Waking to Black Read online

  “Are you sure that you’ll be all right?”

  His words may have been said with sincere concern, but what I hear is pity. I jerk my hand free.

  “Yes. Of course.”

  His eyes twitch for a second before his features smooth out. “Well, in case you’re not…” He reaches for his wallet and pulls out a card. “Call this number to reach me.”

  I palm the card, unsure of what to say, bemused by the oddity of what’s happening, of what I’m feeling, because I haven’t felt much of anything in years. When I manage to gather my thoughts, I notice he’s already turned away.

  In seconds, he’s in the Escalade, and as I watch the SUV speed away, a sharp sensation claws at my chest.

  Goodbye Mr. Black, it was nice knowing you.

  Chapter Three

  STRETCHED OUT ON the couch with a pillow pressed to my chest, the strong scent of body wash circulates around me. It smells like him.

  He’s been gone for half an hour and yet I can’t stop thinking about him. With my eyes shut, I picture Adam Black in my living room. His cobalt eyes gleaming at me with raw passion and his dark hair tangled between my fingers. My breathing slows and my muscles relax as I indulge in the harmless daydream.

  Startled by a sharp banging on my front door, I toss the pillow on the floor. Is he back? Did he forget something? The possibility shouldn’t make me this excited.

  As I approach the door, the irate voice of my best friend calls out from the porch.

  “Evelyn Snowe! You open this damn door.”

  I forgot to call her. I cringe at the realization.

  I open the door, clasp her by the arm, and yank her inside. For a second, she’s surprised and that big mouth of hers is shut.

  Everyone should be lucky enough to have someone like Tina in their life. She would cross a glass-covered floor barefoot to help someone she loves. I adore Tina, but I can’t deal with her reprimands tonight. So I do the only thing I can to disarm her—I tell her the truth.

  “I was held at gunpoint today. My nerves are rattled. The last thing I need is a lecture from you.”

  In frustration, she throws her arms in the air and soon the gesture turns into a tight hug. “I know. It’s all over the news. I’ve been calling you for the last hour. I was so worried. I even called your mom.”

  “You called my mom?”

  Horror overtakes me. I rush to my purse and fish out my cellphone. I have six missed calls.

  “Tina, I told you I was fine.”

  I curse under my breath and hit the call back button. Before I can utter one word, my mother yells into the phone. That woman could burst an eardrum.

  “Evelyn Marie Snowe!”

  “Mom, I’m fine.”

  “You’re selfish. Tina and I have been so nervous. We had no idea if you were safe. A phone call, that’s all I wanted. It is a simple enough task that I would assume you can manage.”

  “You’re right, Mom. I should’ve called, it won’t happen again.”

  I feign being contrite, though I know she’s not buying it—she never does. The truth is, it’s only in recent years that she’s adopted this concerned persona. Ever since the “incident” three years ago she’s kept a close watch on me.

  “Are you listening?”

  Her voice cracks like a whip, making me blink.

  “Um…yes,” I mutter, and we both know I have no idea what she said.

  She sighs, and I don’t have to be in front of her to know she’s rubbing the sides of her head.

  “I’m glad Tina is there; she’ll take care of you.”

  Wonderful… Because that’s exactly what I want, to be coddled by my best friend.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow.” She pauses for a moment. “I love you.”

  Oh, Mom, why is it always a fight?

  “I love you, too.” I hang up and eye Tina.

  “You left me no choice.” Her voice is high-pitched, and though I know she’s remorseful about the whole experience, she won’t apologize.

  It’s infuriating to constantly be treated by the people in my life as if I’m some child who possesses little common sense. I understand why they do it—they love me, they worry, but every overbearing action serves one purpose—to push me away.

  I suddenly want to tell Tina something to make her squirm with envy. “You’ll never guess who was at the bank today.”

  Her eyes narrow at my sudden topic change and with apprehension she responds. “Who?”

  “Adam Black.”

  She tilts her head to the side and it takes a moment for my words to register. “You mean the charming, rich guy from the article?”

  I shrug, and though my stance is casual, the butterflies in my stomach make it apparent that even thinking about him thrills me.

  “Yes. He saved my life.” I frown as I recount the events in my head. “Though I don’t think I would call the man charming. In fact, arrogant and egocentric are more fitting adjectives.”

  Tina has a huge smile plastered on her face. “Tell me everything. Don’t you dare leave out any details.”

  She’s relentless when her curiosity has been piqued. As quick as lightning painting the sky, the animosity between us fades.

  THE bedroom is again pitch black when I wake. The blue neon light from the clock informs me it’s four thirty-five in the morning.

  Tina is still asleep. After our girl talk, she decided to spend the night. Tiptoeing out of the room, I make my way to my studio.

  I stare at the painting I’d discarded, and I’m reminded of him. Adam Black stood here in this room and admired my work. Why the thought brings me comfort, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because having someone, anyone, believe in my talent is motivating. It makes me believe my dreams aren’t lost at sea. They’re washing up on the shore and I just need to grab hold of them, like a person picking up shells on the beach.

  Tracing the outline of the vivid scratch marks on the canvas, I wonder if I can save this painting. I blow a strand of hair from my face and sit, determined to make this lump of coal a masterpiece.

  The hours fade as I paint. I’m nearly done when a still somnolent Tina enters the room.

  “Hey,” she rasps.

  I beam a smile at her. “Look, I just finished it.”

  She appears astonished at my enthusiasm. I can’t blame her. I mean, it has been a long time since I’ve found pleasure in painting.

  “It’s beautiful. How long have you been awake?”

  “I’m not sure,” I say quickly, absorbed in the moment.

  Tina rubs her head, trying to wipe away her drowsiness.

  “Well, it’s noon. We should probably eat something and then start getting ready.” She grabs me by the hand and drags me to the living room. “Today’s Art Basel and I don’t want to get there too late.”

  Damn, she’s overbearing. But she does have a point. I love Art Basel Miami—not because every year a slew of movie stars and musicians attend, but because it gives me the opportunity to do what I love—appreciate art.

  “YOU have to wear this one!” Tina throws the little black dress on the bed before diving back into the closet to rummage for shoes.

  “I’d rather wear jeans and a shirt.”

  Tina squeals and sways her hips in a happy-dance as she dangles a pair of too-high black pumps between her fingers. “These will go perfect with that dress.”

  “Are you even listening to me?”

  “We can do something smoky with your eyes. Oh!” She snaps her fingers. “And some dark-red lipstick to match your auburn hair.”

  “Tina,” I yell. “I’m not a doll you can play dress-up with.”

  Her eyes finally fall on me and her cheerful expression turns serious. “Evie… For months I’ve tried to get you out of this house. Every time I go out with friends I invite you and you always say no. I’m choosing to ignore you because yesterday my almost-sister nearly got shot. So tonight, we’re partying it up and you’re going to smile and go along with it because we bo
th need this.”

  It’s the watery sheen of her eyes that clues me in—Tina’s worried about me.

  “I’m fine,” I say plainly.

  “You’re not.” She drops the heels on the bed. “But I’m not going to argue with you because we’re late and we still need to straighten your hair.”

  I grab the black dress and run the pads of my fingers against the soft, silky fabric. Maybe she’s right and I am internalizing my feelings. Maybe I should be curled up crying about what happened yesterday. I could have died.

  The problem is, I don’t care enough to cry. I’m depressed, and I have been for years. Yesterday, I had a gun to my throat; I was at the edge of a dangerous precipice. I’ve been there before. I was scared, yet indifferent. Stop thinking and enjoy the day.

  “Fine, we’ll play it your way. Just don’t cake the makeup on, okay?”

  Again, she’s squealing cheerfully.

  THE cluster of bangles I always wear on both of my wrists jingle loudly as we saunter toward Tina’s car. It’s close to five on a cool December afternoon, and when we get there the sun will be setting.

  We briefly talk about the exhibits and galleries we want to visit as we make our way to Miami Beach. Tina isn’t interested in art, but she loves to people-watch. Art Basel Miami is definitely a great spot for people-watching.

  As we make our way to the entrance a gust of wind rams against my body, causing my dress to twist up. I smooth my hands against the dress only to spy an attractive young man gawking at me. Our eyes meet and he bashfully turns away. I smile. Even though words haven’t been spoken, I accept the compliment.

  Once we’re inside, Tina grabs my hand and drags me along to various exhibits. Sometimes I wonder why I tolerate her bossy behavior. Oh, that’s right—she puts up with me, too.

  After an hour of being yanked along, I finally put my foot down.

  “I’m going off on my own. There are several exhibits I want to see that you obviously don’t.”

  Tina rolls her eyes at me. “You mean several exhibits you want to stare at for hours.”

  Ignoring her sarcasm, I shoot her a huge grin. “As always, you are so insightful.”

  After giving me a somewhat playful scowl, she shrugs. “Fine, but leave your cell on; this place is a maze.”

  I give her a mock salute and scamper off. In less than five minutes, I’m staring at a set of photographs by Nick Vasquez, Warhol’s Flowers. I’m mesmerized by them. The delicate way the artist has selected tiny ordinary objects and combined them into something extraordinary is beautiful. What’s more, the artist arranged the items into one of the prettiest objects in the world, a flower.

  What is he trying to say? That there is a certain beauty in simplicity? That things, though they may appear simple, are in truth complicated? I could stand here all night, transfixed, contemplating.

  Art can mean everything and anything. I suppose that’s why I’ve spent my life toiling over artistic pursuits. It’s not about that egocentric rush a person gets when he or she creates something. Part of the allure is the pursuit of meaning. The infinite interpretations that can stem from one piece of art are captivating.

  Unwilling to pull my gaze away from the photographs, I take a few clumsy steps back. My body collides with another. The impact, combined with the fact that I’m wearing high heels, makes me lose my balance. Before my graceless form can crash on the floor, strong fingers grip my waist and my hands grasp the stranger’s forearms in an attempt to reclaim my footing.

  The experience is beyond awkward, it’s embarrassing. My back presses against a firm chest while I straighten my posture. When I turn, I’m greeted by the haughty countenance of Adam Black. He’s in what I now consider his uniform, a black suit.

  My apologetic expression turns into shock.

  “Miss Snowe?”

  His arrogant frown melts into a seductive grin.

  “What a pleasure it is to see you again.”

  His words are fluid and his charm is unstoppable.

  How can I find him simultaneously alluring and infuriating? It’s so damn confusing.

  I inhale a large breath to prepare for what I assume will be an uncomfortable conversation.

  “Hello. Um…thank you.” The response is ineloquent and my poise is waning with the passing seconds. “I’m sorry…for bumping into you, I mean.”

  He opens his mouth to speak, though he is stopped by the hands of a woman who decidedly invades his space. She’s gorgeous, a life-size Barbie. Her hair is platinum blonde, her eyes crystal-blue, and her skin is a pale ivory. Standing in all her tall and slender glory, this mystery woman grabs hold of his arm and leans against him.

  “Baby, let’s go already. There’s not much worth seeing here,” she purrs.

  I’m able to hold back the roll of my eyes but the stunned expression on my face is apparent. There’s not much worth seeing here? Are we at the same exhibit?

  Black grabs the mystery woman’s arm, and by his scowl, I assume it is to pry her manicured nails away from his toned biceps. He places her hand by his side and in a collected voice speaks. “Victoria, if you want to go, find David and Melinda. We can’t leave without them. We came together.” He sounds as if he’s reasoning with a child, condescension in his tone.

  She gazes at him as she sulks. “Won’t you come with me to find them?”

  His sapphire eyes smolder as he stares at her. “You know the answer to that question.”

  Her mouth tightens and her beautiful features twist as she frowns. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Sullenly, she leaves, never once bothering to address me. I apparently don’t exist, not that I’m heartbroken over her dismissal.

  “What brings you to Art Basel, Miss Snowe?”

  Black’s eyes, still dark with anger, focus on me. He grabs the lapel of his suit and straightens it, as if smoothing his appearance will wash away his annoyance. I want to laugh at the futility of the action, though I suspect such a reaction wouldn’t be well received.

  “Who wouldn’t want to visit such an extensive collection of art, Mr. Black?”

  My retort is emphatic because I’m horrible at hiding what I’m thinking. I’m aggravated at the attitude demonstrated by someone I assume is his date.

  “As you can see, there are people who don’t share your opinion. Victoria looked bored around this vast collection.”

  For an instant, a small, amused smile forms at the corners of his mouth, but as soon as I blink it’s gone.

  “Are you one of them?” My brazen question surprises me. When it comes to art, I’ve always been confident enough to care little about what others think of my tastes and yet the notion of Black finding me wanting, bothers me.

  “No. I’m quite fond of art. My collection is extensive.” He strides past me, his hands in his pockets as he moves toward the photographs by Nick Vasquez. “Are these what you were admiring?”

  Why does he care?

  “Yes. It’s a beautiful exhibit.”

  His shoulders angle up in an off-the-cuff shrug.

  “I see why you would find it charming. It’s reminiscent of what you paint. You’re enamored with flowers.”

  This man is insufferable. He happens to spend five minutes in my studio, idly regarding my art, while bickering about some real-estate deal, and he has the nerve to claim to know what I find charming. Yes, in this instance he’s right. I do love the photographs, but the presumptuous nature of his proclamation is infuriating.

  “I love the photographs because of the statement they make. The fact that the artist decided to form a flower with random objects is simply one of the many facets that draw me to this work. Frankly speaking, I find your generalizations insulting.”

  Oh, shit. Did I say that out loud?

  “Name another facet. Explain to me why these photographs are so special.”

  His voice is soft. However, I can hear the undeniable challenge in his tone. My eyes narrow. He wants to goad me into a debate? Well,
who am I to deny the man who has everything?

  Stretching my arms toward the photographs as I speak, the passion imbued in every fiber of my being gets the best of me.

  “The artist is obviously implying that while something may have a simplistic appearance, in actuality, it’s intricate and multi-dimensional.” I inhale sharply needing the air to continue. “We are surrounded by simple every day and yet we overlook it, preferring instead to revel in the intricacies of our narrowly-focused lives. And in surrendering to that narcissism we forget that even something common like a flower can hold mystery.”

  Self-conscious and annoyed by my outburst and flailing hand gestures, I cross my arms over my chest. I’m unraveling before him, finding it impossible to control my actions.

  “Are you satisfied?” I murmur, trying desperately to avoid his gaze and not succeeding.

  “Immensely.”

  The conviction of his one-word response makes me flinch.

  He stares at me for a long minute, his dark glance enticing and enraging. It’s a lethal look because it does perilous things to my self-control—a discipline that clearly under his presence is under constant assault. A throaty chuckle emanates from his lips, shattering the intensity of our standoff.

  “I apologize for insulting you. That wasn’t my intention.”

  He says the right words between a self-assured half-smile, but his manner suggests he’s far from apologetic. It’s as if he’s purposely provoking me.

  His gaze slips down my form, fixing on my breasts, which, due to my current pose, are suggestively pressed together. Unclasping my arms and letting them fall to my sides, I try for nonchalant casualness as I stand before him, even though I’m flustered.

  “You look beautiful. That dress suits you.”

  My mouth drops open in surprise. Trying to recover my composure, I purse my lips. Before I can get it together, he’s talking again.

  “You seem to have a problem receiving a compliment.”

  The expression on his face, so cool and collected, brings out the worst in me.

  “On the contrary, I receive them often enough to pay little attention to such arbitrary words.” My mouth is dry, because the girl talking is one I haven’t heard in years.