Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80542 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80542 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
“Glenda! That’s awful.”
“That’s business. I sell on commission. Jesus, he looks great,” she drawled, as if this disappointed her.
I turned to look at the two women. One was older, with a pointy nose and big teeth, and the other closer to Andrew’s age, in a red, fringed cape. The older one texted furiously on her phone.
“I hardly recognized him, girl,” she said, fingers flying. “He looks…human. Apparently the old guy beside him is his ‘sober companion.’” She said the last part in a sneer.
“Omigod,” said the younger one, giggling. “I give it a couple of weeks.”
“I know, right? Two months ago he was mixing heroin and meth. Simon Baldwin hasn’t painted sober in ages. I don’t know what makes him think he can do it now.”
They looked at me then, and I thought, Simon is here, and Chere is here and fuck fuck fuck.
“Here’s your drink. Hey, man, here’s your vodka tonic.”
I turned at the bartender’s voice, took my drink, and shoved some money in the tip jar. I scanned the room.
“Oh my God, Mr. Eriksen.” Andrew came flying up to me.
“Price,” I said between my teeth.
“Price.” Andrew tugged on my arm. “Simon is here. I swear to God I didn’t invite him.”
“As long as he stays the fuck away from Chere.”
Andrew turned me around and pointed to the two of them in the middle of a crowd across the room. I could see Simon’s face, but not Chere’s. He was as dark and ugly as I remembered. His features made me think of a weasel. Why was she talking to him?
“Craig says I should leave them alone,” Andrew said. “He says it’s a big deal that Simon Baldwin showed up here, but after all the shit he did to Chere…” He wrung his hands. “I think I’m going to go over and kick him out.”
It was a brave sentiment, but a fledgling painter couldn’t confront a living legend in front of this art crowd, and order him to go.
“Don’t make a scene at your own party,” I said. “I’ll take care of it.”
I wasn’t sure what I meant to “take care of.” From Simon’s expression, he and Chere were having a normal, cordial conversation. An older man flanked him. His sober companion? Rich, privileged fucks could have something so coddling as a “sober companion,” a hired friend to follow them around and encourage them to make good choices. I should have been happy to see Simon cleaned up and sober, but all I felt was rage.
I didn’t want him near her. I didn’t want him looking at her or breathing the same air. Asshole. You hurt her. When he smiled at her, it was a shitty, insincere smile. I didn’t care if he was sober now. I’d never forgive him for what he did to Chere, and I wouldn’t let her forgive him either. I pushed a group of idiot gawkers out of my way so I could take her arm.
She looked over, and I saw relief in her face. That glimmer of relief calmed some of my riotous anger. She wasn’t any happier to see him than I was.
“Who’s this?” asked Simon as I glared at him.
“P.T. Eriksen,” I replied, shoving out my hand. “I wish I could say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but you’re an asshole. When you were with my friend here, you treated her like shit.”
His hand went limp halfway through our shake. His sober companion seemed flummoxed by this blunt confrontation. I could feel Chere staring at me but I kept my gaze on Simon’s face.
After a moment, he shrugged. “Chere and I went through some dark times together.”
“You went through them together?” I repeated, restraining myself from slugging him. “I think you went through the dark times, and dragged her down with you.”
“He’s doing better,” Chere interjected, her voice high with anxiety. “He went to rehab.”
Simon spread his arms with a sigh. “I have a lot to atone for. I was just telling Chere how sorry I was for all the shit I put her through.”
He looked sorry as a fucking punk. I glanced at Chere. Was she falling for this bullshit, for his angelic, fake expression?
“So, the Tribeca Train Wreck is sober,” I said, turning back to him. “How has it affected your art?”
Simon looked at Chere, like, who is this guy? “I’m pretty new out of rehab,” he said to me. “So I don’t know yet, but I imagine everything will be fine.”
“If not, you could always get back into the narcotics. Want a vodka tonic?” I asked, holding out my drink.
“Price,” Chere said quietly. She shook her head at me. “Don’t.”
Don’t wasn’t going to work for me right now. Everything about him was pushing my buttons. I’d seen Simon in person once, at a gallery show three years ago, but I’d never had the displeasure of standing this close to him. Now that we were face to face, with Chere beside me, I felt dangerously close to losing my shit.