A surge of delight fills me as I realize she doesn’t know who I am.
Fuck, this place would have intimidated me a while ago, but now I’m convinced I’m in heaven.
“Yes. Logan. One of the artists said he added me to the list late last night. Chase Cameron?”
“Oh! You’re with Chase,” she says, brightening. “He told me he invited someone. Head on inside.”
I head deeper into the space. There are four different rooms within the gallery, each of them showcasing multiple different artists. There’s a bar and cafe at the back where people are crowded around, having drinks and finger foods and talking about artists I don’t have a clue about.
A couple of people do double takes as I walk by, and I’m certain even in this crowd, there are people who watchYard Line. But there’s no big mob that forms around me.
I find Chase near the back corner of the furthest room.
His photographs are hung up on the wall behind him, and there’s a group of people congregated around him, someof them looking at his art and others looking at him as he talks.
He looks every bit like an artist.
He’s wearing black, like a lot of the people in here, but his shirt is unbuttoned at the top as usual, showcasing his necklaces. His sleeves are rolled up, and as he uses his hands to gesture while talking, I watch the muscles in his forearms move.
The image of yesterday flashes through my mind.
Chase, above me, with two of his fingers pressing deep into me and coaxing me to come. He always has this air ofpowerwhen he’s with me, but now I see it more than ever, as he commands whatever story he’s telling everyone around him.
He’s magnetic.
He’s soalivein ways that I didn’t even know were accessible to me until I met him.
I just hang back in the dim room, watching him for a while so that I don’t interrupt his conversation. He takes a sip from a drink in a fancy glass which I recognize as his new favorite ginger ale with strawberry and lime.
Finally, he spots me as the group around him moves toward the next artist’s work.
His eyes go wide, just for a moment, when he sees me.
I work my way through the crowd toward his art and he wraps an arm around me to give me a casual hug.
It’s a type of touch I’m not used to, from Chase. I’m so accustomed to his needy, constant touches when we’re in private, where he’ll start running his thumb over my waist and not take it away for an hour.
But being with him here, he greets me like I’m just a colleague.
“You actually came,” he says.
“You knew I was coming.”
He’s peering at me like I’m some impossible creature. “Yeah. But still. I can’t believe you showed up.”
“This place is incredible. Your photos look great on the wall, too.”
“Thanks. I sold one already.”
My eyes widen. “You’re kidding.”
“A man who lives in Brooklyn came over and said he’s been going to one of the shops I photographed for years.”
My heart feels a little too big for my chest. “Chase, I’m proud of you.”
He shrugs it off like it’s nothing. “I took some pictures around the city. It’s not like they’re the Mona Lisa.”
“No. You’re extremely talented, and it’s okay to admit that.”
