The Inspiration (5 page)

“Our parent publisher is there, but we’ve always maintained a West Coast office. About five years ago, I decided to move to Los Angeles for personal reasons, so they accommodated my relocation. Although, I still end up spending a week a month in New York.”

I nod, feeling encouraged that he’s in L.A. I study his cheekbones and the way his eyes light up when he smiles at me. I realize that it’s the first time I’ve felt this attracted to an older man. My mind races for the right question to ask.

“Do you like Caswell’s work?”

“I’d like to hear what you think.”

He’s testing me and I don’t want to disappoint him.

I clear my throat, gathering my courage and my thoughts. “You know, I wasn’t a big fan of the subway series he did last year. The monotone pallet lacked the sensual use of color that’s Caswell’s trademark. The paradox with his choice of obvious imagery conflicted with the heart of his art, stripped-down simplicity, a kind of intangible atmosphere and an appearance that deceives, yet still tells the truth.”

Jonathan arches a brow, and as he pushes back his glasses, I see a spark in his eyes.

I gesture to the painting in front of us. “In contrast, the work here tonight…the juxtaposition of the video monitor’s harsh documentary statement contrasting the lush abstract landscape of the canvas is strict realism that gives way to loose drama.”

“And…” Jonathan prompts me after my dramatic pause.

“I love it.” I give him a big smile.

“Indeed.” The edges of his mouth turn up as he nods, and I relax a few degrees, hoping I haven’t made a complete ass out of myself. I want to please him. Jonathan’s undoubtedly extremely smart and clever. He wouldn’t be in the position he is otherwise. We wander from painting to painting as he shares what he thinks works and doesn’t.

Jonathan pulls me into the third room of the gallery and links his arm with mine. It feels as if I’ve been claimed, and it stirs something inside of me. I focus on being a mix of charming and sophisticated, someone worthy of working for
Art+trA.

Everything seems great until I feel like someone’s watching us, and I look up and see Max stare at me, then at Jonathan, then back to me. He doesn’t even smile, and I notice that there are about five art groupies surrounding him. He’s holding court with a collection of art babes as if he’s the master of their harem. One hands him a shot glass and he downs the contents without hesitation. It doesn’t appear to be his first drink of the night.

Max’s angry look is strangely attractive. He’s standing tall with tight black jeans and a black turtleneck sweater.

My violent attraction to him revs up and it pisses me off.
Why does he have to be so damn good-looking?
I turn back to Jonathan and smile as I study his intense blue eyes.

He follows my gaze and shakes his head. “Ah, Max. Up to his old tricks—the partying, the women, the attention. I’ve seen this all before with other young artists. Soon they lose their focus and the other stuff becomes more important than their art. It’s the kiss of death in this business,” he says with a condescending tone.

“Indeed,” I mutter.

“I always thought there was more to Max. That’s why I haven’t given up on him yet. I’ve been working on a joint project with Taylor and Tiden Press to publish a coffee-table book about his work, but I’m not one hundred percent sure we should. If he doesn’t get a grip, he could be obsolete in a couple of years.”

Max moves toward us, as if he knew we were talking about him.

“So, Jonathan, I see you’ve met Ava. She’s the belle of the ball tonight,” he slurs.

I look up, alarmed.

Jonathan edges closer to me. “Yes, Max, Ms. Jacobs and I are having a delightful time getting acquainted and discussing your work.”

“So what’s your conclusion? Is it the best fucking art you’ve ever seen? And don’t tell Jean-Michel Basquiat he inspired me ’cause he can kiss my ass too.”

Jonathan gives him a disapproving look. “Hardly. Besides, Basquiat’s been dead for over twenty years, but I can certainly use that memorable quote when we interview you for the magazine.”

“Won’t have time to do interviews. I’ll be too busy entertaining my numerous fans,” Max says loudly and sloppily waves to the girls in the corner.

My heart falls and I feel sorry for Max as he digs himself in a deep hole. Jonathan is too important a bridge to burn.

I pull Jonathan aside and whisper, “I’m so sorry for his behavior, Jonathan. Jess warned me earlier that Max got some very bad personal news today. He’s a mess. I’m going to have Joe get him out of here. Can I contact you when I’m back in L.A.?”

“Are you sure? I don’t like the idea of you dealing with him in that state,” he says, his expression wary.

“But I promised Jess I’d look out for him.” It unnerves me how effortlessly I lie.
Why am I even doing it?

Jonathan purses his lips and his eyes narrow as he glances back at Max. He pulls his card out of his pocket and hands it to me. “Will you call me tomorrow and let me know everything’s all right?”

I agree, just as Max slurs a string of profanities.

I grab his arm tightly, step close, and I say between gritted teeth, “Stop it right now, Max. Keep your mouth shut and I’ll get you out of here before you do any more damage.”

He pulls back and eyes me with a suspicious look as he sways. “Did you just tell me to shut my mouth?”

“I certainly did,” I snap, as I drag him toward the rear of the gallery and into the hallway leading to the back door off the alley. I push him against the wall and give him a long hard look.

“What, what, Ava? What in the fuck do you want?” he barks as his eyes narrow.

“I’m trying to help you, asshole. You’re just too damn talented to go down in flames. Why would you say that stuff to Jonathan, of all people? Don’t you care about any of this?” I wave my arms toward the gallery walls. I’m so frustrated, tears start sliding down my face.

The moment Max notices my tears, he freezes. I don’t know why, but something about my reaction shuts him down, and his whole demeanor goes dark and introverted as if a heavy black cloth has been pulled over him. His defeated expression reminds me of a friend I had once who described her swings into severe depression like falling into a black hole.

That’s it. I better get him out of here before he gets worse.
“Okay, Max, I’m going to take care of this. Promise me you won’t move. Just stay here.”

There’s no recognition, just a deep sigh and the blank, desolate stare, but at least he doesn’t move.

When I rush to the front and find Joe, I plead, “I need your help.”

“What’s up, babe? I’m about to leave with Monique. The show’s closing up soon anyway. Do you need a ride or something?”

“No it’s Max. He’s completely fucked up and I have to get him back to his hotel. Can you get a cab and bring it around back for Max and me?”

He looks irritated, but agrees and tells his friend he’ll be back in a few minutes.

I angrily admonish myself as I quickly retrace my steps through the gallery.
What is it with your stupid caretaking tendencies? Like Mom wasn’t bad enough, now you’re looking out for a crazy artist you barely know.
I’m disgusted with myself.

As I finally rush into the hallway, I stop suddenly. One of the art groupies is on her knees in front of Max and she’s moaning and rubbing her hands across his crotch. He’s still in the same position I left him with the same dark expression, and unbelievably, doesn’t even seem to react to what the skank is doing. I gasp loud enough that she jerks her head toward me. She licks her lips and gives me the evil eye.

In a raw, gritty voice she says, “Back off, bitch, he’s mine.”

I
’m gone for what, a frigging minute, and he’s already moments away from a blowjob. How’d this skank even find him? The temptation to spin on my heel and leave the sordid scene is overwhelming, but I remember Joe’s probably waiting in the alley, so I resign myself to finish what I started.

Max still hasn’t moved an inch, and his blank stare is even more haunting. I storm down the hallway, around the bitch on her knees, and grab Max’s arm to pull him toward the back. Luckily, he doesn’t resist, and the girl falls on her ass with the momentum of his movement. The shrill echo of her cursing follows us as I push him out the back door.

Joe’s right there and finishes the motion, pushing Max right into the cab, swinging his legs inside and slamming the door shut. I give Joe a kiss on the cheek, whispering my thanks, and run to the other side of the cab and slip inside.

“Where to?” the cabbie asks.

Shit, where’s he staying?
“Max, what hotel are you at?”

I get no response from him, just the empty stare before he rests his forehead on the window. I push him forward and wedge my hand into the back pocket of his jeans. He doesn’t even seem to care that I’ve practically grabbed his ass. But the effort is rewarded with his hotel room key and the sleeve with the room number written on it.

“Gramercy Park Hotel, please.”

When we arrive, I ask the doorman for help getting Max out of the cab as I pay the fare. I get the impression this isn’t the first time he’s had to take care of the hotel guests in this way. He gets Max into the lobby, and luckily, Max walks steadily enough to steer him to the elevators and down the hall to his room. I note that there’s a Do Not Disturb sign hanging on his door handle, and I hesitate for a moment, wondering what nightmare I’m going to face when I get him inside. I take a deep breath and swing the door open.

Once inside, I’m initially distracted by the décor: dark red walls and ebony antique wood furniture with heavy dark velvet couches and chairs.

No badly printed hotel art in this place,
I note. Instead, an impressive collection of black and white photography hangs strategically throughout the suite.

I exhale with relief, noting there’s no naked woman sprawled across the couch or bed. I lead Max to the bedroom and push him down to sit on the edge of the bed. He’s despondent in his movements and still staring straight ahead. He’s starting to freak me out.

I get a bottle of water from the bar area, and fish in my purse for the bottle of aspirin. I open the water and hand it to him.

“Drink,” I command.

After he has taken some water, I push two aspirin in his mouth and command him to drink more. He complies, but when he’s done, he leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees and puts his face in his hands while exhaling a long sigh of despair.

I stand back, wondering what to do next. I decide he needs sleep
,
so I kneel down and slowly pull off his boots. He doesn’t help, but he doesn’t stop me either. When I gently pull off his socks, he looks down and watches what I’m doing. I look into his eyes, and see heartbreaking sadness.

“It’s okay. You’ll feel better after you rest.”

Realizing his turtleneck is much too hot to sleep in, I rise and peel the sweater over his shoulders. I look down and my breath catches.

His body’s so beautiful,
I think, staring at the definition along his chest and abdomen.

When I finally get the sweater over his head, his hair is a mad frenzy, and I resist the urge to run my fingers through it. I decide he’d better sleep in his pants, since I’m not going to take them off—for more than one reason. Our eyes meet again, and there’s a curious expression mixed in with his sadness.

He watches me as I remove the layers of decorative velvet pillows from the bed before I gently push him back against the remaining linen pillow and lift his feet up onto the bed. I turn on the bedside lamp to the dimmest setting and shut off the overhead light. The room’s dark now but for a faint glow from the lamp. I can no longer clearly see the expression on his face.

“Goodnight, Max,” I whisper as I turn to leave. I’m halfway into the sitting room when I hear his voice.

“Ava,” he calls.

I stop and hold my breath.

“Ava!” There’s more urgency to his tone this time.

I step back into the doorway of the bedroom. “Yes, Max?”

His hand reaches out from under the comforter. “Please don’t leave me, Ava. Please don’t leave.”

There’s such agony in his voice. I’ve never heard anything so sad—a black arrow to my heart. Knowing he needs me to stay stirs up confusing emotions for me.

I stand still for maybe a minute, my mind racing…not sure what to do. It hits me that my experience with Max is no longer a 1940s romantic comedy, but a gothic romance novel. He’s a tortured Heathcliff, but I’m sure as hell not playing his Catherine. He watches me silently, his expression falling with each second passing.

“Okay, I’ll stay for a while,” I finally reply.

“Please sit next to me,” he says, as he reaches for me again.

I pull off my boots and hesitantly climb onto the bed, sitting back against the headboard. His back’s to me and I can’t see his expression, but I can feel his tension.

“Just relax,” I whisper as I push the covers down a little. Instinctively, I soothe him by running my hand through his hair, down his back and over his broad shoulders. As I repeat the motion over and over, I can feel his body settle bit by bit with each pass of my hand.

He’s silent for a few minutes, but finally turns just slightly toward me. “Thank you.” His voice breaks with emotion.

“You’re an angel,
my
angel.” And moments later, his breath falls into a steady rhythm.

I continue to stroke him as he sleeps, realizing I may never touch him again like this, and I try to get my fill of the feeling of being connected to him. I marvel at his physical perfection. His hair’s so soft, such a contrast to his hard shoulders.

I shake my head.
I’m in Max Caswell’s bed touching him while he sleeps.
What a strange couple of days.

I rest my hand in the middle of his back and feel his heat beneath my fingers.
What happened tonight?
One minute he was Mr. Party and the next, a wounded soul. It didn’t make sense, but I know nothing about this side of Max. I lift my hand off his back, and inch-by-inch ease myself off the bed. Luckily, he remains asleep as I tiptoe to the sitting room with my boots in my hand.