Page 29
Everyone files out as quickly as possible. The cavalcade of onlookers begins to fight for positions in the front row. Throwing a few hidden elbows into some ribs, I manage to get us close to the front. Carl murmurs behind me as we take our place. When I turn to him in excitement, my smile falters for a moment. Judging by Carl’s one raised brow, I did not hide the jabs as well as I thought.
Once we secure our places, the director takes his place on stage to introduce tonight’s artists for the exhibit. Carl and I immediately light up when the sculptor we both hoped would be in the exhibit is introduced.
The theme for tonight’s exhibit is motion. The first piece unveiled is a granite sculpture of a melting candle. I can see the idea the sculptor was attempting to capture in the lit wick, but it falls a little flat. The second is a limestone elephant with water being ejected from its trunk. The detail is incredible, though I think the artist chose the wrong medium to accentuate the details. The third sculptor is the one Carl and I have been waiting for. The artist pulls the velvet and unveils what is possibly the most beautiful sculpture I’ve ever seen.
The perfectly carved marble creates an intricate bouquet of flowers. Below the canopy of flowers—a single petal rests suspended in the air by a thin thread of stone, so delicately placed that it’s barely visible. A moment in time memorialized for all to see. A single beautiful moment of death.
The director continues to introduce the remaining pieces. My eyes never leave the bouquet. After all the sculptures have been unveiled, people start to leave. A few remain behind, myself included.
It’s very much the opposite of my work. I try to bring beauty out of the most vile medium. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to evoke the emotion I intend in my art. How do I capture something I logically understand but have rarely experienced? It’s not that I don’t have emotions. I know they’re there. Just behind sheets of glass. Each time I reach for one, I only get glimpses of the ones strong enough to slip through the cracks. Except rage—I nail that. Rage is most definitely my go-to.
I catch a salty, earthy scent in the air. My body recognizes the scent before I do. I’m not surprised when I turn to see Ethan. Black tuxedo and all. His impeccably strong jaw works as he examines the exhibit. The sight has me imagining that same motion between my legs. My pussy flutters as my panties dampen. That’s just perfect. His gaze remains locked on the same sculpture I’ve been looking at all night. I wonder if he’s thinking of his own work. I don’t know how the man does it. I’m furious with him for everything he’s done. Yet there’s sorrow in his eyes as he looks at the sculpture. A sinking feeling follows that thought.
I take a few steps toward him.
His eyes fix on me as he takes a sip of champagne. When I come to stand in front of him, his expression remains flat, but a warmth in his shockingly blue eyes tells me he’s holding a jab back deliberately.
“Good evening,” I say, looking at his eyes over the champagne glass he sips from.
“Good is subjective.” His clipped voice has my eyes narrowing.
I’m trying to be nice. He could at the very least stop being an asshole for one minute.
“Never mind. Good night.” I turn to walk away, but he grips my upper arm.
“Do you know what I see in that sculpture?” he asks, taking a step toward me.
The scent of him hits me like an invisible wall. His intoxicating smell has me dizzy on my feet. My stupid lust-filled mind finally catches up to the discussion and formulates an answer.
“No. I was going to ask you…you seemed…” Shaking my head, unable to finish the thought, I take his champagne glass and take a sip. My eyes catch the marks his lips left on the rim, and I wonder what they would feel like against mine—soft and inviting or punishing and bruising?
Handing the glass back, my gaze flicks to his lips. The corners of his mouth tick up before I realize I’ve been staring at them.
“My mother,” he says on a whisper.
“Your mother?”
He nods and looks at the sculpture.
“She loved sculptures and flowers, though she couldn’t grow anything to save her life. Black thumb. It didn’t stop her from trying.” He winks as he takes a sip from our shared glass.
“Can I ask what happened to her?”
His smile falters. Twirling the champagne glass in his fingers, he sighs.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. I’d say I wasn’t snooping, but we both know that’s a lie.”
He lets out a loud throaty laugh.
“At least you’re honest.” He shakes his head with a grin. “My father wasn’t the nicest man even at the best of times. My mother bore the brunt of his rage.” He pauses to look down at his champagne again.
Reaching out, I place my hand on his forearm. His eyes track to me—a raw vulnerability beneath a hardened exterior.
“I understand.” I don’t know why I feel like I need to share a piece of myself with him, but I do. He already knows one of my darkest secrets, so what’s a few more? Taking a deep breath, I look at the sculpture. “I lost my parents too. I don’t remember them much. Though I remember my father…well, the man who became my father anyway.”
He smiles, nodding politely.
Ethan opens his mouth to speak but snaps it shut. A hand hooks around my waist as Carl comes up beside me. Ethan’s sapphire blue eyes take on a black depth as his lethal glare tracks Carl’s arm. The intensity of his rage thrums through the air in invisible waves. I’ve been trying to learn about this man, and I’ve just learned more in a single moment than in all my efforts combined.
