Richardson smiles widely, greeting her with a ‘pumpkin’ and a wide smile. The guy’s clueless - or at least he pretends to be. When I met his daughter, she was eighteen, and I had her in bed in a matter of hours. I’ve fucked her every day since then, multiple times per day even, yet he’s none the wiser.
“We were just upstairs looking at some numbers,” she gushes quickly, trying to pull her ass out of trouble. She accompanies her story with a sweet, nervous smile, and the boss man just smiles back.
How stupid can you be?
“Adam,” Richardson begins, beckoning me over.
I still haven’t gotten used to the fake name I’ve made up for my new life. I kept my last name, just changing the first one to differentiate myself from the Aiden Castillo - not that anyone cares about that guy anymore.
Blane and Emme are still on my mind, every hour of every day.
I see them in magazines, tabloids. Shots of Emme’s perfect long legs, my brother always next to her like a motherfucking dog. She’s a socialite now, and he’s taking care of the company.
I can’t believe society just accepted the fact that they’re together now. Fuck, he’s her stepbrother after all, but no one seems to give half a shit.
I try to get back to reality, even when I feel the red mist settling over my eyes. This time, I fight it back, though. I’ve gotten pretty good at doing that.
“What is it, Richardson?” I ask the boss man, my tone rough. You’d think I’d be nicer to the man that saved me from the streets, yet I despise him with all of my heart.
“I have an opening in a gallery next week, and you’re my first choice,” he says, beaming. “I want you to show the new stuff, you know - the canvases you showed me last week.”
I furrow my brow, unsure of what to make of this. I usually choose my own shows.
“What gallery?” I ask hesitantly.
“Gaze,” he says, and I immediately recognize the name as one of the most influential galleries of the moment. I know artists who are killing themselves trying to get in, and here’s my option offered on a silver plate.
I think it through for a moment, but I already know what my answer will be. I’m already imagining the money it will put in my pocket, and it will only get my closer to my goal.
And that has stayed the same as the years go by.
Destroy Blane. Claim Emme.
It’s my mantra.
“I’ll take it,” I nod.
Chapter 4
On the day of the exhibition, I’m nervous. And I’m never nervous, so that makes me even more anxious, itching to get the whole thing over with already.
Marissa delivers a perfectly tailored and ridiculously expensive suit to my apartment that morning, and I don’t let her leave until I’ve fucked her nice and good, too.
It relieves the tension at last a little bit, pounding into her, using her body. It always makes me feel better when I degrade her, so I call her names while I do it.
The bitch begs for more, sucking my cock like she’s a pro, while she was a virgin when I met her.
How things change.
“Adam,” she says softly. “I really have to go now - I have to get ready for the show now.”
She works as my assistant and I have her running errands all day, every day. But I’m not finished with her just yet, so I pull her back in the bed and fuck her another time, until she’s begging for a break.
“Leave,” I order her immediately after I’m done, and she does as she is told like a good girl. I watch her getting out of bed, and all I see are the differences between her and Emme.
They way her hips curve, her flat ass. It’s so different from Emme’s perfect body, her beautiful skin … Skin I want to carve into, a body I want to ravage until she screams for me to stop.
When the time comes …
She blows me a kiss as she leaves, the door shutting with a click behind her.
Let’s get this show on the road.
***
After a steaming shower and a shave, I’m a new man. I put on my suit and I even decide to shell out for a cab to the venue. I spray some cologne as I head out, my heart pumping blood through every cell in my body.
The exhibition today is special because I’m showing some new work.
I’ve been keeping it pretty inoffensive with my canvases, though I’m more true to myself now than during my street days. Richardson wanted me to show more of my real personality, though.
The poor fuck has no idea what would happen if I were to unleash my demons on the blank canvas. I can already imagine his horrified face, and it delights me.
Riding in the cab, I think of the canvases I’m going to display today.
They’re still tame - to me, at least.
It’s portraits mostly, but with a darker twist. I re-imagined the people I painted, faces I saw in the street, women I fucked, passersby I walked by. I imagined them pained by injustice, by family feuds, by every day trouble and sickness.
I painted them the way they would be had their problems taken on a physical form. A scratch for an argument, a slash for a lost job. A streak of blood here, a splatter of it there.
I had to hold back when I was painting, stopping myself from taking it to another level. Richardson loved my dark side, though he realized it might be too much for the audience. He claimed the gallery where I was opening would be an amazing audience.