Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 27128 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 109(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27128 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 109(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
“Thanks, Imani,” I murmur, unable to detach my gaze from Antonio, who might as well be leaving a bloody path in his wake. Ravenous ladies stop him every other step. They offer the intruder my champagne, my hors d’oeuvres—and I don’t give a damn if they were bought in bulk. I could care less that his smile rivals Van Gogh’s Starry Night. Both of which I’ve stared at for hours—one in person and the other online.
Imani leans in. “Manny may prompt you to liven up your pieces again.”
Manny? Antonio... Emmanuel.
Did Imani invite him? Soon as I contemplated it, the thought vanishes as I stiffen. What does she mean by livening up my art? My mentor’s the only one aware that I still “doodle” every so often.
I flourished, at the School of Art Institute in Chicago, expanding on my innate creative foundation.
That was as natural to me as my very own heartbeat. I commenced my career internationally by working under the influence of... a man...
That man ruined all that I created.
Stole my greatest creations for his own.
That was a little over 20 years ago. Now, I have my safe space. My business is where urban, female artists stimulate the market with their craft. Not my own.
Chapter 2
Antonio
Tonight, I follow a simple regime:
Take the glass of champagne from the first woman in a long line that has followed me into the art gallery.
Say a few words to placate her.
Place the champagne on the tray that the next dama offers. Smile. Then next, I take another flute from the diverse cast of women who’ve incorporated it to strike up a conversation. Every shade, every color, every size of female has caught me in their crosshairs.
Black women ask about the painting of a Nubian Princess Dipped in Sin. At the same time, their gazes fall over my lips and fingertips, expecting me to paint on their skin. The Nubian Princess had colors dripping from her rich ebony flesh. Now the painting resides in the Smithsonian—priced at 1.4 million dollars.
An idiota made that assessment. Some say the work’s worth more. I say the Nubian Princess Dipped in Sin is priceless.
Latinas strike up a conversation about my work entitled Santa Maria Joaquin Wrapped in Feathers. Maria Joaquin’s wings hide her lithe hips yet expose her breasts perfectly. The Latinas’ hands drop to their own tits, expecting my gaze to follow.
The Saint that I depicted had such a pert pair of nipples. So, instead of staring at my hands, this audience imagines my lips popping theirs into my own mouth.
And don't get me started on the white women. Every other step I take in the art gallery, I'm fondled by affluent Caucasian women—most of whom are off the market.
I dread the day I was so fascinated by a bowl of apricots one summer or The Blonde in Sunflowers. They all covet her place.
I heave a sigh.
The music clashes with the art on display this evening.
It's too safe.
The pieces are bold. Sculptures are created from items one would see around the house. Another section is based on a set of paintings growing out of trees.
I avoid that area. The artist I specifically came to view has claimed that area, and I promised Alexis space. I vowed not to dull her shine with my very presence.
Although, every chance I get, I send another woman in Alexis’ direction. And the platinum blonde devouring me with her gaze will be next after she approaches.
The stranger holds out another appetizer. “I see most of the ladies are offering you a drink. A big man such as yourself deserves food.”
I glare at the tiny plate as if it were a stick of dynamite. Better that than feeling the Blondie’s eyes drag over my biceps.
“There isn't a single hors d'oeuvre worth eating, Antonio,” she says my name like we’re old friends while discarding the saucer. “I get it. You’re avoiding this cheap, most likely microwaved food. I much prefer beluga caviar on my yacht. Poppy Richmond.”
I take her extended hand. “Ant—”
“Antonio Emmanuel Silva.” Poppy’s lips curve eagerly. “Manny to all of your dearest friends. May I—”
Not in this life. “Have you driven down Fifth—”
“Haha, I have a driver,” Poppy cuts in, dropping her hand on her chest while laughing.
“Then you have more time to preview the sights, Ms. Richmond. There’s a new mural on Fifth Avenue.”
Her lack of response prompts another woman to step up. But instead of just one lady playing by an unspoken rule, they have me surrounded. What the hell is this? Speed dating and I’m the only suitable cabrón?
A woman pushes a thin dreadlock behind her ear and responds to my question. “Yesss, I saw the mural on Fifth Avenue. The one created with a tree behind it?”
“Sí,” I reply, letting my mouth form into an easy smile for the first time tonight. Now, the ladies flock in droves, not offering the one with precedence a second to speak.