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“Sounds horrible,” Devin drawled.
I shook my head, even though he was right. With all that emotion, she’d be scarily vulnerable in our world. “It’s just… I can picture her in the throes of subspace, really letting go. Imagine that energy, that physicality if I helped her tap into that part of herself.”
“Jesus. If you’ve got it that bad for her, fuck her and get it over with.”
“I can’t fuck her. We’re not on speaking terms.”
“Good lord,” Devin said, giving me a look. “I want to punch you in the face right now. Maybe that’s the sadist talking.”
“Yeah, thanks for listening.” I blew out a breath and grabbed my bag.
“You don’t have to leave,” he said, putting a hand on my knee. “Don’t get in a fucking mood. How long are you going to Milan for?”
Long enough to forget about her, or try to.I didn’t say that out loud. Instead I said, “I hate messes. That’s the fucking truth.”
Devin squeezed my knee and let go. “You’ve always been a damned feely bastard, Fort. Do yourself a favor and hook up with some pretty, delicious sexpot in Italy, a power sub who can pull your head out of your ass.”
“Yeah.” I stood and stretched. My friend stood too, turning his pilot’s cap in his hand. I followed the silver cording as it slid beneath his fingers.
“Remember why,” he said. “Why it’s important to keep your shit under control.”
Leave your submissives in better shape than you found them. Don’t take more than they can give. Never, ever fuck with the vulnerable.There were a lot of rules at The Gallery, but the last one was the most important.
And Devin, the most heartless Dom of my acquaintance, enforced it most zealously of all.
Chapter Eight: Juliet
Istood inthe corner of the oddly shaped Manhattan gallery. We’d chosen it based on display space, and there were plenty of walls, but the room itself felt suffocating. People stood shoulder-to-shoulder, turning back and forth to talk and point at elements of Goodluck’s art. We had to be over the room’s maximum allowed capacity, but the staff didn’t say anything, just bustled around passing out brochures and glasses of champagne.
Goodluck was unveiling his new “Eagle on the Wing” collection. None of the blurred photographs had eagles or wings in them, but his fan base didn’t care. They’d come out—hundreds of them—in sub-zero wind chill, eager to escape the January doldrums and buy something new. Goodluck was camped by the fruit bowl, picking out grapes with his fingers, leaving his agents to handle the inquiries. Collectors corralled me into private conversations, eager to get a foot in the door.
The Sinclair ads had increased Goodluck’s international appeal, bringing dozens of new buyers into the fold, all of them competing for an acquisition. The price of his work was rising with each subsequent collection, reaching stratospheres previously unheard of. One of the photos in the ads sold for four million dollars at private auction, the one dubbed the “New Mona Lisa” by the press. Rather than an enigmatic smile, the model had an enigmatic form, difficult to make out in the scattered light behind her.
The photo haunted me, because I felt like that model, partly there and partly a ghost. For the past three months, I’d been looking inward, hermiting, staying at home and trying to find myself after my unproductive crush on Fort St. Clair. Now that the ad push had died down, I didn’t think about him anymore…except when I did, which was way more often than I wanted to. I had too much going on to think about him tonight. I flitted around the room, decked out in a bright red dress with black over-the-knee socks, and a flower-embroidered cardigan, my signature artist-manager look.
Every photograph already had a sticker on it, an indication that a buyer was interested. Still, the crowds lingered, oohing and ahhing. I grabbed the gallery manager and asked if he could turn the heat down, and he told me he’d already turned it off. This was just the heat of clamoring human bodies. I took off my sweater even though it left my arms bare, and downed a glass of ice water.
“My beautiful Starcomet,” said Goodluck, grasping my shoulders from behind in a friendly massage. “Given any more thought to changing your name?”
I leaned closer to him. The massage felt good on my knotted muscles. “Too many people know me as Juliet Pope,” I said, speaking over the noise. “It wouldn’t be good for my career.”
“Your career?” He sighed. “‘Career’ is another way of saying ‘cage.’ Don’t box yourself into a career, or a name, for that matter. Break the fetters, my friend.”
“That would be a good name for me: Fetters.”
He made a disapproving sound. “I can think of so many names that are worthy of you,” he said, digging his fingers deeper. “I have so much trust in you. I should call you Trust.”
“You do call me Trust. You call me pretty much everything except Juliet.”
He stopped massaging and turned me around to hug me, pressing his cheek to mine. “It’s because of that play. So tragic. Listen, I’m grateful that you’re here to help me tonight. I’m grateful that you’re strong and creative, and that you have glorious hair.” He buried his nose in my hairline, careless of my painstakingly crafted up do. “And incredible, shining eyes that caress me with belonging. I’m grateful that you’re resilient and dependable, and that you help me share my work with the world…”
His recitation went on, and I half listened, holding his hand. It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate his praise. It was that he was going through a gratitude obsession right now, and I heard such recitations every day.I’m grateful for this, I’m grateful for that.
“I’m grateful to work for such a visionary artist,” I said when he finished. “Everyone loves your new work.”
“Yes, they do. But there are too many people here, so I wanted to let you know I’m going home. I want to pet my cat.”
“Goodluck, no, you can’t leave!”
