WREN
I climbout 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.