Ruin Me Page 19

  “My attorney will meet you there. His name is Robert Leeds. Don’t say a thing until he arrives. Just stay calm, Brandt. Robert will clear this whole thing up.”

  Inez needed that wine. Immediately. By the time she returned with the opened bottle, Anna was off the phone.

  “You can’t imagine what has happened,” Anna said, reaching for a glass.

  Inez didn’t know if she should play dumb, or confess that it was her conversation with Damian that set this fiasco in motion. Hell, Anna had been the one pushing for Brandt to claim the Page Six photo as himself. She was just as culpable in this as Inez. Maybe more so.

  “Actually, I can. Remember you told me to talk to the pink-haired art blogger about the Page Six photo of Lulu? Well, I did. Tonight. I was selling him on the idea that the guy in the photo with Lulu was Brandt. And literally as the words were coming out of my mouth, the TV showed a photo of the guy who sent the boxes down the river. And it was obviously the same guy.”

  Anna stood from her desk, turning off the television.

  “You should have warned me,” she said.

  Inez took a gulp of wine. “I realize that now. I didn’t think it would get to this point.” She pressed her fingertips into her temples. “This is a disaster.”

  “Maybe,” Anna said, turning off the office lights. “And maybe not.”

  “What do you mean?” Inez asked.

  Anna’s phone rang again. She looked at the incoming number, then turned the screen to Inez with a satisfied smile.

  It was the Roths.

  “Hello, Genevieve,” Anna said. “Yes, that’s the artist I’ve been telling you about.”

  Anna’s facial expression was calm, but after all this time Inez could discern the spark in her eyes. After a few beats, she said, “My phone has already been ringing, Genevieve. Long before all this excitement. You and Martin were the lone holdouts. So if you’re in, you better let me know tomorrow because I barely have any pieces left.”

  She hung up and looked at Inez triumphantly.

  Inez realized in that moment that she could never outmaneuver Anna. Better to have joined her than try to beat her. She almost felt sorry for Lulu.

  Almost.

  Chapter Forty-six

  I couldn’t sleep all night. I kept thinking that the second I did, Rory would slip away in the darkness. I needed some sign that we might be able to have something real, not just fleeting moments in between bouts of his creative genius.

  And now, I have it. Right here, with him tucked against my body as the sun comes up. I prop myself up on one elbow and look down at his face, so peaceful in sleep. It gives me the luxury of looking at him without making him self-conscious. He really is beautiful, and with a twinge of jealousy, I wonder how many women have been with him. I wonder if he’s ever been in love.

  I wonder if he can love me.

  He stirs, and I know it’s his sharp, animalistic instinct of self-preservation that makes it impossible for him to sleep under my scrutiny. He told me once that living underground he learned to “sleep with one eye open.” But last night, since I was the one with both eyes open, I know that he slept soundly.

  I stroke his hair, and he looks up at me. First thing in the morning, and his eyes lack the typical glazed, semi-out-of-it look most people’s have. He is already focused, full of smoldering intensity.

  “Hey. You slept okay,” I say.

  He sits up. “I can’t remember the last time I crashed like that.”

  “You needed it.” I tug him gently back down, and he lets me hold him. He cups my breast. My body, tired and sore from the intense sex last night, wants him again. I feel a hum between my legs, raw and insistent. I move my hand down his naked body. It’s clear that he wants me again, too.

  I wordlessly move on top of him. My body is so ready, it’s as if it was just on a pause from the orgasm last night. I ride him slowly, and he clutches my hips, eyes closed, his face taut with pleasure.

  It only takes a minute for me to reach an intense crest of sensation, the razor-sharp ecstasy that I have only felt with him. It’s as if his body has taught mine a new language, and together, we are fluent.

  “Oh my god,” I say, still shocked by the feelings he gives me. The muscles in my pelvis tense at the same time that my mind downshifts into that floaty space where thought gives way to feeling, and I moan.

  Rory thrusts harder, his hands sliding down to hold my ass, getting deeper inside of me, and he comes just as my orgasm nears an end. This tips me toward another peak, and my skin is covered in goose bumps as we climax together.

  He pulls the covers over us, and I curl up in his arms.

  After a while, he slips out of bed. I take in his lean, muscular body.

  “Towels are in the closet right outside the bathroom,” I tell him.

  Fatigue washes over me. Alone in the bed, I turn on my phone and click on the Daily News app. The headline reads, “Jack *Ass in the Box: Painter’s Prank Creates Panic Along East River.” And a full-page photo of Brandt. The Post headline reads: “Fresh Arrest!” with a photo of Rory launching one of the boxes into the water.

  Filled with dread, I peek my head out of the bedroom to make sure Rory is in the shower. I dial my mother’s cell. She doesn’t answer, so I try the gallery.

  The receptionist tells me that my mother is on her way to the new space.

  “How long will she be there?”I ask.

  “I couldn’t tell you.”

  Helpful as always. I disconnect the call and wonder what to do about Rory.

  He’s still in the shower. I poke my head inside the steam-filled bathroom and tell him I have to run out for half an hour. “But stay – as long as you want.”

  He doesn’t answer me, and I know with a sinking feeling that by the time I get back, he will be long gone.

  *** ***

  Brandt looked gaunt and jittery. Inez didn’t know if the coke was finally catching up with him, or if the arrest had him spooked.

  “You call this good publicity?” Brandt said, waving a copy of the Daily News.

  “You’re not hearing me,” Anna said slowly, with commendable patience. “It doesn’t matter what ninety-nine percent of New Yorkers think about you this morning. What matters is the fraction of the one percent that is willing to shell out six or seven figures for paintings sight unseen. Or who are willing to look at this half-baked crap you’re producing because they believe they’re buying into a media magnet and future star. You’re just a stock, Brandt. And as of nine o’clock last night when this news broke, you went up.”

  As Brandt pondered this, Inez spotted a hot-pink, wide-knit wrap draped on the edge of the couch that she recognized as belonging to Bianca. In a moment of panic, she realized Bianca could be there, in another room, right that very moment. If Anna found out that the woman Brandt cheated with was the woman Inez brought to the party that same night, it would reflect very badly on Inez. Very badly, to say the least.

  “Excuse me for a sec.”

  She headed for the bathroom. Once she was out of sight, she looked for the bedroom, opening and closing random doors lining the narrow hallway until she hit pay dirt.

  Peeking out from underneath the white down comforter was a pink-tipped lock of blond hair.

  Inez said a silent thank you to the god she hadn’t spoken to since the day of her Holy Communion, and pulled back the comforter.

  “Hey,” she whispered, but Bianca barely stirred. Her flawless body was completely naked, and Inez had to admit she missed it a little. But the rest of her was useless. She finally had the big fish on her line, and she wasn’t going to let herself get distracted by this bait. Still, she couldn’t resist reaching out to stroke Bianca’s pale breast, running her fingertips over the tiny bunny nipples she’d enjoyed for so many months.

  “What?” Bianca’s baby-blue eyes, still caked with last night’s mascara, fluttered open.

  “Shhhh,” Inez whispered. “What are you doing here?”

  �
�What do you care? You haven’t texted me back in weeks.”

  “My boss is here. Do not come out of this room until Brandt tells you it’s all clear—you got that? It will get both of us in a shitload of trouble.”

  “I miss you.”

  Inez sighed. It was like dealing with a child. “I miss you, too. But Brandt is good publicity for you. And I don’t have time for anyone else right now.”

  Bianca took Inez’s hand and moved it down, skimming over her belly, between her legs. Her center was wet and warm and Inez was tempted to fuck her right then and there. But there was no way she could go back to the office with Anna smelling like pussy. She pulled her hand back and stood up.

  “Why should I do anything for you?” Bianca said. “You don’t do anything for me anymore.”

  “Do it for Brandt.”

  “He doesn’t do anything for me either.”

  Bianca pouted. Inez wondered how many minutes had passed since she left the living room. She began to perspire. And she realized that this trip to the bedroom was about to backfire.

  “Just hang out here until my boss leaves, and I’ll make it up to you.”

  “When?”

  Inez took a deep breath, willing herself not to lose her temper or her patience.

  “Soon.”

  “How soon?”

  “Damn it, Bianca. I don’t have time for this shit.”

  “Fine. I’ll just tell your boss I was here today. I’ll tell her I’m the one who stole her daughter’s boyfriend. I don’t care.”

  “Calm down. Hold it together, all right? I’ll hang out with you later in the week.”

  She gave Bianca a perfunctory kiss on her lush mouth, and hurried back to the hallway, closing the door behind her. With a quick stop in the bathroom to wash her hands and make sure she didn’t somehow pick up any traces of Bianca’s smeared makeup on her own face, she rushed back to the living room.

  Anna turned to her, mouth tight with displeasure. “How nice of you to rejoin us,” she said. “Perhaps you can explain to Brandt the delicate art of playing the press—that there is a way to deny his involvement with the events yesterday, while somehow perpetuating the belief that it was him.”

  “I don’t get why I can’t just deny it. That’s what your lawyer did to get me out of jail last night. Now I want to do the denial publicly. Everyone online is saying it was probably GoST. I don’t want anything to do with that guy.”

  “Here’s the sad truth,” Inez said. “GoST sells. Brandt Penn doesn’t. So suck it up until after the show.”

  “That is, if you want to have a show. Do you understand?” Anna added.

  Brandt looked at Inez, a glance of deer-in-the-headlights fear. She nodded to him.

  “I understand,” he said.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  I walk to Twenty-third Street and wait.

  When the Town Car finally pulls up in front of the gallery, Inez steps out first in a fabulous leopard-print sheath. My mother is dressed in a cream-colored suit with a bolero jacket. Both of their faces are covered with oversized sunglasses, and neither say a word.

  My mother doesn’t seem surprised to see me.

  “Come inside, Lulu.”

  The three of us stand awkwardly inside the cavernous space. A week from the opening show, it still feels cold and unfinished.

  Inez looks right through me. She doesn’t smile, she almost doesn’t acknowledge me. It’s like I’m a stranger walking into her gallery. And this pisses me off.

  I think about how she smiled when I told my mother I was quitting. I think about the way she just happened to appear in Brandt’s lobby the night I caught him with that blonde. And now her obvious displeasure at seeing me.

  “I’d like to talk to my mother alone.”

  Even through Inez’s ample application of her favorite Tarte blush, I see her face color with irritation.

  “Please excuse us, Inez. I’ll meet you in my office when I’m finished.”

  My mother and I stand in the vast space. One wall showcases four of Brandt’s paintings—the best four, the ones he finished before the summer. The other walls are bare.

  “I’m happy to see you, Lulu. And I hope you’re here because you’ve come to your senses.”

  “I just wanted to say I’m sorry for this whole mess with Brandt. I never meant for him to have guilt by association. And it’s not even his association, it’s mine.”

  My mother paces along the wall of paintings.

  “And how close is this association of yours?”

  “Pretty close.”

  “Lulu.” She shakes her head.

  “That’s not what I’m here to talk about. Like I said, I just wanted to say I’m sorry for any trouble I caused. I hope you know I didn’t do this on purpose. I’m not trying to fight with you.”

  “You could have fooled me with that note you left in my living room.”

  “You shouldn’t insult my father. Or me, for that matter.”

  “I’m entitled to my opinion about your father. After all, I’m the one who knew him. As for what I said about you, I do regret speaking so harshly. To be frank, it came from frustration. I hate to see you acting out of fear instead of out of ambition. That is not how I raised you.”

  “I have ambition.” Sitting across from her, I feel like a failure. My eyes tear. I hate that she has this much power over me.

  “That’s not the way you act.”

  I shrug, instantly a five-year-old. I want to end this conversation, but there’s one more thing I have to ask.

  “When are you going to make a statement?”

  “About what?” she says.

  “About Brandt—denying his involvement in what happened yesterday?”

  On my way over here, I justified the visit by telling myself that I was coming to make sure she and her publicists were going to clear it up in the media. And then I could tell Rory. I know he didn’t want to admit it—maybe not even to himself—but I know it stung to see that news story. It’s one thing to want to be anonymous. It’s quite another to see another artist get all the credit. I know Rory would have gladly suffered through an arrest and fine if people would at least talk about what he wanted them to talk about: the purpose behind the boxes in the river. But it looked like the best-case scenario was that my mother and Brandt would publicly denounce his involvement.

  “I’m not making a statement,” my mother says.

  She walks to a small Lucite desk in the corner and pulls something out of one of the drawers. Then, slowly but with great deliberation, she walks back to the wall of paintings, and places red stickers next to each one. The round, red stickers that designate a painting has been sold.

  “Your degenerate little friend is the best thing that could have happened to Brandt. To us, Lulu. So why don’t you come back to work, and we can put an end to this nonsense. There’s a lot to be done.”

  I’m trembling with anger. “Brandt can’t take credit for something he didn’t do.”

  “I don’t see anyone else stepping forward to claim responsibility.” Her eyes narrowed. “The truth is, that vandal doesn’t have the guts to claim his work. People like him rarely do. It’s easy to run around under the cover of night, pretending you don’t want recognition. Because you know what? Recognition is scary. Recognition is difficult. But it has its rewards. As I have learned. As Brandt is learning.”

  I stand up. “I have lost all respect for you.”

  “I wish, my dear, that I could say the same for you. But you never earned my respect to begin with.”

  *** ***

  The Thomas Pink store on Madison Avenue was Damian Damian’s favorite place in the world. The bow ties, the pocket squares, the cuff links … it was heaven.

  And heaven was very pricey. However, knowing that he had a nice chunk of change on the way courtesy of the Federal Bureau of Investigation gave him the breathing room to splurge. Thank you, Brandt Penn.

  It was almost the best of all worlds: cracking
a great story and getting paid for it. Of course, he would have liked to have broken the news on his blog. The problem was, he didn’t believe it. Not one word. While the Brandt arrest sold newspapers and made the cops look like they were on top of things, there was just no way he did it. He couldn’t be responsible for the boxes incident because he wasn’t capable of the GoST paintings showing up around the city. What was Damian’s basis for thinking this? Instinct. The same thing that every good journalist relied on. And yes, he considered himself a journalist, sans doute.

  “The purples are beyond,” Troy said, waving the Sullivan Spot Skinny Tie. Damian already owned it. Then he realized Troy was talking about it for himself.

  “I see you in this,” Damian said, pulling out the Oldbury Houndstooth pattern in purple and sky blue.

  Troy’s big blue eyes lit up like electric saucers. “To die for.”

  “I’ll buy it for you—on one condition. Get that whorey roommate of yours to meet us at Le Pain Quotidien in a half hour.”

  “Bianca?”

  “Do you have another whorey roommate?”

  Troy shot off a quick text.

  “She’s on her way.”

  Damian strode over to the women’s section and picked out the most decadent item he could find—a white cashmere stole.

  “I need a gift box for this.”

  Chapter Forty-eight

  I’m furious when I leave the gallery. It’s time for a drastic move. Shaking, I text Brandt.

  Can I stop by for a sec?

  Yeah. I’m here.

  I don’t know how it’s going to feel to be in his apartment. I know I’m not in love with him—that I’m deeply in love with someone else. But I’m still afraid that being there will trigger old feelings. It was such a quick, clean break—so much so that I feel certain we had never truly been in love. But it’s still sad that whatever we did have together hadn’t lasted, hadn’t, in the end, meant much of anything at all.

  The doorman recognizes me and waves me right up. This innocuous gesture gave me a pang.

  “Hey.” He answers the door in jeans and a paint-splattered gray t-shirt. He’s barefoot, and his hair is longer than usual and mussed. His handsomeness feels abstract now. Without meaning.