We finished lunch, rescheduled our weekly sparring match for Wednesday, and I finished the heinous director’s cut of a movie that was guaranteed to be a hit.
I thought about what Lucas said in regard to showing interest in things women were passionate about. The trouble was, outside of knowing that Caitlyn was strong, independent, and unafraid of someone with a great deal more money than she, I didn’t know anything about her. I knew I wanted to have sex with her, badly. My cock twitched at the thought of her under me, her beautiful body writhing beneath mine as she begged for more of me inside her. Hopefully, the trip to the art gallery would prove enlightening and help me discover more about the feisty waitress.
When I arrived at the gallery, I found it to be a small, neat building with many eclectic works of art. The manager was irritated but polite when I showed up at nearly ten. Traffic was horrible, so I was a half hour past my appointment, one which he was reluctant to grant in the first place. He guided me to an empty room where Caitlyn’s art had been propped up against the wall.
“I’m sorry these aren’t properly mounted, Mr. Preston, Ms. Ashcroft’s exhibit was a week ago. We were just preparing them to be picked up. In order to exhibit them here tonight, we had to unwrap them again,” he said with a note of bitter resentment.
“It’s my pleasure to pay you for your time,” I offered as I put five hundred dollars in his hand.
He seemed a bit happier once he had my money, although he moved to protest. “It’s not necessary to pay me. I’m only suggesting that with the perfect lighting and wall placement, these pieces are much more powerful.” He was backtracking, but not handing the cash back.
“Consider it a donation,” I dismissed as I made my way over to the first painting.
Her art immediately had me interested. She had raw talent, that was evident. It lacked refinement, but the lack of refinement was perfect for the subject matter she chose to paint. She had about ten paintings, all of which showed her gracious heart and reflected her view of a complicated world.
The first piece that caught my attention was a canvas of a small girl standing in a dark alley slick with rain. The darkened skies obliterated a moon that was desperately trying to illuminate its way out of the blackness and shine on the decrepit city below. The girl had no shoes, her dress was in tatters, and her hair knotted. She was a tiny child, dwarfed by the menacing buildings enveloping her. The world around the child looked massive, as if it was swallowing her whole.
I felt the intensity of that painting and knew exactly the emotion she was trying to capture. Those feelings of helplessness and dread that loomed over children, incarcerating them in their own cycle of fear and distrust.
Tears burned the backs of my eyes at seeing such raw emotions captured so well. She had known something dark in her childhood. This painting was not a pitiful cry that begged for mercy. Rather, the piece was an act of defiance. Putting such innocence in peril said, “this small child can survive.” Even in tatters, the tiny girl had her hands defiantly mounted on her hips as she looked up to the sky as if to fight the very night for her own survival. She looked much like Caitlyn the night I met her in the restaurant.
I moved on to the next painting which, oddly, seemed happier, even though it depicted a funeral scene. She used brighter colors, making the work more vibrant. In the foreground was an old woman who seemed ancient. Her face was streaked with deep wrinkles, and yet the woman’s eyes were hauntingly gorgeous. She seemed like quite a defiant character as she sneered at a picture hung on the wall above her head.
The sneer wasn’t a look of hatred or loathing, it was more playful, as if she was holding a secret everyone wished they knew. The object of the woman’s scrutiny was a wedding photograph of newlyweds holding hands. Presumably, it was a picture of herself and her spouse when they were first married. While the subject of the painting had a playfully snarling expression, it was also loving and thoughtful. In this woman’s look, Caitlyn showed a lot of empathy. It was difficult for artists to capture a complex expression like the one the woman wore, and yet, she did.
In the background was a throng of people inside a small church. Deeper into the painting, almost a speck in size, was a casket. And with this slice of life, the entire story was told. An old woman, most likely the surviving partner, looked on with love and a playful disdain as she gazed upon the wedding photo of her deceased spouse.
Other paintings caught my attention. A boat alone on a calm body of water. I felt drawn to that tiny boat that appeared as if it had escaped something and was finally free. There was another of a flock of birds washing in dirty ditch water. I was fascinated by her work, which was thoughtful and haunting.
Juxtaposed with these emotional works were cartoons and caricatures of everyday people that made you want to laugh at the depiction of their realness. After perusing the paintings for more than an hour, I asked the gallery owner — who I was sure was very ready for me to leave — if I could buy all of them.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Preston. As I said to your assistant on the phone this morning, these paintings are not for sale at the present time. If you wish to commission Ms. Ashcroft to do a painting for you, I’m sure she will consider it, but at the moment, these works are her own personal property.” He seemed tired and exasperated.
“Why?” I too was growing irate.
He yawned. “Because I must get permission from Ms. Ashcroft to sell them. I can call her in the morning.”
“If that’s the best you will do, then I’ll have to agree to it. Let me know when you can have them ready for me.”
While it was thrilling, the idea of owning these little treasures, I was impatient to leave the gallery and be away from its annoying owner.
“As I said, I will call,” he reiterated as he ushered me toward the door. “Thanks for your interest, Mr. Preston. Have a good night and a safe drive back to New York.”
I think I grunted as I left. I didn’t intentionally mean to be impolite, although I was disgruntled. I was simply too inspired to say more. Caitlyn now had dimension, color, and depth. She was no longer just a snarky little waitress I wanted to fuck, she was a mystery I needed to solve.
CHAPTER FIVE
Caitlyn
I wasn’t sure what time it was when I woke, but I knew my alarm hadn’t sounded yet. I had to teach the kids at the arts center starting at seven. Strangely, I woke up feeling giddy and I wasn’t sure why. Then the events of Sunday night came rushing back in quick succession, and I pinpointed the source of the weird butterfly feelings in my stomach.
Ugh… him.