Caught Between Two Billionaires - Skye Warren Page 0,11

likes the painting but because money is the only way he knows how to show his support of my weird interests. Even knowing that, I can’t help but obsess over this piece.

The other pieces show Medusa in various stages of her life; with her three Gorgon sisters, beautiful and pristine, being held down by Poseidon, being cursed by Athena for the “crime” of being raped in her temple, her hair turned to snakes, her face turning every man to stone. You would think that’s enough tragedy for the Greeks, but then they had to behead her.

The other pieces tell the story of her life and death, but the centerpiece of the show is a simple portrait like the one that appeared on the wall of the gymnasium, sprung from my rage and fear and helplessness, the look in her eyes mirrored in every girl who walked the hallways with me.

I had only a few hours between when the custodians went home and when school staff arrived in the morning, which meant I had to work fast—and that was good; the time limit gave me the intensity I needed to complete the piece. The painting in front of me is good. Maybe even my best work, but there’s something missing. A sense of necessity. That I would have painted the wall of that gymnasium or died trying.

Maybe it’s impossible for something created to exhibit to match that intensity.

Or maybe I’ve just failed at art in a spectacularly public fashion.

My phone vibrates with a text from across the room. It’s probably Avery, my best friend from Smith College, who’s staying at a hotel in Times Square. If she offers to get drunk with me, that’s how I’ll be spending tonight, I already know.

It’s Christopher.

Two words and suddenly I can’t breathe. Is he texting me to wish me good luck the night before my big show? Does he even remember that it’s tomorrow? Or is this some random Christopher in a city that must have thousands of them, who somehow got my number and is now going to send me an unsolicited dick pic?

My hands are shaking, which I prefer to attribute to nerves about the upcoming show than about the fact that Christopher is texting me for the first time. Heyyyy, stranger.

There’s a full two minutes, during which my heart beats approximately twelve thousand times and I think of ten terrifying ways he might have been injured after texting me.

I’m at the airport about to get in a cab. Do you have plans for dinner or are you going to an uber hip artist spot where they drink kombucha and complain about capitalism?

A smile spreads over my face before I can stop it. He’s here in New York City. For me. And he’s possibly inviting me to dinner? The suite suddenly becomes a fun-house mirror, everything in all different shapes, leaving me dizzy and out of breath.

Actually I’m in my hotel room, thinking about slashing this painting, but they only sent up a butter knife with room service. After a moment I send another text, You can come hang out if you want. There’s no kombucha but we can raid the minibar.

No vandalism until I get there.

I might have a sensitive artist’s soul, but I’m still a girl.

A girl with an unfortunate, painful, and totally inappropriate crush.

Which means I spring up and raid my closet for something other than a paint-splattered tank top and ripped shorts. I pull a brush through my hair, which is about all I can do before falling back on my bed, wondering why I want to impress someone I barely know. It’s not like I’ve never been on a date before. I’ve been on lots of dates, with frat boys who think I’m going to fawn over them for knowing how to kick a ball or making a reference to Kant. Whatever.

I don’t think Christopher has ever tried to impress me. I also don’t think he wants to get me into bed. At least, he had me naked once and didn’t try anything. So where does that leave us? I’m not fifteen anymore, if that had ever been what kept him away from me. I’m eighteen now, and ironically more fully aware of my cluelessness as a sexual being than I was back then.

It’s another hour until he knocks on the door.

And I definitely don’t run to the door or stand in front of it for two whole minutes, trying to catch my breath and pretend like