Old Ink (Get Ink'd #3) - Ali Lyda Page 0,85
asshole,” I grumbled.
“So you keep telling me.”
Not having much choice, I got out and went into the art gallery with Dane. My palms were slick and it had nothing to do with the heat index. Inside the gallery, it was cool. The floors were dark wood in a herringbone pattern, the walls a crisp white. It was small but the space was filled with people milling around. There was catering but one look showed it wasn’t the fancy crudités like Ian’s house, but sub sandwiches from a local shop.
I scanned the crowd, my blood pulsing in my ears, but couldn’t see Reagan.
Dane clapped me on the back and gestured to the walls. “Look around.”
So I did. There were eight pieces hung on display around the room. The largest one was the close-up of my eyes from Ian’s event. I ached as I looked at it, wishing we could go back to that day at Reagan’s condo, when he’d first shown me the painting.
Next to it were two sketches. It took me only a second to see that one was a close-up of my nipple, down to the small mole an inch to the left of it. The other sketch was a study of my smirk. I knew it was mine without needing to see the title or artist’s comment next to it. They were both beautiful, the pencil lines hard and bold. Jagged scratches that seemed to carve out the shapes of my body with intention and detail rather than anger.
My breath hitched. There were other paintings still, smaller but no less rich. My hair in the sunlight. The curve of my hip. It was surreal to be standing in a gallery, surrounded by strangers, looking at the intimate details of my body rendered on canvas. There was a hum of conversation from a small corner, blocked off by a dividing wall.
Steeling myself, I stepped around so I could see inside. The painting was mammoth. It was rough, the thick slices of paint visible and creating texture. But from the distance I was at, I could see the entirety of the image; me, my head tipped back in joy, laughing. And it was extremely masculine, my cheekbones and jaw portrayed as hard cuts and the eyes were old and wise. That was a man laughing.
The whole painting exuded joy, and I remembered laughing like that with Reagan. The way I could let everything go near him and just be...free. Myself. He’d captured my natural state, the place I felt the most me.
I felt Reagan move close—I didn’t know how I knew it was him, but I turned and I was right. His blue eyes were guarded, cautious, but he was looking at me expectantly. “Do you like it?”
My throat burned and threatened to squeeze shut, but I managed to choke out, “Of course I do. You work is incredible. I just—when did you do all of these?”
Pink tinged his cheeks. “A lot of late nights the last few weeks. All-nighters that, frankly, I’m too old for. But I couldn’t stop myself. Once you inspired me, it's been a bit of a fever dream. I think I was afraid of fucking things up and so I tried to capture as much of you as I could. But then, this last piece—” he nodded to the one of me laughing “—it changed something in me. This is how I see you, you know. Your beauty and your masculinity and maturity. It’s you when you’re being the authentic you. The only you I want.”
I worried my lip to keep from blurting out something stupid. Tears threatened to spill from my eyes. “Authentic me isn’t going to want the glitz and glamour you’re chasing.”
Reagan’s flush deepened, and he looked at his feet. “Authentic me doesn’t want that shit, either. I...let myself get swept up in Ian’s dream all over again. It’s goddamned mortifying, and I’m so sorry for it. I’m obviously not as strong as you. It takes me longer to figure out what I want, and it’s damned difficult to allow myself to go for it.”
I nodded. “That’s the papa bear in you. It’s easier, I think, to take care of others if you’re scared of what you want.”
He nodded. “But I’m not scared of it now. I want you, Channing, if you’ll have a silly old man who might need a mature young man to keep him in check.”
I swallowed hard, my chin trembling. “I don’t want to be your boss, Reagan.