Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 94630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Art had been his solace in Barfield projects from the shit storm at home. Running the streets at night, too young to be hanging with the older guys teaching him about graffiti. Dodging cops at nine years old. Darting through dangerous streets, spraying buildings and bridges. Coaxing beauty out of grime. Even when he’d learned about the use of light, used fine paints and expensive canvases, perfected a gift he wouldn’t have even known to ask for, there was nothing like those early days, when he’d stumbled onto his talent like a gold coin in a pile of shit.
He’d lived in the projects until he was twelve years old but just years later found himself vacationing in Vail with the Bennetts and Walshes, two of the country’s most prominent families. He was a little bit of everything people assumed he was, and everything they would never suspect.
Cam could practically hear Shelby’s lips smacking she was kissing his ass so hard. Blowing all kinds of smoke about him being the second coming for the art world. He nodded, keeping his mouth straight while he waited for the real questions to start. He knew she had them, and even though his agent had assured him she wouldn’t ask him about—
“About Walsh Bennett.” Her smile was a bear trap, spread open and waiting for him to stumble in. “This is truly one of the most fascinating aspects of your story. Walsh made our list two years ago. You and he were close at one time, correct?”
Cam stared back at her, his silence daring her to continue. To violate his express wishes not to discuss this topic.
“But he’s married now to your ex-wife, Kerris. How does that work?”
Cam leaned forward, using the breadth of his shoulders and the warning of his eyes to eat up a few inches of her personal space. Not enough to frighten her, but just enough for her to wonder if it was her imagination or if he might actually be dangerous.
“I don’t talk about that.”
“Well, who can blame you? I mean, your best friend and wife cheated—”
“They didn’t actually cheat, and I don’t talk about that.”
“Well, of course our viewers want to know, to understand how you get past something like that.”
“Your viewers can go fuck themselves.”
* * *
“Let me get this straight,” Walsh said from the other end of the line, sounding remarkably close for someone in Hong Kong. “You told the viewers to—”
“Fuck themselves, yeah.” Cam glanced around the clean, cold lines of the SoHo gallery his agent, Sebastian, had asked him to check out. “I guess that was bad, huh?”
“Well, not sure that’s the mileage Bash was hoping you’d get out of this list.”
“How’d you sit across from that woman without vomiting? She’s a Venus flytrap.”
Walsh’s chuckle rumbled across the time zones.
“Shelby’s not that bad.”
“Maybe not to you, but your ex-wife isn’t married to your best friend.”
The words plopped into the silence now pooling over the phone.
Even with them both trying to get past all the drama of the last few years, some awkwardness—a lot of awkwardness—was impossible to avoid.
“Yeah, well”—Walsh drew and expelled a heavy breath—“I’m sorry you had to deal with that. That you have to deal with it. I know people are curious.”
“People are curious about zoo animals.” Cam leaned against the wall, pressing his shoulder blades back and crossing one booted ankle over the other. “They’re fascinated by freak shows, and apparently that’s what we are.”
“I know it’s tough.”
It had been tough. It had driven Cam to Paris, but the Sorbonne wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Not when everyone he cared about was in the States. And he did care about Walsh. About Kerris. About…
“How’s Jo?” Cam kept the phone between his ear and shoulder, sliding his hands into the front pockets of his battered jeans. Even with Walsh on another continent, Cam wanted to look casual when he asked this question.
“She’s fine.” Walsh paused before continuing. “You guys haven’t talked?”
“Not much. Not since Christmas.”
“Yeah, Christmas. Was it me or was there something…I don’t know…going on between you two when you were at our house for the holidays?”
Dangerous territory, this. Part of being street smart was knowing when to play dumb.
“I don’t know what you mean.” Cam added just a dash of what-the-hell-are-you-talking-about for good measure. “Something going on?”
“Well, I guess…You kept looking at Jo’s ass.”
Cam didn’t catch the dark laugh before it crawled up his throat and spilled into the gallery, echoing off the nearly barren walls. The gallery owner emerged from his office, crossing the bland space to hover, impatience settling onto the man’s narrow face the longer Cam remained on the phone.
“Walsh, hold that thought.” Cam pressed the phone to his chest so he could get this good and settled. This gallery felt like the graveyard where good paintings went to die. Eh, no.