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That seemed like a million years ago.
My pencil on the canvas was frozen. I had no model in mind. No idea for one. My thoughts were crowded with worry, stress, and self-doubt. The praise from professors must’ve happened to someone else. The literary magazine must’ve been edited by someone far more confident than me. A version of me had gone to the Academy and another had graduated. One I didn’t recognize.
I let my hand fall. “Fuck.”
Okay, so today wasn’t a painting day. I could still venture out and try to drum up an opportunity. A show somewhere. Anything.
I put my jacket back on and headed out.
“Don’t let the door slam!” Ms. Thomas screeched from out of her window above me.
“Yes, ma’am,” I muttered.
I took the bus to Hyde Park. Though it was nearly four p.m.with rain threatening, artists were behind canvases, painting the Wellington Arch, the city, or the paying customersittingin front of them. There was plenty of room for one more. I could come back tomorrow and set up shop.
Has it come to this?
It was honest work, but the last, dying gasps of my ego had me pulling out my phone and calling Vaughn. I put the phone to my ear, shivering in my worn-out jacket.
Voicemail.
Greetings! You’ve reached Vaughn Ritter. Please leave a message. For business inquiries, please contact my agent, Jane Oxley, at—
I hung up.
“Shit.”
I stuffed my cold hands in my pockets and started to cross the street when I saw a guy—an impossibly beautiful guy—watching me intently on the corner. He wore a long black coat, the collar pulled up under his chin. Thick blond hair blew gently in the icy wind, and his eyes met mine relentlessly. A lazy smirk touched his lips, as if he were waiting for me to recognize him. Or appreciate him; he was clearly aware of how unbelievably gorgeous he was. He wore it like his coat.
Even if I hadn’t sworn off men for the foreseeable future, I was in no position to make contact with a guy like this. Everything about him screamedmoneyandconfidence—two things I had in short supply.
I tore my gaze away and sprang for a cab into Shoreditch, an artsy little district. For an hour, I wandered past hole-in-the-wall galleries, clubs, and shops that lined the narrow street. But for the bars, everything was closed. I scanned gallery windows—sometimes they had open calls for artists pasted on the glass. Nada. I’d do a better online search at home, I reasoned. Night was falling fast, bringing winter cold with it.
I took the bus—no more taxis for me—back to my neighborhood and ducked into a bodega for a package of ramen and a banana.
“Dinner of champions.”
Inside my basement flat, I heated my food and ate it slowly to make it last. My stomach was still grumbling when I powered up my laptop. I searched for galleries with open calls. There were none within the city limits. Querying was soul-sucking, but that was the game. Foolishly, I’d thought it’d be so much easier to play it.
My brain threatened to begin its nightly spin, revving up with unwanted negative thoughts. I shut the laptop and dove into bed, hoping to dive into sleep as quickly.
I hunched under my thin blanket that smelled like dust and shivered. Cold air was seeping into the room like long fingers, crawling overmy skinand finding their way under my blanket. With a curse of irritation, I sat up to check that I hadn’t left the window cracked and jerked my hand away from the sill with a jolt.
“Oh shit!”
On the window ledge next to the bed, bathed in moonlight, was a beetle. It was sleek and black and easily the size of my palm. The beetle’s soft underwings fluttered from beneath hard outer wings. Its antennae flickered.
Still in my bed, I reached blindly and grabbed for the nearest weapon—one of my art history books from the stack on the floor. Hardcover. Slowly, heart pounding, I raised the book and braced myself for thesplatthat was coming.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” drawled a voice from the door.
“Jesus!” I dropped the book—one corner jabbing my thigh—and whipped my head.
The same handsome man I’d seen on the street was now in my room. Even in the dimness, the recognition was instant; his head of rich gold hair was like a beacon. He leaned casually against the wall, watching me, amused and wholly unmoved by my panic. Languidly, he held out his hand. The beetle on the ledge buzzed across the room and landed on his outstretched palm. I stared. Like some kind of impossible magic trick, it melded with his skin and vanished.
A lazy smile curled the man’s lips. “As you can see, I’m rather attached.”
What the fuck…
