Beneath The Skin(94)

“I know.” Dmitri shakes his head, giving the nearby piece we’re standing in front of a doleful onceover—a painting of a mother nursing a baby dolphin wrapped in a blanket, its wet, slippery snout suckling the mother’s nipple. “Your stuff really is the only real shit in this room. I can’t believe the crap I’m looking at.”

The piece with the dolphin is called Homeschooled.

“What does that even mean?” asks Dmitri, wrinkling his nose in derision at the painting.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

Dmitri blinks. “For what?”

“Believing in me.”

He seems to find that funny because he just laughs, shaking his head and waving his hand to dismiss my words, but the truth rings in the stern look that takes his eyes. He may not have realized how much those words he just said mean to me, but hopefully he knows now.

Fuck, I wish Nell was here.

A half hour later, I’m in front of my photos again, alone, when a woman’s voice surprises me from behind. “Great work.”

I turn, finding a woman in a suit with her arms folded. “Thanks,” I tell her with a smile. After half a heartbeat, I realize I know her. “I’m sorry, your name was …?”

“Lori Turlington. We met a few months back. I, ah … unlatched the cuffs that freed you from the pedestal on which you were the exhibit. I believe that’s the proper way to say it,” she finishes with a wink.

I chuckle dryly. “Yes. I remember now. That was … an experience.”

“I thought you were just a model at the time. I didn’t know you’re an artist yourself. Brant, is it? These photos are very impressive.”

That annoying grin finds my face again. I can’t help but be proud of my work. “Thank you.”

“What I particularly enjoy about them,” she goes on, “is how you seem to capture … precisely what it is that you’re looking at. There’s no distraction. There’s no pretentious ulterior meaning or message, unless the viewer wants there to be. There’s no confusion. It’s just …” She searches for the word, then smiles when she finds it. “Clarity.”

“Mmm. Maybe I should’ve called it that,” I reckon.

“What is it called? I don’t see a plaque.”

“It’s just called: Caught.”

Her eyes flash at the word, and then she revisits the photos. “I see. That … That title lends an entirely different take. Yes. Caught. Each and every one of them, caught.” She smiles, bigger this time, and turns back to me with a new appreciation on her face. “You know, Brant, I’m always looking for new people to feature in my gallery. I would love to see more of your work.”

I swallow. I can’t believe I’m hearing this. “Uh, okay, uh … yeah! Yes. Yes, of course. I’ve got … I have got so much … so many photos, and—”

“And I know a lot of people,” she says. “Remember how I said I have contacts? I have them for the art world too, if modeling isn’t your aim. I’m the owner of that gallery as well as a few spaces downtown. I have connections with magazines, local and national. I think you and I need to work on getting this work seen.” She pulls a card out from nowhere, like a magic trick. “Please, call me and let’s see more of your … catching,” she murmurs, pressing the card to my palm.

I nod quickly as if I’m being injected with lightning at the neck. “Yes, yes. Great. Thank you so much.” I take her hand and shake it eagerly, then stop myself for fear of breaking it. “Thank you!”

She laughs—likely at my embarrassing enthusiasm—then gives me a single nod and excuses herself, strolling away.

I stare down at the card in a total stupor, the reality slow to cross my brain. Is this the start of something big? Possibilities are flying past my eyes. I feel a strange and fiery sense of vindication thundering through me, as if this is my little way of showing all those people who thought I was nothing more than a walking bag of orgasms that I’m so much more. Watch out, world. I laugh out loud, grinning at the card.

The chasm in my chest only lets me get so happy before I’m pulled back down to the soggy earth. She’s not here at my side, I remind myself for the twenty-second time tonight, and she should be.

It isn’t much later when suddenly the lights dim and everyone starts to gather near a stage at the front of the exhibit. A light round of polite, pompous applause flutters across the room like a buzzing of insects, and then a twenty-something woman takes the stage wearing a hat that features a lavender feather half the height of her torso.