Maybe there’s nothing wrong with wanting a boy like Crew. Maybe I deserve to fall in love and go out on dates and kiss a boy for hours and let him touch me wherever he wants. What’s wrong with that?
Nothing. Nothing at all. Like Crew said, we’re just normal horny teenagers looking to get off.
I mean, that’s not something I would ever say, but he has a point.
Glancing around my room, I realize I’m not satisfied. I’m still restless. Even a little frustrated. I want to experience this feeling again.
I want it all.
With Crew.
FIFTEEN
WREN
I climb out of the car, wincing when the bitterly cold air hits my cheeks. It’s abnormally brisk, despite the bright sunshine overhead, and I probably didn’t dress right for the weather. I smooth my hands over the fitted leather skirt my mother bought me a few months ago that I immediately shoved into the back of my closet. I’ve never worn anything like this, so I don’t know what possessed her to think I’d wear it.
But I woke up this morning with a new resolve. I’m branching out. Doing new and different things. I don’t know exactly what those things are yet, but seeking independence is one of them. Hence the leather skirt, which really reveals nothing but still feels daring, along with the cream-colored cashmere turtleneck sweater, which emphasizes the size of my breasts. Normally I’d shy away from an outfit like this because I don’t want to draw attention to myself.
There’s nothing about this morning—or myself—that feels normal.
Like last night, when I skipped dinner completely and stayed locked away in my bedroom. I opened up my laptop and searched for porn sites, glancing around like I’d find someone watching me do something so forbidden before I watched a twenty-minute clip of a couple doing all sorts of things in a variety of sexual positions.
It was eye-opening. Undeniably arousing. When I watched the man go down on the woman, his lips and tongue and fingers everywhere, her hands in his hair clutching him close, I lost all control and masturbated again. Imagining someone was doing the same thing to me the entire time.
A certain someone with icy blue eyes and a shitty smile on his face as he watched me practically beg for him to do it. Just before he leaned down and dragged his tongue across my clit.
God, I’m a mess. Seriously. Why would I fantasize about him?
He’s the worst.
“Call or text me when you’re ready to be picked up, miss.” The driver hands me a business card with his phone number on it. “I’ll come right over when you’re ready.”
“Thank you.” I offer him a smile and take the card from him, watching as he shuts the door. “I appreciate it.”
I turn away and head for the gallery entrance, making my way inside. I’m greeted by a friendly gallery assistant, a woman who looks only a few years older than I am, her eyes flaring with interest the longer she studies me.
“Hello. Welcome. May I take your coat?”
“Good morning,” I tell her as I let her help me out of my camel-colored coat. “Thank you.”
She studies my face, her delicate brows drawing together. “Aren’t you Cecily Beaumont’s daughter?”
Of course, she’d recognize me. My mother is very well-known in certain art world circles, especially in Manhattan. “Yes, I am.”
“Oh, it’s such an honor to meet you,” she gushes. “I’m Kirstin.”
“Hi, Kirstin.” I shake her offered hand. “I’m Wren.”
“Will your mother be joining you this morning?” Kirstin asks hopefully.
“Unfortunately, no. She had other plans.” I didn’t even invite her. I haven’t seen her since I came home yesterday, though I know she’s been around.
The disappointment on Kirstin’s face is obvious. “That’s too bad. I’m so glad you’re here though. Are you a fan of Hannah’s?”
Hannah Walsh is the artist whose work is showing at the gallery. Her latest collection borrows heavily from Picasso, but she puts her own spin on it. Her work is fresh yet familiar, with a hint of a feminine edge to it.
“I am,” I say as I glance around the narrow gallery. There aren’t very many people here this morning, but I’m early, showing up just after the gallery opened. “I’m really hoping to find a piece to purchase.”
Kirstin smiles. “That’s fantastic. She’s already sold a few paintings, but there are still plenty to choose from.”
“I wish I could’ve been here for the opening, but I’m in school during the week, so it didn’t work out,” I admit.
“Oh, the opening was such a success. It helped that she brought her handsome fiancé, the professional football player. He was so proud of her.” Kirstin smiles. “They were so sweet to see together.”
“I’m sure,” I murmur, knowing all about Hannah’s backstory. What would that be like, to have such a successful, handsome man in your corner? Supporting you and your career? There’s a lot written about him, but not as much about her, and I find her so intriguing.
I think that’s why I’m also drawn to her work.
“Would you like me to walk you around the exhibit, or would you rather explore on your own?”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll walk around by myself for a bit. I’ll call you if I need you though,” I tell her with a faint smile.
“Okay, sounds perfect.” I’m about to walk away when she continues, “Can I just mention how much I admire your mother and what she’s done for the art world? She’s so generous, and has such a smart eye. You’re lucky to have learned so much from her.”
I hear this a lot, but rarely does anyone include me in the equation like she just did.
I stand a little taller, feeling proud.
“Thank you. I’ll let her know you said that,” I tell her before I walk away.
Kirstin’s words stick with me as I stop in front of the first painting, staring at it blindly. It doesn’t feel like I’ve learned anything from my mother. Well, I must’ve learned some, but mostly from observing her and what she did, not because she actually took the time to teach me anything about art and collecting. Everything I know I mostly self-taught, with my father interjecting here and there with his own opinions.
He collects, but she’s the true collector. He pays for it all, but she’s the one who chooses almost every single piece they own. They’ve been a complimentary pair throughout their marriage, though lately things seem a little—off between them whenever I’m around. Like they’ve lost interest in each other.
And me.
Shaking myself out of my thoughts, I wander through the gallery, stopping in front of each piece and contemplating it with a critical eye. They’re all striking. She paints with bold strokes and vivid colors. Bright imagery that leaves nothing to the imagination, the pieces are mostly of people. Women. Men. Pets. One cityscape, though it’s already sold, probably because it’s the lone painting in that style.
I envy the person who purchased it.
I keep coming back to one painting in particular. The background is a rich, deep green, and there’s a woman sitting on the floor, a cat lying just out of reach beside her. The woman’s arm is stretched out, abnormally short, and the cat is looking directly at me while the woman stares at the cat.
It’s almost unnerving, the image conveyed in the painting, and I walk away from it every time.
Only to find myself standing in front of it once more.
“I think you like this one the best,” says a deep, familiar male voice.
I go completely still, my breath stalling in my lungs as I slowly turn to find…
Crew Lancaster standing next to me, his gaze on the painting in front of us.
Why is he here? How did he know? Where did he come from? I didn’t even notice him enter the gallery. I guess I was too wrapped up in looking at each painting.
“What are you doing here?” I ask breathlessly.
“Heard there was an exhibit in Tribeca now until the end of the year. Thought I’d come check it out.” He slips his hands into his pockets, glancing over at me. “You’re here for the same reason?”
I sort of want to punch him. Or hug him. I feel like I conjured him up in a dream. Is this moment even real? “Yeah. Actually I am.”