I slammed the door, cursing nonstop, feeling the wild rage pour out of me in choppy waves, ready to drown me alive. My whole body shook, and I headed out into the streets, walking and trying to clear my mind.
It was over.
There'd be no show. Who gives a shit? I thought. I didn't need the Brush Institute. I'd enlist somewhere else, or find a mentor, or study by myself. It had been working before. I'd heard of these hard luck stories of artists getting discovered and making it big, of never quitting and finally achieving success.
But where? the inner voice taunted. Joe's Cafe, smelling of sweat and coffee? The corner of Millennium Park, painting passersby? The art department in some office building?
I'd find a way. I had Quinn and a strong mind, and I was capable. I just needed to sit down and think of my options, then make a new plan.
My phone shrieked. I grabbed it, assuming it was Quinn, and spoke into the receiver. "I'm on my way to the clinic to see you."
"James? Where are you? What are you talking about?"
I stopped mid-flight, squeezing my eyes shut. Well, wasn't this shit day getting worse. My mother's voice held a tinge of worry, but I knew already it wasn't for my welfare. Oh, no, she'd heard the gossip, and called personally to make sure her only son didn't humiliate the family name.
"Mom. Sorry, I thought you were someone else. What do you want?"
"You never returned my last two phone calls. Your father was angry, but I explained you were probably quite busy and planned to get back to us soon. Are you very busy?"
Her barbed intent hit home. Funny, I didn't remember many soft times between us, the way a mother and son were supposed to be. At least from what I saw in the movies or witnessed with other guys. She never fussed over me or babied me. The nannies raised me, gave little comfort, and I spent most of my time trying to catch my father's attention. My mother had already checked out, making sure I was bathed and dressed and polite at all functions. Making sure I fit the ideal image of what she wanted me to be, but she rarely delved deep enough to seek out who I was. I mourned, rebelled, and did all the normal things, but then I just detached. She made it kind of easy. She was never mean, or cruel, just distant. After a while, it seemed like I was fighting for...nothing.
"Yes, I'm busy."
"Serving coffee for our friends' children in Chicago?"
Displeasure rattled her voice. "I'm putting myself through art school. I told you last year, Mother, I intend to make it on my own. I'm not touching my trust fund. I left Key West, sold the yacht, my bike, and all my other stuff. Isn't that what you always wanted for me? To be independent and honorable?"
I made sure to sweeten my voice, forcing her to play her hand. "Honorable, yes. But not at this expense. James, we gave you that trust fund for your future. We expected you to use it to find a career and make a man out of yourself, not to make a mockery of your family. Do you realize the position you put us in? All of your father's friends called to find out why you're working at a coffee shop. He was humiliated and forced to make up a story. Why would you do this to us, James?"
I should've have been upset or disappointed. Not after the past. I knew better. But damned if every time I spoke with my mother or father I didn't pray something would change. I realized then, for the final time, nothing ever would. I could become a hot-shit artist, well known around the world, and still my parents wouldn't approve or be satisfied. Maybe if I'd gone into business, or done medicine or law. Maybe. But even then, they wouldn't have cared if I were happy.
I stood in the middle of the busy street, in the cold, with the phone pressed to my ear. A flood of raw emotion made my whole body shake, but there was nothing to do but stand up for myself.
No one else would.
I took a deep breath. Normally, I'd bitch and rage at my parents in a frustrated attempt to get them to listen. But today, I spoke calmly. "Mother, I'm sorry you don't approve. But I'm not taking that money, at least, not any longer. The work sucks, but it's honest, and it helps pay the rent. Just tell Dad's friends I'm experimenting with being a starving artist."
There was a long pause. I felt her thinking of how to fix the situation to make it palatable. Finally, she spoke. "Come home, James. We'll start over. Find you something you'll be happy with, maybe find a girl you can settle down with. It's not too late."
My heart twanged. Come home. How many times did I wish and pray for them to want me to come home? But this was for their own benefit, so they could control me. My throat tightened. "No, Mother, I can't. I'm already in love with someone. Her name is Quinn, and that's why I'm in Chicago. She's amazing."
"Another so-called artist?" my mother asked snobbily.
I let out a breath. "No, a social worker. She's way too good for us."
My mother's sharp gasp made me smile. "We can't let this happen, James. Please don't force us to interfere. If you must pursue art, at least use your money to set up a gallery or something respectable."
God, it would be so damn easy. Open up my own business, display my art, get investors. But my success wouldn't be valid, and I needed to finally do something on my own. Something important.
My voice hardened. "I'd advise you to keep doing what you've always done, Mother. Ignore me. Let me live my life on my own. We've been perfecting it for over twenty years now, right?"
"James Hunt! You will listen to me, or you'll be talking with your father."
"Thanks for checking on me. Goodbye." I clicked off as gently as possible, already knowing the shit had hit the fan. Dad would be next, but I'd screen. Eventually, the gossip would die down, and they'd get distracted with something else until I faded from their minds again.
I hurried my pace, desperate to see Quinn.
Chapter Thirteen
QUINN
I CHECKED MY PHONE, hoping to have heard from James, but no one had texted. I knew today he'd handed in his portrait for consideration in the show. I thought of that awful teacher giving him a hard time after all his work, and wanted to punch her in the face.
Very unlike me.
I was so tired. The additional classes at New Beginnings were great, but between the heavy workload for the Spring semester and my two jobs, I was exhausted all the time. Still, if I could only push till May, everything would fall into place. I'd graduate, get a full-time job, quit my volunteer position at the nursing home, and concentrate on building a life. With James. My master's degree could wait for a while, or maybe I could do it part-time and take it slow.
"Quinn?" Brian stepped out of his office. "Can I see you for a moment?"
My heart pounded. I hoped I hadn't done anything wrong. The trial classes were almost finished, and I'd bonded with the other students, hating that we seemed to be competing for one available position. Still, we were very alike, and I had a feeling we'd st
ay close no matter who was chosen for the job. I tried to act professional and cool as I walked into his office and took a seat in the chair.
Brian didn't sit behind the desk. Instead, he took a seat on the side, closer to me, hooking one ankle over his knee in a casual gesture that bespoke a confident, professional male.
"I've made a decision about the full-time position," he said.
I held my breath.
"I want to offer it to you."
I exhaled in a long whoosh, feeling a bit giddy and unstable even seated. A warm smile curved his lips at my obvious joy, though I tried to act cool and pretend I had always believed I'd get the job.
"Thank you, Brian. I know it was a hard decision, but I promise you won't regret your decision."
He nodded, scanning my face, his gaze probing mine. That weird jump in my stomach happened again, but I ignored it. "I know I won't, Quinn. Believe me, I've been watching everyone carefully through these classes. I was going to wait to make my decision in May, when the opening occurs, but I didn't want you to wonder or stress during finals. You've worked hard. You earned it. It's not going to be easy. Unfortunately, with most of these types of jobs, the hours are too long and the pay isn't great. Double shifts are common. I'll need you to cover odd weekends and nights, and your schedule won't be structured for a while. You'll be put through the paces, but I believe in you and what you can do for this clinic."
I blinked away the ridiculous sting of tears. It had finally happened. All my hard work had been worth it, and the only thing I wanted to do was run through the streets and tell James. I wanted to celebrate with him, to feel his mouth on mine. See his smile and hear him tell me he always knew I could do it.
"Thank you," I said again.
He grinned, got up from the seat, and handed me a thick folder. "This is all the paperwork regarding the job. It details pay, bonuses, benefits, and vacation policies. I'm going to ask you to keep it under wraps until I can personally speak with the others."