Work of Art Read online

  Work of Art

  By Monica Alexander

  Copyright 2013 by Monica Alexander

  Cover Image: (c) wacker / www.fotosearch.com Stock Photography

  This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or personals, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.

  The information in this book is distributed as an “as is” basis, without warranty. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this work, neither the author nor the publisher shall have any liability to any person or entity with respect to any loss or damage caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by the information contained in this book.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Playlist

  Chapter One

  Harper

  “Excuse me,” I said impatiently to the dark-haired guy sitting in the aisle seat engrossed in a book with some pensive looking guy’s face on the cover.

  It looked like a self-help book. And this guy looked like he read self-help, but only the kind that was inspiring and therapeutic and enlightening. He was the kind of person who no doubt started his sentences with ‘According to *insert name of self-appointed enlightenment guru here*, blah, blah, blah. I already didn’t like him.

  Of course I had just spent the last few minutes struggling to fit my carry-on bag into the overhead compartment, and he hadn’t so much as glanced up, so I had a reason not to like him. But if he started spouting out one-liners about finding inner peace and learning life lessons and how to find hope in the face of defeat, I might smack him.

  It was going to be a headphones on flight, no doubt.

  “Excuse me,” I said again, a little louder, and with just that much more annoyance in my voice.

  The pointy-faced, overly gelled guy looked up at me and raised his tweezed eyebrows in question, as if there was some mystery as to why I was standing there staring at him. The line of people impatiently waiting behind me couldn’t have been an indicator.

  I watched his eyes dart from my nose to my exposed right ear to my neck, and his lips curled into a distasteful sneer as he took in the small hoops and ink decorating them. I was just the kind of person guys like him hated. I watched the judgment build in his eyes, and I wanted to laugh, because I’d dealt with small people like him my whole life, and if he thought he could make me feel bad with one look, he was sorely mistaken.

  “That’s my seat,” I said, pointing unceremoniously to the empty spot next to him.

  Self-help Guy didn’t say anything. He just acted like moving was the biggest inconvenience of his life and finally stood, stepping out into the aisle, so I could squeeze past him.

  “You know, self-mutilation is usually a sign of a mental illness.”

  I looked up from where I was shoving my messenger bag and my jacket under the seat in front of me and fixed my gaze on him, trying not to let my eyes go wide. Who the hell did this guy think he was?

  “Well, I’m sure you know, since it’s bound to have happened to you from time to time, that making rude, judgmental comments to strangers is a surefire way to get you punched in the nose.”

  He laughed. “Your generation is abominable.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him. I wasn’t sure our generations were that far apart. Then I decided he just wasn’t worth my time.

  Right before shoving my ear buds in my apparently mutilated ears, I said to him, “Thank you so much for your unsolicited input. My abominable generation applauds you for being a dick.”

  Then I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. And just before I could turn my music on, I heard someone laughing a loud, raucous laugh and looked up to see a broad-shouldered guy with almost black hair, wearing a suit and clutching his iPhone in one hand stopped in the aisle next to our row. Arrogant Guy and I turned to look at him at the same time, and I pulled one ear bud out to better hear what he was about to say, figuring he was going to chastise my seatmate for being a giant ass.

  “That’s my seat, buddy,” he said instead, pointing to the one next to me that was filled by my new best friend.

  “No, it’s my seat. I’m in 9B.”

  “Then you’re in the wrong seat,” the guy in the aisle told him. “This is 8B.”

  “Well, I’m already here, so why don’t you just sit in my seat, and I’ll stay here,” Arrogant Guy said, settling further into his seat.

  Please change seats. Please change seats, I silently begged.

  “Sorry man, but that’s my girlfriend, and we want to sit together.”

  Arrogant Guy looked over at me with disdain, no doubt wondering how a freak like me could ever date a guy so normal looking.

  I just grinned at him and then looked up at the guy standing patiently in the aisle. “Thanks, baby,” I told him sweetly, as Arrogant Guy let out the loudest sigh I’d ever heard and made a big production of gathering up his stuff so he could move one row back.

  Good riddance.

  I started to stick my ear bud back in my ear as my new seat buddy sat down. “Nice ink,” he said, his eyes lighting up as they followed the trail of butterflies flowing down my right arm.

  “Thanks,” I said, knowing it sounded crisp, but I just wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone, and he looked chatty.

  Aside from my encounter with the asshole now seated behind me, I was just in a bad mood after having to endure a shitty couple of days with my mother’s friends who all looked at me as if I was a freak, none of them apparently having ever gotten the message that it was impolite to stare, and diversity was a good thing.

  I felt like telling them, ‘Hey, sorry for spoiling your day by showing up at my mother’s funeral and reminding you all that I exist, but I do, and you can get over it while I take the time to say goodbye to the woman who always acted like my jealous friend and never like the mother figure I probably needed. Hey, that’s probably why she overdosed on prescription meds at age forty-six like you all most likely will. Rock on.’

  “I’m Brandon,” the guy next to me said, sticking his hand out for me to shake.

  I took it cautiously. The way he was lustfully gazing at me told me that although he was charming, he was probably also a preppy jerk who wanted to see if he could go slumming for a few hours.

  Been there, done that. Too many times to count. I’d
always had a penchant for preppy guys, but I’d gotten burned pretty badly by one when I was younger, so now I tried to steer clear of them altogether. Although I still gave in to moments of weakness from time to time. That was not going to happen in this case.

  “I’m Harper,” I said, as I reached behind my head and pulled out the pin holding my hair back in a twist.

  “Wow, you’re just like unraveling a really hot present,” the guy blurted out as my long hair tumbled over my shoulders.

  “Screw you,” I told him and unceremoniously turned toward the window.

  I’d dyed the ends of my brown hair hot pink the week before, not knowing I’d be returning to the stuffy, pretentious town in the suburbs of Boston where I grew up and where tattoos, piercings, and unnatural hair colors were definitely frowned upon. Well I had all three, so for the two days I’d been there, just to lessen the staring, I’d hidden the color in up-dos and wore long sleeves, even though it was the end of June and brutally hot most of the time. My mother’s friends weren’t shy about voicing their opinions, so I figured the less they had to judge me for, the better.

  I’d even taken out the multiple piercings in my ears and my nose ring, but I couldn’t hide the tattoo of stars that started behind my right ear and trailed down the side of my neck – and that caused enough waves in and of itself. If only I’d let them see the artwork decorating my arms, stomach, and back. It would have been scandal city – bigger than the one I’d caused in high school which prompted me to move across the country and never look back in the first place.

  Now, the last thing I needed was some guy hitting on me during a five hour flight.

  “No, seriously. I like your look,” he said, putting his hand on my shoulder.

  I shrugged him off. I wasn’t a big fan of people touching me.

  “I know your type. Don’t go there,” I said dryly.

  “And what type is that?”

  I rolled my eyes. “The type I don’t waste my time on.”

  “Look, I know you can’t tell from looking at me now since I just got off work, but we’re not so different,” he said, lifting up his pant leg to reveal a large blue and red tattoo that was half demon, half angel and had red and blue flames surrounding it. It was pretty bad-ass.

  I gave him the briefest of smiles. “Great. We have something in common. You got at tattoo over Spring Break too.”

  “Don’t be a bitch,” he said good-naturedly, and I had to give him credit for being so brazen. Most people didn’t talk that way to me when I was giving them the cold shoulder. It was sort of refreshing. “My whole back is done too, as well as some other strategic locations. I work in banking, so I need to keep up appearances.”

  “So you want to join a club together or something?”

  Just because we had tattoos didn’t link us together in some way. I hated when guys tried that shit with me. It didn’t work – and they always tried it.

  I decided to not wait for his response and stuck my ear buds back in my ears. Maybe he’d get the hint that I wasn’t in the mood to make friends.

  “Attention ladies and gentlemen, we are preparing to take-off, so please ensure that all personal items are stowed, tray tables and seat backs are in their upright and locked position and all electronic items are turned off and stowed at this time. Thank you.”

  The overly zealous flight attendant who’d made that announcement started to make her way back through the cabin.

  Fu-uck.

  “So, Harper, what brings you to San Francisco?”

  I sighed, wishing I hadn’t left my copy of Hit! magazine in the terminal. I had nothing else to distract me.

  “I live there.”

  “Oh, that’s great. I love San Fran.”

  And I hate it when people call it San Fran.

  “Great,” I said, trying to pretend like I was actually enthralled with the flight attendant’s demonstration of what to do if the cabin lost pressure unexpectedly.

  “No, really,” he continued. “I’ve been out there a few times, but my buddy’s getting married in a month, so I’m going out there for his bachelor party. Do you have any recommendations of where to go for fun?”

  I looked over at him, wondering why he was still talking to me when I obviously wasn’t interested in engaging him in conversation.

  “Nope.”

  “Well, what do you do when you want to blow off steam?”

  Drink tequila shots on my couch with my gay best friend/hair dresser.

  I sighed again, louder this time. “What do you want from me?” I demanded.

  “A blow job,” he said seriously, and my eyebrows rose in surprise. I was used to crass, hell it was usually me being crass, but that threw me for a loop. Then his mouth curved into a grin. “You asked.”

  And that was all it took to soften me. I decided to give the guy a chance. Hell, now I sort of liked him, and maybe the five hour flight would be less mundane with someone interesting to talk to.

  I turned in my seat and appraised him. “So, uh, . . .”

  “Brandon,” he supplied. “Brandon Cooper.”

  “Brandon,” I repeated. “What’s your story?”

  He cocked his head in amusement. “That’s a heavy question, but since you’re actually talking to me instead of pretending to listen to a safety message you’ve probably heard a thousand times, I’ll answer it. I’m divorced – married my college girlfriend – big fucking mistake there. I don’t have any kids, I’ve worked in banking since I graduated from Harvard, and I absolutely hate my job. I often think of ways to poison my boss so I’ll no longer have to look at him every day, but then I think back to all those episodes of CSI I’ve watched over the years, and I just know I’ll get caught, and I’m way to pretty for jail, so I haven’t killed him yet.”

  I laughed. “You are way too pretty for jail. You’d become some guy’s bitch in about three seconds.”

  “Don’t I know it,” he said pointedly. “But it might be worth it. He really is a dick.”

  I laughed again. “Then why do you work for him if you hate him so much?”

  “Because my company pays me a lot of money to do it,” he said honestly.

  I bit my lip. “Interesting.”

  “I’m thinking of quitting soon.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him. “Really? You’re not going to kill your boss before you do, are you?”

  He laughed. “Tempting, but no. I think I’ll just give him two middle fingers as I walk backward out of his office.” Then he shrugged. “Basically, I’ve been doing this for ten years. I’m burned out, and see this,” he said, leaning toward me and pointing to his eyes. I squinted to see what he was referring to. “It’s giving me crow’s feet.” He shook his head. “I need to get out before I’m no longer desirable to the opposite sex.”

  I laughed out loud. “That’s your reason for quitting your job?”

  He gave me a look like I was crazy. “Dude, I do not want to end up like the unhappy fucker who’s made my life a living hell for the past decade. He’s been in the business for twenty-five years, and he’s fucking miserable – divorced, works ninety hours a week, looks like shit most of the time, and I guarantee he hasn’t gotten laid in five years.”

  “Okay, so I guess those are valid reasons.”

  “Fuck yeah, they are.”

  “So what will you do if you quit?” I inquired.

  He grinned. “I bought a winery.”

  I almost choked on the sip of water I’d taken. “Excuse me.”

  “I bought a winery. Well, I haven’t bought it yet, but I’m going to look at it this weekend, and I’m leaning toward purchasing.”

  I nodded appreciatively. “Where is it?”

  “Sonoma. It’s a smaller winery, about 28 acres, but it’s on a sweet piece of land, and the winemaker who’s been there for five years is staying on, so it would be a cool investment.”

  This guy had some serious cash if he was flat out purchasing a winery. “I think that sounds pretty
amazing. Would you move out to the west coast?”

  “Yeah. I’m originally from Portland, so I’m a west coast boy at heart. I’ve always wanted to get back there. But that’s enough about me. What about you, Harper? What’s your story? What do you do for a living? Something you love?”

  “Yes, actually I do,” I said haughtily, aiming for vague. He’d asked a ton of loaded questions, and I wasn’t in the habit of openly sharing pieces of my life with strangers.

  He eyed me speculatively as if he might not believe me while he waited for me to elaborate.

  “And that job is?”

  “I’m an artist.”

  He nodded his head in appreciation a few times. “And what is your medium?”

  I glanced down at my colorful arm and back up at him. Truth was I had a few mediums, but he didn’t need to know all of that.

  “No shit,” he said, looking the same way most guys do whenever I tell them what I do for a living.

  I shrugged. “No shit.”

  “How many of yours did you design?”

  “Most of them, but some I got before I started tattooing.”

  “That is so cool. Do you do piercings too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ever pierce anyone’s dick?”

  I raised an eyebrow at him. “Why, are you looking to have yours done?”

  He raised his eyebrow right back. “How do you know I don’t already have it done?”

  I shook my head. His twinkling brown eyes actually gave him away pretty easily. “Because, if you did you wouldn’t have gotten that gleam in your eye when you asked me if I’d ever done one, you pervert.”

  He grinned, a full-watt, bright, white-toothed grin. “Ahh, you got me there. I thought about it, but I actually stopped after getting these bad boys done,” he said, pointing to his nipples with this thumbs. “I cried like a bitch and decided I was just sticking to ink after that.”

  I laughed. “It is pretty painful,” I agreed.

  His eyes got wide. “Are yours done?!”

  He looked like a kid at Christmas.

  I smiled and shook my head. “Just my nose and my ears. I like ink better too, but I’ve pierced enough people to know that nipples are a really sensitive part of the body.”