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“I can totally hear you two.” Abruptly, the lock on the door clicks free and Lita opens the door. “If you’re going to talk about me, you might as well do it in here.”
I know I’m gaping, but I can’t help it.
Instead of her usual goth-meets-grunge style, Lita is wearing a 1940s vintage royal blue dress with a fitted bodice and a sweetheart neckline that work together to emphasize all of her killer curves. The A-line skirt falls from her cinched waist in long, loose pleats that end at her knees. Gone are Lita’s favored combat boots, and in their place is a pair of high-heeled black patent leather Mary Janes.
With her multi-hued pixie haircut and extensive body art juxtaposed with her romantic outfit and flawless makeup, she looks edgy and feminine. More than that, she’s an absolute knockout.
“Lita,” I gasp, my eyes wide. “You look amazing!”
“I look fucking ridiculous. Who the hell am I trying to impress, right?” She frowns down at herself before looking back at Matt and me with terror in her eyes. “Did you see how many people are out there? Oh, God. I think I’m going to be sick.”
Clutching her stomach, she pivots back into the bathroom. Matt and I follow her inside, closing the door behind us.
“You’ve got to pull yourself together, girl.” Matt holds his wineglass out to her. “Here, drink some of this.”
She takes the glass from him, draining it. To my surprise—and relief—instead of worsening the situation, the wine seems to calm her. She leans against the tile wall and presses the cool glass to her forehead.
“Do either of you have any idea who’s out there in that room right now?” Before we can even attempt to guess, she answers her own question. “Forgetting the other artists in the exhibit—whose shit is, like, a hundred times better than mine—there are no less than three critics from the biggest art publications in the country and a couple of museum curators out there. Not to mention all of the private collectors milling around sipping martinis and champagne and shit.”
I tilt my head at her. “And that’s a problem, because . . . ?”
“Because I’m not ready for all of . . . this.”
“Yes, you are,” Matt says. “But you’re not going to know that unless you get out of this bathroom.”
She moans and hands the wineglass back to him. “I think I’m going to need more wine before I’m ready for that. God, I’m pretty sure I even saw the CEO of that hot new tech firm over in Brooklyn Heights out there—you know, the dude who used to be in that rock band a few years ago?”
Matt nods, but I don’t think he’s really listening. He holds the empty glass up. “I’m going to get you another one of these. Avery, will you make sure she doesn’t try to drown herself in the toilet bowl before I get back?”
I nod, holding back my grin as he leaves me alone with Lita. She eyes me sullenly, one perfectly defined brow arched. “Guess I’m not as tough as I look, huh?”
I shrug. “Most people aren’t.”
She snorts, pushing away from the wall and shuffling over to the toilet. She drops the lid, then plops down onto it. “Fuck. What am I doing here, Avery? Did you see the other art out there? The paintings, the photography, the pottery.” She shakes her head, huffing out a gust of air. “It’s all traditional, beautiful shit—even the other sculptures in this exhibit are refined. They’re fucking lovely. Mine’s not like any of that. It’s harsh. It’s jagged and disturbing. It’s—”
“Unique?” I suggest. “Lita, your art is special. It’s a reflection of you, and it is beautiful. It’s surprising and unusual and totally unforgettable. Just like the artist who created it.”
Her ruby-red lips twist in a skeptical line. “What if I get shredded by those critics out there? What if everyone laughs their asses off at my work?”
“What if they don’t?”
She looks at me as if she had never considered the alternative possibility. For a long moment, she simply stares at me in silence. Then she swallows. “This is a big deal. And I’m scared, Avery.”
“Of course you are. Three art critics, a couple of museum curators plus a former rockstar-turned-CEO? Anyone who’s not afraid of that crowd would have to be seriously fucked up.”
A laugh bubbles out of her, then she rolls her eyes. “You think I’m being an idiot.”
“No. I think you’re being human.”
Saying nothing, she stares at me, and I wonder not for the first time about the caution I see in her eyes. She is guarded, self-protective. She is wounded, and so vulnerable from the pain of what’s inside her it’s all I can do not to pull her into a hug and tell her that I understand those feelings too.
We hardly know each other, and despite her irascibility, I sense a kindred spirit in Lita Frasier. I sense the start of a friendship I didn’t expect with her.
“Incoming.” Matt’s voice carries through the door before he enters the bathroom with a bottle of water in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. “Pick your poison, sweetheart.”
“Water,” Lita murmurs. “I’ll save the wine for after this thing is over.”
