We keep going through these fights, like rounds in a boxing match, and they’re exhausting. I shrug. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say, I’ll talk the show up on Twitter. I’ll tag the right people and use my Forest Hill name to get you some press. Say, I’ll pose for a picture for you when The Star comes to cover opening night, because you’re going to make a phone call or two and get The Star to come to opening night.”
I open my mouth and close it.
She crosses her arms over her chest, like she’s not playing around.
Her dress slides up her legs, and the overhead lights glint off the delicate curve of her calf. Shiny, silky… I drag my attention away from her legs. “Yeah, I’ll make those calls. I’ll figure it out.”
“And you’ll make an appearance at the opening?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for anything.” I grab a pen and make a note, then show it to her. “It’s the only thing on my agenda next week.”
“Good.” She crosses her legs again.
I can’t stop looking at them. She catches the line of my attention. Busted. “You don’t usually wear nylons.”
She smiles at me like she has a secret. “Nylons?” She smirks. “I’m not wearing nylons, Luke.”
I want a man whose mouth drops open when I strip down and I’m wearing lingerie. My gaze drops from her beautiful, fierce face to the fitted pencil skirt.
She’s wearing stockings. A garter belt.
Fucking lingerie under a fucking fuck-me pencil skirt.
My wife is dressed for sex, has been dressed for sex this entire time she’s sat across from me and discussed using me for publicity.
The pen I’m holding snaps in half.
She stands up, the corners of her mouth lifting in a satisfied smile. So be it. If the only way I can please her right now is by letting her hurt me, so fucking be it. “Bye, Luke.”
The way my name drips off her tongue. Yes. I nod. “I’ll see you later, Grace.”
It’s not my right to claim this yet, and it may not be healthy, but she’s mine. I didn’t see that for too long, I didn’t value that the way I should have, but she is God damned mine.
And she’s dressed for sex.
I see that. I see her.
15
Grace
My fingers shake as I pull out my phone in the elevator. The look on Luke’s face as his attention zoomed in on my skirt—to what was under my skirt—felt like such a fucking victory.
That’s right, husband. Remember that I’m a sexual fucking being. Not just that, but I’m sexier and dirtier and a hundred times more clever than the—
I cut myself off.
She doesn’t get space in my head in this moment.
Neither does he. This moment, this victory, is all mine. I throw my head back in the empty space and laugh as rough, relieved adrenaline courses through my veins. Fuck yeah.
I could run a marathon right now. Win a boxing match.
I am woman, hear me roar.
When I drag in a breath and stretch my arms, my skirt slides up my thigh. I look down and catch the bottom hem, pull it up. I look at the exposed edge of stocking.
I look at my phone.
My heart beats a little faster. My fingers shake as I swipe into the camera app and point the lens at my leg. All I see is skin. It doesn’t capture how I feel, this hot, crazy recklessness.
It doesn’t capture how I felt as I dressed this morning, my wild sense of self.
I need to be in the shot. I tap on the button to flip the camera. My face flashes onto the screen, red and embarrassed. I stare at myself.
I’m an artist. I know how to do this. How to take broken bits and find something beautiful in them. Taking a deep breath, I raise my arm over my head, leaning back against the cool metal and the slice of mirror in the middle of the panel.
I spread my thighs. The elevator is almost in the garage now.
The timer starts counting down on the screen. Three, two…
My wrist shifts back and forth as I frame the shot. One leg. Bare skin, the top of a stocking. A rucked up skirt and then my jaw, jutting stubbornly into the shot. This is me, this picture says. This is me, and I like to wear stockings.
Victoria Secret models are posed just so, and now so am I.
When the camera clicks, I let the breath that I was holding out.
The photo is hot.
Hotter still once I crop it square and add a filter. I’m tempted to post it to Instagram. I’d get all the love there. You go girl and Damn, honey! But it would be followed by Your husband is damn lucky, and yes, he is, but he doesn’t know it. Doesn’t appreciate it. And I don’t need to hear that bullshit right now.
I just don’t.
I love my fans, but the illusion I’ve built is slowing killing me from the inside.
Instead, I save the photo. It’s just for me.
Or at least, that’s what I tell myself.
Twenty minutes later, when I park in front of the gallery, after looking at the photo for the third time, and realizing I’m still girlishly in love with it, I send it to Luke.
Fuck him.
I’m fucking hot and he lost sight of that.
Damien Noble, a metalworker and one of the other artists in the show, is already in the gallery space when I arrive.
He’s a beautiful, dangerous looking man who likes to flirt with women in tall boots, and that might be why I’m dressed the way I am today. He’s not actually my type, but I’m hoping he’s in a complimentary mood.
I want another hit of that feel-good adrenaline.
Damien does not disappoint. He whistles as I approach where he’s installing a massive birdcage at the back of the gallery.
There are three of us in this show. Damien works with metal exclusively. I like a bit of that, but I’m more into mixed media. Wax, stone, fabric, glass, plaster, wood. All of it, plus metal sometimes. And the third artist is a painter. Her canvases are already on the wall, ready for the show. Now Damien and I are filling the rest of the space with our installations.
“It’s looking great in here,” I say as I come to a stop in front of him.
He winks. “It sure is. You dressed up today, I like.”
There. Thank you. But that’s as far as my flirting can go. I smile. “I had to go and sweet talk my husband into helping with the promotion.”
“Ah.” He grins. “And?”
“He’s going to make some calls.” I gesture to the birdcage. “This is going to be the hottest piece in the show. You’ll have people fighting for it.”
“They don’t need to fight,” he drawls. “I have five more in progress at my shop.”
“Smart.” I sigh. “I should do that. I have fans who would love a duplicate. I worry about depreciating the value, though.”
“Hasn’t happened to me yet.” He leans in. “Only five in the world is still a pretty exclusive club, you know what I mean?”
“Mmm.” It’s something to think about for sure. It would be easier for me to recreate some of my existing pieces rather than start a whole new collection right now.
My brain is not up for being a full-fledged creator. But creative mechanic? I could swing that.