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Throughout the night, Gavin proved to be an omnipresent force, always nearby with a compliment ready or a question about my technique. Each exchange was a dance—one step forward, two steps back—as I parried his advances with my own brand of prickly defense.
"Ever thought about using your art for something... bigger?" he mused, head tilted as he studied a particularly aggressive piece.
"Like what? Billboards for therapy sessions?" I said, my glass of wine suddenly interesting enough to warrant intense scrutiny.
"Like changing the world," he said simply, and I could hear the earnestness in his voice.
"World's beyond saving," I muttered, but the look he gave me—a mixture of challenge and curiosity—sent an unexpected thrill through me.
"Maybe," he conceded, "but I think you underestimate the power of a perspective shift."
"Or maybe you overestimate the desire for one," I retorted, but even as I dismissed him, I couldn't shake the sense that Gavin St. James saw through the façade I presented to the world, to the seething cauldron of betrayal and desire beneath.
Ileaned against the cool wall of the gallery, my eyes flitting across the room where laughter and wine flowed as freely as the pretentious banter. Aria was chatting up some suit with a pocket square more expensive than my entire outfit. My gaze slipped from her to the dimly lit corner of the room, and that's where it started—the fantasy.
Imagine some dark figure just crashing through that fancy-ass glass door. My pulse quickened at the thought, muscles tensing like I was preparing for the thrill. He wouldn't give a damn about this art crap. No, he'd come straight for me. I could almost feel his shadow looming over me, his rough hands defying the softness of the brush strokes on my canvases.
"Fuck, Celeste, you look like you're ready to jump out of your skin or jump someone's bones." Aria's voice cut through the fog of my daydream, bringing me back with an irritating snap.
"More like ready to jump into a new fantasy," I muttered, shooting her a glance that dared her to pry further. But of course, she did—because Aria’s never met a boundary she didn't push.
"Speaking of fantasies, have you seen the way Gavin's been eye-fucking you all night? Guy can't keep his peepers off you."
"Eye-fucking is a bit of a stretch. Dude's probably just trying to be a good host or something," I scoffed, but Aria wasn't having any of my self-deprecating bullshit tonight.
"Or something, my ass. He's into you, and you’re over here fantasizing about phantom fuckboys instead of giving the real deal a shot." Her words were playful, but her eyes were dead serious.
"Real deal?" I snorted, rolling my eyes. "Gavin's as 'real' as the orgasms these socialites fake to get their partners to shut up. Besides, a guy like him doesn't go for girls who use words like 'fuckboy.'"
"Uh-huh, and how would you know what he goes for? You've got a better chance of finding out if you stop hiding in that head of yours."
It was one thing to embrace my sexuality in anonymous prose. It was another to confront it when it came packaged with a smile like Gavin's and an invitation to dance too close to the flames of reality.
"Fine, fine," she conceded, holding her hands up in surrender. "But don't say I didn't warn you when he swoops in and sweeps you off your feet. Or you know, pins you against a wall..."
"Fuck off," I laughed, shaking my head at her ridiculous imagery. But damn her, the seed had been planted, and beneath the bitter tang of jealousy and fear, my mind began to unfurl around the possibility of Gavin's lips tracing the line of my neck, his hands mapping the territory of my body with an artist's precision.
"Only if you promise to seriously consider letting someone else in. And I mean physically, not just in your naughty little head."
"Fine, I'll consider it," I lied, knowing full well that considering and doing were worlds apart in my book. But as Aria sauntered off to rescue another conversation with her effervescent charm, I couldn't help but steal another glance at Gavin. Maybe there was something there, amid the smoky air and whispered promises of the art world—a spark waiting to ignite. Or maybe it was just another fantasy, destined to burn out before it ever truly caught fire.
As I locked the gallery door behind me, the Chicago night was a frigid slap to my face. "Fuck," I muttered under my breath, fumbling with the keys as they jingled mockingly on their ring. The click of my heels against the sidewalk echoed like a ticking time bomb, each step away from Gavin's lingering gaze and Aria's relentless matchmaking a small victory in preserving my solitude.
I could still feel his eyes on me, warm and insistent, teasing at the edges of my resolve. But with every block that passed beneath my feet, the warmth turned icy with the whisper of caution. Desire warred with the fear that lay coiled in my stomach like a snake waiting to strike. Don't be a dumbass, Celeste. It was just a fucking gallery opening, not a goddamn marriage proposal. I chided myself.
I continued the one-sided conversation with the chilly wind as my only audience. Besides, fantasies are safe. They don’t leave you bleeding out on the cold, hard ground of reality. My thoughts were a bitter pill—medicine for a disease I wasn’t sure I wanted to cure.
Back in my apartment, I shrugged off my coat and let it drop to the floor with a careless thud. The silence was almost deafening after the hum of the gallery crowd. I booted up my laptop, its screen illuminating the dimly lit room with an eerie glow. A dozen notifications blinked at me from the corner of the screen; my anonymous blog—a dirty little secret swathed in pixels.
"Let's see what kind of fucked-up fan mail I've got tonight," I muttered, clicking through. I skimmed the comments, the usual mix of praise and perversion washing over me. It was a dark symphony I'd grown to crave, each note striking a chord deep within.
Then, like a shadow slipping through the cracks, there it was—the message from him.
"Consensual stalking? Jesus Christ," I breathed out. His words were an intoxicating blend of danger and desire, a cocktail I wasn't sure I had the constitution to handle. My pulse quickened, arousal and terror twisting together into a knot that settled somewhere between my thighs and my throat.
"Fuck," I whispered again, the word becoming my mantra for the night. This was madness—raw and unfiltered. Yet, as much as I wanted to slam the laptop shut and drown the very idea in a river of denial, I couldn't look away. The proposal was the embodiment of every filthy fantasy I’d ever conjured, and the thought of it being realized was both thrilling and bone-chilling.
Am I really considering this? The question hung heavy in the air, unanswered.
