks go red.

“Oh, we’ve met,” he says coolly.

He squints at me, lifting his sharply defined jaw. “You didn’t reply to my text, Ava.”

“You were expecting a reply?”

If he only knew what I was doing when he sent that text,
I think, half amused, half horrified.

He raises his eyebrow, but Parker, the owner of ArteHaus, interrupts and apologizes as he pulls Max away.

Joe grins. “Ha! I like you, Ava. You’re the first girl I’ve seen in a while not falling all over Max and trying to get in his pants, with the exception of Jess and her girl-power posse.”

We move to the bar for another round of shots, and I only take a half shot, intending to keep my wits about me. We push through the crowd, looking for Jess, and spot her near the back of the gallery. Laura sits at a cocktail table while Jess talks animatedly to a handsome man wearing professorial glasses and a tailored suit.

Jess waves us over. “Jonathan, I believe you know Joe, and this is my good friend, Ava Jacobs. She works for Adam.”

The man gazes at me, and he doesn’t even glance at Joe.

“Ava, Jonathan’s the publisher of
Art+trA
magazine,” Jess says.

Impressive.
My eyes widen as I smile warmly at him.

Jonathan steps toward me, and stretches out his hand. “Ava,” he says softly as he slowly shakes my hand. His hand is strong, but his touch is almost a caress.

“Hey, Ava. Laura’s been up since five, and she has an early shoot again tomorrow. I think we’re going to call it a night. Do you want to hang out more or share a cab back with us?” Jess asks.

I hesitate. I want to stick with Jess, but I’ve always wanted to write for
Art+trA,
and who knows when I’ll have this chance again.

“I can get a cab for Ava,” Jonathan says.

I look up, surprised.
He must want to talk to me,
I think excitedly. He’s not just handsome; his presence has an alluring sense of command.

“That’s fine, Jess. I’ll stay for a while.”

Joe walks Jess and Laura out, leaving me alone with Jonathan. I feel very awkward, fearing this sophisticated man is out of my league. Can I hold my own with him in a discussion about art?

He turns to me and pushes his glasses up his nose before tipping his head.

“So Ava, what do you do for Adam?”

“A little of everything. I started out in the serigraph studio, but now I help in the gallery with clients. I particularly enjoy working with the artists and assisting them.”

“Which area are you most interested in?”

“Actually, my real love is writing. So Adam’s been having me handle some of the publicity writing, much to the chagrin of his PR agency.”

“I can imagine,” Jonathan says with a low laugh. “But Adam must really like your work.” He pauses, and then addresses me with a professional tone. “If you’re interested, why don’t you send me some samples? There may be an opportunity at
Art+trA
, but only if Adam lets you freelance. I wouldn’t want to upset him. He’s an old friend.”

My heart starts thumping with excitement, but I play it cool. “Actually, Adam encourages me to expand my horizons. He and Katherine are both generous that way.” I step sideways to clear space for a waiter to pass. “I was under the impression that
Art+trA
was in New York.”