Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 109038 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109038 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Logan reaches his arms up above his head, stretching. He strides around the studio, looking at my art more closely now.
“What are these?” he asks, pointing at some black-and-white photos in a stack.
“Oh. Those are for a little event I entered into. It was just one of those little photography competitions where you can win a spot in a gallery show. They wanted pictures of ‘Old New York,’ so I went around with my medium format camera and shot the oldest buildings I know. Not just the famous places, but also older convenience stores and stuff.”
Logan starts to card through the photos, his eyes closely focused on them. “These are amazing,” he murmurs. “They’re like living history. It’s not like the stock pictures of the city you always see. How old was this guy?”
I look over and see the picture of an elderly man working in a tiny flower shop. “I didn’t ask, but he said he’d owned that shop for 75 years, so he has to be well into his 90s.”
“Incredible. I’m sure you’ll win a spot in the competition.”
I nod. “Oh, I already got in.”
He glances up at me, his eyes shining in the last remnants of the sunlight. “Wait. Seriously?”
I wave my hand through the air. “It’s really not a big deal. Trust me.”
“How many times have you had your work shown in an art gallery?”
I run a hand through my hair. “Well, this will be the first time I’m in a real gallery, and not just a friend’s house party or something. But I’m telling you, it’s just a small independent place.”
“When is the gallery showing?”
“Tomorrow night. That’s why I have these shots out on the table, I really need to put mats behind them and get them into their frames, like, the minute you head out tonight.”
He nods, looking back down. “What’s the gallery called?”
“Fractal Gallery. It’s on the Lower East Side.”
Logan still looks far more impressed than he needs to be by this information. I didn’t expect him to even notice my black-and-white city shots while we’re in my studio that’s overflowing with all of my usual loud, colorful paintings, but it makes sense that he’s the most drawn to the art that’s less… confrontational.
“I’ll stop by,” Logan says.
I blink at him.
I set down my camera on the table, eyeing him.
“You sure you’re not afraid you’ll get spotted there?” I ask.
“I will be spotted there. But famous people go to art shows sometimes. I don’t see any reason why I couldn’t be seen.”
I feel like I’m trying to shove a fireworks show into a box inside my chest right now.
“Cool,” I say, giving him a nod. “I’ll tell them to add your name to the list.”
And I keep acting like I’m not absolutely fucking screaming inside, because Logan just told me he’s going to go to a public goddamn event just to see my work on display.
CHAPTER 21
LOGAN
I’m not even out of the car before I see the first camera flash outside Fractal Gallery.
“They tailed us here,” I tell the driver, glancing back to see two paparazzi cars driving quickly behind us, popping on their hazard lights, and darting out of their cars with cameras in hand.
“Running up the fucking sidewalk like rats,” the driver says in his thick Eastern European accent.
“It’s fine,” I tell him. “I can’t avoid it sometimes.”
Fractal Gallery is on a busy street down in the Lower East Side, framed by tall trees and surrounded by bars, clubs, and restaurants. The moment the first camera flashes, groups of people stop and turn their heads, wondering which celebrity they’re about to see.
Guilt pools in my stomach.
I didn’t want to make this about me.
I’m here to see Chase shine in his first gallery showing, and I want to get into the building before too much pandemonium happens outside.
“I’m just going to go for it,” I tell my driver. “I’ll see you later this evening.”
“Good luck. You need my help cracking skulls, you have my number,” he tells me.
I step out onto the street and the camera flashes multiply. Faces in the crowd of the sidewalk all turn on a swivel, looking over to see the source of the commotion.
“Big D!” I hear someone say.
“Damien! Over here!”
It’s common for people to actually just call me Damien, knowing me from the show, and I’m never sure if it’s because they don’t know my real name or if they just don’t care.
I smile and wave to the cameras, and as a couple of people bring out their own phone cameras to take selfies without asking, I quickly turn my head to smile for them, too.
“What brings you out here tonight, Mr. Stone?” one of the paparazzi shouts.
“Art showing.”
“What do you think about those new Caitlyn Grener pictures, Logan?” another one shouts, and that one I pretend I don’t hear.