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“The Black Wall?” He smacked his forehead. “The Black Wall. That stack of shipping containers in Fort Greene. The artist colony. Are you an artist?”
“No, but I work for one. Goodluck Boundless.” At his confused expression, I clarified. “Goodluck Boundless is his actual, legal name.”
To my surprise, Fort started to laugh, the rich sound filling the bedroom. “Last night, you kept telling me ‘good luck, good luck.’ You started up with the ‘boundless,’ and I gave up on trying to understand you.”
He laughed so hard that I had to smile too, which was better than crying. “Yeah, Goodluck’s my boss, and my friend. We both live in the Black Wall.”
He gave one last chuckle. “Sorry I didn’t put Goodluck Boundless and the Black Wall together. I’m not big into the art scene. So what do you do for Goodluck Boundless? You’re a model?”
Nice of him to ask, but I was twenty pounds overweight, with short legs and intractable, mousey-brown hair. “I’m not a model. I’m his business manager. I plan his shows, coordinate with sales agents, that kind of thing. He got me an apartment in the Black Wall so we can work together more easily. Three other artists live there, too.”
“And it’s got a big mural on one side, right? They paint a new one every few weeks?”
“Yes, it hasn’t been a black wall since the beginning. Right now it’s a huge plaid rabbit playing a violin.”
“I’d like to see that.” He took the glass from me. “If you want I can drive you home, unless…” He turned the glass in his hands. “Would you like some breakfast first? Some coffee?”
I looked at him, thinking how easily he could become my next pathetic, hopeless crush. He didn’t just set off my Dom radar, he exploded it, smashed it to pieces. I rubbed my wrists in an unconscious gesture that became much more conscious when he looked down at my hands.
One cup of coffee, more time to talk… Who knew what might develop?
No, too masochistic, even for me. I turned away and tugged at one of the bows on my socks. “I’ve already put you to too much trouble, Mr.—what’s your name again? I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. St. Clair. Fort St. Clair.”
“Fort, yeah. Sorry. I can take the subway. It stops right by my place.”
“The subway? You’re sure?” He slid a look over my wrinkled dress and day-old makeup. “So, just reminding you that you don’t have any money, although I can give you money if your heart’s set on the subway…”
Shit. My purse, my phone, my money. I covered my face with my hands. “This is fucked up. Okay, I’ll accept a ride, but I feel so bad about all this.”
“It’s all right. I’ve never seen a plaid rabbit playing a violin before.” He stretched and stood, and I thought,he is too fucking gorgeous for words.“We can leave whenever you’re ready. Oh, and there’s a guest bathroom there if you want to use it. I should have told you that before.”
He pointed to a door on the other side of the room and left.
Okay, Jules, pull yourself together so you can get out of this man’s hair, and maybe make a long-overdue appointment with a therapist.
I got up and limped over to the bathroom, and stepped into a window-walled chamber of sun overlooking the city. Jesus, how high up was Fort’s apartment? He had to live near the top of the Blackwell, in one of the shiny glass penthouses.
I backed away from the view, my stomach churning, and turned to the mirror. I looked awful. Silly, to entertain thoughts of Fort and me, when I was lying in his bed looking like a sad, hungover clown. The eye makeup I’d painstakingly applied last night was smeared up into my eyebrows and down my cheeks. All that remained of my lipstick was an outer lining of uneven burgundy. My eyes were swollen and red, and my curly hair looked like a ransacked bird’s nest.
All of this contrasted with his spotless marble and teak bathroom, making me feel worse. I turned on the burnished gold faucet and used his French-milled hand soap to wash off what makeup I could. My mouth tasted like death, but a timid pull of the nearest drawer revealed packaged toothbrushes and travel-sized tubes of toothpaste. I brushed my teeth and debated taking a quick shower, because the fancy, rainshower spout looked so inviting. In the end, everything was too clean and perfect, and I didn’t want to sully his spotless white towels.
At least I lookedslightlymore presentable when I walked out of the bedroom and down the hall to his living room. He acknowledged the change in my appearance with a quick once-over. A sign of interest? Should I let him know I was submissive and available?
God, no.
I was finished chasing after cool and unattainable men. Last night was a low point. Waking up cuffed to a bed in a stranger’s home—even if it was a gorgeous stranger and a gorgeous home—was a wakeup call I couldn’t ignore.
“You ready?” he asked. He’d cleaned up too, although he hadn’t shaved off his stubble. His navy sweater and well-fitted jeans almost stole my resolve, but I collected myself and nodded.
“I’m ready. Thank you.”
As I expected, his car was sporty, fast, and loud. A uniformed valet brought it up from his private parking area under the building. Although I worked for one of the preeminent artists in the city, I wasn’t used to such ostentatious displays of wealth. Goodluck was filthy rich, but he didn’t have a car because he lived more like a hobo than a millionaire.
Even if Goodluck had a car, he wouldn’t have driven it like Fort, so smoothly and confidently, his hand working the gearshift in stop-and-go traffic like he didn’t even have to think about it. He kept up a polite stream of conversation about the New York art scene and my experiences as Goodluck’s manager. He told me he worked at his father’s company, Sinclair Jewelers, a global luxury firm. That explained the penthouse and flashy car.
When he stopped outside the Black Wall, we admired the rabbit mural for a moment together, but I didn’t invite him inside or make any overtures to keep in touch. He didn’t make any overtures either, just smiled one last time as I left his car to do my walk of shame to the lobby door. I pulled it closed behind me, letting the clutter and kitschiness of the Black Wall’s communal ground floor surround me.
