Say it Louder (8 page)

I’m pretty sure Violet could take photos of wadded-up Kleenex and make it look exciting.

“Like what you see?” Stella whispers, as I turn the pages slowly.

“I love it.” My face spreads into a genuine smile and I walk around the counter, wrapping Stella in the world’s most awkward hug-from-a-non-hugger. And yet, I feel like I have to. Here’s this crazy woman who’s been stalking me, who’s preserved my artwork even when taggers and anti-graffiti squads painted over it, and now I have a real body of work to show.

***

I know she’s not here for a tattoo in an instant. Her one-shouldered, belted gray dress says
money
and her heeled booties tap too loudly on the floor. Wide, cat’s-eye sunglasses perched on her head hold back jet-black hair. She studies me with dark eyes.

“You’re Willa.” It’s not a question.

“Are you … Sadie?” I finger the shop’s appointment log but I remember my next client is much closer to my age, under thirty, and voluptuous.

This woman is closer to fifty, skinny as a praying mantis, and her skin is strangely smooth. Like, immobile.
 

“I’m Patricia.” She smiles but it doesn’t crease the skin around her eyes. She’s holding out a hand and my instincts catch up slowly to remember some manners. I grasp that bird-like hand, speckled in flashing stones, and shake.

She withdraws a silver case from her handbag, then passes me a thick, embossed cream card: PATRICIA ALTON: FINE ART COLLECTIONS.

“How can I help you?” I ask, hoping she doesn’t want a tattoo on her leathery skin. She’s definitely had too much fun in the sun.

“You’re Willa, right?” Her eyes cut to the
Atlantic Arts
issue, still lying open on my counter.

Shit. How did she find me?
The only things in the article that identify me are my first name and that blurry photo, right?

After a beat of silence, she adds, “The pink hair gave it away.”

I ignore her and snatch up the magazine, focusing on the caption beneath my photo.
When Willa’s not creating new street art somewhere in New York City or beyond, she’s creating more personal works of art for her clients at her Lower East Side tattoo shop.

Well, shit on a shingle. Stella didn’t name Righteous Ink in the story, but there aren’t more than a half-dozen places you’d have to look to find me. Calling each one of them and asking, “Hi, do you have a female tattoo artist with pink hair named Willa?” would work.

Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck.
Warning bells go off in my brain, but I’m so stunned by the fact that my privacy just got obliterated that I’ve got tunnel vision.

You just have to get through the next five minutes.

And then the next five.

I plaster a false smile on my face and step back from the counter slightly, hoping to send Ms. Alton on her way before my client shows.

I hear the bell for the front door ring and inwardly groan. No such luck.

“So how can I help you?”

“I’m wondering if you have more where this came from?” She taps the magazine. “Maybe canvases? Something you’d be willing to show?”

“She does.” I whip my head around and Dave’s in the doorway, his dark eyes intense, focused on me. Like he’s so hungry he could devour me. The look sends shivers straight to my—
stop it, Willa.

“Can I see?” Patricia’s eyes light with avarice.

“No. Hang on a sec. Dave, no way are those canvases ready to show. Not a chance.” I’m shaking my head and backpedaling so hard I’m making myself dizzy.

“Surely some of it you’d be willing to sell.” Her voice is resolute, emphasis on the word
sell
. It’s not a question.

I feel cornered, and I try to send Dave a telepathic SOS. “Maybe?”

Dave strides to my side of the of the counter, his posture strong and protective, and I feel his warmth in the not-accidental brush of his elbow against mine. I left him sleeping in my apartment this morning without a note or a word, confusion churning in my gut after a chaste night lying beside him.

Maybe he doesn’t think of me
like that.
Maybe he doesn’t want
that
from me. My heart deflated a little with how much of me was left wanting, and I feel an unreasonable lurch of happiness to see him at my shop again.

Patricia snaps my attention back to her with a tiny sharp click of her tongue. “Willa, they’re calling you the Lady Banksy. Two of my clients called me this morning and asked me to buy your pieces. So you’d better figure out whether you’re in or you’re out, because otherwise the world’s going to do that for you.” She drops her voice. “And I promise you, they’ll move on.”
 

Dave moves
Atlantic Arts
from beneath Patricia’s fingertips, closing the magazine and taking control of the conversation. “If you’re interested in Willa’s pieces, someone else will be interested too. No need to hard-sell her.”

Patricia’s lips thin. “That wasn’t my intention. I just have to know if she’s really serious before I go out on a limb to make this happen.”

“What, exactly?”

“We’ve got a cancellation next month. At the gallery where I’m a partner. I think you could be the right pick to roll out to the world in September.”

My mouth drops open. “That’s not even three weeks away!”

“Which is why I want to see what you have that’s salable.” She pulls her phone out of her bag. “Immediately.”

Dave tells Patricia to wait a moment, grabs my elbow, and hustles me back to Righteous Ink’s break room. “This could be your big break,” he whispers.

“You think I don’t get that?”

“Then why are you stalling?”

“The big break is the magazine. That’s something no one can take away from me now. If a gallery hangs my paintings, there will be critics. I might not even sell anything”—my voice rises to a squeak—“and I could be a flop before I really start.”

Dave’s dark eyes crinkle at the corners and he places firm hands on my knotted shoulders. His fingers sink into the muscles on either side of my neck, his expression softening, his voice gentle. “Willa, you’ve already started.”

I draw a shaky breath. “But this is a whole different level.”

“Exactly.” His hand cups my cheek and I still, feeling a thrum of energy between us. “Listen to me. I’ve been there. It’s scary to take that big leap, to put your art out there and hope someone wants it. You’re flying without a net now, girl.”

I raise my eyes from a safe spot on his chest to his face, and his expression nearly takes my breath away.
He believes in me.
In my art. After years of no one believing in me, after not believing in anything but what I could touch and keep and take to the bank, he’s asking me to believe.

“I can’t—”

“Can’t what? Can’t make art? We both know that’s bullshit. What can’t you do? Because right now I’m positive you can do anything.” Now both hands cup my face and he pulls me close, his lips reaching for mine. I hold my breath and let my eyelids close.

Softness. Sweetness. Hardness. Want. This is our real first kiss, our do-over instead of the crazy cover-up in the alleyway, and I savor it the way I savor really good food when I’m hungry.

I’m starving. For his lips and his tongue and his touch. His tongue traces the seam of my lips and I open, I pull him closer to me and beg with my mouth, beg to be devoured, to lose myself in need.

But Dave pulls back too soon. His lips form a gentle smile and he steps back, tilting his head toward the break room door to remind me of who’s waiting.

My chest heaves in the space between us.
Breathe, Willa. Just breathe.

“Do it, girl. Take a risk.”

I know he means the art, but in my mind, the risk of wanting him is entwined with the risk of putting my art out there in a gallery. I have no business liking this guy, this rock star from another world, this man who’s so fresh off the relationship train that his head’s still spinning in rebound-land.

It’s a risk. Everything.

I clear my throat, straighten my shoulders and walk back to the front counter where Patricia’s long, elegantly tapered nails are tapping on the counter as she scrolls through something on her phone.

“When do you want to see my pieces?”

“Now.”

“Right now?” I squeak. Sadie’s overdue and I can’t blow her off.

“Now or never.” Patricia’s voice is hard.

“Bullshit,” Dave counters. “Set up an appointment just like the rest of Willa’s clients. When do you have free, Willa?”

I glance at the appointment book. There’s a gap from two to four and I tell them so.

“I’m not sure two will be the best time…” Patricia starts.

“Then or never.” Dave throws her words back at her. “You seem awfully motivated, and Willa isn’t. So either you rearrange your schedule, or we can always chat with some other gallery owners.”

Shit!
Dave’s pushing her buttons and Patricia’s spine straightens. They’re doing some business bullshit dance and while I’ve always stuck up for myself, I’m kind of loving the turf war. She finally agrees, I give her directions to my place, and tell her to wait on the sidewalk.

“Why there?”

“Because I don’t have a buzzer that works.”

“Can’t I just call you?”

“Nope.” I don’t want to waste my minutes talking to the stick insect.

“Do you have a pro-forma contract?” Dave asks. She nods, so he scribbles something on a blank piece of my drawing pad, rips off the paper and gives it to Patricia. “Make sure you get that emailed over by noon so we can run it by Willa’s lawyer.”

Patricia gives Righteous Ink one last sweeping glance and then turns to leave. “We’ll see you at two.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“What. Was. That.” I stomp to the back of Righteous Ink.

“An opportunity?” Dave’s voice carries a whiff of guilt so I know he can’t play dumb for long.
 

“How about the part about my lawyer? Are you suddenly licensed to practice law and feel like working for free? Because I don’t have the money to pay a lawyer—or, for that matter, to pay rent if I don’t keep this job.”

I blink back tears as I glance at the clock. Sadie’s a no-show, which means I’ll be cutting another hundred bucks from my budget this month.

Dave moves toward me and I shrink back, willing myself not to lose my shit entirely in front of him. “I’ll get you a lawyer,” he says quietly.

“No.”

“It won’t cost you anything.”

I snort. “I’m not interested in handouts.”

“It’s not like that.”

That sends a new wave of fury through me. “Then what is it like? Isn’t it just like you paying for something that should be my responsibility?”

“I want to take care of this for you. Let me.” He grabs my hand before I can retreat further and pulls me to him.

“I said no.” This time
no
comes out breathy and soft, and I curse myself for my crumbling resolve. No one has taken care of me in years, and I’m not about to let some guy I just met start.

Dave bites his lip, and that little action distracts me, drags my brain from this fight to my body where heat pulses between us. Memory of the bone-melting kiss in the break room hits me hard.

“Would you take a loan, then?”

“Huh?” I’m still stuck on the fullness of his lip, the sharpness of his teeth.

“I’ve got a friend. A lawyer. He won’t be free, but I work with him enough on band stuff that he’ll review your contract and it won’t cost a ton. And if you make money from the art show, you can pay it back.”

“I can’t borrow money from you.” I try to keep the edge in my voice, but I feel my body softening against him. The air in the shop is too hot, too thick, too heavy with want.

“Wrong answer.” Dave’s jaw tightens. “Or at least, wrong reason. I’m not offering you charity. I’m telling you that this is the smart move, and I think you already know that, otherwise you wouldn’t have gotten this far.”

I look away from his gaze, confronted by this hard-bitten rationality. It’s the same logic that normally governs me, so why is making the smart choice so hard?

Because feelings make bad decisions.

Dave strokes my chin, the tenderness in his voice returning. “Do it for me, OK? Let me help you because I’ve been fucking up so badly lately that I’d like to do at least one thing right this week. And this is the right thing. Please.”

The honesty in his plea is my undoing, like I’m hearing a confession. No matter how often I’ve promised myself I won’t rely on anyone again, Dave’s honest need to help is what starts to thaw the icy wall between me and the world.

Maybe I could do this. Maybe I could let him into this little corner of my life, let him help me. It wouldn’t mean I have to rely on him for everything.

I give him the tiniest nod and he pulls me closer, wrapping me in the kind of certainty I’ve never had. Maybe it’s enough.

***

I lead Patricia, some guy named Matthew, and Dave up my stairs to my apartment. With them behind me, I see my hallway in a new, dingy light.

This place is a dump. But it’s mine. I pay the rent every month. I earn it.

I try to ignore Patricia’s curling lip and the way Matthew makes a big show of being careful not to touch the stairs’ handrails. I unlock my door and lead them inside.