Carrie’s eyes fall out. “You know Julie Mehretu? I love her work. History and art all in one. Yes, I’m Carrie. How did you know?”
“I saw your work in the catalog and wanted to meet you.”
Carrie finally takes his hand. “Gosh. I love this piece. It looks so strong yet effortless. The iron almost feels like it’s floating.”
If he holds her hand for another minute, I’m taking his floaty iron work and bashing his fucking head in.
“Thanks. That’s what I was going for. Your work is delicate, kind of the opposite of mine, which is why I liked it so much. We should do something together.” He covers her hand with his. The hairs on my neck prickle, and my hand involuntarily reaches for his work. He glares at me. I arch an eyebrow. Try me. He sneers and turns his attention back to Carrie. “I think it could be great. I’ve got a group of several other artists, all girls just so you don’t think I’m some creep trying to get you alone,”—as if that isn’t something a creep would say— “you should come over. Bring a swimsuit, too. I’ve got a pool at my place. No adults either. My mom’s an artist and understands what it takes to really dig deep to find your inner muse. What do you say?”
“Well, I work a lot when I’m not in school.” Carrie slides her hand away. I fist the air, trying not to act like a caveman and drag her away by her hair.
“I graduated last year and do just this.” He waves a hand toward his piece. “We can get together whenever you like. Skip a class or ten. It won’t hurt you. Besides, nothing high school has to offer will sharpen your skills like working with me.”
“Well, I appreciate your off—”
“I’ve won quite a few awards, although you probably know that from my bio in the catalog. I’m not saying it’s an honor that we’re sharing the same space, but I’m also not saying it.”
“I will thin—”
“An invitation like mine is a once in a lifetime—”
“She said she’d think about it,” I cut in, tired of dealing the asshole who loves hearing himself talk more than anything.
He tilts back his head in an effort to look down on me, but I have four inches on this dickhead. “And you are?” he tries me.
“Over you.” I take Carrie’s hand. She clasps her other hand around mine and lets me lead her back to her corner of the exhibition room.
“I’m not going to tell you what to do because it’s the twenty-first century and I’m not a knuckle-dragging Neanderthal, but that guy is not asking you over for tea and crumpets—not that I know what the hell a crumpet is.”
“I know.” She rubs her hands up her arms. “And I’m bummed because his work is good, but he gives me the creeps.”
“Because he is one.” I hesitate and then add, “When it comes to you, I am actually a knuckle dragging Neanderthal. The minute he said your name, I wanted to take his exhibition piece and shove it where the sun don’t shine.”
Carrie grimaces. “Sounds very painful.”
“Yes.” I form a mean smile. It would be painful and a good learning lesson. I doubt he’d be hounding her for private lessons any time in the future.
“I won’t be going to his house for anything,” she says and pats my chest.
“Good.” I cross my arms.
“Are you mad?”
“Nope.” Just keeping my eye on the threat across the room.
“I think he’s watching us.”
“Yeah.” He hasn’t taken his eyes off Carrie since we walked away. “I don’t think he’s used to being told no.”
“Probably not. He has won a lot of awards for young artists.”
“Does his family have money? Because that’s how you win shit like that.”
“Are you serious?”
I cut away from Whitney to gaze down at my little innocent. “Yeah, really. My dad’s won dozens of awards because he’s given a ton of money to different organizations. He even donates stuff so my mom can win floral arrangement prizes. I’m sure that’s how it goes in this world, too.”
“Man, that sucks. Why would I even go to art school if that’s how the world works?”
I latch on to the one important thing she said. “You’re thinking of going to art school?”
“No. I’m saying theoretically. I have The Sugar Factory, remember?”
“Yeah.” I swallow a sigh. The Sugar Factory is going to tie her here forever, but if that’s what she wants then I’m going to support her even if I think it’s a huge waste of her time and potential. I sling an arm around her neck and pull her close. “Your grandparents are lucky to have you.”
She rests her head on my chest. “No. I’m the lucky one. Let’s go to the hotel.”
And that’s the crux of the problem. Carrie doesn’t think she’s the greatest artist in the room even though she clearly is. She doesn’t think her grandparents are lucky to have her. She needs to value herself more, but I don’t know how to make that happen.