I force a smile. “I hope so, but I’ll settle for not totally hating it.”
“It’s going to blow their minds, and I’m still bummed you won’t let me be there to see it.”
Her family is extremely uptight, and the fact that the Grand used to be a strip club means that it’s off-limits. Technically almost anyplace off campus is off-limits, but she sneaks out often enough. She’s determined to rebel, but I have to admit, it isn’t a safe part of town. The only way my own sister lets me go is with her and Kip as my escort.
“You’ve already seen it.” The statue is an angel reaching up, both sensual and pure, a representation of how I see the girls who stripped at the club. It may be a burlesque club now, may be respectable, but there was something beautiful and raw about what it had been. Survival and sex.
“Not installed.”
“Use your imagination,” I say, teasing. Her medium is paint, and her work is incredibly imaginative. She has a soft dreamy style, kind of like Alice in Wonderland with an Instagram filter.
She sticks out her tongue. “Well, you better call me after and tell me all about it. I bet you get a million new commissions.”
I look down at the blank sheet of paper. She’s not totally wrong about the commissions. The guest list to the opening gala is highbrow because the club owner, Ivan, has more money than God. And I learned a long time ago that money erases every sin. The hint of impropriety will just make the art that much more desirable.
But I’m not sure that I can fulfill those commissions. I’m not sure I want to. It’s every artist’s dream, but the lingering imprint on the blank paper, leftover pressure from charcoal, a mindless drawing, proves that I’m really dreaming about something else entirely.
*
“Here comes your trophy boyfriend,” Amy mutters.
I glance back to see a bunch of frat guys approaching, Shane at the head of the pack. The way they’re weaving down the street, it’s clear they’re wasted. I feel myself tensing, because Shane can get a little intense when he hangs out with the boys after football practice. Which is most of the time, these days.
“Don’t call him that,” I say absently, hoping she can’t see my worry.
“Why not? That’s the only reason you’re with him. Don’t tell me it’s his charming personality.”
Shane knows how to be charming. He pursued me with the full weight of that charm. There are boys at the art school, but they’re usually more interested in having me pose for them than actually dating. Shane made me feel desirable, coveted—at least until he started to change.
I don’t answer her and instead paste on a smile for the guys. We’re on the edge of campus, and the streets are still busy with students walking home after late-night study sessions or heading to a club. Light rain mists the air, leaving a sheen on everyone’s skin.
Shane grins at me as he gets close, all swagger and sweaty male. A certain appreciation sweeps through me, but it feels detached, the way I’d view a beautiful piece of art.
“Hey, babe,” he says with a sloppy kiss.
I hide my wince. Definitely drunk. “How was practice?”
“Killer. Coach made us lap the stadium ten fucking times.” He grabs me around the waist, and I stumble against the pull of him. “But I’m feeling no pain now.”
A grin tugs at my lips. “I bet you’re not.”
“We’re heading over to Club X. Come with us.”
Two blocks down is the clubbing district. Party Row, it’s called. The clubs open up in warehouses with cheap couches and heavy beats, only to get shut down a few months later, usually related to drugs or sex work. Club X is the latest hot spot, which means Shane wants to go all the time.
I look down at my clothes, a tank top and jeans. Sandals. No makeup. “I’m not really dressed for it.”
He pulls me close, his hands wrapping around my ass. I squirm because his friends are totally watching. “Shane,” I whisper.
His lips are close to mine. “Go back to your place and get dressed. I’ll watch.”
Unease twists my stomach, along with guilt I don’t want to examine too closely. “Amy will come with me. You go ahead with the guys.”
Shane might be a jock, but he’s not stupid. He knows a rejection when he hears one. His lips firm. He tightens his hands on my hips, and for a tense moment, I think he’s going to do something crazy, something violent, right here in front of everyone. His impatience has been getting stronger, his temper more extreme. Always in the privacy of a dark corner or his apartment on the rare occasion I visit him.
Always followed by an apology and a promise never to do it again.
“Hurry,” he says finally, his voice sharp. “You don’t want to miss all the fun.”