Chapter 1
I stared at the
painting—the god-forsaken, horrifying painting.
It was the first
of an installation that I’d hoped would not only reap critical praise, but
would also sell like fucking crazy.
Or so my trusted
protégé/roving talent scout, Jill, had told me.
I stared at the
painting again.
I closed my eyes
and shook my head.
I was in hell…
Lance, my trusty
assistant and gay bestie, ambled up to me and cocked his head to the side.
“Zombie
turkeys,” he said, sotto voce.
“Interesting.”
Correction: I
was in Zombie turkey Hell.
I wondered if
there was an open bar in Zombie turkey Hell.
“Where is Jill?”
I asked. I was going to strangle her
with my bare hands.
Lance took a
slow side-step away from me. “You know I
hate it when you seethe like that.”
“I do not
seethe!” I looked at him and he’d
already taken another long side-step away from me.
“Jill’s in
Portland this week,” he said, “and yes, you are seething.”
I opened my
mouth to scream at him, but had to admit that yes, I was seething.
I wanted to yank
the zombie turkey off the wall, drag it outside, and torch it.
“You’re right,”
I said, turning back to the painting, folding my arms under my breasts—only the
flat-chested could cross their arms over their chests, and I had been blessed
with an ample bosom. “I’m sorry.”
Lance sighed,
cracked his long, elegant neck, and then stepped back toward me.
“Our Miss Jill
says this painter is the next hot thing… says they can’t keep his shit on the
walls in Denver.”
I rolled my eyes
and took another, closer look. The
detail was good, if not nauseating. The
image was strong and commanding.
Yeah, but the
subject matter was ridiculous!
Even if I could
sell this turkey, I’d be the joke of the Chicago art world, not to mention the
east coast.
No, this
couldn’t happen. I was going to have to
dump this…
Some workmen toted
in another painting, this one of a gaggle of zombie turkeys surrounding one
normal, non-zombie turkey.
This was
ridiculous.
“So,” I said,
looking over at a beguilingly off-centered couple standing by a still wrapped
eight by six feet painting leaning against the bank of front windows. “Which one is he?”
The couple
consisted of a slightly punky, devil-may-care faced lothario with a goatee,
distressed, practically painted on jeans, and some awesomely broad
shoulders.
The other was
about as interesting as dry toast: an almost handsome face that seemed
just out of focus... hair too neat… clothes right out of a J.C. Penny catalogue
and a rather impressive ability to blend right in with the potted plants.
Lance
groaned. “The pathetically plain
one? That’s Randy Crawford: the
artist. The hot little slice beside him
is his boyfriend, Darius.”
Of course, it
had to be the boring one.
“God is a mean,
hateful bitch if a sad sack like that can land himself such a gorgeous piece of
ass!" Lance shook his head bitterly.
The
aforementioned Darius tore the paper covering from the front of the third
painting.
I gasped as the
motley tableau before me assaulted my eyes: a grisly depiction of a flock of
the zombie turkeys ripping apart a human corpse. The man, or should I say what was left of the
man’s shredded and blood-splattered body, was holding a cornucopia in one hand,
and a meat cleaver in the other.
The irony was
not lost on me, and yet I could not imagine what kind of mental imbalance or
chemical reaction could have caused any sane person to paint this
travesty.
Was the boring
painter a closet meth freak?
At least that
would be something interesting I could tell people at the showing.
Oh god, there
was going to be a show, wasn’t there?
I asked, “Do you
think we could just tell people that the hot one is the artist?”
“Not a chance.”
Lance stage whispered. “He’s already
posted his mug all over Facebook and Pinterest.
There’s even going to be a banner by the front door.”
“Fuck.” I put my hand to my forehead and tried to
relax.
But…
But I was
starving!
How could I deal
with a zombie turkey apocalypse on an empty stomach?
But nothing
sounded good.
“Lance, I think
we should order…”
He waved me off
with his perfectly manicured hand.
“Way ahead of
you, boss-lady. I ordered you pasta
fagioli from Roma’s, with those little crustinis you like so much.”
I sighed as I
gazed lovingly at him. “Did you, maybe…”
He smiled
devilishly, his perfectly symmetrical face a portrait of beauty, his warm green
eyes sparkling.
“I ordered
myself an Italian hoagie… you know I can never eat the whole thing!”
He sucked in his
fabulously ripped six-pack and acted as if he needed to diet.
But if he
ordered the hoagie, and I ate half of it, it didn’t count.
Girl logic:
perfect and insane.
“Which reminds
me, I’ve got to get the contracts for the Caron show out by noon!” He made a
show of looking at his shell pink Rolex—a gift from a thankful and filthy rich
art buyer that Lance wined and dined… and then did things to that I’m too young
and pure of heart to know about.
The buyer,
Churchill Walker, had been old and crusty, though truly charming. I’m sure Lance earned every spinning gear and
crystal facing of that twenty thousand dollar plus wristwatch.
He eyed me. “So you’ll have to stay up front to tip
Franco when he delivers the food.”
“Why didn’t you
add the tip to the company card?” I whined.
I hated handling cash. And though
Roma’s delivery man, Franco, was super nice… he liked to talk far too much
about the stupidest of things. He also
looked a hell of a lot like every Italian uncle in every movie ever made:
potbelly, a mustache, and a hooked nose.
“That’s why god
created Visa and Master Card… not to mention American Express!”
He shot me a
stern look. “If we tip using the credit
card, he has to claim the whole thing on his taxes, whereas—”
“Whereas,” I cut
him off, “cash leaves no paper trail. I
get it.” I reached up and tucked a lock
of his flaxen hair back behind his ear.
Lance twirled
his Ralph Lauren jacket over his long, well muscled arms and kissed me on the
head.
“I’ll be back
before you can say cunnilingus.”
I smacked him on
the ass as he sashayed toward the front door.
“You’re really straight, I know it!”
He blew me a
kiss, and then acted as if he were about to faint when he strode past the geek
artist and his hottie boyfriend.
I saw two more
very large paintings being hauled into the gallery.
Jesus… this was
turning into a nightmare.
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