CHAPTER TWO

Grey

My mom’s art gallery was a passion project and not always as bad as my whining would suggest. The converted warehouse’s open floor plan wasn’t stuffy or pretentious. Actually, it was the perfect blend of understated opulence. Unless you were there when it was being poured, you wouldn’t know that the custom polished concrete cost more than marble. Maykin Miles Salinger was a talented artist and an even better curator. She knew talent when she saw it and she preferred her gallery to house the undiscovered over the uninspired.

My temporary punishment/job was basically grunt labor. I had to move art around into different spaces and streams of light until my mother was satisfied with its placement. Not a huge deal right? Wrong. My mother changed her mind like prostitutes changed wigs. Plus, she’d made me dress like a stuffy art dealer for added penance.

I’d moved the same abstract brush fire four times, my mom humming to herself with each placement. If she didn’t pick a spot soon, the next place I intended to hang the massive canvas would be the dumpster out back. At least then I’d get some cool air on my face.

“Mom. It’s hot as hell in here. If I’m going to be moving art around all day can I at least ditch the shirt and tie?” December in Texas this year was colder than in years past, and my mom had the heat cranked up. I was beginning to wonder if that was part of my punishment too: to make this place feel like actual hell.

She hummed again, ignoring me entirely. I knew she wouldn’t stay mad forever. All I had to do was wait her out. She’d been dealing with my shenanigans for twenty years.

I had fantastic parents, and understood how lucky I was. For the most part, they let me be me. I got to pierce and tattoo myself before most kids would. I got to dye my hair and dress how I wanted. I went through an extreme sports phase and ended up with three broken bones and one concussion. I thought I wanted to be a musician for a bit, and they put up with the large drum set in my bedroom. They rolled with the punches. But. Apparently jail and the threat of being kicked out of the only university I’d applied to was where they drew the line. Good to know. Boundaries are healthy.

“I like it there.”

I fought the urge to roll my eyes. There was the first placement we’d tried. “Fantastic.”

I hung the piece and then stepped back, admiring my work and shaking out my sore and tired arms. “Am I done?” I’d been at this glorified moving gig for hours now.

“No” My mom turned her back and headed toward the front of the gallery. I followed along, smiling when I saw we were wearing coordinating black converse. Hers platform, of course.

High price goth was definitely the dress code around here both when the gallery was open to the public and when she had meetings. At home? Ripped up jeans with t-shirts. Always. “I have a new artist who should be arriving any moment. All their work is being brought with them and needs to be in place before we can be done for the day.”

An entire collection that needed to be hung before I could leave? I take back all the nice thoughts I had about this place three minutes ago. Fuck this gallery. I drained a bottle of water and pulled out my cell to see what my friends were up to. Had to be better than my day.

The double doors at the front of the warehouse opened and a large crate was pushed inside on a stainless-steel furniture dolly.

“Kasen, I’m so glad you made it.” My mom wore a huge smile on her face like she was greeting an old friend. She hugged the man standing near the door. He looked vaguely familiar, but I was having trouble placing him. His name… Oh duh.

Kasen and Emmie were related to my parents’ best friends, Nicky and Evie. Evie and my mom went to college together and my dad took over Revival Ink when Uncle Nicky moved to Austin to run the Revival Ink location there. Evie and Emmie were sisters, from a huge extended family of super fucking famous people. “Grey, get over here and say hi to Kasen.”

I held my hand out. “Hey man, how’s it going?” We saw Uncle Nicky and Aunt Evie all the time, but it had been ages since we’d seen the whole crew. There were literally too many of them. The RiffRaff and Devil’s Share family would fill the entire gallery. “I didn’t realize you were an artist. Weren’t you like a male model or something back in your hay-day?”

He laughed lightly, dipping his head like he was almost embarrassed. “Yeah, once upon a time I was a model. I do photography mostly now, but I’m not the artist. It’s my daughter, Luca.”

I glanced past him as the warehouse doors opened once again. The sun streamed in, blinding me momentarily. Then an angel descended from the heavens, clouds parted, and birds began to sing.

Leggy like a ballerina, a beautiful blonde glided in. She was wearing a skirt and sweater set. Like an actual matching set, with a headband. Jesus. It was all in black, which made it only slightly less precious.

“Luca, it’s so nice to finally have you here. I’ve been looking forward to this for months.” My mom embraced the girl, kissing her cheek like she was from Europe and not Highland Park.

Luca. Cool name. She smiled warmly at my mom. “I’m excited. I really am. Thank you for having me.” Her eyes cut to me, curiosity in her gaze. Usually, the tattoos made people who eyed me for the first time do one of two things: express distaste or desire. But Luca, she was intrigued, like she had questions, and I didn’t hate that she did.

“Grey. Grunt labor and her son.” I stepped forward holding out my hand, unprompted, trying to earn points with my mom with polite manners. And with this girl, in case I decided I wanted to ask if I could put my hand up her skirt.

“Nice to meet you.” Her palm was small and soft in mine, pale skin against my olive complexion. Hers a blank canvas, mine a doodle pad for my budding abilities.

She was beautiful. But most likely too repressed to be any sort of fun. This girl, this innocent looking human was an artist? I doubted her work was anything I’d like.

I liked messy, emotional. She appeared to be the type of person that didn’t like to get her hands dirty.

And art?

Art was the best when it was filthy.