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Authors: Michelle Scott
Tags: Fantasy
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continued on through the lobby. He walked with a slightly uneven gait, not quite limping, but shuffling, as if worried the floor would collapse under him at any moment.
It was probably a good thing that he didn’t remember me since I’d made such a fool of myself the night before. Still, as I watched him enter the gallery, I was disappointed. Not that I’d had any designs on him. Drop-dead gorgeous men were out of my league. It’s like they were put high up on a shelf with a sign that read: Look, but Don’t Touch.
Finally, it was time for the unveiling. Elena quickly uncovered the chafing dishes while Geoffrey introduced the artist. Members of the press snapped pictures. As the curator droned on, I searched the room for my midnight savior. He stood at the back of the crowd, his hands clasped in front of him. But it wasn’t the curator or the artist he was watching. He had his eyes on Victor.
I nudged Elena. “What do you think of that guy over there?”
She raised her eyebrows. “I think he’s a whole lot of heartache wrapped up in a gorgeous package.”
I dragged my eyes away from the man. “Heartache? Why would you say that?”
I never got my answer because Geoffrey finally grabbed the pull rope hanging from the shroud, and said, “Ladies and gentleman, I give you Luquin Astor’s latest installment: Stripped Bare.” With a dramatic flourish, he unveiled the art.
There was a collective gasp followed by a moment of stunned silence. Then one or two people hesitantly began clapping. When the rest of the guests finally joined in, my hands remained dangling at my sides.
The immense, brick wall was covered with a grid of evenly spaced, larger-than-life, black-and-white portraits of women. Some were head shots while others showed full-body nudes. But these were no pin-up girls. Each model had been battered in some way. Some had black eyes, others split lips. One woman, who looked to be my mother’s age, cradled an arm with a splinter of bone poking through the skin. Another had blood pouring from her ear. As if the pictures weren’t bad enough, Luquin had colorized the wounds so that every bruise, cut, and abrasion stood out starkly against the black-and-white photos. They were like evidence pictures in the trial of a brutal serial killer.
Yet, as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t tear my eyes from the terrible pictures. The vibrant colors were horribly attractive, and their poisonous energy called to me.
“Let’s get this show on the road,” Elena said briskly. She handed me a silver tray of slightly-wilted shrimp puffs. “You start on that end, and I’ll work over here.”
I numbly took the tray and began circulating through the crowd, willing my eyes away from the display on the wall. Although I kept my back to the pictures, I could feel the weight of them pressing down on me. When my shrimp puffs and I reached the farthest corner of the room, I took a deep breath, braced myself, and turned around. Immediately, Luquin’s horrible exhibit drew my unwilling eyes. This time when I saw it, I screamed.
The display was more than a grid of pictures. When viewed all at once from a distance, the portraits formed an immense, photo mosaic. I was looking at a twenty foot by twenty foot picture of an exposed neck punctured by two, violently red, wounds.
I screamed again. All the blood left my arms, and I dropped the tray. The shrimp puffs scattered across the polished, wooden floor. I broke into a cold sweat, and my gorge rose. Without a word to Elena, I sped from the gallery and into the bathroom.
Chapter Five
“What happened?” Elena, worried, stood next to me as I braced my hands on the bathroom sink and willed myself not to throw up.
“I drank too much at the cast party last night, and when I saw those god-awful paintings, I felt sick, and…” My throat clenched as a wave of nausea battered me once more.
Of
It was probably a good thing that he didn’t remember me since I’d made such a fool of myself the night before. Still, as I watched him enter the gallery, I was disappointed. Not that I’d had any designs on him. Drop-dead gorgeous men were out of my league. It’s like they were put high up on a shelf with a sign that read: Look, but Don’t Touch.
Finally, it was time for the unveiling. Elena quickly uncovered the chafing dishes while Geoffrey introduced the artist. Members of the press snapped pictures. As the curator droned on, I searched the room for my midnight savior. He stood at the back of the crowd, his hands clasped in front of him. But it wasn’t the curator or the artist he was watching. He had his eyes on Victor.
I nudged Elena. “What do you think of that guy over there?”
She raised her eyebrows. “I think he’s a whole lot of heartache wrapped up in a gorgeous package.”
I dragged my eyes away from the man. “Heartache? Why would you say that?”
I never got my answer because Geoffrey finally grabbed the pull rope hanging from the shroud, and said, “Ladies and gentleman, I give you Luquin Astor’s latest installment: Stripped Bare.” With a dramatic flourish, he unveiled the art.
There was a collective gasp followed by a moment of stunned silence. Then one or two people hesitantly began clapping. When the rest of the guests finally joined in, my hands remained dangling at my sides.
The immense, brick wall was covered with a grid of evenly spaced, larger-than-life, black-and-white portraits of women. Some were head shots while others showed full-body nudes. But these were no pin-up girls. Each model had been battered in some way. Some had black eyes, others split lips. One woman, who looked to be my mother’s age, cradled an arm with a splinter of bone poking through the skin. Another had blood pouring from her ear. As if the pictures weren’t bad enough, Luquin had colorized the wounds so that every bruise, cut, and abrasion stood out starkly against the black-and-white photos. They were like evidence pictures in the trial of a brutal serial killer.
Yet, as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t tear my eyes from the terrible pictures. The vibrant colors were horribly attractive, and their poisonous energy called to me.
“Let’s get this show on the road,” Elena said briskly. She handed me a silver tray of slightly-wilted shrimp puffs. “You start on that end, and I’ll work over here.”
I numbly took the tray and began circulating through the crowd, willing my eyes away from the display on the wall. Although I kept my back to the pictures, I could feel the weight of them pressing down on me. When my shrimp puffs and I reached the farthest corner of the room, I took a deep breath, braced myself, and turned around. Immediately, Luquin’s horrible exhibit drew my unwilling eyes. This time when I saw it, I screamed.
The display was more than a grid of pictures. When viewed all at once from a distance, the portraits formed an immense, photo mosaic. I was looking at a twenty foot by twenty foot picture of an exposed neck punctured by two, violently red, wounds.
I screamed again. All the blood left my arms, and I dropped the tray. The shrimp puffs scattered across the polished, wooden floor. I broke into a cold sweat, and my gorge rose. Without a word to Elena, I sped from the gallery and into the bathroom.
Chapter Five
“What happened?” Elena, worried, stood next to me as I braced my hands on the bathroom sink and willed myself not to throw up.
“I drank too much at the cast party last night, and when I saw those god-awful paintings, I felt sick, and…” My throat clenched as a wave of nausea battered me once more.
Of
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