Ruin Me Page 20

  He seems tired and detached. It’s as if my visit is just another drop in a shitstorm.

  “How are you?” I ask.

  We sit on the couch with a comfortable distance between us. I wonder if he’s still seeing the woman I caught him with, but I push the thought away. It doesn’t matter.

  “I’ve been better,” he says.

  “You didn’t stay in jail overnight, did you? I imagine Robert got things taken care of pretty quickly.”

  “He did. No, I was out of there fast enough. I’m not even going through the hassle of contesting the charges. Your mother is just paying the fine.”

  “But you’re going to deny your involvement, right? I mean, to the press.”

  He shrugs. “I took the blame. I might as well get some of the upside, too.”

  I feel like shaking him. “That’s not you, Brandt. That’s my mother talking. What, she’s got you convinced that you can’t sell without the hype? That’s bullshit. You’re a good artist. You can pull this thing off on your own. If you don’t at least try, you’ll regret it.”

  “My paintings aren’t moving. Or, at least, they weren’t until this morning. It would have been the first show your mother didn’t sell out before opening night.”

  “You’re not finished working on the paintings yet, are you?”

  “I’m frozen. I can’t work, I can’t even fucking think.”

  I feel terrible. I’m the one who brought him to my mother in the first place. I knew she had the power to jump-start his career. I just didn’t realize that in doing so, she’d crush him mentally and creatively. Maybe some of those blogs and articles about how she destroyed my father were truer than I wanted to believe.

  “It’s been hard working without you,” Brandt says, moving closer to me. “I miss you.”

  “You were painting way before we met. This doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

  “I fucked up,” he says. “With us, I mean. Can’t you let me make it up to you? I really need you through this thing. I wouldn’t have called you, I know you wanted some space. But the fact that you’re here … you must be thinking about it, too.”

  I shake my head. “That’s not why I’m here. I feel bad about what happened last night because I feel partly responsible.”

  “Are you with that guy?”

  “Yes.”

  He stands up and turns his back to me, looking out the window.

  “You can’t go on pretending to be GoST. It will only be worse when everyone finds out the truth.”

  “Inez said he’ll never come forward. That being anonymous is more important to him than anything.”

  Every negative feeling I’d had about Inez lately turns solid in my stomach, a sharp crystal of anger and distrust.

  “Inez doesn’t even know him. I’m the one who knows him.”

  He turns back around, his face red, his mouth tight.

  “So why didn’t he come forward today?”

  “Stop worrying about what he does or doesn’t do, and think about what you’re doing. You can’t perpetuate this myth that you’re a street artist.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because being an artist is as much about what you’re saying as what you’re creating. And what he’s saying has nothing to do with your work. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “You’re overthinking it.”

  “No, the problem is that you’re under-thinking it. And you always have. You don’t have anything to say, and that’s why you can’t finish this series, and that’s why you don’t care that you’re associating with someone else’s message. Because you don’t have one of your own!”

  “You didn’t seem to feel this way when you brought me to your mother last summer.”

  “I’m not saying you don’t have talent. You do. But honestly, I didn’t expect my mother to put you front and center in a one-man show. Personally, I think you could use more time.”

  “Inez said your mother did it for you—to make you want to drop everything this summer for the gallery.”

  I have a flashback to that day when he fucked me like I was a stranger. When he first started asking me about my mother’s motivations for taking him on. How long, exactly, has Inez been working to sabotage me?

  “And you believed her?”

  “You just said you don’t think I’m ready. Don’t you think your mother, with her decades of experience, would see that?”

  “It’s subjective. And a lot of artists aren’t ready, but when the pressure is on, they get ready—fast. And you can do it, too. Let this GoST thing go, Brandt. It’s the only way you’re ever going to have confidence in yourself and develop your own voice. Don’t listen to my mother. She wants a shortcut for what’s best for the gallery, but I’m telling you what’s best for you.”

  “Best for me? Or for your new boyfriend?”

  His face is contorted with jealousy.

  “No,” I say. “That’s not it.”

  “Then give me another chance. Be with me. And I’ll go public denying any connection to the whole ‘Fresh Arrest.’ ”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Well, then it looks like your mother is on my side. And you’re on his. So I’m sticking with the game plan.”

  *** ***

  Damian found a table upstairs at Le Pain Quotidien, away from the irritating crowds of midtown tourists and office workers on their lunch break. He sent Troy to wait for Bianca outside on Fifty-third Street.

  The second-floor table overlooked the entrance to the restaurant, and he spotted Bianca the second she walked inside. She was impossible to miss, a beacon in her white leggings, white tank, and silver, cat-eye sunglasses. Wearing four-inch, black-and-white Marc Jacobs platform sandals, she was positively Amazonian.

  “How fabulous to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you,” Damian said, gesturing for her to sit. “And look—we match.” He playfully tugged on a lock of her pink-tipped hair.

  “I wanted to go all pink like you, but my agent wouldn’t let me.” She pouted.

  “Never listen to the suits—that’s my motto,” he said.

  Troy watched them as if observing a game of table tennis.

  “I have to be at Wooster Street in, like, twenty minutes.”

  “Well, thanks for taking the time to stop by for a quick chat. You know, the whole city is talking about your friend’s little stunt yesterday.”

  She shoots Troy a look of irritation. “You told him about Brandt? What the fuck, Troy?”

  “No, no, no—I read about you and Brandt on a gossip site,” Damian said.

  “Really? What site?”

  “I don’t remember. The point is, you can’t believe everything you read. So I wanted to hear it from you. Are you the new woman in Brandt Penn’s life? And don’t be coy about it—snagging him away from that spoiled brat Lulu Sterling is quite the coup.”

  Bianca smiled. “I don’t know if I’m the new woman. But I’m a woman, for sure.”

  “But for the record, you’re lovers. You and Brandt.”

  “I’m not supposed to talk about this,” she said. “For his work—you know what I mean?”

  Damian nods empathetically. “I do. But everyone’s talking about him now. Unless you’ve somehow missed the news the past twenty-four hours.”

  “Yeah. He’s totally freaked.”

  “Because it wasn’t him, right?”

  She spins the sugar dispenser. “No, he didn’t do Fresh Arrest.”

  Damian smiled. “So why doesn’t his publicist make a statement?”

  She shrugs. “Look, me and Brandt just party sometimes. I don’t know about all that other stuff.”

  “Then how do you know he didn’t do it?”

  “He said he didn’t. And he was pretty upset about getting busted for something he didn’t do. And Anna Sterling sent him to Long Island yesterday morning. He wasn’t even in the city when all this happened. So, there’s no way.”

  Damian smiled. “You, my dear, are
not just ridiculously gorgeous, you are fabulously in-the-know.”

  He slid the large pink-and-black box across the table to her.

  “What’s this?”

  “A little thank-you gift.”

  “For what?”

  “It’s a thank-you-in-advance gift, actually. For keeping me in the know.”

  “About what?”

  “Whatever I text you about.”

  She opened the box as quickly as a kid on Christmas morning.

  “This is so cute,” she squealed, throwing it over her shoulders.

  “So do we have a deal?”

  She shrugged. “Sure. If I can help.”

  “You already have.”

  Chapter Forty-nine

  The weekend seemed to stretch on endlessly with Rory MIA. At night, I stare at the ceiling in the dark, thinking about my mother and Brandt and Inez. I’ve never felt so lost.

  Finally, Monday morning, I get to work on making more stencils of my father’s sculptures to distract myself. Using the X-Acto knife to cut out the negative space is starting to feel familiar, calming.

  Just when my mind is totally clear, my door buzzes.

  “Yeah?” I say into the intercom.

  “It’s me,” Rory says, his voice gravelly.

  I obsessed about him for two days and nothing. The minute I stop thinking about him, he’s here. Story of my life.

  “What’s wrong?” It’s obvious that he’s upset—really shaken.

  He doesn’t answer until we’re inside my apartment. I close the door and lead him to the couch. Sitting next to me, he rakes his hand through his hair. He’s tapping his foot, his knee bobbing up and down spastically.

  “They fucking destroyed it.”

  “Who destroyed what?”

  “The cops. They found my stuff in the tunnel, and they trashed it. All the artwork is smashed or missing, the bed is gone, my books. They took apart the whole place.”

  “Oh my god. I’m so sorry. Is this because of Fresh Arrest? It caused this much trouble?”

  “Don’t call it that.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I don’t know. They used to do sweeps of the tunnels every once in a while. But the timing of this seems to be too much of a coincidence.”

  I think of all the murals, the sculptures. The supplies. That space is everything he has in the world.

  I hug him, and with my body pressed close to him, say, “Stay here.”

  He shakes his head no.

  My chin is tucked into his neck and shoulder, so he can’t see the hurt and disappointment on my face.

  I wish I could give him some good news—that my mother or Brandt was going to come clean and deny any claim to the boxes. That at least he didn’t have to sit back and watch someone else get credit. But Rory’s home is gone, his work; the police have already charged Brandt with disturbing the peace or whatever they stuck him with. How long is Rory going to play the mystery card? And for what?

  My cell phone blares.

  “I’ll be right back,” I tell him. He barely moves, just slumping back against the sofa.

  I grab my phone.

  “Have you seen the cover of New York magazine?” Niffer says in one breathless jumble.

  “No,” I say, already logging onto my laptop. Of course my connection could not be slower.

  Finally Nymag.com loads. And there it is—a photo of the FreshDirect boxes in the river and the NYPD and FBI assembled at the South Street Seaport. The headline: “GoST Hunters: The Quest to Find New York’s Most Elusive Street Artist.”

  “Oh my god. Do you have the actual issue? Are there more photos?”

  “Yeah. Photos of Brandt.”

  “Fuck! I’m going to the newsstand. Call you back.”

  Rory eyes me from the couch.

  “You’re on the cover of New York magazine. But it’s not you, because you’re letting Brandt get all the press,” I say, grabbing my keys. “I’ll be right back.”

  *** ***

  Inez opened the door to Anna’s office, where she found her scrutinizing purchase orders and logging numbers into the accounting software.

  “Can you take a five-minute break?” she asked.

  Anna barely glanced at her. “Not really,” she said with a shake of her glossy dark bob. Inez thought about how it felt to grab hold of that shiny dark hair last night while Anna was going down on her. She could be such a cold fish in conversation, but god, was she hot in bed.

  Anna kept typing in the spreadsheet. “I’m in the middle of something, Inez.”

  Inez dropped the latest issue of New York magazine on her desk. “Yeah, you’re in the middle of this magazine. Right in the middle.”

  Anna glanced at the cover, then quickly flipped to the story: the photo of Brandt being led from her house in handcuffs; a picture of the IN GoST WE TRUST dollar bills with Anna’s face on them; Lulu and Brandt holding hands at the Dustin McBride opening-night party; and Lulu leaving a Brooklyn club with the man in the dark glasses and hat.

  Anna smiles. “They called me on Friday asking for a quote. I told them ‘no comment.’ ”

  “Why didn’t you let me know this was going to run?”

  Anna sighed, as if trying to maintain patience.

  “I didn’t know what they were printing. Or when. As I said, they just called me for commentary on Brandt’s arrest and his street art. I advised Brandt not to comment.” She skimmed the article. “And it looks like he listened.”

  Why hadn’t anyone contacted Inez for a quote? This was ridiculous. If she hadn’t done the dirty work, none of this would be happening. But once again, she was on the sidelines.

  “With all of this going on, I need to know where I stand,” she said.

  Anna took off the glasses she wore only for the computer. The gesture was startlingly sexy. But Inez pushed that out of her mind.

  “We already discussed that you’re not going to Asia. I need you here. That’s become exceedingly clear.”

  Inez shifted on her feet. A month ago that had been all she wanted to hear. But now she wanted more. She deserved more.

  “You never mentioned what Lulu had to say when she was here last week.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Anna said dryly.

  “I’m just curious if she’s coming around at all. I mean, it’s been a while since she walked out. I thought maybe the recent turn of events changed her mind about things.”

  “I think you know that’s not the case.”

  “So then it’s just you and me.”

  “So it is.”

  “I want to be partners.”

  “I’ve never had a partner and I have no intention of starting now.” Anna put her glasses back on and turned back to the computer. Inez moved to stand directly behind her, rubbing her shoulders.

  “You’re incredibly tense,” she said.

  “This conversation isn’t helping.”

  Anna rarely joked around, but that comment was close enough to give Inez some encouragement.

  “I think I give you more stress release than stress,” she said, slipping her hands to Anna’s blouse, undoing the first button and reaching inside to stroke her breast over the lace of her bra.

  “It’s business hours, Inez.” But her voice betrayed her arousal.

  Inez pulled back her hand, and walked slowly around to perch on the edge of Anna’s desk. Her skirt hiked up, showing off her long, tanned leg.

  “So let’s talk business. Partnership. Fine—you’ve never had one, but you’ve never needed one. Now you do. The art world is changing. I know it, you know it. That’s why you wanted Lulu. But she’s not stepping up. I am.”

  Anna regarded her with shrewd eyes. “Is that so?”

  “Yes.” Inez held eye contact.

  “You’re overreaching,” Anna said.

  “You always tell me every conversation is a negotiation.”

  Anna nodded. “I will never have a partner in the gallery itself. But we’ll go fifty-fifty on any art
ist you bring in, starting after Brandt’s show.”

  Inez’s heart was pounding. She knew she should quit while she was ahead, but she was so close to the prize.

  “A lot of women in my position would just find talent and open their own galleries. I’ve put five years in. I can’t keep on just building your gallery. I need to invest in myself. I’ve shown you loyalty. I’ve shown you my talent. I’ve shown you dedication. I want my name on the door.”

  “We can discuss this later.”

  “You always say that. No—the time is now.” She picked up the New York magazine and waved it at her. “Loyalty, Anna. We are at a crossroads.”

  Anna stood up, crossed her arms, and walked in a small circle. She looked at Inez, tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, and said, “The Sterling-Elliot Gallery.”

  Inez jumped off the desk and took Anna’s hands.

  “I’ll draft the press release.”

  “No. Wait a few weeks. We’ll announce on the eve of Brandt’s opening.”

  Inez knew when to stop pushing. “Sounds good.” She could barely contain her excitement. She had to make some calls—off the record, of course.

  Her hand was on the door when Anna called out,

  “Inez.”

  “Yes?” She turned around.

  “I would love, for just once in my life, to not be disappointed by a person in whom I’ve invested.”

  *** ***

  I stand on the street, reading the entire article, alternately thrilled to see Rory’s work in print—the Snow White painting with the poison Apple, crack Cinderella, the IN GoST WE TRUST money—and appalled to read the accompanying story. The critics quoted all hail him as a genius, the next Banksy or even Damien Hirst. When I see the photos of me with Brandt, and the picture of Rory and me leaving the Brooklyn party, my heart sinks. I feel responsible, as if my association with him has tainted something that had been pure and unassailable.

  I jam the magazine into my bag and run the one block back to my apartment.

  Rory is sitting exactly where I left him, staring into space.

  I swallow my impulse to jump right into the article, and sit next to him. I put my hand on his leg.