While I very much wanted to get into her pants, I respected her as a woman and as an artist. I didn’t want to use a favor from Malcom as a bargaining chip to gain something from Jesse. Actually, I didn’t even want her to know I’d helped in any way. All Malcom needed was to see her art, and he would know her value.
I deleted what I’d written and started typing again.
Hey Malcom,
It’s been a while. How are you doing, man?
I saw that you’re looking for contemporary artists to showcase in the Narcissus Gallery, and I wanted to ask if you’ve invited Jesse Nielsen yet. I don’t know if you know her work, but it’s frigging amazing. I’ll leave you her website here.
I’ve no doubt you’ll love her work as much as I do. Just wasn’t sure you were aware we had such a talented contemporary artist around here.
Anyway, let me know what you think. Say hi to Nicole and Rick for me.
Cheers,
Sebastian Wright
Satisfied with the text, I pressed Send, feeling a little like a superhero who does good from the shadows. And I wanted to stay in the shadows, for reasons that weren’t clear to me right now. It was a new feeling. I usually took praise shamelessly for any little thing I’d done for a woman. This time it was different. She was different.
I just hoped I was good enough for her.
Chapter Eight
Jesse
As I headed to work on Monday, I grabbed a coffee and a Boston cream fromDunkin’and made my way to the subway. The store was just a few blocks away, so sometimes I walked instead.
As I did every morning, I glanced up at the apartment above the shop. That space used to be home—Dad’s and mine.
I was born and raised in Queens, and after graduating from Queens College, Dad decided it was time for a fresh start. One of his old friends was selling off a mixed-use unit in Manhattan—a street-level commercial space with a small apartment above it. Dad opened a hardware store downstairs and converted the apartment into a cozy, if slightly unconventional, living space for the two of us.
When I turned twenty, he handed me the keys and moved into a quieter apartment—the one I currently lived in. He said I needed independence, and he needed peace. It worked out well for both of us. After he’d passed away a couple of years before, I moved into his apartment full-time and started renting out the upstairs space. It brought in a little extra income and kept the building feeling alive.
I unlocked the door to the store and stepped inside, greeted by the comforting scent of metal, paint, plastic, and glue—my childhood in olfactory form. The place had only grown more crowded over the years. I added new shelves every six months just to keep up. Ever since the interior design business opened upstairs, foot traffic had picked up, and so had my inventory. No rubber dildos yet—but hey, maybe I should reconsider.
Still smiling to myself, I flipped on the lights and headed behind the counter. I dropped my bag, booted up the laptop,and glanced at the old-school cash register beside it. My dad had insisted on keeping it, but I’d modernized the setup with a full POS system. Most customers didn’t carry cash anymore, and I wasn’t about to lose a sale to nostalgia.
The chair behind the desk let out its usual groan as I sat. The cracked leather and stuck wheels had been part of the shop longer than some of my tools. Probably a blessing the wheels didn’t work—less chance of me launching into the wall of keys, screwdrivers, and assorted gadgets every household ought to own.
I reached for my coffee and donut, mentally sorting through the day’s to-do list. I had new inventory to enter into the system and low-stock items to reorder. As I scrolled through files, I took a distracted bite of the Boston cream. Business had been growing steadily, which was great—except now the responsibilities were piling up, too. Lately, I’d been toying with the idea of hiring help. Not full-time, just someone part-time to ease the load and give me more time for my art.
I believed in my artwork. But sometimes keeping the faith felt like clinging to a fairytale. My student loans were still breathing down my neck, and even though I’d spent years studying Fine Arts, I had no real connections in the gallery scene. And in this city, talent was second to networking. It was frustrating, but true. I’d started a modest ad campaign on social media, praying someone influential might stumble across my work. Until then, the only solo event on the horizon was one I’d be throwing myself—and trying not to cry if the only people who showed up were my friends.
I sighed. I wasn’t someone who got moody often, but when I did, the cloud settled hard. Even optimists had bad days. I needed to paint something gothic and broody—midnight blues, bottomless black. Maybe a castle buried deep in the woods, untouched by moonlight.
The bell above the door jingled, followed by a sharp gleam of morning sunlight that made me squint. My mood lifted when I saw it was Robert Delaware—one of my best and most loyal clients. Robert flipped houses and apartments for a living, and even though he could’ve easily gone to the big box stores for better prices, he always came here first.
“Morning, Jesse.” His crinkled eyes and warm smile peeked out from a beard that matched his reddish hair.
“Morning. You’re early today.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve got a fun new project.”
“Sounds promising,” I said, standing up and resting my hands on the counter. “What can I get you?”
He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, but before unfolding it, he leaned in slightly, his expression lighting up.
“Actually, before we dive into this list, I’ve got something to run by you. I just closed a deal with a client—art collector, money to burn, the whole nine yards. He bought a place on Staten Island and wants to fill it with custom pieces—paintings, sculptures, handmade work, all of it. When I showed him your website, he went crazy. He wants to commission you to do the full interior art.” He grinned. “What do you say?”
